Smoke and Mirrors (Sloane Monroe Book 8)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  The man lifted the trunk’s lid and reached a hand inside, and then quickly recoiled before he had the chance to claim his precious cargo. The cargo was restless, like a wild cat, and had started kicking in the man’s direction, smashing a foot into his hand like an immature, ungrateful twat.

  To teach his cargo a lesson, the man slammed the trunk closed again.

  “I’m trying to be reasonable here, kid,” the man said. “But if this is how you’re going to treat me, I’ll leave you in here forever to rot and waste away. Is that what you want?”

  The man didn’t mean it, of course. He used a special cleaner to keep the upholstery smelling fresh. The stench of a decaying body would ruin it, just like his mum’s bag of peaches had when she’d left them in the back seat until they turned to mush. The smell never did come out.

  The man hesitated a moment for effect and then said, “What was that? Did you say something?”

  “I’m sorry,” the kid mumbled. “I won’t do it again. Please, let me out.”

  “That’s better. Still, I want to be sure the valuable lesson I’m teaching here today has been learned. I’m a bit ravenous, so I’m going to go make a sandwich. When I finish, I’ll come out here and get you, and we’ll try again.”

  As the kid began to cry, the man shook his head and turned, heading toward the house. Why was the kid crying? He’d just told him he’d be back. That was the problem with teenagers today. They were too damn soft.

  The man walked into the kitchen, removed a loaf of homemade bread he’d baked recently, and sliced it, pausing a moment to hold one of the pieces under his nose and take a big whiff. It was perfect, just like always.

  He buttered the bread, fried it in a pan, and set the slices on a plate. Returning to the pan, he rubbed a spicy sauce mixture over a few barramundi fillets, a variety of delicious Asian sea bass, and grilled it. In the meantime, he whipped up a coleslaw mixture to spread over the sauce. When everything was finished, he took a step back, marveling at yet another spectacular masterpiece. The presentation itself was magnificent. He snapped a photo and uploaded it to his food blog with the caption: Succulent Sandwich Saturday, knowing the photo would be a winner with his 9,033 subscribers.

  He pulled a chair out and sat down, and then said, “Petey, lunch is ready.”

  Petey entered the room, smiling as he gazed at the artistry laid out before him.

  The man held up the plate and said, “You better eat up. There’s an item in the trunk I’ll need your help with in a few minutes.”

  James advised me not to head back over to Tommy’s house to talk to his mother until the police had come and gone. At the moment, they were at Tommy’s house, questioning his mother about what happened. I knew this because I’d just done a drive-by to see if they were still there.

  Tommy had been missing for less than two hours, a timeline the police wouldn’t usually take seriously yet, but given his connection to Grace, they were more interested than usual. As far as what had happened, James had only a few details so far. Tommy’s mother had sent him to the corner store for a gallon of milk. The owner of the store saw him come in, get the milk, and check out at the register. He walked out the front door and vanished.

  There was some speculation about Tommy walking over to see Grace. Knowing James was in the hospital, Tommy may have felt it was the chance he’d been waiting for, and James’ house was only twenty minutes away on foot. All the possible routes were checked. There was no sign of Tommy, and the neighbors whom police had talked to along the way hadn’t seen him.

  I did some speculating of my own and considered I may have spooked Tommy earlier, and now he was on the run. It was much easier to accept than the possibility Tommy might have been nabbed by the killer—an option I didn’t want to be true.

  It was starting to feel like we were all being picked off one by one.

  To make use of my time, I stopped by Caroline’s office, a quaint, modern-looking building downtown, which she had shared with other therapists. I walked into the reception area and was greeted by a floor-to-ceiling fountain with tall tropical plants adorning each end. The room smelled clean and fresh, like rain, and the soft lighting of lamps created a calm, soothing illusion that made me feel like I was out in nature instead of inside a large box.

  Across the fountain was a plush sofa big enough to sleep on, and sitting in the center of it was a woman with curly, black, shoulder-length hair who appeared to be in her thirties. She had avoided looking at me since I’d walked in, focusing on the magazine folded open on her lap instead. I stared down the hall at three doors. One had a placard with Caroline’s name. I fished out the key James had given me and walked toward it.

  I stuck the key in the lock, and someone said, “Excuse me, what are you doing?”

  The woman put down the magazine she was holding and curled a finger toward herself, indicating she expected me to walk over to her. I didn’t want to, but I did.

  “Why are you interested in what I’m doing?” I asked. “Are you a patient waiting for an appointment?”

  She pressed a hand to her chest like the implication that she was there for a session had offended her. “I’m not a patient. I’m waiting for my husband.”

  “Oh, is he a patient?”

  She frowned. “No, he isn’t. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And you didn’t answer mine,” I said.

  “How do you know Caroline?”

  “I work for her brother, James.”

