It was coming from the television speakers.
On-screen, Ted Piper fumbled with his jacket pocket, sheepishly turned to the camera, and said, “Sorry, I always forget to turn it off.”
S01E06
Finale
Exhibit E:
Interview Transcript: Andrew Freeman Preliminary Interview: 11/09/14
Andrew: Eliza picked for us for a six-month period over the previous summer. She was nice enough, but I don’t remember her distinctly from the others. They’re all about the same, you see: same age, same smells. Backpackers. I think she was heading up north afterward, maybe Byron—lots of them do that. They just rent a van and go. So I’m not sure if I’m confusing her with others.
Interviewer: And after her employment with you was terminated (interrupted)
Andrew: Finished. I didn’t fire her. If you’re writing that down.
Interviewer: After her employment with you finished up, you didn’t see her alive again?
Andrew: No. I never did.
Chapter 40
Previously
Alexis breathed heavily through her nose, slowed, and held two fingers to her wrist. She had a wristband for her heart rate, but she still liked feeling it fade.
She was always pleased when she convinced herself to get up, jog, and be home before the sun rose. The regret of drawing herself out of soft sheets quickly erased by the endorphins. It also made her feel superior, that she’d achieved something before the city stirred. She slowed to a walk as she turned into the lane behind her house.
She often went this way at the end of a jog, because otherwise, she’d have to unlock two gates instead of just hauling the garage door up. She could also leave her sweaty shoes in the garage. It didn’t escape her that, for someone who went running before sunrise, she reveled in these shortcuts. She’d earned them. She’d also earned a cigarette, she figured.
There was someone standing in the lane.
“Hey!” she said, thinking someone might be casing her place and hoping a short word would keep the waver out of her voice.
Half-shielded by a row of bins, they looked imposing. But Alexis recognized them as she stepped closer. “Oh. You can’t come around here like this.”
They nodded. Alexis fished her keys from her pocket, crouched, and unlocked the garage by twisting the anchor-shaped handle to the side.
“I know things didn’t turn out the way you wanted,” she said, standing. “But the case is over now. We don’t have to see each other again.” Still no response, so Alexis fished. “Okay. You want closure? I get it. Why don’t you come in for a coffee? But let’s keep things professional.”
Then she bent down to lift the door, and the blunt end of an ax thundered into the back of her skull.
Chapter 41
September
Like a race-car driver, Jack was starting to memorize the turns and the feel of the highway back to Sydney. Vanessa Raynor’s show was live, a duration of sixty minutes. Accounting for makeup removal, general politeness—shaking hands with producers, making sure to get booked again—and snaking a can of Coke from the green room, they had much less time than the two and a half hours the drive usually took. Jack floored it, got the drive down to an hour forty-five. Personal Best.
Lauren had fabricated a story about getting Jack’s asthma medication from his car. Ian had tried to stop them, but Lauren had stood defiantly in the doorway, firm and stoic as if carved, and said, Shoot me, then. And Ian had relented, because it was either that or place them both under arrest, and he didn’t know which would get him in more trouble. Lauren had to run and pick up Jack’s car, as he could hardly jog to her place with his broken rib. By the time Ian realized they weren’t coming back, they were out of Birravale, the steady crump of a police helicopter overhead, heading the opposite direction.
Once it snapped together, it was rushing at him fully formed. People spray-painting Ted’s office windows was just the start of the blowback. The vicious public response. Not getting through to Ted’s office phone. Jack had thought it had just been unplugged because it was ringing off the hook, like Alexis’s, but now he realized why it was disconnected. His filthy car. The ever-tattering blue suit. Ted was still on TV, but his profile had only spiked after Alexis had died. And he needed that profile, considering he’d just purchased a multimillion-dollar property. Jack’s hindsight crystal clear, he remembered Ted getting changed for Alexis’s funeral in the parking lot. The man, face covered, lathering his hair in the outdoor shower. Shampoo. It had always struck Jack as incongruous that Ted was a surfer.
He wasn’t. Ted Piper was living out of his car.
