Truth, Lies, and Second Dates

by MaryJanice Davidson, Camille Anthony, Melissa Schroeder

  Sherry Lupe didn’t wear sunglasses and her eyes were the color of whiskey; she handled her cane like a ninja, and anyone who tried to fuck with her was in for an unpleasant day. Blinded at age ten, confident with or without the cane, a lawyer (per gossip from G.B., several defense attorneys were terrified of her) who did the BOS/LAX hop twice a week, long black hair, tip-tilted eyes, designer suit, killer heels, and if you didn’t know she was blind, you wouldn’t know.

  Which reminded her. “I’m going out with this guy

  (it’s official, then?)

  who’s a bit of a klutz. Got any tips?”

  “Yeah, tell him to break up with you. G.B., would you make yourself useful and have a screwdriver ready when I board?”

  “I will, but only because it’s my job and I have to. It’s not because of anything you said.”

  “Sure it isn’t.” Sherry saluted her with the cane in a motion that, ironically, could put someone’s eye out. “Always a pleasure, Captain.”

  “I know that’s a cliché, but it is always a pleasure.” To G.B.: “So that’s exciting.”

  “What are you even doing here? You told me you’re grounded.”

  “I’m just deadheading. I wore my uniform to make a point.” Said point: This is me now, and yesterday, and tomorrow: Captain Capp. CAPTAIN Capp. Captain Fucking Capp.

  “Captain Capp?”

  “Agh!” Apparently, it was sneak-up-on-Ava day, because she’d had no idea Becka was there until she turned around. “Good morning! How’d it go with your brother at MAGE?”

  For some reason, Becka chose that moment to look terrified. “Fine! It was fine! Everything is fine!”

  Okaaaaay. “You seemed a bit weirded out. Like when you’re a kid and you see one of your teachers at the grocery store. It’s out of context, right?” Is that the problem? Or is it something else?

  “I enjoyed seeing you!”

  G.B. coughed. “Yeah, I don’t know what all this is, but I’m not standing around while the gate lice* gather. Plus, I gotta get going on Sherry’s screwdriver.”

  “Sure. See you on b—annnnd he’s sprinting down the ramp.” She turned back to Becka, who had closed the distance and was now standing less than half a foot away. “You were say—uh, hello.”

  “Hello. I’m sorry about the murder.” Becka was close enough for Ava to tell she’d had coffee and some kind of pastry for breakfast. She’d also gone from shouting to whispering, and Ava was having trouble keeping up with … well. All of it.

  “What?”

  “And your drug test.”

  “Because…?”

  She blinked. “Because you keep getting—I mean, it’s not you. But—it’s you. I mean, your thing. To be in the middle of all this bad shit.”

  “My thing?” Bad shit?

  “Well. Yes. I know you can’t help it, though,” Becka hurriedly assured her.

  It’s not what you think. It CAN’T be what you think.

  Well, I think there’s a possibility she might be having a ministroke …

  “You’re standing really close for this conversation.”

  “S-sorry.” Becka audibly gulped and stepped back three inches. “You—why were you there? At MAGE? You weren’t supposed to be there.”

  “Where was I supposed to be?”

  “Somewhere else.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “You don’t live in Boston.”

  And you know this how, exactly? “That’s correct. I do not live in Boston. I was not at the MAGE conference in the capacity of a local checking out the visiting geniuses.”

  “But you were there. Which makes sense! I’m here because of you!”

  “You—okay.”

  “But why? Why were you there?”

  “Well, Becka, as a matter of fact—and you’re still standing really close for a conversation between colleagues who haven’t known each other long—I was in Boston at the request of a new friend who thinks Danielle Monahan’s killer might be targeting me.”

  “Oh! Oh. But why would the killer even do that?”

  “Excellent question, Becka. Anything else? Because you should have been on board twenty minutes ago.”

  “On board what?”

  “The plane, Becka. The Boeing 757 the airline puts into service as a gigantic flying Uber. C’mon.”

