Tell Me No Lies (22 page)

"Yeah, sure. I understand."

"Good." They turned and walked back to the car.

Hank watched them go, neat, pulled together, confident of getting their way, and very, very American.

Not Petrov's goons.

They had the walk, the talk, the smell of Feds.

Passenger saluted as the car whizzed past Hank. He ground his teeth. Looked like Alexandra Jane had more pull than he thought.

And was much, much more afraid.

***

With shaky fingers, Alex pulled on the long navy skirt and equally dark blouse. The clothes clung, the skirt straight and slim, the blouse high-necked and long-sleeved. They surrounded and trapped her, and she wished she were wearing the floaty skirt she'd put on for Hank.

Hank. How did that name sneak into her head?

Ruthlessly, she squashed it. She wasn't going to a blues bar, and she had to dress accordingly. She buttoned the blouse, fingers still trembling, and hid the matryoshka necklace as though it would give her away. She squeezed her hands shut, then straightened them, but her fingers remained wobbly.

She had to get hold of herself.

Not likely. Not today.

She stared in the mirror over her dresser. She'd bundled her hair up and out of the way, and against the midnight blue of the blouse, her face appeared washed-out. But that was fine; no one would see her face.

Setting a wide hat on her head, she adjusted the angle and pulled down the veil so her face was obscured.

Mason's words throbbed in her head, a drumbeat of warning.

Stay away. Stay away.

But how could she?

She picked up a pair of black gloves from the dresser. Between the veil and the gloves, the long sleeves, and the narrow, ankle-length skirt, she would be covered from top to bottom. A mystery. One nobody would solve.

At least that's what she told herself.

And what would she tell Mason when she showed up?

She had depended on him a lot these past few days, but in this, she would go her own way. She would take a cab, not risk even having her car seen, but she would be there.

He had suspected as much, hence his warnings in their last phone call. Remembering that he'd promised to take care of Hank, a flush of shame ran through her.

She slipped on the gloves, pushing the tight silk over her unsteady fingers. She wouldn't think about Hank Bonner. About the compassion on his face when he told her about Sonya. His strong hands and good intentions.

Dangerous. So very, very dangerous.

She hoped Mason had done what he promised.

She hoped he hadn't.

She turned away from the mirror, half-muddled and confused.

For the first time in her life, she didn't know what she wanted.

***

Sokanan's Gates of Hope cemetery sat on the south end of town, on the edge of the Van Dekker Country Club's golf course. An odd place for a cemetery, but the graves had been there long before the country club bought the land and carved it into hillocks and sand traps for GE executives. The executives were long gone, but the country club hung on, and the graves remained forever.

Hank had spent more time at the cemetery than he would have liked and so was painfully familiar with it. He knew you could see the golf course from the gravesites; rather than sing hymns and listen to some minister's well-meant words, he'd spent whole moments watching golfers swing.

That was why he headed to the country club first, flashing his badge as his entry fee and making straight for the small rise on the golf course's sixteenth hole.

The only golfers that time of the afternoon were down around the ninth hole, so Hank had the sixteenth to himself. He sank to the ground, flattened against the manicured grass, and gazed out at the graveyard. He'd brought a pair of binoculars with him, and from that vantage point, saw the upturned earth of Luka Kole's grave and his coffin above it. Only one mourner was there. Hank started as he recognized him. The man Alex had met in the middle of the night after the Renaissance Oil party.

Uncle Fisherman.

That stirred his curiosity, but he held back, scanning the area around the gravesite to make sure no one else was there.

Would Alex show up?

He had his doubts; she was adamant about having nothing to do with the funeral. But still, he wanted to make sure. If she did turn up, he might have to revise a few more things about her and her so-called estranged father.

When no one else appeared, Hank scrambled down the rise. A flash of color caught his eye.

A man. Skulking toward the freshly dug grave. A man in black. A leather jacket perhaps?

Hank held up the glasses again, brought the figure into focus.

One of the homeboys who'd been in Petrov's office with Yuri.

