The Liar's Lullaby

by Meg Gardiner

  She got her change and hurried outside into the chilly sunlight.

  BY THE TIME Jo had gone two blocks uphill, she was breathing hard and beginning to lose hope. Archangel had vanished into the teeming downtown streets.

  “I’ve lost her,” she said to Tang.

  “I’ve given her description to all units. They’re issuing a BOLO.” Be on the lookout.

  Jo slowed at a corner. Which way to go?

  “What’s she going to do?” Tang said.

  “End a life.”

  “Her own?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe somebody else’s life as well.”

  “I’m on Market, driving north.”

  Jo had a flash. “Can you head for Union Square?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  Jo broke into a run again. “I think she’s after—”

  “Jesus Christ, the president isn’t here, is he?”

  Jo held tight to her satchel and aimed through the canyon of skyscrapers for the St. Francis Hotel.

  “No. I think she’s stalking Searle Lecroix.”

  AT THE TELEVISION studio, Edie Wilson picked through a salad, flicking black olives and carrot shavings aside with the tines of her fork. A plastic fork—she wasn’t a snob, could get down in the trenches with the best of them. Even though she constantly had to prove it to people like that skinny young producer, Tranh. Just because she had gotten her break on a natural disaster, some folks thought she was lucky. That her career was a fluke, that she’d taken advantage of human suffering to put a shiny star around her name at the network.

  Damn straight, and she wasn’t about to apologize. Twenty Hours of Terror in Topeka had been her story from start to finish—because she was the only reporter brave and lucky enough to have been on the ground near the massive super cell that day. She’d been following a team of storm chasers from Oklahoma University. Yeah, she’d gotten lost, and yeah, she ended up hiding from a tornado in a trash can. She wasn’t ashamed of that. Hell, she talked about the trash can in the network promo for her show. She’d had the guts to drive through a swarm of twisters and report the news. Ninety-six dead, and she’d told the nation. She’d held on to the shoulder of that old woman while firefighters searched for her husband in the wreckage of their mobile home. Top that, Brian Williams.

  Edie Wilson, The Bravest Woman in Television News, apologized to nobody.

  When her phone rang, she asked the intern to answer it. She ran her tongue over her teeth, making sure her smile was white.

  Finally she took the call. “Tell me you have information.”

  “The SUV is registered to a Gabriel Quintana.”

  She wrote down the address. “Find me everything you can on this guy. Especially any connection with Dr. Jo Beckett.”

  She shut the phone off. Handed the salad plate to the intern. “Where’s Andy?”

  If her cameraman was eating lunch, he could leave it. They had investigative reporting to do.

  JO DODGED PEDESTRIANS, working her way through busy streets toward Union Square. She pressed her phone to her ear.

  “In some of Archangel’s e-mails to Tasia, she referred to Tasia taking all the men. But she particularly mentioned Searle Lecroix.”

  “You think he’s in danger?”

  “Call the Saint Francis. Tell him to watch out.”

  At the corner with Grant she stepped onto the crosswalk and heard a horn blare. She jumped back and a yellow cab roared past.

  “I’ll call you back,” Tang said.

  Jo waited for a break in traffic. The wind coiled her hair around her face. Did she think Lecroix was in danger? She couldn’t afford not to think so.

  THE DOORMAN AT the St. Francis touched his hat and opened the door. Petty squinted and scratched her armpit and avoided his gaze.

  Tasia McFarland had been bad enough on her own. A drain, a sinkhole, a human latrine. Stealing Searle, manipulating him, when Petty had been waiting—it had been hell.

  The sight of the lobby stopped her. It was luxurious beyond anything she’d ever seen. She smoothed down the new shirt and tried to finger-comb her frizzy hair into the pink scrunchy that held her ponytail. How was she going to do this? How could she? This was a world where she didn’t belong.

  And that made her chest burn. She had tried to protect Searle from Tasia. She had sent him warnings—always gentle, because she had thought he was a gentle soul. But it had always been about protecting him. He needed help. He had warned her through his songs and messages. Shh. Tell nobody, my eternal love. Tasia’s dangerous.

