Deadly Lies

by Chris Patchell

  “Those are your rules, not mine.”

  Alex had turned away from Jill and started to walk out of the room, but her words stopped him cold.

  “Get back here. You don’t get to start something and then not finish it.”

  “Why, have you cornered the market on that move?”

  Jill stared at him in silence, and his glare softened. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” he said.

  “Yes, that was a cheap shot. You got any more that you want to get in?”

  Feet planted in a wide stance, Jill crossed her arms and waited for him to continue. She knew it was an unfair question. He had apologized, after all, but sometimes sorry didn’t cut it.

  Alex sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before focusing back on her.

  “Listen, Jill, I honestly don’t know what’s up with you lately, but you’ve been in a foul mood since you got back from California.”

  “Poor Alex.” Her tone was condescending and perfectly calculated to needle him.

  “Okay, if you don’t want to listen, there is no point in continuing this conversation.”

  Without another word, he left the room. Jill stood drying her hands on a dish towel and considered the exchange. They were both angry. She had started the fight. Maybe she should finish it. After taking a few deep, calming breaths, she followed him into the living room.

  Alex was seated in the large black leather chair across from the fireplace. Molly was stretched out on the floor at his feet. His brown eyes fixed on Jill as she entered the room. She perched on the edge of the coffee table, facing him.

  “I’m listening,” she said at last when Alex didn’t give her an opening.

  “You’ve been on edge for weeks, maybe months. You blow in and out of the house like a storm. You’re distant, you pick fights, and you squirm away from me whenever I touch you.”

  “That’s not true.” Jill shook her head in automatic denial.

  “It is true. Are you really worried about Abby? Or is something else bothering you?”

  Alex’s voice was firm and unwavering. Jill sighed, her fingers laced tightly together as she watched him.

  “Look, Alex, I can’t say I’m happy about you running to her rescue. But it’s more than that. You’re never here. You’ve always got some case you’re working on that seems more important than us.”

  “You knew you were marrying a cop. It’s not exactly a nine-to-five job.”

  “So I should just suck it up? I should be grateful that you’re out saving the world?” Sarcasm wasn’t helpful. She knew that, but she was too angry to stop herself. “We both know this isn’t all about me and my job. You’re never home, either. When you are, you’re thinking about work.”

  “What do you want me to do? Quit my job? Stay at home? Have babies? Is that what you’re looking for in a wife? Maybe you should have married Abby.”

  Alex’s jaw clenched, and she saw anger flash in his eyes.

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Jill.”

  “Of course it is. Did you find time to call me last week when I was in San Jose, Alex, or did you forget? Too busy tracking down leads to be bothered?”

  “The phone works both ways.”

  “Sure it does, but when you’re the one accusing me of being absent, you should look in the mirror once in a while. You might see your own face staring back at you. I know you’re busy saving the world and all, but you might want to save something for me, too.”

  He cringed, and she could tell her words had hit their mark.

  “That’s enough for tonight.” Alex held up his hands.

  “Actually, I haven’t even gotten started.”

  “Well, I’m done,” he said as he got to his feet. “Good night.”

  From her living-room chair, Jill could hear the sound of his footsteps pound up the stairs as he made his way to the bedroom. The chill in the night air deepening, she shivered and inched closer to the fire.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ensnared in the grip of a dream and unable to awake, Jill found herself in eerily familiar surroundings. The living room of her stepfather’s house came into sharp focus. She could see the worn fabric on the brown corduroy couch, the scarred veneer surface of the coffee table, and the cabinet-style television console that flashed light from its curved screen.

  The smell was also familiar. Stale whiskey steeped the air. Her gut clenched hard as she paused in the doorway. Her stepfather coming home drunk was nothing new. Master Sergeant Samuel Morris had been known to tie one on now and then. He was a mean drunk. Many a bar fight outside the officers’ club had either started or ended with vicious blows from his meaty fists, but the after show was always the part of the night that Jill dreaded most.

