Deadly Lies

by Chris Patchell

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Rebecca Shannon looked behind him.

  “Where’s Jill?”

  “She’ll be along in a little while.” He ignored the frown on his mother’s face and stepped through the curved entry into the living room. Bending over to kiss Emma’s cheek, he held out a hand to Mike, who shook it warmly.

  “Where’s Dad?” Alex asked.

  “In the kitchen pretending not to watch football,” his mother said, casting a sly look over her shoulder.

  Alex followed the delicious scents down the hall and into the kitchen. Michael Shannon Sr.’s large frame was bent over the oven door, one hand gloved with an oven mitt while the other held the turkey baster, poised over the perfectly browned bird.

  “Another fifteen minutes and this baby will be ready to come out.” Michael eased the turkey back into the oven and swung the door closed.

  “Good news. I’m starving.”

  “Can I get you a beer, son?” His father’s ensuing smile was wide.

  “Absolutely.”

  Michael grabbed a bottle from the fridge. Then he froze in mid-stride, staring at the television as the Detroit Lions completed a long pass downfield. The crowd cheered silently, the volume turned all of the way down in a vain attempt to avoid detection. His fingers still gripped the bottle cap he had not yet twisted off.

  “Need help with that?” Alex asked, gesturing toward the beer.

  “Huh? Oh, this?” He grinned at his son. With a quick twist of his hand, he removed the cap and handed the bottle to Alex. “You know your mother doesn’t like it when I watch football before dinner on Thanksgiving.”

  “Hate to burst your bubble, Dad, but I think she already knows.” Alex’s smile was wry.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you doing?”

  “Busy. You know how it is.”

  Michael nodded slowly as his eyes studied Alex’s face. He took a sip of his beer. “I heard about the Watson girl. Tough break. How is Abby?”

  Alex averted his gaze, directing his stare out the window toward the garden. His hand gripped the bottle as he took a long sip. The last thing he wanted to do was to talk about the case. As hard as he tried, he hadn’t been able to get Abby out of his head.

  “Sometimes things don’t work out the way you plan.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  Alex inclined his head to one side and shrugged. The concern in his father’s voice was apparent.

  “We’re still looking for the son of a bitch that killed her.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Hunches. Nothing solid yet.” Alex took a long pull from his beer bottle.

  “Hell of a thing.” Michael shook his head slowly and paused, measuring his words. “You know, sometimes I wish you’d gone to art school, taught school—done anything but join the force.”

  His father’s look was serious, and Alex knew if anyone understood the indelible images that you carried around in your head, it was his father. Alex was certain that, after spending a career as a firefighter, his father had memories he wished he could erase.

  “Art school?” Alex’s smile was wan. “And do what? Paint houses, maybe business signs? Seems kind of trivial.”

  “Sometimes that’s not such a bad thing. One thing’s for damn sure: you wouldn’t be digging dead girls out of the snow.”

  Alex did not respond. What was there to say? There was no arguing with his father, particularly when faced with such a crushing blow. The Watson family would never be the same, and the sadistic bastard who had killed their youngest daughter remained at large. But this certainly wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have right now. There would be plenty of time to obsess about Jerry Honeywell’s whereabouts in the days to come.

  “So what have you been up to?” he asked his father at length. Michael’s grin was lopsided.

  “Your mother has me busy digging up the backyard.” He gestured over his shoulder with a shrug.

  “Again? What’s she doing now?” Alex peered out the window toward the garden.

  “She’s decided she wants a fountain over in the corner near the cherry tree.”

  “Of course she does.” Alex smiled, and Michael rolled his eyes.

  “It’s always something.”

  “What are you complaining about?” Becky asked as she breezed into the kitchen.

  “Nothing, dear.” Michael tipped Alex a furtive wink.

  “What’s the score?”

  Alex grinned at the sheepish expression on his father’s face.

  “The Lions are up by seven.”

  “Hope they can hold on. They’ve been dying in the fourth quarter,” Becky said as she opened the refrigerator. Michael’s face looked stricken.

  “Why do you have to go and say things like that? They could go all the way this year.”

  “Uh-huh.” she met Alex’s warm gaze, her eyes twinkling. “Honey, Jill’s here. She looks like she could use a glass of wine.” Pouring some Chardonnay into a glass, she handed it to Alex.

  Jill stood in the living room by the fireplace. A smile parted her lips as he entered the room. Her eyes broadcast silent thanks as she took the glass from his hands.

  “How was your run? How far did you go?”

  “Eight miles. Molly was full of beans.”

  Alex nodded, thinking he would have some catching up to do. Jill was a fantastic runner, and he didn’t like to fall too far behind in his training. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to keep up, and there would be no end to the gloating.

  “Your timing is perfect. Dad’s about ready to pull the turkey out of the oven.”

  “I wonder if they need any help in the kitchen,” Jill said.

  Emma stood to her feet.

  “You stay, I’ll check in with Becky.”

  “Thanks,” Jill said in a flat tone and sipped her wine.

  An awkward silence fell over the trio. Jill shifted uncomfortably. Her gaze looking everywhere but at Mike.

  “I’d ask how the case is going, but I’ve read the updates in the papers. Anything new?” Mike asked.

  “Not much.”

  “Shit.”

