Tell Me No Lies (6 page)

"Any suspects?"

"One or two."

Just then, a jumpsuit-clad waiter came up and murmured that the governor was leaving.

She turned to Hank, grateful for the interruption. "Will you excuse me?"

"Of course."

Hank watched her go, unsure what to think. He'd flirted with her because he couldn't divulge the real reason he'd come back. And hell he might as well admit it because he'd enjoyed it. Especially watching the heat flood her normally cool, controlled face. She'd handled him well, maintained her composure despite the telltale blush, but then, maybe she was just a good liar.

He turned toward the bookcase. The framed photographs he'd seen earlier were all gone.

He frowned, studying the case. The doors on the bottom might prove interesting. He looked around. For the moment, he was alone. Opening the cabinets, he discovered more wooden carvings lined up inside, but no photographs. Disappointed, he scanned the room for another likely hiding place. There were probably a million of them, but none he could search just then, with the crowd looking on.

But later, after the party, someone would do a perimeter check outside and a final walk-through inside. Hank would just have to make sure that someone was him.

He strolled through the public areas, examining walls, shelves, and tables for the missing photograph, or for something that would confirm Alex was either lying or telling the truth about Luka Kole. His head told him he was wasting his time, but his gut told him to hang in there.

He did, watching the party flow, then ebb hours later. Finally, well after midnight, only A. J. and Petrov were left.

Hank spied them in a corner in the next room, heads bent together. They hadn't seen him, and he edged closer until he could hear their conversation, but the murmurings were all in Russian. Petrov stroked her arm, then her face, cajoling her into something, but she shook her head, regretfully, it seemed to Hank.

"Not tonight," she said in English. "I'm too tired, and I have too much to do tomorrow."

"You disappoint me," Petrov said.

"I'm sorry, Miki. I'll call you. We'll have dinner."

She tucked her arm through Petrov's and escorted him to the door, caressing his face and kissing him good-bye. A kiss meant for his cheek, but Petrov turned his head at the last minute, catching her mouth with his. Alex stiffened, then leaned into the kiss, her body pressed against the older man's. Again, distaste flickered through Hank. There'd been something slick and scheming in the way Petrov had taken advantage of a simple good-bye.

Not that Alex seemed to mind.

Hank shook his head. Who she kissed and who she didn't was not why he was there.

Petrov walked out the door and as soon as it was closed, Alex wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Hank raised his brows. Now, that was interesting.

Then she picked up the skirt of her dress and ran toward the back of the house.

Quickly, Hank stepped outside and told a surprised Joe Klimet that he would do the interior walk-through. It was late, and everyone was eager to get home. Hank's offer meant one less man had to stay behind. For once, Joe didn't argue.

Hank had just finished his inspection, as well as a fruitless search for the missing photo, when he saw Alex, now in a pair of dark slacks, dash past the library door. Racing out of the room, he was in time to see her bolt outside.

Where the hell was she going?

Hunches on alert, he ducked outside and two minutes later, a car came roaring down the drive. He could just make out Alex behind the wheel. Hank checked his watch 1:27 a.m. Pretty late in the day for a spin.

Hank sprinted down the steps to his car. In seconds, he'd turned it around and followed Alex.

He tailed her to the laconic Parkway and drove north for two hours. The parkway was unlit, a two-lane winding nightmare swathed in nothing but moonlight Hank could do little more than concentrate on the road.

When she pulled off at last, it was onto an exit marked Lakeview. Hank doused his headlights, using the moon to light his way. Even darker than the parkway, the crow black murkiness made his skin crawl. It was six-months-old superstitious crap, a remnant from his deadly bout in the tool-shed. The shrinks had told him the fear would fade, but anxiety still clutched at him, drying his mouth and sending his pulse into overdrive.

Five minutes later, Alex drove into a gas station, a small setup with two old-fashioned pumps and a tiny run-down store mat advertised fishing bait. Dim light illuminated the parking area.

With relief, Hank eased into a cluster of trees at the side of the road. He got out of the car and crept closer, keeping to the shadows.

Flattened against the side of the rickety store, he sneaked around back until he could see her. She was standing in the shadows, talking to a man. Sixty maybe. Or older. Wearing a pair of rumpled khakis and an equally rumpled shirt. A scruffy pickup faced Alex's car, fishing rods mounted on a rack at the back of the cab. Hank squinted but couldn't make out the plate number.

He focused on Alex. Her hands waved in the air, her body shook. Was she crying? The man handed her a handkerchief. He seemed to be trying to calm her down. Fatherly arm around her shoulder, he led her to the pickup, put her inside, and leaned in as if talking to her. His back was toward Hank, blocking Alex's body.

Explanations flitted through Hank's mind. Uncle? Father? Older brother? Much, much older. But why drive all the way out here? Why not pick up a phone and call? And what had upset her so? She'd seemed perfectly composed during the party.

Whatever Uncle Fisherman was saying, it didn't last long. A few minutes, and Alex was back on the road, heading the way she'd come, while the older man drove off in the opposite direction.

The glow of the pickup's taillights disappeared into the curtain of blackness, and Hank stared after it, trying once more to catch the plate number. But the track was too far away. He thought about following, but the road was unfamiliar, narrow, and deserted, and the risk of being seen too great.

He trudged back to his car, wishing he had a bead on the guy in the pickup. Not to mention his relationship to Alexandra Jane Baker.

4

Apple House was dead quiet when Hank finally made it back. He let himself in, sneaked down the hall to his room, and was so tired he collapsed on the bed before he got his clothes off. Images of flower-covered oil rigs and dusty pickups swirled in his head, but at last he dropped off to sleep.

What seemed like seconds later, a wail jerked him awake. Disoriented, he took a second to fix the sound. Then he hurried across the hall and pushed open the door to Mandy's room.

