Tell Me Lies: A completely addictive and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Max Carter Book 1)

by Ed James

  Next, a group of soccer moms, perfect hair like their daughters, all beaming at the coffee mugs they’ve just painted.

  And then she walks out, strutting like she owns the whole mall. Megan Holliday, homecoming queen fifteen years later. Aviators push her blonde hair up and back, more elegant than a headband but completely unnecessary on a Seattle Saturday morning, and inside to boot. Red lipstick. Blue-striped blouse and black leggings, a thousand-dollar bag dangling from her shoulder. Boy does she look harassed, like everyone’s out to ruin her day, especially her kids, a pair of polecats fighting each other around the stroller she’s pushing, even though her kids are too old to need it.

  Avery is a clone of her mother: matching blouse and leggings, but with jet-black hair instead of blonde. She walks away from her brother, carrying herself like she’s at a beauty pageant, wide smiles and drama in every precise movement.

  Brandon has his mother’s hair, worn long to match his baby grunge gear, ripped jeans and plaid shirt, though his sandals kind of ruin the look.

  She’s four, he’s three. All ages are difficult, but those are pretty much the worst.

  Megan talks to them, but I couldn’t hear her even if I was next to them. Brandon hops in the stroller, rocking like he’s on a bronco, and Megan pushes him toward the elevator. Avery stomps alongside, slapping away her mother’s outstretched hand, her face twisted with petulance.

  I give them ten seconds while I finish my coffee, then I pull on my shades and tug my hood up over my head, pull the baseball cap low. As I pass, I stuff the coffee cup deep in the garbage can—never leave a trace—and shadow their footsteps on the opposite side of the mall, sucking in cinnamon smells from the donut kiosk, avoiding the line of mall walkers powering toward me, a centipede of velour and white hair.

  On the opposite walkway, Megan’s pleading with Avery, both of them frowning. She keeps checking her reflection in the store windows, not even pretending to listen to Avery’s complaints now. Heard it all before, so many times. She parks the stroller by the elevator and hits the call button. Then she crouches, making sweet promises to her daughter, offering the world for a minute’s silence.

  Avery buys it too, her pout becoming a grin just like that. Ice cream, maybe.

  Megan navigates them into the elevator, and I quicken my pace over the walkway.

  The door starts to slide shut, but I catch it with my foot. “Thanks.”

  Megan’s head tilts to the side as she examines me sidling into the small space, mama bear guarding her cubs. Her shoulder bag lies between her feet, Avery hiding behind her legs.

  I reach down to rub my knee, and groan. “An old war wound.”

  Megan gives me a curt nod and hits the button again.

  The doors close this time, then the elevator rumbles, grinding like a streetcar as it takes us down to the parking lot.

  I lean against the bar, the metal cold through my hoodie, though I don’t grip it. Never touch anything. The camera points at Megan, not at me, but it wouldn’t get anything useful even if it did. No detail I couldn’t change.

  “Mommy, Brandon’s had the stroller for so long.” Avery’s broken her promise already. “It’s my turn!”

  Megan smiles at me, embarrassed. “You’re too old for that, sweetie.”

  “But I want—”

  “We’re getting ice cream on the way home, honey. Okay?”

  Got it in one.

  Avery kicks a foot on the floor. “Okay.” Doesn’t look like it.

  But ice cream is a complication. Could go either way. Meaning I need to act now.

  Megan rolls her eyes at me, shame flickering in them. Maybe anger, maybe despair.

  “Heard that so many times myself.” I give her a warm smile. “Got a boy of my own. Older, but I’ve still got the scars.”

  Megan rolls her eyes at her kids. “It never stops.”

  “Oh, it does. And then you miss it and you’d do anything to get it back.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Megan grabs Avery’s hand as the elevator crunches to a halt. “Now, don’t you let go, okay? And what do we do?”

  “Look both ways!”

  “Attagirl.”

  I’m already out into the garage, tasting the stale gasoline as I place my forearm over the door, guiding them out like a concierge, all gentlemanly.

  “Why, thank you.” Megan trundles the stroller out, clutching Avery’s hand tight. Brandon’s already asleep.

