She held out her hands, as her father came closer. There’d only been, what, six families she’d “helped”? And though Aaron and Colin Ackerman had ripped off the bank to get money, she was in it only to do good. How could that be wrong?
She’d stop. She’d watch the numbers, and make sure no one ever discovered it. And if someone found out-well, she’d cross that bridge then.
“You’re my father,” she said. They linked fingers for a moment. Looked into each other’s eyes. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”
She hoped that was true.
66
Choose?
Jake could feel his face go white. His fingers clenched around the handle of the Glock, and with all his heart he longed to blast this guy into the stone age. But if he did, he’d never know what happened to Jane. He couldn’t risk that.
Choose?
And this jerk Sandoval. Smirking. Enjoying it. The ridiculous clanking and hissing of that damn machine upstairs, he should have unplugged it, the steam now heating up the entire place. This was hell.
“Last chance,” Sandoval hissed out the words. “You want me to let your partner go? Or you want to know where Jane is? You get to choose one.”
The sound of the gun behind him.
Sandoval, with one crazed expression of bewilderment, seemed to rise, pause mid-air, then crash to the floor, his gun skittering away. Not another motion. Except for the rapidly growing pool of red on the hardwood floor.
Sherrey rolled, three times, hit the wall, struggled to his feet. Kicked the gun down the hall.
Jake whirled, saw the open doorway. Saw who stood there.
Jane.
And Paul DeLuca, holding his own Glock.
“Darn,” Jane said. “I wanted to hear who you’d choose.”
67
“I kept wondering, where was Peter?” Jane watched out the windshield of Jake’s cruiser, relieved to be a pretend-cop in the front seat, now that she was safe. And Jake was safe. “Sandoval had told me Peter would be there, but he wasn’t. I knew there was something off. And then-MaryLou. She’s the one who clinched it for me. Brian? Paying the legal bills? Why? She knew, huh? That her husband had killed Shandra?”
Jake stopped at the light, no emergency now, and she tried to read his expression. Relief? Surprise? Affection? Maybe all of those.
She reached over and took his hand. “Hope there’s no surveillance cam in your cruiser,” she said.
She felt him squeeze her hand, let go to adjust the rearview mirror. “We’ve got a guy out here now, at the sister’s,” Jake said. “But I suspect MaryLou knew something. About Emily-Sue Ordway, too. Apparently that wasn’t an accident. We’ll find out. Turiello must have been in on that cover-up, too. Makes it easy if you’re also the one hiring the cleanup guys.”
“She’s pregnant,” Jane said. She clutched her tote bag, none the worse for its adventure. Still, might be time to retire the thing. Those memories she could do without.
They made the turn onto Mass Ave., heading back to retrieve her car at the cop shop. She’d broken every speed limit on the planet to get there, ecstatic to see DeLuca back on the job. He’d let her explain on the way. Now he was back handling the mess at the Rawson house with the rest of the cops who’d swarmed in to help.
Jake shook his head. “We’ll do the best we can for her.”
“Yeah. Whatever that is. Peter will-” Peter. Sandoval was his client. He had no idea of this. They’d promised to work on this story together, though it hadn’t turned out the way either of them predicted. Still, justice had been done. Or was on the way to being done. She had to call him.
She dug into the tote bag, trying to ignore where it had just been. Found her phone, checked the messages.
“You called me?” she asked Jake.
“Yeah, to warn you to stay away from Sandoval. For what good that did.”
“He couldn’t have killed Liz McDivitt, though, you know?” Jane said, as she punched in numbers on the cell. “Because he was in custody when Liz was killed.”
What was that look on Jake’s face?
“What?”
“Jane?” Jake said. He paused. “You should know that-”
Jane put up a palm, listening to the phone ring. “Hang on.”
“What?” Peter clenched his phone, listening to Jane, kept his eyes on the front porch of the Walsh house. Nothing. Wondered if Walsh maybe wasn’t coming home. This was Friday night, after all. Wondered if that was the universe, telling him to go home, too. Leave this stuff to the police. He was the justice end of it, not the enforcer. He couldn’t believe what Jane just told him. “Sandoval?”
“I know. Shot in the shoulder, apparently. Looked worse than it was. They’re taking him to the hospital now.” Jane’s voice came over the speaker, sounded like she was in a car, too. “He’d told me you’d be there, too, and when you weren’t-well, I didn’t call you to check, and then later-I couldn’t. Since…”
“Yeah,” Peter imagined it, Sandoval, shot by the cops as he threatened Brogan and his partner. “But why did-huh?”
Jane told him to hang on, clearly talking to someone else, muffled, like she was covering the phone.
“Peter?” Her voice crackled over the speaker. “I’m with Jake Brogan. And he says to ask you-did your guy say anything more? Whatever that means? And he says, where are you?”
“Can he hear me?” Peter said.
Jake pulled his cruiser behind Peter’s jeep. The Walsh house was freshly landscaped, hedges trimmed judiciously so a burglar couldn’t hide. Probably had motion-detector lighting, meaning he’d be blasted with light the instant he approached. Front windows were dark, garage door closed. Impossible to tell if anyone was home.
He opened the car door, put a foot onto the curb. Turned to Jane. “I’ll be back,” he said.
“But I want to-,” Jane began.
Headlights. A high-beam glow swept around the corner, hesitated as it hit the two cars, then a black Lincoln pulled into the driveway. The automatic lights popped on, spotting the front door, the garage, a stand of hedge to the right. The left side of the two-car garage slowly began to move, the Lincoln idling as the door lifted.
“Police business,” Jake said. “Stay here, Jane.”
“Be careful,” she said.
He closed the car door, leaving her inside.
Hardesty was getting out of his Jeep. Two steps, and he’d stopped him, too. “No,” Jake said. “My job.”
“You’re talking to him alone?”
“I’m a cop,” Jake said. He patted his chest, where he kept the Glock. “I’m never alone.” He paused, couldn’t believe he was about to say this to Hardesty. “Go get Jane, okay? Take care of her?”
Jake ignored the front walk, got to the driver’s side door as the Lincoln began to pull into the garage. He walked alongside the car, flapped open his badge wallet, held it to the closed car window.
“Edward Walsh?” Jake knew that doughy face, all chin and jowls, seen him at hearings, and on TV. Ex-sheriff, Jake remembered. As Parole Board chairman, he’d held prisoners’ lives in his hands. He’d let Gordon Thorley out-then, years later, strong-armed him to cover up his own crime. “I’m Detective Jake Brogan, Boston PD.”
The car stopped. The ignition went off. The garage door stayed open.
“May I speak to you for a moment?” Conjecture was not a standard-issue weapon in police work, but sometimes a good bluff was. This might be the time to try it.
Edward Walsh, brown plaid sport jacket, narrow brown tie, thinning hair, saluted Jake as he got out, stood in the pool of light on the driveway.
“Welcome,” he said. “Brogan, huh? Related to the commissioner, no doubt.”