The Stars Shine Bright (23 page)

I whirled toward the microwave. The red numbers were red as fire.

7:09 a.m.

Hair dripping wet, I ran into the food-beer-gas deli. Behind the counter, the Indian family was gathered for a breakfast that smelled of mangoes and cumin. The man named Raj took my order. And the little girl with pigtails dashed under the counter and followed me to the refrigerator case where I removed a liter of Coca-Cola and took it to the counter where the condiments were kept. Ripping open salt packets, I poured the white crystals on a napkin.

The girl was just tall enough to peer over the counter. She said, “Can I do some?”

I nodded.

She took a handful of packets and tore them in half, grinning mischievously. When my burger was ready, I lifted the burger's bun and asked the girl to pour the salt on it. She asked no questions. Forming a funnel with the napkin, she poured several thousand milligrams of sodium chloride on what was already a salty meal. She even shook the napkin, making sure no salt was left behind.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Let's do another one.”

“Next time.”

“Really?”

“No. But I'll buy you a donut.”

“Okay.”

I paid for the soda, burger, and donut and added another dollar for the salt. Carrying everything to the Ghost, I drove around back of the store and searched for the black Cadillac. I didn't see it. Parked next to an abandoned air pump, I bowed my head and begged for help. A shallow prayer, but I asked for help to choke down the world's worst hamburger.

I chewed slowly despite the bitter flavor, letting the salt seep into my taste buds and bypass my stomach so the sodium got an expedited delivery into my bloodstream. About halfway through the meal, I could feel the veins rising on the backs of my hands. My fingers swelling. And this was how lying worked, I decided. At first I lied because it seemed like it would make things better for my mother. But things got worse. They always did with a lie. When I took another bite, the salt stung my lips. I was now a professional liar. Paid to live undercover. Officially ordered to lie. But no way was the truth coming out during a lie detector test. I checked the mirrors again. Still no black Caddy. Opening my phone I tapped out the numbers, my fingers so bloated that the engagement ring hurt.

Jack didn't bother with hello. He said, “It's like the Bat signal.”

“Pardon?”

“I was thinking of you again, and you called. It's like sending up the Bat signal.”

When I didn't reply, he said, “How's it going?”

He was probably the only person in my life who didn't immediately ask, “What's wrong?” DeMott asked every time I called. And my sister, Helen, who considered the FBI equivalent to the KGB. Then again, so did our mother.

“I'm on my way to a lie detector test.”

“That seems extreme.”

“What?”

“You can just admit you're in love with me. No need to take a test.”

“Jack, this isn't a joke. The arson guy called. I've got thirty minutes to get to the station and take the test.”

“Hold him off. I'll call the lawyers. We'll throw him off track somehow.”

“No,” I said. “It'll only make him more suspicious.” And lawyers, with my OPR file growing, seemed like a very bad idea.

“You have a plan?”

“Salt.”

He hesitated. “It doesn't always work.”

Polygraph tests weren't admissible in court, but law enforcement agencies used them to decide whether or not to pursue a suspect because the tests indicated evasiveness and nervousness by tracking blood pressure and heart rate changes. When asked certain questions, people panicked. I was hoping to ingest enough salt that my blood pressure would skyrocket no matter what was asked, confusing the polygraph's readout.

“There's another trick,” he said.

“Anything.”

“Squeeze your butt.”

No words came to mind.

“Harmon, are you there?”

“I'm here.”

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“If you tighten the anal sphincter, it raises your blood pressure. But you have to be careful.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, the guys giving these tests know every trick. I heard some chairs have sensors now. But you could put some thumbtacks in your shoes. Pain raises blood pressure.”

“Pain. Then I could just think about you.”

“Not a bad idea,” he said cheerfully. “Any kind of excitement works. You could think about hiking in the mountains. It's sunset. Nobody else is around. Except me, and I don't have my shirt on. I turn to you and say—”

“I shouldn't have called you.”

“No, I turn to you and say, ‘Harmon, you are the most—' ”

“Okay, fine. I got it.” I stared at the salt. It looked like a layer of crystallized cheese on the burger. I blamed it for the sudden flush creeping into my face. “I'll be fine.”

“I know you will. Just use that brain of yours. Send up the Bat signal when it's over. I'll be waiting.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

I
wasn't originally from the Northwest, but my background in geology told me Black Diamond Road was named for coal mined from the surrounding hills. On that missing person case here last year, I learned that so many “black diamonds” had been mined from the area's banded layers that during the 1920s a man could enter a tunnel's south end and walk north seven miles before he saw daylight. As I pulled up to the fire station, I tried to think about arcane geology. It helped distract my mind. Breathing was becoming difficult, my pulse clanged against my wrists. And when I stepped out of the Ghost, the station's fire alarm shrieked. My heart beat like a war drum as two chrome-and-red engines screeched from the garage doors.