  It’s probably not what I think. And even if it is, I can’t just bar her from the flight and tell HQ that they should take my word that she might be a killer, a vandal, or a killer-vandal, even though I’ve got nothing to base that on.

  But there’s no question she’s behaving strangely. I haven’t known her long, it’s true, but—weird. That was the cold truth. Less cold, but still true: she was dying to call Tom and give him the latest on Becka Miller. Yay, an excuse! Not that she needed one. They agreed they’d see each other.

  But she had Becka to thank for one thing: whether the scattered flight attendant had guilty knowledge or not, it meant she’d be seeing Tom sooner than she thought.

  Thirty-Nine

  “My favorite MAGE exhibits were the disaster-recovery drones and the empathetic AI, Uncle Tom.”

  “Because?”

  “It’s one thing to ask an Echo to order pizza, but one that can tell when you’re angry or sad and counsel you appropriately? I can’t think how Marcus got the algorithms right.” Hannah shrugged. “Well, he’s old. Prob’ly took years.”

  “I believe Marcus just turned nineteen.”

  “Which doesn’t disprove my last sentence.”

  “No.” Tom smiled at her. “It does not.” They’d packed for the trip home; Tom was inspecting the room to make sure nothing would be left behind, and his niece was perched on the end of the bed, sneakered feet swinging as she chattered. Abe had wanted the indulgence of another trip through the decadent food courts of Faneuil Hall

  (“Smoothies and raw oysters and éclairs and roast beef and spaghetti … c’mon, bud! I’ll bring ya back a doggy bag.”)

  and would meet them at Logan.

  “The empathetic robot was impressive,” he agreed. Laptop, check. Toiletries out of the bathroom, check. Tiny hotel conditioner that he did not need but that gave him a silly thrill to take, check. (Ditto the shower cap.)

  “‘Impressive’ is Uncle Tom–ese for ‘this is a startling technological advance, which I can barely understand much less embrace,’” she teased.

  “You are correct.” He thought about the AI in question. It had resembled a large plastic light bulb, and he could imagine it scooting around the house dispensing empathy, therapy, and the occasional monoamine oxidase inhibitor. Good morning, your serotonin levels are low and you are sad. Would you like an antidepressant or to discuss your childhood?

  “He’ll be rich,” Hannah said with satisfaction. At his curious gaze—he hadn’t been aware Hannah cared about such things—she added, “Don’t worry, Uncle Tom. I’ll be rich, too, and I’ll take care of you and Grandpa the way you’re taking care of me now.”

  “It’s not a trade, Hannah.”

  She snorted. “Of course it is. And it’s important for all parties to keep to such an agreement. Just ask anyone ensconced in a nursing home.”

  “And that’s important? Taking care of elderly parents simply because there’s a social contract?”

  She gave him the same look he got when she realized they were out of Cocoa Pebbles. “That’s not why I would take care of you.”

  “I adore you,” he said, zipping the carry-on closed.

  “Thanks!”

  “What is that?”

  She looked where he was pointing. She was wearing shorts, and just above her kneecap she had what looked like a cloud sticker.

  “It’s a temporary tattoo, the kind they give children,” the child explained. “See?” She rubbed her fingers across it, but nothing smeared.

  “But what is it?”

  “It’s a lamb. See?”

  Tom squinted and could make out little black legs on the clou—t
he lamb. “Why?”

  “They were handing them out at the sleep clinic. You know—‘counting sheep’? That’s why it’s shushing you. So you quiet your mind and sleep.”

  “There’s not a temporary tattoo in the world that can effectively shush me.”

  “All right. But as I was saying, you could have done something like Marcus did.”

  “I could never have done such a thing,” he said. “Even now, I couldn’t. Your fellow MAGE is far more intelligent than I am.”

  “But it’s not about intelligence, Uncle Tom. Well, it is, but in this particular case it’s also about parsing emotions. Like when you tried to help that boy when you were younger.”

  Yes. That. His father had been a psychiatrist who frequently consulted for adolescent treatment programs. This included examining teenagers accused of violent crimes and testifying in court. Tom occasionally came along.