His nose-diving profile, coupled with missing a few payments on his new mansion, could have been enough to put Ted out on the street. Living in his car, and hiding it, may have been better for his public image than bankruptcy. Just for a few weeks, until he could set things right.
It wasn’t a surfer or a backpacker at the outdoor showers, but Ted scrubbing up because he needed to show up to the wake. The only facilities he could use. After, at the wake, loading up on food. Because he was hungry. He was doing a good job of hiding it, but Jack had cost him his career.
Jack had given a lot of people fifteen minutes of fame. Ted’s just happened to be at a quarter to midnight.
It was that simple. Ted had gone rogue, running his own investigation to put Curtis back behind bars, rescue his reputation, and get his career back on track. To no longer be the dodgy prosecution lawyer Jack had made him out to be—the antagonist that Jack had needed to create, to drive the drama episode to episode. The problem was Ted had to create the investigation himself. In order to solve a murder, well, he needed a murder to solve.
And Alexis, she would have had to keep their relationship a secret. The head of the defense and the prosecution sleeping together? That was grounds for a mistrial, surely. Jack didn’t know the ins and outs of lawyers and professional misconduct, but it sounded bad, even to him. And when she’d broken it off, maybe that was the final straw. Then it was easy. Ted had an intricate knowledge of the case. He knew the ax was the one piece of evidence that had never really played out. He stole it. Repurposed it for a new murder. All Ted had to do was play a character. Probably, eventually, come forward as a hero. But Lauren and Jack had stopped him planting enough evidence, and that must have waylaid his plans. So he had to wait for the police to prove Curtis guilty, and then he’d swan in and pick up the prosecution. He would have been biding his time until he was in the clear, and Jack, with all his bravura crime-solving, had almost done it for him. These were such carefully constructed heroics. The slow-motion replay of Ted lunging across the stage at Jack, breaking his nose. That wasn’t anger and hurt spilling over. That was all for show. Ted was reclaiming his place in the narrative as the Good Guy. He was crafting his own story. Fuck. Jack wondered who he’d learned that from.
Jack told Lauren all of this on the drive. She nodded, her eyes half-hooded. She offered only one piece of commentary.
“Well, then, you made your villain after all.”
The network’s parking lot was multistory. It was mostly empty on a Sunday night. A few headlights reflected the sunset, glints between the concrete grid. Vanessa’s crew. The Monday breakfast producers. Not many others. There was street parking too, a novelty in Sydney. Jack’s pass worked on the boom gate. The rumble of the city traffic—that constant Sydney groan—dimmed as they rolled into the bottom floor.
Fitting, that it would end here. Where it started. When he hit that single key: Delete.
He told Lauren they were looking for a silver SUV. “The filthy one,” he said. “One that looks lived in.” They prowled the ground floor, which was designated for visitors and disabled parking. Jack half expected to find Ted’s car there, arrogantly parked across two disabled spaces, but it wasn’t. Maybe even murderers have standards. No silver SUV. He checked the
time. Vanessa’s show would have ended by now. Had Ted already gone?
“Fuck this,” Lauren said, as they started up the ramp to level 2. “This place have stairs? Will they be unlocked?”
Jack nodded. The ramp leveled. Lauren held a palm up. Stop. She got out.
“You start at the top. I’ll work my way up and meet you in the middle.”
Jack had no time to argue, the door had already shut, and Lauren was jogging to the far end of the floor. Jack turned the car around and spiraled up, glancing in at each floor out of curiosity. Forests of gray pillars flickered past, like the trees on the Wades’ driveway, like the bars of a prison cell. He got to the roof. Circled it. Empty. He wound down a level. Circled it. Empty. Down another level. Circled it. There it was.
Ted’s silver SUV. Rubbish parking job, Jack thought. The car’s nose was in, splayed across the lines in the near-empty lot. Jack reversed into the spot opposite. Did Ted know what car he drove? He couldn’t be too cautious. Besides, it was too suspicious to park this close. He migrated a few spaces farther on and parked again. He got out.