When the engines were gone, I walked to the entrance. In the glass door, the reflection showed a woman dressed in navy blue slacks with a quartz-white silk blouse. Cool as a sociopath, she wore two-inch heels that lifted her to five foot eleven. But when I glanced down, I saw that my toes were poking over the sandals' footbed, swollen from salt. Lovely sandals. Black leather. Chosen by Lucia for Raleigh David. Sandals made by Pravda.

No, wait. Prada.

I drew a shaking hand over my still-damp hair, pulled into a sleek ponytail.

Raleigh David
, I told myself.
You are wealthy, imperious
.

But apparently not that impressive. The woman behind the front desk was on the phone. She barely looked at me.

“No soliciting,” she said, returning to her conversation. “I know, can you believe it? People are such idiots.”

I glanced around the station. The architecture was Northwest government-lodge. Lots of wood, exposed steel beams, concrete slab floor. But it looked purged, as if everyone left on the last siren call. I glanced at the receptionist. Dark roots bisected her blond hair. When I opened my mouth, my lips stuck to my teeth. I licked them, feeling a tongue rough as a cat's.

“Excuse me,” I managed to say.

She didn't raise her head. “I told you. No sales.”

“I have an appointment.”

“Hang on,” she told the person on the phone, then looked at me. She seemed to be trying not to roll her eyes. “What do you need?”

I was tempted to give a literal answer. Just to annoy her further.
Love
, I would say.
I need love. And a place to call home. Family
.

Instead: “I'm here to see Walter Wertzer.”

She slapped an intercom box. “Mr. Wertzer, you there?”

“Affirmative,” he answered.

Affirmative
. Not “yeah.” Not even “yes.” Affirmative.

Uh-oh
.

“Name?” She kept the phone to her ear. “Hey, what's your name?”

“Raleigh David,” I lied.

It was affirmative all right: Walter Wertzer's office gave me the willies.

His desk was an inch-thick slab of pale green glass and no paper rested on it. No fingerprints marred the shiny surface. And even the phone wasn't allowed to sit there. It was placed on a shelf between two galvanized tin caddies marked To Do and Done. No paper in either.

“Thank you for coming, Miss David.”

“My pleasure,” I lied.

He turned to another man in the room, wincing slightly. When his back was to me, I tugged at my blouse. The silk was sticking to my sweating armpits.

He said, “This is Mr. Roberts.”

Mr. Roberts stood beside a table in the corner of Wertzer's office. His white beard looked like something from the Old Testament. What was visible of his face seemed about as happy as Moses coming down the mountain to discover the grumblers were worshiping a gold bovine. Mr. Roberts tried to smile. And I tried to smile back.

“Mr. Roberts will be administering your test.”

The machine sat on the table. An electronic arm was attached to it, the pen resting on the graph paper.

Polygraph paper.

“Please,” Moses said. “Have a seat.”

The chair was padded on the arms and seat and was positioned to face a wall, putting the machine behind my back. The padding felt suspiciously thick. Butt sensors.

Wertzer stepped in front of me. “Just so you know how this works. Mr. Roberts is going to administer the test. He'll ask you some of the same questions I did.” He shifted his lips. Some kind of simulated smile under the gray mustache. “Are you nervous, Miss David?”

“A little.” The pulse in my ears sounded like ocean waves. “Is that a problem?”

Now he smiled. Really smiled. Nervous was good. Nervous meant he was right about Raleigh David; she had something to hide. “No, no,” he said, “that's not a problem. But maybe you'd like some practice before we start. Would that help?”

I opened my eyes wide. “Is that allowed?”

But I knew what he was doing. By “practicing” the questions with me, Wertzer could later claim any emotional response from me wasn't due to surprise. Only deception.

“Here's a question Mr. Roberts will ask: What is your name?”

“Raleigh David,” I lied.

“Your age?”

“Thirty-one.” That was the truth.

“Is Eleanor Anderson your aunt?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“See? Nothing to worry about.”

My pulse beat ten thousand milligrams per second as Moses strapped the heart monitor around my upper ribs and instructed me to place my palms on the chair's arms. He secured my wrists with nylon straps, which told me the padded arms did indeed have sensors.

“I'll be right back,” Wertzer said.

No, he wouldn't. He didn't want to be in the room during the test. That way, I couldn't claim his presence influenced my answers.

While Moses did something behind my back, I glanced around. No two-way mirrors. Maybe a hidden camera somewhere. I took a long, slow breath, counting four beats in and four beats out. The way we were taught at Quantico. I wanted to bring my blood pressure down for the start of the test and fixed my eyes on a poster across from me. It showed a mountain lake. Still water. The sun setting behind encircling hills. An inspirational message ran along the bottom. I squinted.