The King of Lies (18 page)

“You make this go away, Work.” There was winter in her voice. “You make this go away. I can’t take it.” She began to turn.

“Barbara . . .” I stepped toward her.

“I’ll find you tomorrow. Until then, please leave me alone.”

I watched her all the way down the driveway, until she climbed into the sleek sedan. She embraced Glena and then they were gone, around the corner, toward the country club and the fortress of Glena’s home. As I stared across the park, a horrible thought occurred to me. Barbara had never asked me if I’d done it. It’d never even come up.

Suddenly, I felt a presence behind me, and I knew it was Mills before I turned. She had on blue pants and a matching jacket; I didn’t see her pistol. Her face was calm, which surprised me. I expected antagonism. I expected triumph. I should have known better. Mills was a professional; she wouldn’t gloat until she had a conviction. After that, all bets were off. I’d probably get Christmas cards in prison.

“Where’s your car?” she asked.

“What?” Her question took me off guard.

“Your BMW? Where is it?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t be an ass, Work. It’s included in the warrant. I want it.”

Of course she’d want the car. Who knew what a thorough forensic analysis might reveal? Ezra’s hair in the carpet. Bloodstains in the trunk. Even as I spoke, I realized how my words would sound.

“I sold it.”

She studied my face as if she could read something there.

“That’s convenient,” she said.

“Coincidence,” I told her.

“When did you sell it?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” she repeated. “You’ve had that car for years. You sold it days after Ezra’s body was found, the day before I execute a search warrant, and you want me to believe that it’s coincidence?” I shrugged. “Why did you sell the car? For the record.” Her threat was more than implied.

I gave her a reckless smile. “Because someone told me to stop being a pussy.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Work. I’m warning you.”

“You’re in my house! You’re in my office! Warn me all you want. For the record, I sold the car because I felt like it, because it didn’t fit anymore; something you’d never understand. But if you want to waste your time, you can find it on that car lot west of town, the one on Highway One-fifty. Help yourself.”

She was pissed. With the car out of my control, its evidentiary value would plummet. I knew that it didn’t matter—the car had nothing to do with Ezra’s death—but she didn’t know that, and for an instant I enjoyed her loss of composure. As victories went, it was cheap, but I’d take it.

“I want the truck, too,” Mills said, gesturing at the old truck, which looked shrunken beneath the towering house. At the moment, it was all I had left.

“Is it in the warrant?”

Hesitation. “No,” she finally said.

I gave an ugly laugh. “Are you asking for my consent?”

Mills eyed me. “You’re burning up any goodwill that might be left. You know that.”

“Oh. We’ve crossed that bridge. You want my truck, you get another warrant.”

“I will.”

“Fine. Until then, no way.”

Our eyes locked, she swelled with bottled emotion, and I knew that this went way beyond professional. She hated me. She wanted me locked up, and I wondered if it was like this in every case. Or was there something about me or about this case? Something personal?

“Are you almost done in there?” I asked her, gesturing at the house.

She showed her teeth. They were small and white, except for one in the front, which was slightly yellow. “Not even close,” she said, and I realized that she was enjoying herself. “You’re welcome to come in and watch. It’s your right.”

My control slipped. “What is your problem with me, Detective Mills?”

“It’s nothing personal,” she said. “I’ve got a dead man, a missing gun, and a man with fifteen million reasons to lie to me about where he was the night in question. It’s enough for me and it was enough for the warrant. If I had more, I’d arrest you. That’s how sure I am. If that means I’ve got a problem with you, then yeah, I do. So come inside, stay out here, whatever. I’m just getting warmed up.” She turned away and just as quickly turned back, her finger up like an erection. “But know this. I’m getting that car. And if it turns out that you lied to me about its location, then I’m going to have another problem with you.”

I stepped closer, my voice rising to match hers. “Fine. Do your job. But I’ve made a career out of shredding search warrants. Not just how they’re drawn but how they’re executed. Be careful how you use it. Your case already has one big hole in it.”

I was referring to my presence at the crime scene, and I saw my comment hit the mark. I knew what she was thinking. Any physical evidence linking me to the crime scene could have been carried in the day they found the body, not the day Ezra was killed. Any defense attorney worth his law license could use that to hang a jury. Mills had reason to worry. We’d squared off in court many times, and she knew that I could work the angles. If she screwed up with this warrant, the judge could throw the case out before it got to trial. Hell, she might not even get an indictment. Watching her mouth work, I felt some small satisfaction. Yes, I had to protect Jean, but nothing said I had to make this easy for Mills, Douglas, or anybody else. It was a thin line.