This level’s forest comprised green pillars. White, blocky number sevens were spray-painted on each one. He wished Lauren were here, but she’d gotten out on the second floor. How long would it take her to check five floors?
He walked over to Ted’s car, approaching on the opposite side of the car to the elevator, just in case Ted popped out unexpectedly. If that happened, he would have at least a moment’s protection. He looked through the back window. Fast-food containers. Paper cups. A sleeping bag, unfolded. A duffel bag, half-zipped, tongue of a sweater sleeve slithering out. A towel slung over the back seat. Folders everywhere. Papers. Handwritten notes. Lived in. Jack moved to the back-seat windows. Could feel his blood through him, down to his fingertips. His body thrumming, the familiar fear that had been, for so long, of his own body. Every sense heightened. Every heartbeat. Whump whump.
A shrill beep almost gave him a heart attack. All four corners of the car flared orange. The doors unlocked remotely.
Jack dropped to the ground. Knees cold on the concrete, poised as if on starting blocks. Pain shot through his side. Footsteps clunked across the parking garage. A murderer slowly walking toward him. Ted was swinging his keys. He was actually whistling.
There was no mistaking his guilt now. Because Jack had seen something through the window. Though Ted had pushed it under the seat, half-wrapped in a towel, the object had been immediately familiar. The shape of it. The two tones of the wood, maroon fading to oak.
Curtis Wade’s ax.
Chapter 42
Jack risked a look under the car. His view was like looking through wide-screen. It was now almost nine. The sun had packed it in. Blue cuffs bisected the slit of Jack’s vision. Of course, Ted had been wearing his fanciest suit. His shoes were scuffed; Jack could see one sole lifting away from the heel. That was okay, for TV, under the rim of the camera’s view. Like a tuxedo with the arse cut out of it. Ted walked without urgency. He hadn’t noticed anything wrong, that Jack had him.
Had him? Had who? Jack was cowering behind the car door, without a weapon. And he was on the driver’s side. So, while it might have bought him a moment or two of shelter, Ted was eventually going to walk straight into him. If anything, although Ted didn’t know it, Ted had him.
The shoes disappeared behind the back wheel. Ted was probably only twenty meters away. But he was diagonally opposite Jack now. As soon as he got around the car, he’d see Jack. Jack shuffled toward the hood. Precious extra seconds.
Ted had parked nose-in to the edge of the level, but he’d left a small gap between the hood and the hip-height barrier. Jack could squeeze through it. If he kept pace with Ted’s walking, Jack could circle the car in tandem, shielded from view the entire way. He took slow, steady steps—still crouched, knees sawing under his chin—then stood. He wouldn’t fit while crouched. He turned his back to the drop and tried not to think about how he was seven stories up. He needled his way into the gap. The corner of the license plate caught on his jeans. He wrestled it free and hurried through the other side, looked up, and saw Ted. Shit. He’d gone too fast. Luckily, Ted kept walking. He hadn’t noticed. Jack waited until Ted disappeared behind the car again and then he was around it. He crouched again. Unseen, he could get back to his car now.
He figured he’d wait until Ted got in and then make a dash. Once he reached his own car, he’d lock the doors and call the police. He’d seen the proof, and that was all he needed. This was real life, not a TV show—things like car chases rarely happened. Jack sent up silent thanks that the car had made a noise when Ted unlocked it, giving him a few extra seconds of warning.
Unlocked.
The word ricocheted in his head like a basketball rattling on the rim. He paused.
The basketball flicked the net. From where he was now, there was only a single unlocked door between him and the ax. Did he really want to give Ted the chance to get rid of it?
He moved, poked his nose up, just enough of a sight line over the window. Ted, by the driver’s door, was looking at his phone. Jack’s missed call, maybe. Jack wondered if his name had shown up on Ted’s screen—if Ted had kept the number Jack had given him at the very beginning, when they’d met in the coffee shop for the podcast. Ted hadn’t reciprocated. Maybe that was why Hush hadn’t picked up back in Curtis’s house. He’d seen it was Jack calling.
