Tell No Lies (20 page)

It didn’t.

Through the door he could hear Dooley talking with another cop.

“Okay,” she was saying, “so he’s interrupted last night when the rook patrolman kicks in the door. He leaves Lane for dead, covers the hatch to the wine cellar, and hides behind the mirror until—”

The yellow glow from the fixtures turned Daniel’s reflection jaundiced. The dried blood beneath his nails wouldn’t let go. He nudged the water hotter, leaving a mark on the white handle. Then he was dumping water on the handle, cleaning that, too, but the red just spread out, sliding down around the trim ring.

“How the hell,” Theresa was saying, “is he getting people to open their doors? Again, no signs of the windows being forced.”

A deeper voice carried in from the hall. “Maybe he picks the locks.”

“Two deadbolts on the front door,” she said. “Two on the back. Medecos. I’m thinking no way he gets through those.”

“The victims are letting him in?”

“They’re letting him in.”

The water burned Daniel’s hands, but he kept scrubbing, his fingers turning pink. The door creaked open, and then he sensed another reflection in the mirror, though he didn’t look up. He used his thumbnail to dig beneath the other nails, trying to scrape away all traces of color. He felt Dooley’s hand rest gently on his shoulder.

“Three,” she said. “Three makes a serial killer.”

He nodded faintly. “Did CSI get back to you on the coin?”

“Yeah.” Dooley blew out a breath, shook her head in frustration. “It’s worth twenty-five cents.”

“Come on. A 1967 quarter that looks like it just rolled off the coining press? It means
something
to the guy to keep it in that shape.” Daniel’s hands were a blur, drops spattering the counter. “Maybe it’s a special year. Maybe—”

“Maybe it’s time for you to get home. I called Cristina, let her know what happened. You should get out of here. What went down in that cellar…” For once she sounded unsure what to say.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he took a deep breath. Turned off the water. Finally lifted his eyes to the mirror. “I need to unsee that,” he said.

“I know. But we don’t get to.” Dooley plucked a tiny fringed towel from a holder and held it out.

When Daniel turned and wiped his hands, they left a faint red smudge on the embellished fabric.

*   *   *

He awoke with a fall of moonlight on his face. The bedroom blinds were raised, and Cris was sitting in the round swivel chair, legs tucked under her, staring out at the street through the rain-spotted glass. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looked across at her dark silhouette. She used to sit just that way during those endless months of treatment when she was kept up by reflux—literal heartburn from the radiation seeds. Something about her bearing now conveyed that same fragility.

Cancer, earthquakes, falling Acme safes. So much calamity and tragedy was inherent and avoidable. Why add human evil to the mix? The word—“evil”—struck him as dogmatic somehow, but picturing the vivid human mess at the bottom of the cellar ladder, Daniel found himself unable to dial it back. Horror had shifted to a cold, burning rage, a flame inside a block of ice.

Cristina finally took note of him before turning back to the darkened street. “I can’t sleep. I keep picturing her out there, waiting for us in that yellow rain slicker. Pointing. I could
feel
her through the blind.”

He rose and slid behind her in the seat. Together they watched the dark street. Every so often a car would roll by, headlights illuminating the spot that the mystery woman had commanded just two nights prior.

“I keep seeing her,” Cris said. “Then I don’t.”

He rested his hand across those pinpoint tattoos on her chest, felt her heartbeat tapping against his palm. Quicker than usual. She felt warm, so warm.

Cris squeezed his hand, a little too tight. “What if she was marking us as the next target?” she said. “Singling us out for … for…”

“We don’t know that’s what she meant. But we’ll be careful as hell just in case.”

“That’s the problem,” Cris said. “I feel so
helpless.
And helpless is goddamned scary.”

“Yes. It is.”

“I keep thinking about Kyle Lane. What kind of person does something like that to another human? And what do they want?”

Daniel thought about his conversation with Dooley over the checkered tablecloth at Capp’s Corner, how their exchange had strayed onto personal ground. The inspector’s claim about the group members rang in his head:
They could have chosen
you. True. And yet he’d answered honestly; he’d racked his brain and come up with no theory on why he’d have been targeted. Which left Cris.

