“What young women?” Jake yanked his zipper one last time. Which reminded him of Jane. Which reminded him that the young woman she’d brought to the hospital had indicated exactly the same thing, that Trey Welliver was not guilty of murder. Was she—what was her name?—one of the young women this pompous Tarrant was talking about?
“I’m sure that’s impossible for me to say.” Tarrant shook his head as he refused. “As you and I first discussed when you came to visit me at Adams Bay, the strictures of privacy prevent me from giving you names.”
“Ah,” Jake said.
“But I can give you the name of Avery Morgan’s killer.” Tarrant leaned forward, elbows on pin-striped knees, a gold watch glinting from under his starched cuff. “And I can tell you this, before we even have our … agreement. It isn’t Trey Welliver. You have arrested the wrong man. Embarrassing, no? To have an innocent person in custody? And I can tell you exactly who called you about him.”
“Funny,” Jake said. This guy was a piece of work. “I was just talking to a person who wondered about their responsibility to tell the police if they know something terrible has happened. And about their responsibility to try to rescue the person, or, if that’s impossible, to report the situation.”
Jake tried to gauge this guy’s reaction. So far, simply calculating. Wary.
“D’you know, Mr. Tarrant,” Jake went on, deciding to push him a little, “most people are not required to do so? You don’t have to, say, pull a drowning person out of a swimming pool. If they die, even if you’re right there, it’s not your fault. Legally, at least.”
Tarrant raised an eyebrow, didn’t respond. The guy was no idiot. He had to understand Jake was going somewhere with this.
“Thought you might want to know that,” Jake went on. “But in addition, I’m hearing that these students feel you failed—neglected? You choose the word—to report something that happened to them. For whatever reason. And that you convinced them not to discuss it or report it as well.”
Tarrant nodded. “That’s part of it.”
“I’m also hearing that you want to trade information about Avery Morgan’s death for some sort of leniency? About some action you fear might be taken by these disgruntled students?”
“Precisely,” Tarrant said. “You help me, I’ll help you.”
Jake stood, smiling, making his expression as pleasant as he possibly could. “Mr. Tarrant?” he said.
“Yes?”
“No. Not a chance in hell.”
Tarrant rose to his feet, facing Jake, silent. Jake watched the man’s fists clench, his chest rise and fall, his yellow foulard tie adjusting to the slight movement. Tarrant’s chin came up, his shoulders squared.
“But I have proof!”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Tarrant.” Jake got to the office door in two quick steps, opened it. Possibly a bit too dramatically, enjoying Tarrant’s bewildered expression.
But Jake had all he needed about Avery Morgan’s death from the Galts. Tarrant would be required to corroborate it, or face possible obstruction charges. What a mistake, to let on he knew what happened. And to think Jake would consider such a deal. Jake’s ace in the hole was Tarrant’s sidekick, Sasha Vogelby. The curly-white-haired Sasha Vogelby. Who, Jake predicted, was about to become very unhappy. And who knew what information that woman would offer to trade?
Tarrant strode through the open doorway. When Jake turned to follow, Tarrant stopped. Stood, stock still, on the middle of the reception room carpet.
There, at the door to the homicide reception area, was Jane. And beside her, the young woman she’d brought to the hospital.
Tarrant whirled, faced Jake again.
“You bastard,” he snapped. “You set me up.”
ISABEL RUSSO
You bastard, Isabel thought, though she wouldn’t say it out loud. Was this why Jane had insisted they come here? Seemed like Jane knew this detective—more than “knew.” She’d heard them on the phone in the hospital closet. I love you, he’d said. She’d heard him, and seen the worry and fear in Jane’s eyes.
“This is unacceptable!” Tarrant turned to her, his face a mask of scorn. “You?”
He seemed smaller to her now, standing in this bleak reception room, no longer enhanced by the trappings of his opulent office. And certainly unhappy to see her. Well, yeah, she was pretty unhappy, too.
“This?” Tarrant hissed at her, pointing a forefinger. “You send your little friends to my office to threaten me? And now you’re following me? Here?”
Little friends? Isabel hadn’t heard from Manderley and the others. Had they gone to Tarrant’s office while she was trapped at the hospital?