She twisted in her bed, another nightmare making her quake and scream. Guilt snaked through Hank, and he gathered the small body into his arms.

"Hush, baby," he whispered. "Everything is all right. Shh." He gave her the lie, crooning so she would believe. She whimpered and sank into his chest, still sleeping, and he held her against him until she quieted.

Tucking her in, he pushed her stuffed dinosaur close under the covers so she could feel it Above the pink-and-purple comforter her face looked small and defenseless. What happened when she found out he couldn't keep her safe? That no one could? That safety was an illusion as flimsy as smoke.

He rubbed a hand down his face, the fear of letting her down palpable as his own skin.

Returning to his room, he tumbled into bed and didn't sleep much. When the sun rose, he got up bleary-eyed, helped his mother get the fruit stand opened, then drove the kids to school. Mandy had her headphones draped around her neck. Tapes, television, books they were all part of her arsenal of escape, a way to keep the dangerous world at bay. Trey sat beside her, scowling out the window.

Hank glanced at his nephew in the rearview, hesitated, then plunged in, a smile on his face, a friendly tone in his voice. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

"Nana said you have a social studies test today, Trey. I thought we could go over the material on the way." Truth was, his mother had also mentioned her doubts that Trey had done much studying for it. She was worried he wouldn't pass sixth grade at the rate he was going.

But Hank didn't care about the test for its own sake. He just wanted an opening. Something to talk about, to let Trey know he was interested. "So, what do you say?"

Trey said nothing. Head turned away, he continued to frown, enclosed in silence. Hope sank, and Hank debated whether to try again, but Mandy whispered loudly instead.

"Trey, don't." Her small voice held a pleading note. She hadn't mentioned the nightmare; he didn't know if she even remembered it. Or wanted to.

Through the rearview, Hank saw the boy stir as though Mandy's plea hadn't fallen on completely deaf ears. That was good. But then he resettled himself in the corner and didn't answer.

"We're starting a play in school today," Mandy said into the void. Her voice was a little too eager, her smile in the rearview mirror a little too strained. She was trying to make up for her brother's intransigence, trying to make everything calm and smooth and ail right. As if it ever could be all right

"That's great, Mandy. Maybe you'll get a part."

"Everyone gets a part," Trey said sullenly.

Hank bit down on a sharp retort. Trey seemed to be itching for a fight, and a fight first thing in the morning was not what Hank had in mind. "That's good. No one feels left out."

"Yeah," Mandy said softly, "no one feels left out." Which in Mandy's world meant everyone would be happy. Satisfied with that, she sat back, placed the earphones on her head, and plugged into her tape.

He dropped them off at the front of the school and watched them go, Mandy to fourth grade and Trey to sixth. They were slipping away, Hank felt it as keenly as if the kids were dangling over a precipice with only his two hands to keep them from falling. Which one would he drop? Trey, who fought him with every breath, or Mandy, who pretended nothing had happened? Christ, he wasn't up to mis.

But of course he had to be. He had no other option. But as he made his way to the station downtown, the doubts continued to swirl.

His route took him past Grove Street Plaza, the ghost mall littered with vacancy signs. He remembered how excited everyone had been when it opened ten years earlier. Newspaper articles had touted Sokanan as a model of development. A grand opening ceremony with bunting and speeches had drawn a crowd. It had been his last year on pa-trol before his promotion to detective, and he'd been assigned to the event He'd stood at the edge of the makeshift podium, listening to the Sokanan High School band play "Stars and Stripes Forever," and felt proud and hopeful as anyone.

The optimism had gone with the GE plant closing, and Grove Street had gradually suffocated to death. Last year, a fire in one of the abandoned stores had left half the mall a burned-out hulk, an eyesore that had the city council in an uproar and the responsible parties vying over who would pay the cleanup.

When he got to the station, the squad was gearing up for the daily meeting. The Sokanan Police Department had ten men in the detective division; they handled all major crimes from homicide to robbery to sexual assault. It was a lot for a small city, but no one sat around. Times were bad, and crime was up. And since Sokanan was at the end of the Metro North train line from Manhattan, they got a lot of spillover.

Hank poured himself a cup of coffee and wandered into the small squad room. Three men and one woman milled around drinking coffee, chatting, and waiting for Parnell to begin.

They greeted Hank with a nod and pity in their eyes. Most had been supportive after his family had been blown apart. No one had accused him of screwing up, but their silence seemed loud as an accusation.

Joe Klimet called to Hank from across the room. "Hey, Bonner you get that lead chased down last night?" His eyes glinted with malicious pleasure as several heads turned Hank's way. "Our boy here showed up at the Renaissance Oil thing. But the only lead I saw him chasing was " Joe mimed a woman's curvy body in the air.

A few wolf whistles and catcalls greeted this.

"Couple of weeks and you'll have plenty of time for chasing those kinds of leads," a voice said over the din, and everyone laughed.

"And do it better than you, Fenelli." A pang washed through Hank. The closer he got to leaving, the more that seemed to happen. He felt like he was deserting everyone.

A quitter. Like Ben had said.

He clenched his jaw. Not quitting. Just doing what had to be done.

For Trey and Mandy.

For everyone.

Lieutenant Parnell burst out of his office. He was a spare man; Hank always thought he looked as though he'd been honed by the wind. Not sixty yet, he'd gone gray early, and now a layer-of white hair covered his head. But that didn't make him any less sharp. He looked down at a yellow pad. "How'd the Renaissance Oil thing go?"

"No problems," Joe Klimet said.

"Good." He crossed something off on the pad, then looked at Hank and asked about the Luka Kole murder. Before Hank could respond, Mike Fenelli spoke.