Liar, Liar

by Winter Austin

Jerking, her gaze flew to his face and stayed there. “I don’t know. I guess I’m too nosy for my own good.” Her already washed-out features turned gray. “I should have just ignored it and kept driving.”

  Despite his strict protocol of avoiding physical contact with witnesses, Shane placed his hand on her shaking shoulder. “If you hadn’t, maybe no one would have.”

  Her face crumpled, and tears leaked from her eyes. “It’s awful.”

  Beckoning Murdoch over, Shane patted the woman’s arm. “Why don’t you go with my deputy, and she’ll take your statement. Have you excused yourself from work?”

  “Should I?”

  “Might be best. I don’t think you’ll be able to concentrate.”

  Sniffing, she nodded, and his deputy escorted the commuter toward Murdoch’s squad car.

  Liza left her post near his truck and approached the edge of the road. “You’ve got a body?”

  He sighed. “I’ve got a body.”

  Those golden-brown eyes stared at him expectantly. “Is this something . . . you know, you need . . . assistance with?”

  “No, I’ll handle it.” He dug out a pair of latex-free gloves. “When Doc Drummond arrives, you wouldn’t mind pointing him in the right direction?”

  “I can do that.” She flashed him a bright smile and thumbs up, then scurried back a safe distance, next to his truck, which was blocking the right lane.

  Hitching up his fortitude to descend into the ditch, Shane snapped on the gloves. “Let’s see who you are.” He eased down the grassy slope.

  The water was from the all-day rainstorm they’d had three days ago, run-off that hadn’t soaked into the ground or evaporated. By the discoloration of the water, there was more in there than normal mud and decayed foliage. He was going to have to wade through that yuck to get to the body. How had the female commuter got only the tips of her shoes wet?

  He grunted as the muck soaked through his leather boots and got to his socks. The sickly sweet stench of decomp blasted him. No matter how many years he’d done this job, his long life around livestock and animals, and that brief stint in the military during war, Shane never got past the gross-out factor of death.

  Bending at the waist, he fisted a flapping corner that the commuter had dislodged when she made her discovery, and peeled back the heavy-duty plastic. Flies and blowflies took flight. White larva wriggled and wormed their way through the open orifices. Shane shuddered in revulsion. This was the sickest part.

  He grabbed quick, swallow breaths, trying not to inhale too much of the nasty fumes, and yanked back the rest of the plastic to fully expose the body. Distended flesh was mottled and purple. Pieces of skin were missing, scavengers having found a way inside to feast. Despite the advancing stages of decomposition, Shane recognized the man trussed up like a corpse from the black plague.

  “Shit.”

  The disturbing aspect to Donovan Frost’s corpse, clothed in only a white dress shirt and slacks and missing his shoes, was the similarities to Gene Avery’s. Shane would bet his best bucking stock mare that the back of Donovan’s head was a crushed mess. The questions of the hour: Were there electric prod marks on his body? And with the state of decomposition on the body, would Doc Drummond be able to find said marks?

  “Son of a . . . biscuit.”

  Shane glanced up at Nash, who had finally arrived.

  “Sheriff, no offense, man, but Donovan Frost being dead is not going to go over too well for you.”

  “That’s why I have the county pay you the big bucks, Nash, to state the obvious.”

  “Just sayin’.” Nash crossed his arms over his lean chest. “I’m glad I don’t have to be the bearer of bad news to his wife.”

  For the love of Pete. It would fall on him to corner Pamela and tell her. How wonderfully convenient that he was stuck doing it right after getting into a pissing contest with her over Roslin Avery.

  “Take Murdoch with you,” Nash said. “She has a knack for calming hysterical women.”

  “I’ll handle it. I don’t have to remind any of you to keep Donovan’s ID to yourselves. I have to notify Pamela first.”

  Nash nodded his confirmation.

  “We need to block off this road and detour folks to the side roads. Probably going to call in the staties for help, because I want a two-mile radius locked down. No one comes in or out without authorization.”

  “Only two, sir?”