So there
was
a connection between Petrov and Kole. Why else would Miki P. send one of his thugs to scout out the funeral? The guy wasn't paying his respects either, he kept well away, hidden behind a large headstone.

But he had a camera. And he was taking pictures.

Well, well, well.

Hank grinned as he made his way back to bis car. He drove from the country club to the cemetery and got to the grave just as the coffin was being lowered.

Uncle Fisherman was still mere. And though he couldn't spot him, Hank felt Homeboy's presence, too.

As he and Uncle Fisherman were the only two at the grave, and it would seem odd not to, Hank stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

Uncle Fisherman looked mildly amused, but he shook Hank's hand. "Oh, yes, the persistent Detective Bonner. I should have expected you." His graveled voice promised roughness, yet the phrasing was polished and articulate. He'd exchanged his scruffy khakis for a neatly pressed suit, and his silver hair, which had looked half-combed in the early-morning darkness, was now tidy and in place. Up close, he was taller than Hank had thought, ranging as high as Hank's own six-two, and the hand that gripped his was strong and robust. Altogether, Hank had the impression of competence and utter reliability.

"Yeah? How come?"

"I'm afraid Miss Baker has told me quite a lot about you."

Miss Baker. Of course.

His gaze locked on to the other man's. It was returned, as measuring as his own. "And how did I come across?"

"You know how it is." He chuckled, a sound that was both friendly and not. "Always better in person."

He'd just bet. "And you are... ?"

"Edward Mason, Miss Baker's lawyer."

Her lawyer? At two in the morning he must keep very odd office hours. Not to mention the office itself a deserted gas station way the hell out and beyond. "Of course. I passed your name on to the coroner."

"And I appreciated it."

The coffin sank into the ground, suspended on some kind of pneumatic device. He'd seen plenty of that in the last year, and he still couldn't get used to it But Mason was watching him, so he pulled himself away from the coffin's unhurried, final journey and turned to the other man.

"Practice around here?"

Mason smiled as though he knew a fishing expedition when he heard one. "I'm retired. An old family friend."

"From Boston?"

"Well, I live here now. I have a fishing cabin up by Lake-view. As I think you already know."

Hank didn't admit that, though if Alex had run to Mason after breakfast yesterday, they born knew he did.

"You've known Alex a long time, then?"

"I knew her family, yes."

"She said she was estranged from her father."

Mason acknowledged this with a small shrug. "It's such a shame when families can't get along. The modern tragedy and all too familiar, I'm afraid."

"What happened between them?"

''Oh, you know how it is." Mason spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Divorce breeds bitterness. Misunderstanding. Estrangement." The coffin was in place. Mason turned to stare at the gaping hole. "Would you excuse me?"

Hank stepped back. "Of course."

Mason walked toward the grave, lifted a fistful of dirt from the pile surrounding the hole, and threw it in. The earth clattered on top of the coffin and sent a wintry ripple down Hank's spine.

Mason repeated the gesture twice more. As the last handful fell, he murmured something, but Hank couldn't catch what he said.

Was it because he was too far away, or because he was speaking something other than English?

Finished, Mason rubbed his hands together to cleanse them and turned to Hank.

"Thank you for coming." He walked away without a backward glance.

His pickup sat on a nearby path not too far from Hank's car. The dust and mud he'd seen the other night were gone. Looked like Mason had cleaned up his truck along with himself.

Bitterness ripped through Hank. Why did everyone always dress for death? As if it were a prize and not the lump of coal at the end of the rainbow everyone knew it was.

Alone now, Hank drifted to a more familiar landscape. He hadn't intended to visit Maureen, but he wasn't surprised to find himself at her grave.

The afternoon was waning, and old headstones cast long shadows over the grass around them. He bent down, cleared a bouquet Rose had probably left. Apple blossoms. Maureen had loved the fragrance.

"How you doing, sis?"

He listened to the silence.

They' d buried her next to their father, but Tom was on the other side of the graveyard, over by the Stillers. Separated in death as they should have been in life.