“Do you think—” He cleared his throat. “Do you think, Luis…?” The name sounded bare and raw when uttered here in the confines of their safe bedroom walls. It occurred to him that they rarely, if ever, used Cristina’s ex-husband’s name, preferring euphemisms for that period of time.
In my former life,
Cris would say. Or,
When I still lived in the Mission.

Cris half turned, showing him her profile. The slope of her nose, the prominent lips, so lovely even now. “What?”

“Do you think he’s a threat? Dooley suggested he might be behind this somehow. Maybe involved with someone in my group.”

“God, I can’t imagine he’d be capable of something like this. He’s a bitter, useless drunk. This is way too …
ambitious
for him.”

“You never know what people are capable of.”

“No,” she said. “I guess you don’t.”

They sat, eyes trained on the dark patch of street below. Another set of headlights came along, illuminating the stretch of asphalt. Beneath his arms he felt Cris tense up, but there was nothing there but raindrops tapping the ground. She let out a held-in breath. They watched the gloom some more, waiting for the woman to ghost into existence.

“Can you actually go back into that group?” she asked. “Tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll probably be sitting in the same room as the killer. Are you as scared by that as I am?”

He kept his gaze on the street below. His silence, they both knew, gave the answer.

Chapter 30

Pulling in to the underground garage at Metro South, Daniel felt his palms slick against the steering wheel, the back of his shirt sticking to the cheap fabric of the smart car. He climbed out, armed sweat off his brow, and took a look around, gathering himself. A few people were strolling to the elevator, and several more sat in their cars, fussing with cell phones. He pegged no one for an undercover cop, but Dooley had promised there would be several in the building, herself included, playing guardian angel.

In the lobby he passed through the doorframe metal detectors, noting the familiar weary faces of the security guards and wondering at the efficacy of the machines, which he’d rarely heard beep. Riding up to the second floor, he kept his hand on the iPhone in his pocket, ready to call Dooley with a single tap of his thumb. He tensed as the doors parted, but there was no one waiting, coiled to spring. With an exhale he stepped out into the hall. Mixed with the parolees were a couple of cops and parole officers—an undercover could blend in here on the admin floor without even
being
undercover. A passing patrolman gave him a faint nod, and he couldn’t figure out if it was code or general courtesy.

He hurried down the hall, eager to sneak in some pre-session time in the records room. After mumbling a greeting to the receptionist, he closed himself in, pulled the six files of his group members, and dug in.

The pages seemed endless—psychosocial and medical histories, police records, victim statements, court documents, probation-supervision reports, pre-sentencing interviews, employment histories. Poring over them, he realized why Dooley had appealed to him to report findings back to her. When it came to his group members, he probably had access to more information than she did. He remembered her complaint about criminals:
They drive unregistered cars, shoot unregistered guns, change jobs like other people change clothes, skip out on rent to crash on their cousin Hector’s couch. Outdated, incomplete files
. Even in the face of the stacks around him, he had to admit she was right. Many of the reports were vague or half-assed. More holes than connective tissue.

Flipping through, reading more of what he already knew, he felt his frustration mount, so much so that he didn’t notice that Kendra had entered the room until she made a point of clearing her throat. Her arms were crossed, wooden bangles clanking around her forearms, and she was inflicting upon him her program director’s frown.

“Doing a little extra research?” she asked.

He blinked up at her. “Yes.”

“That scowly cop and her cohorts have set up camp in my building,” she said. “She was good enough to bring me up to speed. Some might call it professional courtesy.”

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said. “It’s been … consuming. But I should’ve taken the time to loop you in.”

She took note of his discomfort. “So you’re Inspector Dooley’s inside line on this case?”

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that.”

“The phrasing is not my concern.”

“There’s strong reason to suspect that someone in my group is involved in these murders.”