  That’s why she had focused her e- mail campaign on Tasia. Get rid of the bitch, save Searle the pain of having to see the truth. The truth was too bright, too terrifying, too holy for most people. She was saving him from himself. Why else had she used Archangel as her online identity? She’d been named Michael after Michal in the Bible, King Saul’s daughter, but she felt closer to the archangel Michael, protector of the innocent.

  She had thought that with Tasia gone, Searle would see. His lyrics spoke to her. His messages spoke with such purity and understanding, such piercing insight into her secret, innermost truths, that they could be meant for nobody but her. Their beauty and power, and Searle’s passion when he sang, convinced her of it. She knew them by heart. Be quiet and careful. She heard the special messages embedded in them. Don’t mention me, don’t say a word. Special messages, sung to the angel whose heart he had touched. Tell nobody about our love.

  She knew why he sang those words to her. He didn’t need to say the real message: Because Tasia will get between us and spoil it all.

  And on the day of triumph when Tasia lay lifeless with a bloody gunshot wound, Petty had been sure Searle would turn to her. She thought he would thank her for the kind condolences she sent to his Web site. But he had not replied to her. Not once. Instead, he had written a song to sing at Tasia’s memorial service.

  Angel, Flown. Heat spiraled around Petty like the flame of an acetylene torch. Searle had let the whole world know how he felt. He had named Tasia as his angel. He had explicitly, personally, humiliatingly, spurned Noel Michael Petty. It was a deliberate, permanent slap in the face.

  She blew breath from her nostrils, fighting down the stinging rage that threatened to turn to tears. No, she didn’t belong here. The world had conspired to make sure of that. Except that she did. Because otherwise, why would it have gotten out that Searle was staying here?

  She walked across the lobby, past tourists with maps and businessmen who sipped from tiny coffee cups and women wearing diamonds, to the front desk.

  “I need to call a guest,” she said.

  JO DUCKED AROUND a tourist family that was posing for a photo, and emerged onto Union Square. Under bright sunlight, the trees in the square shivered in the breeze.

  Her phone rang. “Called the Saint Francis and left a message for Lecroix,” Tang said. “Do you have a personal number for him?”

  “Just his cell. He’s not answering?”

  “Hence my haste to get there.”

  Jo ran along the sidewalk. The St. Francis was at the west end of the square, dominating the street.

  “I’ll be there in sixty seconds,” she said.

  “If you spot Petty, don’t approach her. Alert hotel security. I’ll be there in five.”

  Jo didn’t know long those five minutes would feel.

  THE STEREO IN the suite was turned all the way up. The walls in the St. Francis were thick, and Lecroix had some hearing damage at the high end. He turned off the shower and heard the room phone ringing.

  Wrapping a towel around his waist, he came out of the bathroom, steam swirling in his wake, and picked it up from the nightstand in the bedroom. It was the front desk.

  “Mr. Lecroix, you have a visitor asking permission to come up. Vienna Hicks.”

  Lecroix wiped water from his eyes with the back of his wrist. “Substantial-sized lady, with probably a sad look on her face?”

  “That would be accurate,
sir.”

  In the background, he heard a woman say, “I’ve got some things Tasia wanted him to have.”

  “Mr. Lecroix, she—”

  “I heard. It’s fine. She can come up.”

  He hung up, unwrapped the towel from around his waist, and dried off. On the phone he saw the red message light blinking. He left it and began to dress.

  THEWOMAN BEHIND the front desk set down the phone and tilted her head with corporate unctuousness. “Mr. Lecroix says you can go up to his suite.”

  “Where is it?” Petty said.

  “Sixth floor.”

  The hotel woman took out a hotel map and drew a circle around a room. She handed it to Petty. The circle looked like a bull’s-eye. Petty headed for the elevators.

  37

  JO JOGGED ACROSS THE LOBBY OF THE ST. FRANCIS. SHE SWEPT THE space with her gaze, as she’d seen Gabe do when hunting for threats. She didn’t see Noel Michael Petty.

  At the front desk, people were lined up to check in. Jo turned in a slow circle, scanning the opulent lobby. Nothing. She picked up a house phone and asked for Lecroix’s room. It rang but nobody answered. She left a message.