He stared at her headstone, remembering how hard they'd all tried to get him help, and when help didn't work, didn't ease the temper or the drinking, tried to get him out.

But he was a nasty SOB. Always had been. Even when he was throwing touchdown passes to Hank back in high school, even then he was quick on the trigger. The slightest thing would set him off.

Christ.

He'd brought Tom home. Introduced him to Maureen.

The nausea he hadn't experienced in months came lurching back, and for a moment he felt as though he were going to be sick. Sweating, he leaned into the top of his father's stone so the cool granite bit hard into his hands. After a minute, the queasiness passed.

Sorry, Maureen. So damn sorry.

He stumbled away, wondering for the ten thousandth time why he was alive and Maureen wasn't.

The unknowable, unanswerable question. A rusty knife in his soul that could lift the scab off the wound and draw fresh blood at a moment's notice.

He swallowed it down, tramping on. Afternoon sun glinted off grave markers, but the chill of the place cut through the warmth. He shivered, still yards from his car, and saw her. Dripping in dark widow's weeds that covered her from head to toe.

He didn't need to see her face to know who it was; he'd held her body in his arms, watched over her through much of a long, nearly sleepless night.

She stood straight and stiff. Beside her, the business of filling the grave had begun, a small front end loader doing the work by rote mechanical, impersonal. Normally, they Waited for the family to leave before completing that task, and he could only assume they'd begun before she arrived and that she allowed them to continue while she stood there.

He had the odd thought that the machine's presence was wrong, the engine hum and metal clank out of place. Devoted hands should cover the grave, the last human act we could do for those we loved.

But there were no people to do the hard work of filling Luka Kole's grave. Only one raucous contraption.

And her.

He paused, wanting desperately to turn around and leave. Forget she was there and what it meant about her relationship to Kole. Forget her lies and everything she'd ever told him.

Forget he was a cop for four more days.

But a flicker of movement caught his eye.

The cameraman.

At that moment, Alex tilted her head. Hank couldn't see her face but he knew by the way she recoiled that she'd seen him. Fear seemed to lash through her body; she picked up her skirt and ran.

Right toward Petrov's homeboy.

Hank covered the ground between them in three fast strides. Grabbing hold, he spun her around. She raged at him, struggling to break free.

"Let me go." She muttered something in Russian. More curses, he guessed.

"Stop it. Don't." He wrapped his arms around her so she couldn't flail at him, and spoke low. "There's a man with a camera."

Immediately, she ceased thrashing.

"Wh what?"

"One of Petrov's thugs. He's behind a headstone with a camera. No, don't look!" He dragged her in the opposite direction, led her to his car, and pushed her in.

She started to lift the netting over her face. He stopped -her hand.

"Leave the veil on."

In ten seconds he'd zoomed away, Bonner to the rescue as if he'd never learn.

Stunned, Alex's grief-stricken brain moved like mud. Hank there. Someone with a camera. And below it all, the awful clank of the machine filling in the hole over Luka.

She closed her eyes, every inch of her bowed down by weariness. Her face felt stretched, dried tears making the skin taut. Luka gone, Sonya gone.

And now this.

The car slowed, turned. Stopped.

A voice penetrated the fog. "Okay, you can come out now."

Fingers lifted the dark veil and she opened her eyes to find Hank as close as a breath.

"Tell me what's going on, Alex." His voice was low, his face full of concern and that intense earnestness she admired.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she managed to get out.

He looked away from her, out the window as though searching for another way into her head, her soul.

He sighed. "Well, maybe you're right. Maybe holding on is smart. God knows I'd love to wash my hands of you." His wistful tone took the sting out of the words. "But for some reason" he laughed, curt and sharp, almost astringent "for some reason, I can't." He turned, looked at her with those serious green eyes. "You're in trouble. Let me help you."

"You can't. No one can."

"Try me."

She gazed down at her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap, any place to avoid that penetrating look he was giving her.