  I tip my imaginary cap at her and sidle off in the opposite direction. Pretend I’m getting into a sedan, but I’m just crouching, watching Megan and her brood through the glass of ten parked cars.

  Avery’s complaints are getting louder, not believing she’ll get the ice cream, demanding she gets in the stroller.

  Megan’s minivan lurks over in the shadows, boxed in on both sides by a pair of SUVs. A light flickers above.

  I wait, watching her put the children in back, fastening them into booster seats, buckling them in and checking. Once, twice, three times. She slams Brandon’s door and the noise echoes around.

  Now it’s just us down here. Me and them.

  I set off, keeping low and sticking to the walls, where the light’s faintest, can’t even hear my footsteps—she has no chance. Past an SUV and I’m behind her. Waiting, so close that her prickly perfume hits my nostrils. Fresh and organic, like rose petals.

  I reach into my pocket for the syringe.

  Megan opens her door, but the elevator clunks open again.

  Footsteps come from behind, loud and fast. “Ma’am?” The mall cop is hurrying across the garage, holding something above his head. “Is this your bag, ma’am?”

  Megan’s hand shoots up to her shoulder. “Dammit.” Then she’s all business, flashing her smile at the mall cop. “Thank you, sir. That’s so kind of you.”

  “You left it in the elevator.” He adjusts his security hat and stands there, thumbs back in his belt. Just a regular guy doing his job. “All part of the job, ma’am.”

  Megan gets in the minivan and the engine spits as the door clicks. She reverses out of the space, the mall cop watching her, whistling an old Elvis number over the drone.

  I missed my shot.

  And it was way too risky here. Too many moving parts, too much out of my control.

  But time is running out. No time for this shit, no time to wait.

  And it hits me. “We’re getting ice cream on the way home, honey. Okay?” There’s a gelato store on the route back to their McMansion. And I know every permutation of the route back.

  Time for Plan B.

  Second time around the block and it’s clear. Rain teeming down, thundering off my roof, slicking the windshield as the wipers struggle with the biblical flood that Seattle contends with every day. I pull up and sit there, letting the gears click around in my head. Real sweet neighborhood, a realtor’s dream. Lights on at this time, glowing in the gloomy downpour. Porches, wooden boards painted gray, bigger front yards than you’d expect, but old enough to have mature shrubs, young enough that the trees don’t need serious trimming yet. Three-car garages, with all the cars out on Saturday morning errands—swim club, shopping, birthdays, soccer practice.

  I swallow hard, the pain digging deep into my gut.

  This is it. This time. No mall cops to stop me. Should’ve stuck to this plan, should never have even considered the mall. What was I thinking?

  I grab my backpack and get out into the rain, taking care to shut the door quietly. Checking out each window for signs of movement. Listening hard to the thundering rain, tasting the Pacific in each drop.

  Nothing. Nobody. Good to go.

  I march over to the house, acting like I own the place, crunch up the long drive past a shiny VW sedan, the only car in the street. I knock on the door and dump the bag at my feet.

  Nothing inside. No lights, no sounds, no smells.

  I step back and scan the street again. Neighbors on both sides, trees rustling behind, the wind licking th
em hard, knocking droplets of rain off. The Victorian opposite looks empty—no lights, no plumes of heating outlet—so I hide behind the shrub at the side of the house, the eaves shielding me from the rain.

  The perfect spot to wait, eyes closed, focusing on the sounds. Rain pattering the ground, but I can tune it out. Distant traffic, then the roar of planes landing at SeaTac. Then kids playing soccer, girlish squeals and parental shouts. I swallow hard, biting down on a memory.

  An engine approaches, heavy, diesel. I glance around the bush.

  A pickup rolls on down the road.

  I let out a breath. Didn’t even know I was holding it.

  Where are they?

  Ice cream means picking up a cone, the kids licking the gelato as they watch a Disney movie on the back of the car seats, hypnotizing them into a light sleep.

  Doesn’t it?

  Maybe they were eating in, Avery and Brandon digging spoons deep into giant dishes, while Megan sips an espresso, wishing she could have a smoke or a cocktail.