“I’m going in back to get my dog,” I told her. “Unless you want to search him, too.” She said nothing, just tightened her jaw. “And when this is said and done, I’ll expect your apology.” It was a bluff—no way would this end well for me.

“We’ll see,” she said, then turned and stalked away.

“Lock up when you’re done,” I called after her, but it was an empty gesture. I’d landed a couple of punches, but she’d won the fight, and she knew it. At the door, she turned and looked back. She gave me the same cold yellow-toothed smile, and then she went inside.

CHAPTER 18

I
 escaped into my truck and drove. I passed cars, stopped at signs, and turned from one street to another, but there was nowhere to go; all choices led back to the same life. It was a bad time, one of ugly questions and despicable truths. So I returned to the park, full of children, old men, and scattered windblown litter. Mills was still at my house. I parked at the curb and watched the police move in and out, tracking suspicion and indifference. It angered me, but it was a toothless rage. In this, I was helpless, and my fingers tightened on the wheel as if it were Mills’s neck. When my cell phone rang, the noise jarred me; it took time to find the phone and bring myself to answer it.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Work. How you doin’?”

It took a second to place the voice. “Hank?”

“Who else?” He sounded strained. Was it just the day before that I’d met him in Charlotte? It felt like a week. I tried to focus. “Sorry. What’s up?”

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I paused, knowing that I was being short with him. Knowing also that I sounded far from okay. “Talk to me.” I rubbed at my eyes.

“I called your office,” he said. “A cop answered. He asked for my name.” He hesitated, offering me the chance to say something, but I remained silent. What could I say? I almost laughed. “Then I called your house. Guess what?”

“I know. I’m in my car right now, watching the cops run in and out like it’s on the parade of homes.”

“I don’t know what to say about this.”

“Don’t say anything, then.”

“It’s awkward, Work. It puts me in a bad position.” He paused. “I take it they have a warrant?”

“I think they’re hoping to find the murder weapon,” I said. “Or anything else to incriminate me.” I knew what he was thinking. They’d have needed probable cause to get the warrant. That meant they had something on me.

“Any real chance of an indictment?” he asked.

“Very likely,” I said.

Hank went silent. Considering the news, I didn’t blame him. We were acquaintances and drinking buddies, but not friends in any real sense. I could almost see the math. He relied on defense lawyers for most of his work, but no one in his position could afford to alienate the police. “That serious?” he finally asked. I knew the last thing he wanted was to get involved.

“Could be. The lead investigator’s got it in for me. You’ll probably read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Mills?” he asked, not needing a response. I guessed he was playing for time, trying to decide how he felt about all this. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

His hesitation was clear. Getting involved in this could do him nothing but harm. It was to his credit that he’d even asked, but I knew what answer he wanted.

“Not now, Hank. But I appreciate it.”

“Hey. Your dad was an ass, but I don’t believe you murdered him.”

“Well, thanks for that. It means something, Hank. Not many people are saying it right now.”

His tone warmed. “Don’t let them rattle you, Work. You’ve seen all this before. You know how it works.”

You know how it works.
Douglas had used the same words.

I decided to change the subject. “So what’s up, man? Any chance of good news?”

Hank was no fool. He understood. I needed to move this conversation forward, onto neutral ground. “I went to Charter Hills this morning,” he said. “I spent a couple hours poking around.”

Charter Hills was a mental-health facility in Charlotte, one of the best in the state. It was where Ezra had finally committed Jean after her second suicide attempt. Even now, I saw it in stark clarity. Warm colors and fresh flowers did nothing to hide the pain of those condemned behind its tall brick walls; and condemned they were, whether their presence was voluntary or not. I’d visited Jean there many times; she’d never spoken to me, and her physician had told me that was normal. I hadn’t believed him. How could I? She was my sister.

She’d been long months in that place. It was where she’d met Alex Shiften.

“Look, Hank . . .” I began.

“They have no record of a patient named Alex Shiften,” he said, cutting me off.

“What?”

“No record at all.”

“That’s not possible,” I said. “It’s where they met.”

“I don’t think so, not unless she was there under a different name.”