“And what if you and Detective Hardcharger are wrong?” She eased forward and hip-sat at the edge of the table, peering over the rims of her rectangular eyeglasses, her neck turkeying around a string of oversize beads. “I know earnestness ain’t in vogue these days, but those six people in that room, they rely on you and your positive regard, body and soul.”

“Positive regard.”

“That
is
the term, baby. You and I both read the textbooks. If you don’t believe in those folks, who the hell will?”

He knew better than to answer right now.

“If they lose trust in you,” she said, “that could mean their freedom. And they’re not the only ones who go down if they slip. There are kids, dependents, wives.”

“You don’t think I’ve considered that?” Daniel said. “I want to do right by them. I don’t want to fail them. But—”

“I understand this is life and death.” Kendra rose, smoothed the fabric of her vividly patterned tunic. “Just don’t forget it is for them, too.”

Chapter 31

Daniel entered the room late, his head lowered, forging into the banter of the group. He took his chair and a deep breath, finally scanning the ring of faces.

In this circle a killer. Or a killer’s accomplice.

As he considered each member’s capacity for violence, still-life images strobed in his mind: Black-Clad Man Clinging to Gate; Faceless Woman in Yellow Slicker; Man in Cellar Scarved in Blood. The hairs on his arms prickled. He realized he’d never been scared in the room before. Charged to the gills with nervous anticipation, sure. But not
scared.
In a bizarre way, it gave him a view from the other seats, a glimpse of how group members must feel coming in here, baring themselves, unsure and vulnerable.

X had said something.

“Sorry?”

“I said, what happened to your eye, Counselor?”

The broken veins and bruising from the kick. He’d forgotten.

He cleared his throat, examined the others for any revealing signs. But there were just six curious faces, pointed his way. “I walked into a garage door as it was closing.”

X snickered knowingly. “I walked into that garage door once or twice myself.”

His first lie paved the way for the second. “I realized I may have written my cell-phone number down wrong for you guys, reversed the last digits. So let’s check. Will everyone take out my business card?”

A rustling in pockets. As Daniel watched closely for any tells, the smell of the room impressed itself on him. No—more than a smell. A
taste.
Mold and wet concrete, leaving a bitter trace on his tongue.

Fang produced from his billfold a business card still in mint condition. X’s, in contrast, was wadded up in the bottom of her backpack. A-Dre found his in a back pocket, Big Mac in his money clip. Martin nosed around in his wallet, the chain pulling at the belt loop.

Lil read the number from her cell-phone screen, and the others uh-huhed. “Is that right?” she asked. Eager as always for approval.

Daniel nodded, picturing that dropped business card at Kyle Lane’s side gate. “You don’t have the
actual
business card, though?”

“I input your number in my phone,” Lil said. “So I threw it out.” He must have reacted, because she rushed to add, “Did I do something wrong? I’m really sorry if—”

“Someone took mine, man,” Martin said, splaying his wallet open.

“You don’t know that,” Big Mac said. “Coulda fallen out.”

“No. I keep it here. All the time. Like Counselor said to. But it’s gone. Someone
took
it.” Martin fanned through his bills, counting under his breath.

“The wallet is
chained
to your body.” Daniel realized, too late, that he’d failed to regulate his tone.

“Protectin’ all those singles,” X chimed in.

Martin gave Daniel a dead stare. “You callin’ me a liar, Counselor?”

“Just an observation.”

“Who
cares
?” A-Dre said to Martin. “You can have mine.”

“Don’t you need the number, A-Dre?” Lil asked.

Irritated, A-Dre pulled out a marker, wrote on his palm, then flicked the card over to Martin, who took it, his glare still fixed on Daniel.

“Good thing you never wash your hands,” X said, and A-Dre blew her a fuck-you kiss.

Daniel kept an uneasy eye on Martin as the session got under way. The banter among the members was sharper than usual, everyone amped up, probably in reaction to Daniel’s mood. Recognizing the need for a distraction, he decided to transition early to a more formal exercise.

Lil agreed to start in center chair. She crossed to it uncomfortably and sat, fussing at her curly bangs. “It’s freezing in here.” She glanced at the open window. “Anyone else cold?”

Fang said,
“No.”