  I should’ve tracked their journey, kept my eyes on the target instead of surveilling the acquisition site.

  I could still drive over there, watch them and—

  No. Wait here. Stay the course. This is a good plan. It will work. One way or another, they will be here. It’s still safe.

  Another engine rumbles. I don’t even look, because I know the sound. Slowing, the drive belt whirring as the minivan turns into the driveway, where it stops. The mailbox clatters and the din of a kids’ movie bleeds out of the minivan.

  I check the gun, cold through my gloves. Just in case. The syringe is where it’s at, though. For now. I uncap it, locking it between my fingers, my thumb touching the plunger, my heart thudding in my ear.

  Then the music dies and the car rumbles again, inching toward me. It stops again and the engine dies this time, the suspension sighing as it deflates. The driver door opens. One heel clicks down, then the other. The door shuts again.

  And I’m off, grabbing my left hand around Megan’s mouth, my right hand stabbing the syringe into her neck. Keys tinkle as they hit the pebbles. I don’t give her a chance to look around to see who’s doing it. That’s not what this is about.

  Inside, the kids stare at the TV screens mounted on the back of the front seats, dialogue droning through the glass, dulled music swelling.

  Megan’s head rolls to the side and she’s a dead weight.

  I snap off the syringe and stick it back in my pocket, then walk Megan over to the porch, much harder than it should be. I sit her down, resting her head against the door, and place the typed note on her lap, out of the rain’s reach. They’ll never trace it back to me.

  Part one done, but I can’t stop, not even for a second.

  I jog over to the minivan, checking my pocket for the two remaining syringes, then snatch up Megan’s keys and my bag in one fluid movement. I get in the driver side and stow my backpack in the passenger footwell.

  “Where’s Mommy?” Brandon breaks off from Disney long enough to look at me, his little pink face still showing traces of chocolate around his mouth. I can barely hear him over the movie.

  My free hand opens another syringe. “She’ll be here soon.”

  My wrist aches with each twist of the screwdriver, the final tightening sending a flare of pain up my arm. I yank up my sleeve and check the damage. A tiny imprint of Avery’s teeth, my skin broken in a few places. I roll my sleeve down and step back to inspect my work. Even I couldn’t tell the plates didn’t belong to the car. That’ll do. I put Megan’s plates back in the bag and scan the parking lot again. Still empty, just a boarded-up Burger King sleeping across the cracked asphalt, the realty signs offering a steep discount nobody’s taking.

  The freeway moans downhill, hidden by a row of condos stalled mid-construction. The nearest intersection is empty.

  Nobody’s watching me. Nobody’s listening.

  I get back in the minivan. Behind, this morning’s Seattle Times rests between the sleeping kids, their chests rising almost in time with each other. I reach into the backpack pocket for the burner cell phone and snap a photo. I send it to the cell’s only contact along with a message:

  Big Al’s truck stop off I90. Be there by noon or they die.

  Chapter Three

  Holliday

  Senator Christopher Holliday held his iPhone to his ear, listening to the ringing tone as downtown Seattle rumbled past through the tinted glass. The street was quiet, just a young couple pushing a stroller through the rain. He reached the voicemail, the first few words of Megan’s warm welcome message. He hung up and put his cell in his jacket pocket, trying not to worry.

  She must still be out with the kids, hitting the mall. Hitting the credit card, filling our home with yet more bags of designer clothes the kids’ll grow out of in seconds.

  The limousine slowed to a halt, so smooth he barely noticed it. The Henry M. Jackson Federal Building loomed out of the rain above them, thirty-plus floors of concrete, glass, bureaucracy, and waste. In the distance, the sun burned over Elliott Bay, bright light flaring as a rainbow battled the usual Seattle downpour.

  Crowds lined First and Second Avenue, filling the block between Marion and Madison, soaking but angry and loud. Banners read N30+20—the twentieth anniversary of the WTO protests that wrecked half the city. Hordes of old hippies and woke hipsters protesting globalization and government intrusion into their lives, the world eroding their liberty, stealing their freedom. And who said city folks didn’t care? Their instincts should be tempered by money and education, the pursuit of progress, but here they are, disgusted by the world their parents had shaped.

