Free Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland) by Hank Phillippi Ryan

replacement. You’ll be even happier with it, it exactly suits your needs, and I can show you tomorrow afternoon. You’ll be the first.”
    He paused, as his client interrupted, yammering a whole list of questions, ending with a request. “Morning?” Aaron thought fast, figuring how he could pull this off. “Tomorrow at nine A.M. ? Well, sure. Can do. The address is…”
    Lizzie. Was on her way back.
    “Listen,” he said, smiling across the room. Lizzie waved. “I’ll text you the address. Yes, furnished. See you tomorrow at nine.”
    He clicked off as Lizzie arrived. He stood, pulled out her chair.
    “Got any plans for the rest of the evening?” he said.
    Lizzie looked at him from under her eyelashes. Two spots of red appeared on her cheeks, and she fiddled with a hoop earring. She’d combed her hair, Aaron saw, freshened her lipstick.
    Lizzie sat down, took a sip of wine. “What do you mean, plans?”
    “How’d you like to go look at a house?” He pulled his chair closer to hers.
    “A—?”
    “House. House,” Aaron said, teasing. “You ever really seen the ones in those portfolios of yours? You stay in your office all the time, adding and subtracting and doing amortizations or whatever. People live in those houses, all good. But the houses I handle? They’re empty, you know? Furnished, but empty.”
    He raised an eyebrow, smiled at her. “We could have the place all to ourselves.”
    Lizzie tilted her head, as if she were calculating. “Isn’t that…?”
    “Isn’t that what? I have the keys, sweetheart.” Aaron picked up his beer, considering his strategy one last time. No harm in taking her, was there? It might even be worthwhile. “I’m the only one who legally does have access. You ought to see them, if you’re going to be handling mortgages. You know? To you, it’s all on paper, all numbers, all theoretical. To me it’s—”
    Aaron eyed his glass, drained the last of his beer.
    “To me it’s— real estate. Know what I mean? Real.”
    Lizzie picked up her wine, stared at the pink liquid.
    “Finish up,” Aaron said. “Then you and I are going to have an adventure. It’s Lizzie night, remember?”

 
    14
    “The name on the mailbox is ‘Michaelidis,’” D said.
    “Yup, that’s the one. The sister-in-law.” Jake punched the black-button doorbell. Three chimes echoed inside. He tried again. Chimes. Dented screen door over gray-painted front door. He cocked his head, listening.
    “Someone’s coming.” He nodded, mentally checking—badge, weapon, radio, plan. “Ready?”
    The gray door opened. A beefy guy, late twenties, sandy mustache and hair to match, stood behind the screen. Hard to read his face, shimmering through the small-gauge mesh. Jake assessed the muscles under the man’s Red Sox T-shirt, saw one hammy hand clench into a fist at his side. His other hand held an open bottle of IPA.
    “Elliot Sandoval?” Jake held his gold badge up against the screen. A radio or TV played in a back room. A leftover dinnertime smell, baked beans maybe, mixed with the fragrance of Sandoval’s beer. “I’m Detective—”
    “Yeah. I figured. The one who called.” Sandoval did not open the screen. “You need to call my lawyer.”
    “About what?” D took one step forward. “I’m Detective Brogan’s partner, Paul DeLuca. We have a couple of quick questions, hoping you can help us out. No pressure. Happy to call your lawyer.”
    D looked at Jake. Then back at Sandoval. “Of course, sir, that’ll make it somewhat more complicated.”
    “True,” Jake said. “Then we’d have to go down to the station, sign you in. It’s more—shall we say—formal. We’re here to make your life easier. But your call.”
    Sandoval didn’t move. Didn’t slam the door. Stood there. Jake could ask anything at this point, he’d be within his rights. Lawyer didn’t mean shit if the guy wasn’t under arrest. The logical option was go for it.
    “Sir?” Jake changed tactics. “We need