  She crossed her legs and leaned back on the sofa, tapping a manicured finger on the magazine.

  She pointed at my hand and said, “Oh, I guess that explains why you have a key to Caroline’s office, then.”

  I nodded. “Did you know Caroline well?”

  “I did. We were good friends. It’s difficult ... what happened ... on all of us. She was a good person. She didn’t deserve to die. What do you do for James?”

  “Whatever he needs.”

  She looked perplexed but didn’t head down that road any further.

  “How’s Grace doing?” she asked. “I’ve been meaning to stop by and see her.”

  “She’s all right. Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm Caroline?”

  She raised a brow. “Why are you asking?”

  “Until the police solve the case, Caroline’s family won’t be able to move on. I thought since you two were friends, she might have said something to you.”

  “Anything I know I’ve told the police, but to answer your question, no. Caroline was well-liked around here. She was a real sweetheart, and I don’t say that about many people.”

  I believed it.

  “Well, someone had it out for her,” I said.

  “How do you know they had it out for her? Maybe they had it out for Hugh. He was a real jerk.”

  She’d gone prickly again, and I didn’t have it in me to keep the banter going any longer. Fortunately, I was saved when one of the other office doors down the hall opened. Two men walked out. One had a perfectly shaved head and wore a navy button-up shirt and boat shorts. The other was Charlie Branson.

  The two men walked down the hall. The bald one draped his arm around the prickly woman’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. Charlie walked out the front door without even acknowledging me. I followed him outside.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” I asked.

  He glanced back at me. “Do I know you?”

  I wasn’t the best when it came to facial recognition, but it seemed odd that he didn’t remember me. Today his hair was different. It was the same color but neatly trimmed and short. He reminded me of Edward Norton.

  “You cut your hair,” I said.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. You had it in a ponytail when I saw you last.”

  He threw his hands in the air. “What are you talking about?”

  I was starting to feel like I was going crazy. Perhaps I was.

  “You’re James’ lawyer,” I said. “W
e met at the police station. You sat with me when I was being questioned.”

  He nodded. “Ohh ... I see what’s happening here. You’re thinking of my cousin, Charlie.”

  I stared at him for a moment, scanning him up and down before realizing my mistake. The longer I looked at his face, the more I noticed the subtle differences between them.

  “I can’t believe how much you look alike,” I said.

  “Yeah, same height, same hairstyle until recently, and we’re only one year apart I get it. It happens sometimes.”

  “Sorry for the mistake.”

  He stuck his hand out. “I’m Brad.”

  We shook. “I’m Sloane. I wouldn’t have aggressively pursued you if I had known you were someone else. What are you doing here?”

  “Martin and I are on a rugby team together. We were just discussing the team dinner after the final game next week.”

  I assumed Martin was the bald therapist who also worked in Caroline’s office.

  “There’s one other therapist who works here too, right?”

  He pointed at himself. “Yeah, me. What are you doing here?”

  I wasn’t sure if here meant Australia or if he was asking why I was standing in front of him. “I’m just grabbing some things out of Caroline’s office.”

  He folded his arms. “Why?”

  It wasn’t what he asked, but how he asked that interested me. “I’m helping James gather some of her things together. He has a lot going on right now.”

  “I heard. Why was my cousin with you at the police station?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard about the woman who just died, right? Adelaide Wiggins.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was with her right before she was murdered,” I said. “The police just wanted to ask me about it.”

  “Why were you with her?”

  “I was at Caroline’s house, picking up some clothes for Grace.”

  “Another errand for James?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Hey, I think the news said a woman named Sloane was with James when he was attacked at the park. That you too?”

  I nodded.

  “Seems like you keep finding yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I could say it’s a coincidence,” I said.

  “You could, but would it be true?”

  “What was your relationship like with Caroline?”

  He stared at me a moment and then said, “Healthy. Nice meeting you, Sloane.”

  He walked to his car and got in without saying another word. I tapped on the window. He put it down.

  “I wasn’t completely honest with you just now,” I said. “I mean, I wasn’t lying either ... I just wasn’t telling you—”

  “I know. Care to start again?”

  “I’m a private investigator, and I’m here to help solve the recent murders, specifically Caroline’s. I’ve been keeping that part quiet because it could be problematic for me to be here if word gets out about what I’m doing.”

  I didn’t know why I’d just blurted it all out like I had. Maybe because when it came to therapists, I’d always assumed they were trained to know when I was lying, and that had caused me to run my mouth.

  “And how’s it going—solving her murder?” he asked.

  “Not well at the moment. I was hoping I might find something of value in her office.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You were honest with me, so I’ll be honest with you. I liked her.”

  “She’s like a broken record,” I said. “When it comes to her, everyone says the same thing.”

  “No, I mean, I liked her. And I think she liked me too. It’s a bit difficult because we were colleagues, but a couple of months ago I took a chance and asked her out.”