  He had been waiting for his father in the processing area of Hennepin County Juvenile Detention. (Processing area = customer service with armed guards and the more disgruntled customers in handcuffs.) His father was late (a not uncommon occurrence), he had finished his book (also not uncommon), and after twenty minutes of boredom Tom struck up a conversation with the youth sitting across from him.

  “Does that bother you?” Indicating the handcuffs.

  “Naw.”

  “Why?”

  “Not the first time.”

  “What happened?”

  The other boy blinked slowly, but was also bored, so he answered. “They think I killed some guy I never met. Can’t kill someone you never saw.”

  “Oh. Maybe your lack of affect was off-putting.”

  “What?”

  “The next time someone thinks you killed a person you never met, you have to convince them that you care, but not too much.”

  “What?”

  “Like this: you know Jenny through a friend.”

  “Never met Jenny.”

  “Jenny is hypothetical. So someone tells you Jenny’s husband is dead. It’s unfortunate when someone dies, right?” When he didn’t get an answer, Tom added, “Well, theoretically it is. So you should be sad. But not too sad, because you never knew Jenny’s husband and you barely know Jenny. So while it’s technically sad, it won’t have any real impact on your life and it doesn’t necessarily make you sad. So how to react to that news?”

  There was a long silence, and then the other boy leaned forward and said, “How?”

  “You want to project a kind of vague sorrow. It’s mildly sad when someone dies…”

  “Even if you don’t know ’em,” the youth repeated. “It’s technically sad.”

  “Right! So even if you don’t care about Jenny’s dead husband, you can be a little sad for her. So that’s what you put across: vague sorrow.”

  “Huh.” The boy leaned back. “Still doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Well, you’re no worse off if you try, right?”

  “Yeah. Right. Thanks, man.”

  (Tom’s father was equal parts horrified and impressed when one of the guards told him what happened. “Just so you know, Tommy, that boy killed two people and was carving up a third when he got caught. Vague sorrow indeed.”)

  “I am better at such things now,” Tom admitted, “though I struggled when I was younger.”

  “You struggled last month when you tried to explain short-term gain versus long-term gain to Mr. Herbekker.”

  “I should have factored his Alzheimer’s into the discussion,” Tom admitted. “So we’ll change ‘I am better at it’ to ‘I have improved but there’s room for more.’ Do you know how I’ve improved, Hannah?”

  “I … think so.”

  “Proximity to you.”

  She nodded and tucked her tongue up into the slot where her permanent tooth would come in. “There’s something to that, I think. Remember my first birthday party? You were the only one I wanted to talk to.” And then, abruptly: “Are you worried I’m on the spectrum?”

  “No. I’m curious about it.”

  “Okay. When can—”

  Tom’s phone had clicked at him, and he reached for the thing at once, hoping Abe wasn’t delayed or otherwise in trouble.

  Not Abe. Better: Ava.

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: Just had the WEIRDEST run-in with Becka, the new crewmember we met Saturday.

  TBMD: Are you all right?

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: Fine. Definitely not murdered. But she’s squirrelly and weird and talked about death. And not in a fun way, like we do.

  TBMD: Police?

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: For what? Creeping me out and being a close-talker?

  TBMD: A what?

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: OMG. We’ll go over pop culture later. Are we still on for Thursday?

  TBMD: Of course.

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: Want to make it tomorrow?

  TBMD: Of course.

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: Let’s do more amateur sleuthing after you get off. Heh.

  TBMD: Technically only one of us is an amateur.

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: Technically that’s a good way to get smacked.

  TBMD: Noted.

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: You know what’s weird? We both text in complete sentences.

  TBMD: Anyone who doesn’t is a savage.

  TBMD: A SAVAGE.

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: Yow! Noted. Say hi to Hannah and the bud for me. Cool name for a band BTW. “And now, for your polka pleasure, HANNAH AND THE BUD!”

  TBMD: Never while I live.