I tried to concentrate, but it was hard. “What are you saying?”

Hank sighed. “I don’t know what I’m saying. That’s the trouble. It doesn’t add up and I don’t have enough information to even speculate; but something stinks. I can smell it.”

My mind was still so full of Mills that I had trouble focusing, but none of this would matter if Jean survived the investigation only to be left alone with Alex. She was trouble. Somehow I knew that, and I needed to handle this one detail. Before it was too late. Unfortunately, I was at a loss.

“What do you suggest?” I asked.

“I need a picture of Alex,” he said without hesitation.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going back to Charter Hills. Then we’ll see.”

I felt a wave of gratitude. Hank would not cross the police, fine; but he’d go through with this, for me and for Jean. That made him a stand-up guy in a world that suffered from a lack of them. Somehow I’d make it up to him.

“Thank you, Hank.” I paused because I had to.

“Forget about it. It’s a little thing.”

“Do you want me to mail you the picture?” I managed to ask.

“Too slow. Put it in your mailbox once the cops leave. I’ll drive up to Salisbury sometime tonight. It could be late. If you’re home, you’ll see me. If not, I’ll take it and go. Either way, I’ll call you if I learn anything.”

“That’s awesome, Hank. I’ll take care of it.”

On the other end, Hank started to say something, then stopped. For a long second, I heard his breathing. “You understand? Don’t you, Work?” He wasn’t talking about Alex or Jean.

“Hey. Life’s a bitch. I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“Okay. I’ll call you.”

Then he was gone, and I hung up the phone. I looked at Bone, but he was asleep on the seat next to me. How could so much happen at once? How could the world be normal one day and a smoking pit the next? I closed my eyes and pictured grass that bent in a wind from some faraway place. When I looked up, there was a man at my window, staring through the glass. I was too drained to be startled. It was Max Creason—same hunting cap, same sublime ugliness. He wore a bright red poncho, as if he, too, expected rain. I rolled down the window.

“Hey, Max,” I said. “How are you?”

He studied me intently, his eyes bright behind his thick, filthy glasses. Then he gestured at my house. “There’re cops at your house.” His tone was more questioning than definitive, but I didn’t take the bait. It seemed to anger him, for his lips pulled up over his stained teeth, and he made a strange sound deep in his throat. He leaned closer. “When I met you, I didn’t know who you were. Didn’t know you were the son of this murdered lawyer that’s in the paper every day.” It sounded like an accusation. He looked at the house and then back at me. “And now the police are in your house. They think you did it? You’re a suspect?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Max. It’s complicated.”

“Talk is good.”

“No. Talk is painful. It’s good to see you again, but this is a bad time.”

He ignored me. “Come on,” he said, stepping back from the truck. “Let’s walk.”

“Thanks, but no.”

It was as if he didn’t hear me. He opened the truck door. “No, this’ll be good. Just let the dog lie. You come on and walk with me.” He gestured for me to get out of the truck, and I gave in. I had nowhere to go anyway.

So I left Bone to sleep in the truck and fell in beside Max. He led me down the hill to a narrow dirt footpath that ran beside the lake, away from my house. I didn’t look back. He took long strides, and his poncho flapped around his legs. We walked for nine or ten minutes, past the lake, the public tennis courts, and across a gravel parking area. Neither of us spoke until the park was lost behind a small hill. We were on a narrow side street, lined with modest homes. Children’s toys littered some of the yards. Others were immaculate. It was a transitional neighborhood. New-lyweds and nearly deads. But what did any of that matter?

“I’m gonna tell you a story,” Max finally said. He rolled his eyes at me. “It’s an important one, so listen up. I’m gonna tell you about my hands.” He lifted them from his sides and then let them drop; they were dirty but pale against the red poncho, and his fingers were long.

“You remember. You asked me before. Now I’ll tell you.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got my reasons. Now shut up. No one in this town has heard this story and it’s not easy for me to talk about.”

“Okay.”

“I got these in Vietnam,” he said, and I knew he meant his hands. “I was just a guy, no different from anybody else, halfway through my second tour. We got caught, out on patrol, and we lost just about everybody. A few got away. Not me, though. I took a round through the leg and ended up in an NVA prison camp. There was a colonel running the place who thought I knew more than I did.”

I saw his hands twitch.