Ted was still on his phone, tapping out a text. Jack took his chance, squeezed the handle, and gently opened the car door. A small click that sounded like a gunshot in Jack’s heightened senses. Ted didn’t move. Jack reached into the car and wrapped his fingers around the ax handle. Fuck—fingerprints. He couldn’t reach the towel the head was swathed in. Screw it. He pulled, trying not to make a scraping sound as he levered the handle up and drew the ax head out of the towel and across the seat. There was the chipped silver head. Just as it was in the photographs. Red paint, fading to silver, rubbed off after years of work. Was there a little extra red there though? Or was he putting that there with his imagination? Jack swallowed hard. Pulled it the final inch and hefted it into both hands. One throttled around the neck, the other at the base. He spun around, ready to run.
And crashed chest to chest with Ted Piper.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” said Ted, taking a step forward.
Jack rocked backward. Clutched the ax to his chest. Realized it was a weapon. So he thrust it forward, brandishing it diagonally from the groin. More like a fishing rod. Not much of a threat.
“No. What the fuck are you doing?” Good plan, Jack thought to himself. Primary school arguments with a murderer: No, you shut up.
“I thought you’d be impressed.” Ted spread his arms, laughed, took another step toward him. “I’m doing what you do.”
“Jesus,” Jack breathed. Lauren’s words rattled: You made your villain after all. He shook the guilt off. Tightened his grip on the ax. He realized Ted was pacing him backward. Another half step. Slowly backing him up, the drop yawning behind them. The barrier was hip high, but a good shove… Whump. “This is not what I do.”
“Isn’t it? Collecting your own evidence. Only the bits that you think are relevant. Only the bits that you really believe in. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? Not twelve unbiased adjudicators. Not experienced detectives. Not expert”—this was almost a hiss—“testimonies. If you can find fame solving a murder outside the courts, so can I.”
“It’s not about fame.”
“Infamy, then. Trust me, when I solve this, we’ll both be infamous.”
“How could you—”
“How could I? How could you!” He was yelling now. Words glancing off the columns and fleeing into the void. Ted took another half step forward, his loose sole gently lifting from the bottom of his shoe.
Swing the ax, a thought tickled. He hoped Lauren had hear
d the yelling and started to hurry.
“We shouldn’t be arguing over this, Jack,” Ted said. “It’s all good. I’m sorry about your face. That was you, right? In the vineyard?” Ted dragged a finger down from his eye, as if unzipping his cheek. “Let’s put that aside. Season 2, hey? I’m sure they’re asking you to sign. It’ll be big for us both, Jack. You and me. Let’s work together for once. The real truth, and everyone will finally get what they deserve.”
“Back off.” Jack found the energy to brandish the ax. Loosely. He grimaced as pain lanced his rib.
Ted laughed. “Jack, come on. What is this?” He gestured to the ax. “I’m just collecting the evidence. I’m not following the rules. That’s what you do.”
James Harrison, echoing in Jack’s conscience. This is what you do.
“It’s not right,” he stammered.
“It’s not. But we can make the best of a bad situation here.”
A thought Jack had months ago, when deciding what to do with the shoe, resurfaced. The difference between doing a wrong thing and doing a bad thing. He tried to see it from Ted’s perspective. Curtis was dead; bring the ax forward and he’d be found guilty of the murders. Wasn’t that what they both wanted? All in a nice bow for season 2. And there’d be money—so much money—underneath it all.
Ted seemed to be waiting for an answer, as if he’d offered Jack a deal. And Jack realized what the deal was: work with me, I’ll let you live.
Because he was right. Ted and James Harrison were both right. This. It was what Jack did.
“There are things I can tell you. This ax, it’s not enough. Curtis is guilty, for a start. But the story we can tell is so much better than that.” Ted was smiling. He actually needed Jack. He needed his storytelling to fill in the gaps. Alexis was already dead. Curtis was a murderer; it didn’t matter the crime. Something good was salvageable here. Closure for the families. A comfortable truth, even if pretend. Framing a guilty man.
Trust Me When I Lie Page 30