  Some nights he would roll through the kitchen door, bottle in hand, spoiling for a fight. Other nights, the ones that Jill learned to fear, she would turn to see him standing in the dark. Master Sergeant Sam’s silence was unpredictable. The yelling, the hitting—that she could deal with. She had strategies for that. His calm was far more menacing, like being caught in the eye of the hurricane.

  After her mother’s death, Sam had withdrawn further into his brooding silence. Drinking binges became more frequent. Without her mother to help blunt the edge of his violent outbursts, Jill found herself fully exposed to the gale force of his anger. But Jill had devised a strategy for dealing with Sam’s drunken outbursts—something she dubbed “Operation Pass Out.” She had ground up some pain pills from the car accident and dissolved them in the bottle of Wild Turkey that Sam used to help him sleep. She was hoping that, with a swig or two under his belt, he would go straight from the arrive-home-drunk stage to passing out on the couch without stopping long enough to howl at the moon.

  On this particular night, Sam arrived home in a rage, and Jill barricaded herself inside her bedroom, waiting for the sounds of his anger to dissipate. After watching several hours tick by on the clock, she crept down the stairs to gauge the success of her experiment.

  Blue light from the blaring television cast an eerie glow on the walls as Jill eased into the room. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim light. But within moments she could see the open bottle of Wild Turkey on the table next to a half-empty tumbler.

  A smile touched her lips as she saw Sam’s face, slack in a calm mask of slumber. Edging closer now, she moved toward the couch so she could remove the bottle and the glass, and put them away so he wasn’t tempted to pick up where he’d left off once he awoke. Maybe she’d even start a pot of coffee.

  She eased around him as she would a junkyard dog, careful to make as little noise as possible. She picked up the tumbler. Then her hand tensed as she saw a small vial beside the glass. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she confirmed that Sam was still unconscious. Keeping a safe physical distance from him was always at the forefront of her mind. Sometimes he struck without warning.

  In her free hand, she picked up the vial. The label read “Vicodin.” Looking back at Sam, she noticed a waxy sheen to his skin. Was it from the heat? God knew that in midsummer, the temperature in the living room could skyrocket well past simmer. But that wasn’t it. Sam wasn’t snoring. In fact, Sam was oddly still.

  Jill’s pulse thudded in her ears as she stared down into his supine face, trying to detect any sign of movement. She had ground up at least a dozen sleeping pills and dissolved them in the bottle of Wild Turkey. Between them, the alcohol, and the painkillers, was it all too much?

  The glass fell from Jill’s fingers and shattered on the coffee table, spraying her bare legs with shards of glass and sticky liquid. Just then, Sam’s eyes—Sam’s dead, green eyes—snapped open. A large, meaty fist shot out toward her, clenching her arm in an iron grip.

  “You bitch. You little bitch,” he ground out, spittle escaping between clenched teeth and spattering her cheeks in stinking spray. “What did you do? What the fuck did you do?”

  Jill’s eyes snapped open. Heart still at full gallop, she found herse
lf hugging the side of the bed, crowded to the edge by Molly’s sleeping form, Alex and the dog snoring in unison. Careful not to wake either of them, she rose, took a deep breath, and eased out from between the damp sheets. She paused in the bathroom long enough to splash some water on her pale face.

  Trembling fingers gripped the sides of the sink as she met her gaze in the mirror. She could see naked fear reflected back at her. It had been years since Sam had made a special guest appearance in one of her dark dreams. Stress could sometimes induce these episodes, and between the fight with Alex and the threat posed by Jamie, there was plenty enough stress to conjure up the specter of her long-dead stepfather. Jill drew a shaky breath, forcing his image from her mind. That was one nightmare she had no desire to relive.

  Downstairs, Jill started a pot of coffee and climbed onto a stool at the island. She rubbed her face with her hands and raked her hair back behind her ears. The bass drum in her head boomed in time with her throbbing hangover. Too much wine, not enough Advil makes Jill a dull girl. She winced and closed her eyes.