  “Searle, the stalker who was after Tasia is in San Francisco. It’s a woman. I think she’s dangerous, and that she’s after you. I’m at the St. Francis and the police are on their way. If you get this message, contact hotel security, and please phone me back.”

  At the front desk the staff was still busy. She headed to the concierge’s desk. The concierge was speaking to a tourist, circling landmarks on a San Francisco map. Jo interrupted him.

  “Sorry, but it’s urgent I speak to the head of security.”

  The concierge flicked her a glance. Smiling imperturbably at the tourist, he said, “Excuse me.”

  “Now, please,” Jo said.

  THE KNOCK SOUNDED on the door of the suite. Lecroix buckled his silver rodeo-style belt buckle and jammed his feet into his cowboy boots. He caught a glimpse of himself in the bedroom mirror. He smoothed down his wet hair. The cowboy hat?

  No, that would be impolite. He needed to look respectful in front of Tasia’s sister, so no hats indoors. He stood up straight. He’d never met Vienna Hicks and wished he didn’t have to introduce himself under such circumstances.

  He attempted a smile in the mirror. “Tasia spoke so often about you.”

  He heard another knock on the door. With a quick, whispered please to Jesus and whichever saint kept bereaved sisters from blaming country singers for talking their little sis into performing a fatal stunt, he crossed the suite to the door.

  THE CONCIERGE CALMLY beckoned a colleague to the desk and asked him to assist the well-dressed tourist, who wanted to visit Alcatraz. Then he phoned Security. Jo clenched and unclenched her fists.

  When he hung up the phone the concierge came around the desk and ushered Jo out of the tourist’s earshot. “Is there a problem?”

  “Assume so.” She gave him the gist. “The police are on their way, but I can’t reach Mr. Lecroix. He doesn’t have personal security. What can your people do?”

  A few feet away, a sleek young woman behind the front desk said, “Excuse me. Mr. Lecroix was in his room a minute ago. Do you want me to try him again?”

  “Please,” Jo said.

  The young woman phoned Lecroix’s suite. She looked bright-eyed and imperturbable. Her name tag said KARA. “Ringing.”

  Jo stepped to the desk. “How do you know Mr. Lecroix was in his room a minute ago?”

  “I spoke to him.”

  “Any reason?” Jo said.

  “I told him he had a visitor.”

  “Who?”

  “A lady—her name was . . .” Kara put down the phone and shook her head. “No answer. The woman’s name was Vienna.”

  “Vienna Hicks?”

  “That’s it.”

  Jo’s nerves fired. “What did Mr. Lecroix say?”

  “For her to come on up.”

  “Six feet tall, big red hair—”

  Kara shook her head. “Short, wide, dirty brown ponytail.”

  “Try Lecroix again. Tell him not to open the door,” Jo nearly shouted. To the concierge she said, “Get security up there, now.”

  She ran toward the stairs, phoning 911.

  LECROIX OPENED THE door. “Miz Hicks. Come in.”

  The gal stood in the hallway, seemingly frozen.

  “Vienna?” he said.

  Good Lord, grief had done terrible things to her. He didn’t recognize her at all from the photo on Tasia’s kitchen counter. Of course, that snapshot had been taken decades ago. But God in heaven, the years had been cruel to Vienna Hicks.

  She looked petrified and near collapse, as though a twister was on the loose inside her. For a second, he thought she was going to faint, or turn tail and bolt.

  “Are you all right?” he said. “Please, come in.”

  He put a hand on her elbow. She looked like she dearly needed a glass of water. When he touched her, she almost sagged to the floor.

  Then her face lit with a fierce determination. Bless her, she was barely holding it together, but still trying.

  “Yes, I’ll come in,” she said.

  Pinning her eyes on his, she let him lead her into the living room. The door shut with a heavy clack.

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he said.

  She turned, slowly, and stared at him like he was on fire. “Yes. Finally.”

  Under the power of her gaze, he felt a strange worry. “Miz Hicks?”

  “Shh, Searle.” She stepped toward him. “Searle, my precious love. It could have been so different.”