  “Any farther out will require more manpower. Unless we get assistance from the state patrol, we can’t go any wider. You have your orders, Deputy.”

  “On it, sir.” Nash took off.

  Two bodies in two days, a fire, a whack-nut arsonist, and a venomous snake of an attorney who now had a dead husband, topped off by a tailing FBI agent, all while the anniversary of Cheyenne’s death hung over his head. This was shaping up to be a week from hell.

  • • •

  Liza did her best to stay out of Hamilton’s way while he worked. The man kept removing his cowboy hat and treating his scalp to a rough massage. His wet boots had to be uncomfortable, but he acted like he didn’t care. So why should she? Because wet socks in wet boots gave one blisters from hell, that’s why she cared. Liza was all too familiar with that feeling.

  She shouldn’t be here alongside the road while he worked a homicide scene. This was way out of her league. Since the warehouse fire and her brief stint with Boyce during the deadly bank robberies, Liza’s aversion to murder had tripled. She could put on a brave face, but death, violent death in particular, did not agree with her.

  The buzzing in her coat pocket came as a welcomed distraction from her dark thoughts. A text from her SAC.

  Oh, joy.

  There was no point in dragging this out via messages. Liza put in the call to her supervisor.

  “Montrose.”

  “G’morning, ma’am.”

  “Agent Bartholomew, I believe I sent you a text asking for an update.”

  “And I got it, but I thought it best to call and debrief you.”

  There was some shuffling, and Montrose commanded someone to vacate her office. “I’m waiting.”

  Pinching the bridge of her nose, Liza resisted the compulsion to sigh. “First off, I was not avoiding you. Things got complicated, quickly.”

  “Complicated? Would you care to explain to me how things got complicated?”

  Gulping down the metallic taste of trepidation, Liza braced for the full impact of SAC Ally Montrose’s wrath. “Sorry—”

  “Sorry isn’t the answer I want from you, Bartholomew. I sent you on this search and recovery operation with strict instructions that you were to do it as quietly as possible. Nowhere in those instructions did I tell you to make a public scene.”

  “Ma’am, I did as you ordered, but things changed.”

  “Damn straight they changed. To my complete and utter surprise, I found myself watching a newscast last night that had you at the scene of a house fire.”

  “Oh God.” Face, palm, face, palm. She should have known that the same reporting Quinn had reacted to would be something her SAC would also see.

  “God won’t help you out of this one. If our suspect has seen this, he’s now long gone, and laughing his ass off at you, once again.”

  “That’s just the thing, ma’am, beg your pardon, but I highly doubt that.”

  “Excuse me?” Montrose’s tone would have frozen anything liquid within a mile radius.

  “Hear me out. When I arrived in Eider, I discovered that the suspect was dead.”

  Chirp, chirp.

  “You’re certain it’s him?”

  “Eighty-five percent certain. He had plastic surgery, and I was about to confirm what we had on him with the body, but the fire interrupted.”

  “Attending a house fire is not part of your job description.”

  “Ma’am, I’m aware of that, but the house on fire was the last known residence of our suspect. It appears his wife went off the rails and intentionally started the fire.�
��

  “Wait, back up. A wife?”

  “Yes, it was a shock to me as well. I wasn’t able to interview her to learn more about my suspect. Unfortunately, her lawyer took the opportunity to block any attempts to question her.”

  Montrose groaned. This was so not going to dig herself out of the grave.

  “What are you doing now?”

  Liza’s gaze flicked to Hamilton. He was approaching, a little too cautiously. “I’m with the county sheriff at another homicide.”

  “Bartholomew, that is not your job.”

  “Yes, I know. I just happened to be around when the call came in.”

  “And what, pray tell, is your plan?”

  Liza had mulled on her next steps most of the night. She’d slept little, despite the exhaustion pulling on her. It didn’t help that she worried about Kurt and Quinn, nor could she stop dwelling on Shane Hamilton.

  “My plan is simple: confirm that one Gene Avery was our Mr. Ripley, document all I can, and hopefully return tonight.”