  Alex had been fast asleep by the time she climbed into bed. How could he have been able to sleep when she’d spent the whole night tossing and turning, replaying their argument in her head? Maybe it was her conscience getting to her. She had picked the fight. She had pushed Alex hard—maybe too hard.

  This morning she would try to put things right. Extend the olive branch. The pressure Jamie was exerting gave her no right to jump all over Alex. It wasn’t his fault she had made lousy choices. She had only herself to thank. Blame.

  From above, she heard the telltale thump-thump of Molly jumping off the bed, and then the jingle of her dog tags as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Good morning,” Jill said as Molly trotted over to brush against her leg. She scratched Molly’s head. “Do you need to go out?” The dog swung her tail in wide, happy arcs, bat-wing ears angled back.

  Jill crossed the kitchen and opened the back door to let Molly out. The overcast day mirrored her glum mood. With any luck the rain would hold off long enough to get in a run. Both she and Molly could use the exercise.

  Pausing by the counter, Jill took a few moments to flip through the stack of mail waiting there, automatically sorting it into piles—junk mail, bills, catalogs—when her hands froze.

  Alex had used the back of a crisp, white envelope as a sketchpad. Jill was used to finding little etchings of his on newspapers, cocktail napkins—whatever Alex found lying around. He had done this for as long as she had known him. It was a habit that she found endearing. For her, it provided little insights into how he saw life. But this morning, what she saw made the blood chill in her veins, and an unfamiliar stab of doubt pierced her heart.

  Staring up from the back of the envelope containing their mortgage statement was the unmistakable face of Abigail Watson. The serious set of her lips did little to detract from her fragile beauty.

  Jill flipped the envelope over. Maybe she wasn’t the only one having doubts about their marriage.

  Within minutes, Alex descended the stairs. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor as he walked down the hall. Reaching into the kitchen cupboard, Jill pulled out a mug.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Alex said quietly as he sat down at the island.

  Silence hung heavy between them, and Alex directed his gaze toward the newspaper, quickly skimming yesterday’s headlines. Avoiding eye contact, Jill surmised. He wasn’t going to make this easy. Then again, why should he?

  Turning, she opened the door for Molly. The big yellow Lab came in and trotted across the kitchen to Alex, tail swinging behind her.

  “Good morning, girl,” Alex said, stroking her head, and was rewarded with a lick on the hand.

  “I’m sorry we argued last night,” Jill said, breaking the silence at last.

  “Me, too.” Alex did not glance up.

  “I said some things I shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s nothing that you haven’t said before.”

  “You’re right. I’m awful. Why do you stay with me?”

  Her tone was venomous, an outpouring of bitterness and guilt. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back, but as usual, it was too late. Her reflex to strike back seemed to win out every time. When would she learn to control her impulses?

  Alex looked up, his brown eyes meeting hers.

  “Come on, Jill. Let’s just talk, okay?”

  “Okay.” She let out a long, shaky breath.

  “What’s going on with you?” Alex said, leaning back in his stool, studying her intently.

  “I told you, work has been stressful.” She fought to keep her voice even. His gentle but steady probing was unnerving, bringing last night’s argument back into sharp focus.

  But what could she say? There were so many parts of herself that she didn’t want to share. Couldn’t share. Especially not with him.

  He stared at her as if waiting for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he shook his head.

  “Work pressure is nothing new. I think there’s more to it.”

  “You’re reading too much into things.”

  His head cocked to one side as he watched her. The urge to squirm was squelched under the intensity of his gaze. Despite his soft tone, she couldn’t escape the sense of being interrogated

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so. I’ve noticed a change in you ever since you got your promotion.”

  “Like what?” she asked, an edge creeping into her voice. Did he know about Jamie? Was he waiting for her to tell him about Jamie? No, Alex wouldn’t be the type of guy to sit around on the sidelines and wait for her to confess. But still, she couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he knew more than he was letting on.

  “Small things. You’re edgy. Distant. You don’t seem to enjoy being at home. You’re dressing differently.”