  “Didn’t you know she was dating Hugh?”

  “I knew she wanted to break it off with him.”

  “What did she say when you asked her out?”

  “She told me she had a lot of things going on and to give her a few months and then ask again. As you know, I never got the chance. She seemed genuinely interested in getting together once things settled down, but I also wondered if she could have already been seeing someone else.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “She started staying at my place.”

  “Staying at your place?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. Not with me. I own a rental house on the ocean. Well, above the ocean. It’s close to Fitzroy Island. I had a window installed along the center of the floor. You can sit and watch sea life swim by. It’s a great place to stay for peace and quiet, and it’s private. You need a boat to get there.”

  “What do you mean she’d started staying there?”

  “She rented it from me one weekend a month.”

  “How often?” I asked.

  “Let’s see ... I’d say about four times or so.”

  “And she never told you why she was going there?”

  He shook his head. “No idea.”

  “How many bedrooms does it have?”

  “Five.”

  “When was the last time she stayed there?”

  “Four months ago, I think? I was kind of surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “She had it booked for two more months, and she came into my office one day and canceled. I asked if she wanted to move the reservation to a different date, and she said no. She wouldn’t be needing it again.”

  “What is your name?” the man asked.

  The kid wiggled around in the rickety wooden chair, desperately trying to free himself. The man just sat back and watched, knowing no amount of effort on the kid’s part would make a difference. The man had learned to tie knots at summer camp when he was a young boy. He’d even won an award for the best and fastest knot tied in camp, and a giant, red ribbon had been pinned to his chest. The kid wasn’t going anywhere unless the man wanted him to, and right now, he didn’t.

  “You know,” the man said. “I’m not sure why you’re acting like you’ve been imprisoned. I don’t have a weapon. I haven’t hurt you. I’m only sitting here, trying to have a conversation. Man to ... well ... man to boy, it seems.”

  “If you just want to talk, why am I tied up?” the kid asked.

  “I need you to stay put while I figure things out.”

  “Things? What things?”

  “It depends on how you answer my questions.” The man crossed one leg over the other. “Now then ... where were we? Oh, right. You were about to tell me your name.”

  “Thomas Walker.”

  “I hear you also go by Tommy. Which would you prefer?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Fine, then. Tell me, Thomas, what was the lady doing at your house today?”

  “What lady?”

  “Must I really define everything for you in order to get a decent response? I’m asking about the foreigner who has become chummy with the senator in recent days, or should I say, former senator. I’m sure you’ve seen the news. He stepped down today. It’s about time.”

  “She said her name was Sloane. Can’t remember her last name. She’s not from here. She’s American.”

  “Her last name is Monroe. Did she tell you her reason for being here?”

  “She’s helping the senator find the man responsible for the murders.” The kid glared at the man. “I’m guessing that’s you.”

  “It was always meant to be murder, singular—one simple, uncomplicated murder. Too bad things have to change sometimes, but the water has already boiled now. May as well make the most of it. Can I tell you a story?”

  Tommy shrugged. “What for?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” the man said. “Recently, I killed a woman, as you know. It was fast and clean and perfect, just like I intended. No prolonged suffering on her part. After she died, I stood back and looked at her. And do you want to know something? I actually felt all right about wha
t I’d done. Satisfied. It was a real relief after a confusing few months. I went home pleased with myself, knowing I’d done the right—”

  “Killing isn’t right.”

  “Come now, Thomas. It’s rude to interrupt a person before they’ve finished. Didn’t your mum teach you any manners?”

  “Don’t talk about my mum.”

  “As you wish. Let’s continue. After I returned home, something odd happened. Do you know of anything odd happening after she was murdered?”

  Tommy shook his head.

  The man smacked Tommy’s knee. “Sure you do! But if you want to play dumb, that’s fine. I’ll indulge it for a moment. The morning after the murder, I turned on the news, interested to see what they had to say about the woman they’d found dead. I was shocked to learn the police were looking for a killer responsible for two homicides, not one. I thought surely there must have been a mistake. After she was dead, I’d left just as quickly as I came. No unnecessary victims, no screw-ups, and yet somehow, after I departed, a second person was murdered.”

  Tommy was quiet for a moment and then said, “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Exactly my point, and that’s why you’re here. What about it, Thomas? You tell me. After all, you know what happened after I left, don’t you?”

  Tommy shook his head. “No, I don’t. Why would I?”

  The man leaned forward, gripping Tommy’s kneecap in his hands. “Lie to me again, and I’ll slit your throat right here, right now.”

  A tear ran down Tommy’s cheek. The man loosened his grip and relaxed back into his seat again.

  “I’ll tell you how I know you’re hiding something,” the man said. “I saw you two nights before the murder. You crawled through a window on the side of the house. The next night, you did the same thing. I’m guessing on the night in question you arrived right after I left, which means you know what happened.”