  Hamilton halted inches from her. That sizzling, electrified air returned. He was entirely too close, and too distracting.

  “And the wife?” Montrose asked.

  “If I heard the sheriff correctly, she’s under suspicion for his murder.”

  Silence reigned supreme once more. Oh to be the psychic gnat on Montrose’s shoulder, reading her mind. It probably went along the lines of: Incapable screw-up. You’re never going to make it. You’re nothing more than a foster kid who nobody loved or wanted.

  Liza doused the voices of the past. They were wrong. If Montrose wanted to continue to make her pay for one slip-up, there was nothing Liza could do to stop the woman. Once this case was wrapped, Liza was gone.

  “Keep to your plan. Get the information you need, and update me as you go. See if you can at least talk with the wife. If the lawyer roadblocks you, let me know. I’ll find the right string to pull to get an audience with that woman. I want you on the road by 10 p.m., understood?”

  “Completely.”

  “You have your orders.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Dead air met Liza’s answer.

  Her body slumping against the truck, Liza let the hand holding her iPhone fall to her side. She’d gotten off easy this time, but not by much. If she didn’t produce some results and return, she might lose the Ripley case for good, and she couldn’t live with herself knowing he got away from her again. Kurt incessantly asked why she’d allowed herself to be pulled into a government entity that mistreated her as badly as the social services that jerked her around as a kid. Why did her foster brother have to be right?

  “I take it that was not good news?” Hamilton asked.

  “My supervisor is coming down hard on me for messing up my little mission in such a grand fashion. I’ve been ordered to wrap it up and get back by tonight.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Putting it mildly.” Damn Gene Avery and all his damn aliases. He’d been a piercing thorn in her side since his file first came across her desk, right up until he slipped through her fingers. The stringing her along, the fire he set, killing her witnesses . . . sigh. She was nothing more than a screwed-up foster kid in way over her head. “What’s next for you?”

  Hamilton nodded his head at the black van with Coroner painted on the side panels crawling along the road. “Get Doc Drummond to work on the body and clean up this mess. Do you need to leave?”

  “I should if I’m going to meet SAC Montrose’s deadline. Do you know the victim?”

  “Yes, and I don’t relish my next death notice.”

  Liza’s muscles twitched at the nervous energy rolling off of him. This had to reach a whole new level of bad for him.

  The van parked beside Hamilton’s truck, and Drummond and a younger man exited the vehicle. Hamilton’s attention left Liza. She felt the void keenly all the way to her heart.

  Now that was going just too far.

  “Sheriff,” Drummond said, “Agent Bartholomew, pleasure to see you haven’t left our little corner of Iowa yet.”

  She gave him a pleasant smile. The doctor was handsome in his own right, but when compared to the cowboy next to him, it was no contest.

  “Not yet. I need to complete my task.”

  Drummond turned to Hamilton. “Lead the way, Sheriff.” The doctor seemed a bit too gleeful to be examining a body left in a ditch.

  Before leaving, Hamilton touched her arm. An involuntary shiver coursed through her. If he’d felt it, he didn’t act fazed by it, nor did he release her.

  God, the things he could do.

  “I can have one of my deputies take you back to the station if you like.”

  If she liked? Hell yes! Anything to avoid seeing the body when it was moved. “If you can spare one, that’d be fine.”

  He released her arm, and, flicking his wrist, he beckoned someone behind her. “I can spare Murdoch for a bit.”

  Liza glanced to her left as the young female deputy joined them.

  “Sir?”

  “Please take Agent Bartholomew back to the station, then come right back.”

  Hearing him use her professional title was like a pinch in her side after a long run. But why would it matter how he referred to her, especially when they were in a not-so-private situation? Maybe it was because she actually enjoyed hearing her name with his Midwestern twang.

  Murdoch nodded, and then headed back to her car.

  Liza’s gaze met Hamilton’s as she turned to follow, making her pause. He gave her a tight smile. This job had taken a toll on him, but there was something darker in that gaze now; something that spoke of terror and sorrow. And her urge to comfort was roaring to the forefront.