“Either that or he was just plain mean. In the end, I guess it don’t really matter. He worked on me for a few weeks, messed my hands up pretty good, then tossed me in a hole for five years. I almost died in that place.” His voice seemed to trail off. “Five damn years,” he said again, then fell silent. I could tell his mind was far away.

“Five years in jail,” I said into the emptiness, trying to imagine it. His voice, when he replied, was bitter.

“Wasn’t no jail, damn it. It was a dirt-floor cage eight feet wide. Five years, man. They let me out twice a month. Rest of the time, all I could do was sleep, shit, or pace. Mostly, I paced. Four steps and turn. Four and turn.” He looked at me. “I can’t handle closed spaces, Work. That’s why I walk. When the walls close in, I just get out. You know, because I never could before.” He gestured with his whittled-down hands—at the trees, the sky, everything. “You’ll never know what this means.” He closed his eyes. “This space.”

I nodded, but I thought I might damn well find out one day.

“But why are you telling me this?” I asked him.

He opened his eyes and I saw that he was not crazy. Tortured and tormented, but not crazy.

“I have a problem with authority,” he said. “You understand? I can’t stand the sight of a uniform. And the cops round here have done nothing to make me feel any different. They don’t exactly treat me with love and respect.” A grin split his lumpen face. “I can’t talk to the cops. I won’t. You see?”

I understood, but I didn’t get it. What did any of this have to do with me? I asked him. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned and walked. I hurried after him.

“You see how I walk,” he said. “All the time. Anytime. Day or night. Don’t matter. The walls close in and I walk ’cause I have to.”

We turned right, onto a neat street, where the houses all had an individual charm. Max stopped in front of one, a small cottage with green grass and a hedgerow that separated it from its neighbors on both sides. The house was yellow, with blue shutters and a pair of rocking chairs on the front porch. Roses snaked up a trellis that bordered a stone chimney. I looked up at Max, suddenly realizing how tall he was.

“I’m talking to you because I won’t go to the cops.” My frustration must have shown, because he took off his hat and scratched at the matted hair beneath. “He was killed the night after Thanksgiving, right? It was raining.”

I nodded, a strange sensation in my stomach.

“And they found his body in the Towne Mall, the empty one down by the interstate? Where the creek goes under the parking lot?”

“What . . .” I began, but he didn’t respond to me. It was as if he were talking to himself, but with his eyes so hot on me, I could feel them.

“I’m tellin’ you this story so you understand. It’s important.”

“What’s important?” I asked.

“I’m tellin’ you because I don’t think you killed that man.”

The sensation in my stomach expanded, heat rushing out into my limbs, my fingers tingling. “What are you saying?”

“I walk all the time,” he said. “Sometimes by the tracks. Sometimes the park.” A pause. “Sometimes by the interstate.” I realized that I had seized his forearm. It was hard and scrawny beneath the slick plastic. He didn’t even notice. “I remember that night because of the rain and because it was right after Thanksgiving. It was late, after midnight. And I saw the cars, near the mall. There are never cars there at night. It’s a dark place with maybe a bum or two, maybe some junkies, but that’s about it. Once I saw a fight there, a long time ago, but never cars. Not that late.”

My heart was thudding, my lips dry. What was he saying? I peered through those thick, filthy lenses, looking for something. For some sense of what he was about to say. For some reason not to be afraid.

“You heard something?” I said. “Saw something? What?” I realized that I was squeezing his arm so hard that my hand hurt, but he showed no sign of discomfort. I forced my hand to relax.

“Maybe it’s important. Maybe not. I don’t know. But I think that maybe the cops should know. Someone should tell them.”

“Tell them what?” It was almost a shout.

“I saw somebody come out from the mall that night—quick, but not running. This person moved past the cars and tossed something into the storm drain, then got in one of the cars and bailed.”

The enormity of Max’s revelation spilled over me. “Last year,” I said. “Night after Thanksgiving. You saw a person exit the Towne Mall, throw something into the storm drain, and then leave in a car?”

Max shrugged. “Like I said.”

“Did you see what this person looked like?” I asked.

“No.”

Relief surged through me. He could not identify Jean.

“It was dark, raining, and this person was far away, wearing a coat and a hat. All dark. But I don’t think it was you.”

I released his arm, but he paid no attention. “Why not me?”

“This person was shorter, I think. Medium. You are too tall.”