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP:

  CAPTAIN AVA CAPP: Yeah. I’m one of those. I’ll never apologize for gratuitous emoji use, either. Be resigned.

  TBMD: Noted.

  * * *

  “You have the silliest grin on your face, Uncle Tom.”

  “Irrelevant. Ava says hello. Ready?”

  “Yes. It was nice of her to think of me, especially since she had new information about your case.” Before he could ask, she added, “You tensed up when you first started reading her texts—your shoulders got super tight and you were frowning. But toward the end you loosened up and were smiling. So she must have told you something about the case and then, I’m guessing—”

  “Deducing.”

  “It sounds less cold-blooded when I say I’m guessing.”

  “Point.” He personally adored the way random passersby reacted to Hannah’s towering intellect. Especially since she often “turned it off” and sounded like a typical child immediately afterward … until something new teased her intellect. “You needn’t do that on my account.”

  “Thank you. Anyway. I’m guessing that after the case update, she moved up your timetable for social interactions. Which made you smile.”

  “So it did. Right on all counts.” He swung both bags off the bed. “Shall we?”

  “Obviously. I like Boston, but I miss our house.”

  “Those are my exact sentiments as well.”

  “Uncle Tom, I don’t want to know what happened to that boy you tried to teach empathy, do I?”

  “You do not.”

  “Ah.”

  Forty

  Hilton Boston Logan Airport

  “What can I do for you, Ava?”

  “Well, Jan, first I’d like props for remembering you’re in California. It wasn’t easy, because my mind is the opposite of a steel trap.”

  A snort. “Congratulations. You finally remembered something that you have literally known for years. I’ll FedEx you a cookie.”

  “Two cookies.”

  “I’m sorry to say we’re still working on your, uh, problem, so I don’t really have an update yet. Is that why you called?”

  “That, and to give you an update. I know we’re supposed to come to HR or a union rep when someone makes us uncomfortable…”

  “Whoa, whoa. Is this a #MeToo thing? Should I be recording this conversation?”

  “No! Nothing like that.” If only. Not to belittle the movement, but she’d rather worry about being sexually harassed than
a serial killer chatting her up. “Nobody’s sexually harassing me. Well, India thinks I should score, so he’s trying to fix me up with one of his wife’s relatives. Would that be sexual harassment by proxy?”

  “I can honestly say I have no idea.”

  “Besides, if someone ever tried it, G.B. would devour them.” She paused at the thought and decided it wasn’t much of an exaggeration. Two years ago, the new VP cornered one of G.B.’s colleagues when he thought he had the room to himself. For some reason, the gentleman in question thought taking his dick out was an appropriate way to make an introduction. He never heard G.B., who clocked him over the head with a water pitcher. It took him four minutes to regain consciousness, and three hours to file his termination paperwork.

  “It’s not a #MeToo thing,” she reiterated. “But an employee got a bit in my face and was asking me a lot of questions about my personal life and acting incredibly strange and I have to tell you, it made me uneasy.”

  “Becka Miller.”

  (??????????????????)

  “Ava? Are you there?”

  “Okay, how did you know that?”

  “She’s an admirer. Your name is all over her application paperwork.”

  “Okay, weird.”

  “It’s not that strange. I think,” Jan said gently, “and this is off the record and I can’t prove any of it and we never had this conversation, which I’m definitely not recording to cover my ass, but I think she has a bit of a crush.”

  “I…” Ava trailed off. The close talking. The shouting. The excitability. The murder talk. Coincidentally running into her in Boston. “… I don’t think that’s it. She was pretty together the first time we met. But she knew I wasn’t from Boston, then followed me to Boston, and she didn’t start acting weird until we saw each other in Boston.”

  “Would you like to file a complaint?”

  “No.”

  “Then what can I do for you?”

  “I just—look, I get that this is skating right up to the line—”

  “Whenever you say that, you’re already over the line.”

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  A sigh from the other end. “Ava. I could lose my job.”

  “I know. I know it’s a lot to ask. That’s why I made sure to remember you were in California before I called.”