  38

  HALFWAY UP THE STAIRS, JO’S PHONE RANG IN HER HAND. “I’m in the lobby,” Tang said.

  “Sixth floor,” Jo wheezed. “Petty went up to Lecroix’s suite.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Fourth-floor stairwell. Concierge wanted me to wait in the lobby for security and then take the elevator. I couldn’t.”

  Tang’s voice sharpened. “Beckett, do not approach Petty. Do not knock on Lecroix’s door. Do not wander the sixth-floor hallway. Wait inside the stairwell for me.”

  “If—”

  “You’re unarmed. If Petty is as dangerous as you think she is, that puts you in danger in addition to Lecroix.”

  At the fifth-floor landing, the stairs turned. Jo kept running, under bluish fluorescent lighting. “Petty claimed she was Vienna Hicks. He’s waiting for her. And now he’s not answering.”

  “I’m coming, Beckett. Stay put.”

  Tang sounded out of breath. Below Jo in the stairwell a door slammed and feet scuffed on the concrete stairs. Tang was running up.

  Blowing hard, Jo reached the sixth- floor landing. She was glad she didn’t have to run higher. Tang’s footsteps drew closer, and more ragged. Jo edged to the fire door and quietly eased it open an inch.

  She saw a sliver of the hallway, plush and hushed. Heard nothing. Saw nobody, just a used room service tray on the floor outside a room. She could see the door to Lecroix’s suite at the end of the hall.

  Footsteps closer, and harsh breathing. Jo closed the door and stepped back. Tang appeared, hand white on the stairway railing, practically pulling herself up. Her face was set, flat and intense.

  “Nobody in sight in the hallway,” Jo said.

  Angrily Tang shook her head. “I told you.” Then, brushing Jo’s incursion aside, she unsnapped the holster of her service weapon. She silently turned the door handle and cracked open the fire door. Checked the hallway.

  “Stay inside the stairwell,” she said.

  Tang stepped into the hallway just as the elevator dinged and the doors opened. She walked toward Lecroix’s suite, her head swiveling to look at the elevator. Out stepped the concierge and three security men in suits. They all had earpieces and walkie-talkies.

  Tang showed her badge. “Behind me.”

  The men fell in and followed her to Lecroix’s door. She knocked, hard.
/>
  “Mr. Lecroix? Police.”

  The security men nearly pawed the carpet behind her, shoulders shifting inside their suit jackets.

  Tang knocked again. “Police, Mr. Lecroix. Open up.”

  Jo held poised in the stairwell doorway, her foot propping the door open a few inches. Tang pounded on Lecroix’s door again. Then she nodded to one of the security men.

  “Unlock it.” She raised a hand. “I’ll go in first. All of you step back.”

  The security man nodded. The concierge and two of the suits stepped away from the door and stood against the wall outside the suite. Tang drew her weapon. Nodded to the security man. He slid a master key card into the lock.

  His walkie-talkie hissed, and a voice said, “SFPD just walked into the lobby.”

  Tang said, “Tell them to send one officer up, and have the second stay in the lobby. But I’m not waiting.”

  Jo kept her foot in the door. She had a clear view. She hated hanging back, but knew that if she joined Tang she’d only be in the way. And she hated that thought too. Her palms were hot. She imagined she could smell Right Guard wafting in the hallway.

  Tang shoved open the door of Lecroix’s suite and went in, weapon raised in a two-handed combat grip. She swept the pistol left and disappeared from view.

  The concierge and security men held back against the wall. Jo pulled the fire door open another inch. She realized she was gripping the door handle as hard as a hand jam on a pitch hundreds of feet off the ground. The silence from Lecroix’s suite was like a cold bitter wind.

  On the fire door, a blemish of color caught her eye.

  Red. Smeared on the side of the door facing the hallway was a crescent patch of deep red.

  It was a bloody partial handprint.

  From Lecroix’s suite, Tang shouted, “Clear. Stay out.”

  The handprint was so fresh that it glistened.

  It hadn’t been visible to Tang when she walked out of the stairwell to Lecroix’s suite. Jo held on to the door. Every hair on her neck was standing straight up.