  “Good luck, Agent.” His voice more than his words spoke of finality. He didn’t expect to see her after this. And he could be all too right in that regard.

  She was going back to Cedar Rapids to put an end to her job in the FBI for good and be the surrogate mom Quinn needed. Suddenly, the thought of not seeing Shane Hamilton again was depressing.

  Chapter Ten

  Miracle of miracles, Liza managed to find the school building where the district office was housed without getting lost in the process. Mark that for the record books. From the outside, the building appeared to be running on a normal Monday schedule. Yet, inside, it looked anything but normal.

  Liza gaped at the madhouse. A winding line of parents streamed out of the office and down the hall. Beyond the reinforced glass windows, two harried women tried to appease upset adults and answer the phone that wouldn’t stop ringing.

  Moving to the small gap between the metal doorframe and a squat, brunette wearing—oh good Lord—pink pajama bottoms with a black hoodie and flip-flops, Liza gave her a pained smile. “Excuse me.”

  Several pairs of angry eyes turned her way.

  “Get in the back of line,” the pajama-wearing woman snarled. There was a decidedly condescending lilt to her voice that Liza had heard all her life as an African-American female.

  The veiled racism made Liza’s blood boil. She itched to slap that tart mouth right off the witch’s face. Be the better person. She’s so not worth getting a complaint filed against you. “I have a scheduled appointment with the principal.”

  “Don’t we all,” another person—a man this time—remarked.

  Narrowing her gaze, she gave the line a sweep of her authoritative gaze. “While I understand that we all believe our visits with the principal are important, when it comes to legal matters and the law, I hold the trump card.”

  Pajama Witch gave a derisive snort. “The law. Whatever. I don’t see you wearing a uniform.”

  “Agent Bartholomew?” one of the harried secretaries called out.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Liza said to the confused blinking from the line of stubborn people. She unclipped her badge and held it up against the glass for the secretary to verify.

  “Would you please move aside so Agent Bartholomew can step inside,�
� said the secretary.

  “Who was stupid enough to give her a badge?” Pajama Witch muttered.

  Oh, they thought they were so clever in their superiority. Liza looked down at the woman. It really paid to be taller than most people.

  “The President of the United States and the U.S. legal system. That’s who.” With that, she brushed past the line and headed around the counter.

  She followed the secretary who’d rescued her from the traffic jam down a short hall to the last door. Principal Charles Walker was painted in gold to stand out against the beveled glass of the door. The secretary knocked, then opened the door for Liza. She slipped inside, tensing when the latch clicked shut behind her.

  Behind a set of cornered off desks, Charles Walker appeared just as harried and flustered as his secretaries. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses was perched on the top of his balding head, which had a bright sheen that reflected in the weak fluorescent glow. His tweed jacket had long been discarded, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled to his elbows. And it wasn’t yet nine.

  “Agent Bartholomew.” He rose and held out his hand over his desk.

  She grasped his slick appendage, trying desperately not to wipe the greasy feeling off on her pants. Then, at his gestured bidding, she took the sleek leather chair angled at the junction where the two desks met. “Thank you for seeing me, Principal Walker.”

  “I wish it weren’t under the current circumstances.” He rubbed his jaw line. “You said over the phone you were investigating Superintendent Avery. May I ask what for?”

  “That’s actually information I can’t reveal.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Despite his untimely death, the investigation is still an active one.”

  Principal Walker gaped at her like she was a Hydra head about to eat him. “Then why come here at all?”

  “As I said, active investigation. I need to get inside his office.”

  “You’re the FBI. Don’t you just go wherever you please and do whatever you want?”

  “That’s not how it works, Principal Walker. The TV shows and movies don’t always get it right.”

  He slumped back into his chair, letting his arms recline on the desktop. “Oh.” A tick started above his right eyebrow. He reached up to rub at it, but the tick kept a steady pace. If that’s how fast his heart was beating, did the good principal have something to hide?