  Who arranges a congressional hearing on a Saturday morning when there’s a humongous protest raging?

  Oh, I know exactly who.

  The limo caught the tail end of the protest as it moved on, keeping a respectful distance like a hearse at a funeral, then came to a halt right outside the main entrance. Holliday’s Secret Service goons got out first, earpieces in, shades on, black suits bulging over barely concealed handguns. Before Holliday was out of the door, an umbrella covered his head, the rain patting off it. He stood up tall, puffing out his chest as he buttoned his suit jacket.

  Always walk like you’re the president. The camera crews might be here for the protest, but they’ll take me home with them.

  A red streetcar rumbled nearby, shaking rain off the cables. Bells tolled on the Bainbridge ferry as it slipped off through the Puget Sound, but trees obscured the view down to the shoreline.

  Outside the Federal Building, the soaked Stars and Stripes still looked like it was flying in the breeze, even though it was dead still for once.

  Holliday saluted the flag as he passed.

  “Sir, if you’ll follow me.” Agent Lewandowski gestured up the steps. A walking stereotype cast in muscle and hard jaw. Ex-this, ex-that, top of his class here, Medal of Honor there, even rumors of being ex-CIA. And here he was, guarding a boy from the wilds of rural Washington, a town still full of redneck loggers no matter how much Seattle spread like a tumor. Lewandowski marched off up the damp steps, scanning in every direction.

  Holliday fell into his slipstream, another two agents following, then entered the foyer. Ornate brick arches hung over curved wooden desks, three stations spaced out across the expanse, smiling faces guarding the new museum. Spotlights shone from the ceiling, much lower than you’d expect. A line formed by the elevator, waiting for the next car up.

  Photographers gathered at the far end, their flashes hammering the crowd of people entering the conference hall.

  Holliday primed his million-dollar smile for them. Just enough teeth to warm their hearts, not enough to dazzle. Creased forehead, a mix of congeniality and experience, like he really knew you, but like he also knew how to get stuff done.

  “Chris!” A hand parted the wave of a security detail twice as big as Holliday’s. Richard Olson. Tall, rower’s shoulders, contractor’s gut, billionaire’s suit ope
n at the neck. His thick beard was peppered with gray, matching the white at his temples, adding distinction to the dyed-black look. He barged through his guards to meet Holliday, then gripped his hand tight, clapping his back as they shook. “Can you believe they spent three million bucks on this shithole?” His gaze swept around the foyer, mischief twinkling in his blue eyes. “Nice to see my tax dollars being spent so wisely.”

  “You barely pay any tax, Richard.” Holliday got his hand back, stuffing it in his pants pocket. “While I completely agree, you should take it up with the governor next time you tee off.”

  “That’s a good one. Like Duvall would listen to a shmuck like me.”

  Holliday held Olson’s gaze for a few seconds, struggling to keep up the smile.

  “Let’s walk and talk.” Olson started off at a slow pace over to the conference hall, footsteps clicking on the marble, both of their security details following at a respectful distance. “You should’ve stopped this, Chris.”

  “Not in my wheelhouse, Richard. You should take that up with Delgado. Make sure you get value for money from your donations.”

  Olson flashed a wide grin, but his eyes were full of menace. “You know that punk is going after me? After all the money I’ve given his campaigns?”

  “Richard.” Holliday gave him that look. “So long as your hands are clean, you’ll be safe.”

  “Pathologically clean.”

  “There’s nothing I can do, okay? Just let this show play out. Let him have his moment, then you’ll be golden.”

  Olson looked him up and down, then clapped his arm. “See you on the other side.” He set off with his entourage toward the scrimmage line of press.

  The other side of what, though?

  Holliday leaned in to Lewandowski. “I’ve got it from here. You can go.”

  “Sir, I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can and you will.” Holliday tried to make eye contact through the shades. “You were to protect me from threats. They’ve moved on. I’ll get a cab back. You enjoy the rest of your weekend, you hear?”