  “Different how?”

  Alex paused, his head tilting to one side, as if choosing his words carefully.

  “More skirts, fitted blouses, high heels. Sexier.”

  “Yeah, I got a raise so I bought myself some new clothes. Are you complaining about me spending money?” Her heart raced. Maybe he did know and was baiting her.

  “Of course not. You know I don’t care about that stuff.” He angled his head as he watched her. “It’s just different.”

  Alex reached across the table to rest his hand on hers. The warmth of his fingers radiated up her arm. Her automatic impulse was to withdraw her hand, but she left it in place. They needed to work through their problems, and pulling away from him now was not going to help matters.

  “Listen, I just want to know what’s going on with you. You can tell me anything, you know?”

  Jill felt her eyes moisten, defenses wavering ever so slightly. Maybe she could open up. Maybe she should tell him how scared she was feeling, about work, about their marriage, about so many things. Alex was gentle in a way that still caught her off guard, and with the morning light filtering through the kitchen windows, she caught a glimpse of the man she had fallen in love with. For a moment she wished everything could go back to the way it used to be. Simple.

  Her lips parted as she searched for a way to begin.

  Then Alex’s cell phone went off, interrupting her thoughts. The opening strains of his ringtone played the distinctive slow tolling of AC/DC’s “Hells Bells.” Their eyes met across the island. Jill turned away in resignation. They both knew that he was going to answer. It was what made him such a good cop. And made her such an angry wife.

  Jill shifted in her chair, breaking eye contact, and took a sip of coffee, for once grateful for the interruption.

  Alex glanced at the call display and closed his eyes for a split second, a wince of regret.

  “I’ve got to take this,” he said as he held the phone to his ear. “Alex here.”

  His eyebrows furrowed as he listened intently.

  CHAPTER FOUR
TEEN

  “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” Kris Thompson asked, her voice all business.

  “Start with the good news,” Alex said. He looked past Jill to stare sightlessly out the kitchen window.

  “I finally got the report from the ISP linking a suspect to the emails in the Watson case. Scumbag’s name is Jerry Honeywell. He’s a certified mechanic for—get this—Harley-Davidson in Renton. He’s the registered owner of a big old ’47 hog.” Kris drew out the last part with a fake southern drawl. “He also owns a Chevy S10 truck. Driver’s license photo is a match for the one we found on Natalie’s phone.”

  “Is he working today?”

  “The dealership’s showroom is open, but the garage is closed.” Kris paused, giving Alex time to process the new information. “Now for the bad news: he has prior arrests for sexual assault. He likes his girls young. There wasn’t enough evidence to make the charges stick. The girls refused to testify.”

  Electricity crackled along his nerve endings as he gripped the phone harder. Given the prior arrests, there was a high likelihood that Honeywell would escalate his behavior. Escalate to what though? Abduction? Murder? Was he capable of such things? Maybe he didn’t want to leave any witnesses behind this time. Alex hoped to Christ that he was wrong, but given that Natalie had been missing for almost a week, optimism was hard to come by.

  “I’ll call Jackson. I’m on my way in.” Alex said, his eyes flicking back to Jill, who was staring at her folded hands. “I want everything you have on this guy on my desk. Phone records. Bank accounts. Does he own any firearms? Let’s get to know this asshole.”

  “You got it.”

  “Listen …,” he said, turning back toward Jill.

  “Go.” Jill brushed her hand across her lips. “It’s okay.” She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “I’m sorry. We’ll talk later.” Alex bent to plant a soft kiss on her hair before jogging upstairs.

  Search warrant secured, strategy set, SWAT on alert, and the green light to bring Honeywell in for questioning given. Yet the case they had developed to this point, though compelling, was purely circumstantial. They needed physical evidence linking Jerry Honeywell to Natalie’s abduction to make the charges stick. Alex wanted to leave no loopholes for the bastard to slip through. If more care had been taken building the previous sexual-assault cases, maybe Natalie would be safe at home this very moment.