“Ah. Progress.” Walsh almost smiled. “Your grandfather, devoted as he was, simply didn’t have the tools. Died a bit, over the Carley Marie case, I always thought. So sad. And now, after all this time, here’s another Brogan, come to solve the Lilac Sunday case. After twenty damn anniversaries, twenty damn years of frigging DNA and forensic tests and God knows what else. Twenty damn anniversaries waiting for some cop to show up here with a warrant for a cheek swab. Now here you are. And a Brogan to boot.”
Jake thought about what Nate Frasca had told him: how crime preyed on the mind, how relentless fear could fester and destroy, could become a man’s personal poison.
Walsh reached into the drawer. Took out a gun.
“Walsh!” Jake pulled his weapon, aimed it.
“No need, my boy,” Walsh said. “Happy anniversary. Good luck to you.”
Walsh aimed at his own head. And fired.
69
Nothing better than a front-page story.
Jane leaned against the doorjamb of the city editor’s office, her eyes still on the gorgeous Saturday morning paper. “Internet or no,” she said. “You can’t beat real paper with real words printed on it.”
“Former Parole Chief Cons Con,” the page-one headline said. “Lilac Sunday Plot Foiled, Murder Solved.” Not exactly The New York Times. Victoria Marcotte, of course, had composed the headers.
“Looks great.” Marcotte sat at her desk, eyes on her monitor, clicking through the online edition. She nodded with every click, approving.
Jane had stayed up all night, banging out the stories on her newsroom computer, fueled by coffee and passion. Truth be told, she thought. She’d finally gotten her exclusive. Two of them. As far as she was concerned, today should be Jane Ryland day at the Register.
On the front page, a huge spread on Lilac Sunday. Edward Walsh, the altered evidence, Gordon Thorley, Treesa Caramona, the mortgage payments, all of it. After a late-night flurry of promises, concessions, and court orders, Gordon Thorley was released, able to spend his last weeks with his family at their Sagamore home.
Which would stay their home. What Jane couldn’t reveal yet, Peter Hardesty had told her-off the record, of course-he was negotiating with the cops to give Thorley, now a hero, the reward money for turning in the Lilac Sunday killer. Pretty funny, if it turned out Thorley’s deal with Edward Walsh would legally provide his mortgage payments. There’d be plenty to pay the whole thing off, in full.
Jane’s bank story, just as blockbuster, splashed across the front page of Metro. The whole juicy thing, complete with the police pretense about Liz McDivitt that uncovered the bank employees’ rental scheme and the stories behind the two empty-house deaths, culminating with the arrests of Brian Turiello, Colin Ackerman, and little fish Aaron Gianelli. It featured Jane’s own cell phone photo of Turiello-Lexus guy-at the scene of Shandra Newbury’s murder.
Elliot Sandoval himself, arm and shoulder bandaged, confessed what happened to Emily-Sue Ordway: “It was an accident,” the re-arrested Sandoval had insisted from his hospital bed. As for Shandra Newbury, he’d publicly confessed his role in that, too. Jane was at police headquarters when the cops perp-walked him to the transport van. “‘Turiello made me do it, she found out about the rental thing,’ Sandoval yelled as he was led away. ‘Said he’d frame me for Emily-Sue if I didn’t…’ And then he’d disappeared into custody.”
Peter had refused the legal fees once he learned the funds came from Turiello-he was now representing Sandoval pro bono. “A client is a client, and plenty of them have lied to me,” he’d told Jane. “Innocent or guilty. The system has to work.”
MaryLou was in hiding. Soon as the cops found her, she’d need a lawyer of her own.
Jane also quoted Superintendent Rivera in her article: “Apparently Miss Newbury had discovered the rental scheme and threatened to blow the whistle.”
Another Rivera quote was boxed in the sidebar, in bold. “We didn’t lie to the public about Elizabeth McDivitt. We did what we had to do.”
Civil rights groups were up in arms over the deception, social media going crazy. “Trampling our rights is just plain wrong,” one Tweet began. Jane had to admit the cops duping the press did feel wrong, 100 percent wrong. Jake insisted sometimes you had to lie to get to the truth. That conversation was far from over.
“This whole cop thing is so buzzable,” Marcotte was saying. Her silver bracelets jangled as she propped an elbow on her desk. “Sorry about your deal with Peter Hardesty.”
“Our deal,” Jane said. “Besides, I was never too hot on-”
“And we’ll skip your Lilac Sunday retrospective,” Marcotte continued, ignoring her. “Handle Walsh as breaking news.”
“I suppose.” Jane reluctantly closed the gorgeous paper, planning to snag a few extra copies. She’d send one to her dad, proof she’d redeemed herself. But one part of the story still bugged her.
“About that retrospective,” Jane said.”I simply could not find those people Chrystal interviewed back then, you know? It would have been such a great follow-up if I-”
“Jane.” Marcotte flipped her monitor to black. “Good job on that. Have a seat, okay?”
“Good job on what?” Jane hated that couch. Stayed standing.
“I should tell you-I’ve been using you to fact check.”
“Fact check what? Or, who?”
“Chrystal Peralta,” Marcotte said. “We determined-and I know I can trust you to keep it quiet-she’s been creating quotes. Inventing interviews. For years. Not all the time. Only, we found, when it was-convenient. We suspected her draft of the bank story was fabricated. Now you’ve discovered she apparently created the ‘supposed’ bystanders at the Lilac Sunday murder.”
“Supposed bystanders?” Jane sank into the couch. She didn’t care how low it was. She remembered, a few days ago, Chrystal had suggested she “just make it up.” Jane had dismissed it, an obvious joke.
“Her stories are lies?” Jane tried to grasp the consequences, the damage. “How are we going to address that? We need to make the public aware-”
“We most certainly do not,” Marcotte cut her off. “From what we found, it was nothing critical. Or legally actionable. Chrystal is certainly not going to open her mouth about it. What’s more, she actually admitted having an affair with a source. Talk about unacceptable-well. She’s history. No longer with the paper. Circulation is up, finally. What the readers don’t know won’t hurt them.”
Jane stood, shaking her head. So much for the tell-Victoria-the-truth-about-Jake idea. But Chrystal Peralta was fabricating news stories? And Marcotte ignoring it? No. No way.
“We’re in the business of history,” Jane said. “Readers rely on us. What we write-becomes the truth. Especially after what the police did. We can’t allow this.”
“Of course we can,” Marcotte said. “No one will ever know, right? Now, go. Write your story.”
Lizzie stared at the front page of this morning’s Register. She’d read Jane Ryland’s story, over and over. All in black and white, the words “murder” and “conspiracy” and “fraudulent rentals.” Her own name, again and again, accompanied by “courageous” and “insider” and “bait.” But in reality, nothing was black and white. Nothing.
She was back at her desk at the bank, open as usual on Saturday morning, her father back upstairs in his executive suite. How long would they stay there? The A &A board of directors would meet this afternoon. His future hung in the balance.