“Mr. Tarrant? Remember me? Jane Ryland, from Channel 2,” Jane was saying. “Isabel tells me she talked with you about what happened to her.”
“Happened?” Detective Brogan asked. Seemed like he and Jane were secretly communicating.
“Right, Isabel?” Jane said. “I’m sure Detective Brogan would like to hear about that encounter directly from you. If you’re comfortable with it.”
And here she was, and here was the moment. Curtain up, almost, on her new life. The moment she’d imagined, in so many ways, since May, May twenty-first to be exact. Today she’d come here, with Jane, to tell this Detective Brogan she knew Trey Welliver wasn’t guilty of murder. But he was guilty of something else. And now Jane was asking her if she was comfortable revealing that. Isabel had not been comfortable with anything since May, May twenty-first. But heck—hell yes, she was comfortable now.
“Trey Welliver raped me.” Isabel heard the words coming out of her mouth, strong and confident, words she’d never thought she’d say again, not to anyone.
She took a step toward Tarrant.
“I told you, and told you, and you said you would help me. But you didn’t do one thing. Not. One. Thing. Except to order me, and my mother, to keep quiet about it. And she sent you money! All the families did!”
“I never—that is simply not true.” Tarrant rolled his eyes at the detective like she wasn’t even there. “This young woman is clearly—”
The detective held up a hand, stopping Tarrant. “Is it true that you knew or even suspected that Ms.—”
“Russo,” Jane said.
“Russo had been raped by Trey Welliver? And that you did not report it?”
“I want a lawyer,” Tarrant said.
“I hear that a lot,” Detective Brogan said. He took a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. Jane moved closer to Isabel, put one hand on her shoulder. Isabel felt like she was in a movie.
“Edward Tarrant.” Detective Brogan’s voice sounded formal, almost hard. “You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice. Misprision of felony. You knew about Trey Welliver. You didn’t tell. Actively didn’t tell. That’s a crime. Not to mention potential extortion. But that’s for the district attorney’s office to handle.”
“And I’m not the only one.” Isabel moved away from Jane. She had to do this on her own, had to take center stage. Tarrant had to hear this, every word. “And we’re not being quiet anymore. There’s Elaine, and Rochelle. And Manderley kept a record of all of it. You told all of us to keep quiet. Not to report it. Our parents, too.”
“I assume those are the students with ‘issues’ you mentioned,” the detective said. He seemed really angry. Isabel had never seen such a wonderfully angry face. “It’s prison time, separately, for each incident, Mr. Tarrant. Just so you know. You’ll have plenty of time to do the math.”
“Bullshit,” Tarrant said. “I’ll wait for my lawyer to rake your absurd case over the coals, but here’s what you might want to know, Detective. I’m only an administrator, not a mandated reporter, as I am sure you are aware. And I didn’t witness any ‘rapes.’ Therefore I’m not responsible to report them. You have no case. Nothing.”
“Tell that to a judge,” Detective Brogan said. “I’m sure they’ll be delighted to hear it.”
“Is that true?” Isabel whispered to Jane. But Jane was on her phone, maybe texting in the story, or looking up the law. Jane was so cool, Isabel thought, working even while all this was going on.
“You’re going to be humiliated in front of everyone now, Miss Russo.” Tarrant narrowed his eyes at her, stumbling once with his arms behind his back as the detective led him toward the door. “Everyone will know. Everyone. And your poor mother will be devastated. You silly, stupid, fucking bitches. All of you.”
“That’s enough,” Detective Brogan said. “But thank you for the corroboration of your cover-up. And sorry, Ms. Russo, for the inappropriate language.”
“I can take it.” Isabel stood taller, the sound of her own words, her own voice, somehow strengthening her resolve. She wished she had thought to use her cell phone to take video of it all, just as Jane had taught her in the hospital parking lot. It was crazy, right? Here she was, telling the police Trey was guilty of something—when she’d come here to report that he was innocent of something else.
The detective and the hideous Tarrant headed for a door in the back of the office. Isabel wondered when she’d see Tarrant again. She hoped never. Unless it was in the headlines.
“Detective Brogan?” Jane was clicking her phone, like she was sending something. “We’ll stand by here, okay? Isabel has more to tell you.”