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

your help on a very sad case. As we told you, there was possible homicide at forty-two Waverly Road. You’re familiar with that address, of course. We know you don’t live there anymore, but—”
    “Honey?” A smaller figure joined Sandoval at the door, tucked in behind him, only shoulder-length curly hair and pink T-shirt visible. “The lawyer said—”
    The door opened, Sandoval moving the woman—his wife? pregnant wife, if that’s who she was—out of the way with the palm of his hand. She stopped talking. D and Jake stepped inside, the narrow foyer leading to a living room on one side, one table light on, TV on mute, and on the other side, a hallway. Jake could see to the half-open door at the end of the hall, the glow from a TV showing behind it.
    “You told me about that on the phone. The possible homicide.” Sandoval didn’t offer them a seat. “Look. I got nothing for you. I’d help you if I could, you know? But like I said on the phone, we haven’t been at that house for weeks.”
    Be that as it may. They were inside, invited inside, meaning Jake could now proceed on steadier legal ground. “She was killed with a two-by-four, we believe, Mr. Sandoval. Exactly like those you have in the back of your truck, out there in the driveway. That is your truck, I assume.” Jake eyed the pregnant woman, who was quickly moving lower on his “possibly guilty” list. “Or is it yours?”
    “It’s—this is my wife, MaryLou.” Sandoval stepped away from them and put his beer onto the glass-topped coffee table, next to an open do-it-yourself magazine and a catalog from some baby store. “As you can see, she’s—and you know what? The lawyer’s right. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
    “We can easily run the plate and registration. Sir.” Jake eased a few steps into the living room, taking up the space Sandoval had vacated. “Police investigation one-oh-one.”
    “Listen. I’m in construction.” Sandoval’s wide forehead furrowed, and he looked at Jake, then at D, then back at Jake, as if searching for an ally. “All two-by-fours are exactly alike. The ones in my truck don’t prove a thing.”
    His wife let out a sound, a whimper or a sigh, and sagged to the dark cushion of the low-slung couch, placing one hand on the round of her belly. Cute girl. No makeup. From her frown, obviously worried. As well she should be. A husband who could be on trial for murder and a baby on the way was not an optimum combination.
    “Elliot!” MaryLou Sandoval whispered. Jake could see her struggle for composure, her fingers touching the sides of her forehead. “Remember. The lawyer told you—”
    “I don’t care what the lawyer said. Time the hell out. ” Elliot Sandoval turned to his wife, making the time-out sign with his hands. “If I had hit someone with a two-by-four, which, Mar, I most definitely did not —do you think I would have left all the other damn two-by-fours in the truck? In my driveway? Knowing the cops were on the way?”
    He turned back to Jake. “You called me. Right? There’d have been plenty of time for me to—”
    “Aren’t you even interested in the victim’s name?” Jake cut off the guy’s excuses, exchanged a glance with DeLuca.
    Where had Sandoval been, time of the murder? Not that they exactly knew when that was. Was MaryLou his only alibi? Maybe the stay-at-home wife was now putting two and two together, Jake thought. Two by four.
    “You know, Detective Brogan, it does seem odd.” DeLuca spoke to Jake, as if Sandoval wasn’t there. “Doesn’t it seem odd? I’da thought he’d wanna know.”
    D turned back to Sandoval, as if begrudgingly acknowledging his presence. “ If you really were interested in helping, that is.”
    They hadn’t told Sandoval the victim’s name, on purpose, to see how he’d react when they sprang it on him. That Sandoval hadn’t asked did seem odd. Unlikely. Suspicious. Jake mentally shrugged. Or—not.
    “I had nothing to do with