“Look in personal contacts. Find Jane Ryland at the Register.” Maybe she was in the newsroom. Getting Twizzlers. Safe.
“She’s in your phone?” Sherrey was fussing with the screen. “Interesting.”
The garage door had three hinged segments to go. One more, and Jake could time it to scoot under before the door was all the way up.
“Call it,” Jake said. The car powered into the alley, Jake stomping the gas. He had to decide where to go. Turiello was the key-had to be-but where was he? At home? The real estate office? If Jake picked the wrong place-
“No answer at her desk phone,” Sherrey was saying. “Where’re we going?”
“Call the main number at the paper. Ask for Victoria Marcotte,” Jake said. “Tell ’em who you are. Police. Emergency. Whole nine yards.”
By the time Marcotte came to the phone, Jake was on 93 South, lights and siren, praying he’d made the right decision. Sherrey handed him the phone.
“Ms. Marcotte? We’re looking for Jane Ryland. Yes, I know she’s not there. Listen, no time to explain, but go to Jane’s desk-you on a cell? Crap. Sorry. Okay, go to her desk and-” Jake veered into the fast lane. Three exits to go. He tried to keep his voice calm. He didn’t have time to say anything twice. “Look for anything that might indicate where she is. Detective Sherrey will make sure you have my number. Then call me. Right back. Either way.”
“Why?” Marcotte asked.
“No time. Just call me. If she comes in, keep her there.” He handed the phone to Sherrey, steering with one hand through the choking jam of cars and trucks and motorcycles and assholes. Southeast Expressway on a Friday afternoon. Might as well be frigging walking. He wished his car had a louder siren, not that anyone around here would pay attention. “Give Marcotte my cell number.”
“What is it?” Sherrey asked.
“What is it?” What was his own phone number? The green highway signs flashed by, Jake’s brain accelerating even faster. Every second of delay meant-he remembered the damn number. Told him.
No call from Parole. No call from Jane.
Two exits to go. If he’d made the right decision.
“Careful!” Jane grabbed MaryLou Sandoval’s arm, barely catching her as she tripped, flailing, both arms in the air, on a loose flagstone. “Stand here a second, rest a minute. You okay?”
“Sure,” MaryLou said. She waved at the car, held up one finger. “Who knew being pregnant would be so-I burst into tears at the slightest thing, you know? Hormones. I keep thinking about Elliot, and jail, and you know, when they found the-well, thank God Brian is going to pay our legal bills, all I can say.”
“Brian?” Jane was still distracted by the imminent likelihood this poor woman was about to have a baby right here in the front yard. What would she do?
“Yeah. The real estate guy. He’s the one who hired El to work on the Springvale house, until-” MaryLou stopped. “Never mind.”
“Oh, yeah, okay,” Jane said. MaryLou turned to head for the car-but Jane still held her arm. Hold on. Hold the hell on. The Springvale? “To work on the Springvale house, you said. What Springvale house?”
“Nothing,” MaryLou said.
“Brian Turiello.” Jane took a chance.
MaryLou stood there. The sound of the steamer, a high-pitched whine, continued from inside, floated out an open window.
“Hired your husband to do construction work on forty-five Springvale,” Jane said. Not in the form of a question. As if she knew. And-maybe-she did. “The house where Emily-Sue Ordway fell from the window. Poor little Emily-Sue. Someone’s daughter. Was he there when she fell?”
“My baby.” She touched a palm to her stomach, her face going white. “It was an accident. It was.”
Her sister honked, and the side window rolled down. “You coming?”
“Was your husband at Waverly Road, too? Was Brian?” Jane persisted. Brian Turiello was Shandra Newbury’s boss. “With Shandra?”
“MaryLou!” Elliot Sandoval appeared in the second-floor window, leaned out, some kind of tool in one hand.
“I have to go,” MaryLou said.
“Sandoval’s not there.” Sherrey gave Jake a thumbs-down. He’d been working the phones and the radio so Jake could drive. Not doing a bad job, Jake had to say, even though he was a blowhard and a pain in the ass. Jake had left his phone open for when Marcotte called back. Or Jane.
“Squad car out front at the sister’s house, but no one’s home,” Sherrey reported. “Not even the sister.”
Jake veered into the right lane, ready to take the final exit. “Okay, at least we know something. Turiello?”
“Not at his office. Supposed to be there ‘soon,’ according to the secretary. Whatever ‘soon’ is.”
Sandoval not there. Turiello not there. Were they somewhere together? Waiting for Jane? Where? Jake banged onto the exit, took the curve too fast, Sherrey grabbing the strap as Jake steered the cruiser straight. Slammed through the red light, siren screaming, took the left. His phone rang. Finally. He punched it on speaker, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Brogan.” The siren made him strain to hear.
“This is Victoria Marcotte.”
“Go,” Jake said.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Fu-I mean…” Jake tried to calm his voice. Wouldn’t get anywhere by scaring her. “Okay. Tell me what you found.”
“A notation on her desk calendar,” Marcotte said. “It says-well, it’s hard to read, it’s right on a grease spot. I’ll spell it-T, U, I think-”
“Turiello?” Jake interrupted.
“Could be,” Marcotte said.
Jake turned to Sherrey, lips pressed together, nodding. “Anything else? An address, maybe? Colgate Street?” Where Turiello’s real estate office was. Where Jake was headed right now.
“No,” Marcotte said. “It doesn’t look like that at all. It could be-Rawson?”
Damn. At least Rawson Avenue was on this side of town. But was that where Jane was going? “Bing. The dash computer. Get me Brian Turiello’s vehicle info from it. Car make, license plate. Home address. Everything. Do it.”
“Huh?” Marcotte’s voice came through the speaker. Jake hit the brake, banged a U-turn, headed back for the highway. Again, a risk. But what was he supposed to do, sit there? He had four blocks before he had to commit.
“Turiello has a Lexus,” Sherrey read from the monitor. “Black.”
A black Lexus? Where had he just-the car at the Waverly Road house? He’d asked Vitucci for that info. But no one had-dammit. Turiello had been where Shandra was killed? The damn deputies had cleaned everything out of that place. Maybe he’d been there to make sure of that. If that was him. It might not be.
“Detective?” Marcotte’s voice. “Are you-?”
“Ready for the house number,” Jake said. “And on the way.”
64
What was she supposed to do now? Hell if she was going inside that empty house again-empty except for Elliot Sandoval, who she was pretty sure-not totally sure-had actually killed Shandra Newbury. And maybe Emily-Sue Ordway. With Brian Turiello?
Jane paused, watching MaryLou-she knew what had happened, she must-drive away with her sister. Was she truly sick? Or arranging to leave Jane alone with her husband? Was he the only one inside?
She looked at the house, deciding what to do. Elliot Sandoval knew she was there. Had seen her from the window. So what? She’d hop right into her car and-she stopped, mid-thought, regrouping. Her tote bag, with her cell phone and her car keys, was on the living room floor.
She had to go in to get it, or she couldn’t leave.
Go to a neighbor? Knock on the door and say-what? My purse is in the living room next door but I don’t want to get it because-she tilted her head back and forth, considering how ridiculous it would sound. If the neighbor recognized her, though, it might work. She could call Jake. Maybe.