  Finally Alex asked about the new subdivision that Mike’s company was building out in Redmond. The tension between his brother and his wife was palpable, and again, Alex found himself in the middle. Life would be so much easier if Mike and Jill just got along. But wishful thinking didn’t make it so, and when the conversation petered out, he decided that a change of scenery might help. Alex led the way to the kitchen.

  Becky and Emma were working side by side, smiling and chatting amicably as they got the vegetables ready for the serving dishes. Alex saw a dark look cloud Jill’s expression as she watched the two. Wondering if Jill was feeling left out, he placed his hand on the small of her back and felt her tense at the contact.

  “Anything I can do to help?” Jill asked again.

  “Sure, dear. Could you fill the water glasses on the table?” Becky asked.

  The foursome worked together quickly, and within minutes the dining-room table was ready for the feast to begin. Michael and Becky sat at the ends, with a couple on each side.

  “Everything looks wonderful,” Jill commented as they sat.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” said Michael, raising his glass in a simple toast.

  Everyone raised their glasses, and the passing of the food began. Chatter was flowing smoothly around the table when Alex tapped his glass with a spoon.

  “I have an announcement to make.” All heads turned toward him. “Jill has been promoted to Director of Engineering.”

  “Hey, that’s great,” Mike said, and the other voices around the table agreed. Jill’s cheeks flushed with appreciation as she received their congratulations. Her eyes met Alex’s in a warm smile.

  After a few moments, Mike picked up his glass.

  “Well, we have a little news of our own. Emma is expecting.”

  “Expecting what?” Alex asked.

  “A r
aise. What do you think, you ass?”

  “Oh, Mike, what wonderful news,” Becky stood and rounded the table to kiss Mike on the cheek and hug Emma around her shoulders.

  “Congratulations,” Alex said warmly. “When is the baby due?”

  “June,” Emma answered.

  “How are you feeling?” Becky asked, her cheeks glowing with pleasure.

  “Good. Tired.”

  They spent the next half hour eating and talking about babies. Alex studied Jill over the rim of his glass. She remained quiet throughout the meal, her smile politely detached. He wondered what she was thinking. Was she disappointed that Emma’s news upstaged hers? Was all the talk about babies boring her? Something had certainly caused her to draw inward, but he wasn’t sure what.

  After hugs and kisses all around, they left. Returning home, Alex followed Jill inside the house, helping her with her jacket. He hung it on a hook inside the door.

  “You look lovely tonight,” he said, admiring her in the soft glow from the lamp.

  “Thanks,” she said, turning away.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she answered, but he wasn’t convinced.

  “You sure? You’ve been pretty quiet all evening.” Alex placed his hands on her shoulders and stepped close to her, planting a soft kiss on her fragrant hair.

  “Not much to say, I guess.”

  Drilling straight into the heart of the matter, he looked down into Jill’s face. “Great news about Emma and Mike.”

  “Yeah.” Jill stepped back, breaking contact.

  “That was heartfelt.”

  “What do you want me to say? Emma and Mike have managed to procreate. Good for them. What an accomplishment.”

  Alex’s mouth sagged into a slight frown.

  “I get it. You feel upstaged. But their pregnancy is great news, and from my parents’ point of view—well, they’ve been waiting for ages for one of their kids to reproduce. I think Mom has been ready to be a grandma much longer than she’d admit.

  “They’ll be waiting a whole hell of a lot longer for us to be making that announcement.” Jill’s answering smile was sardonic, her razor-sharp tone slicing into him.

  Alex’s expression was guarded as he tried to gauge Jill’s hard expression. Was she just angry? He took a deep breath.

  “Wouldn’t you like to have kids?”

  “Are you kidding?” she asked. “Maybe someday, but I’ve just gotten a very big promotion. The timing couldn’t be worse, not to mention the weight gain, the stretch marks, the breast feeding …” Jill rolled her eyes.

  They’d never talked seriously about having kids. He assumed they both wanted kids, and when the time was right, well, they’d throw birth control away and get started. Maybe it was Thanksgiving. Maybe it was Emma and Mike’s news. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hit the snooze button on the biological clock.

  “When do you think the timing might be right?” he asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I was thinking that maybe we shouldn’t wait too long.” He flashed a boyish smile at her, in hopes of lightening the mood. “You know I’ve heard that trying is half of the fun.”

  Her expression soured, and she turned, stalking past him.

  “Maybe you should have married perfect Abby. She’s got a kid, right?”

  “Jill,” he called to her.

  She stood framed in the doorway to the kitchen as she looked back at him.

  “I need a drink,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Alex bent forward, both elbows planted on the cluttered surface of the desk. He reviewed the autopsy and forensics reports on Natalie Watson for the third time. His eyebrows pinched together as he focused in on the words, building a clear mental picture of the last few moments of the teenage girl’s life. The results of the autopsy held no big surprises. Death by strangulation. Sexual contact. No semen. Skin under her fingernails showed that she had put up a fight.

  The toxicology screen was clean, but that was inconclusive. Many of the typical date-rape drugs were flushed out of the victim’s system quickly, and that’s what Alex thought had happened to Natalie. It would have been easy for Honeywell to slip something into her coffee, knocking her out cold for at least six hours. The drug would have worn off in time for her to be conscious for her struggle. The state of the body marked the time of death within eighteen hours of her disappearance. At least she hadn’t suffered long.

  Forensics showed that the blood samples lifted from the floor of the Winthrop cabin did indeed match Natalie’s. They had a few hair samples from the couch; some matched Natalie’s, and some that proved a DNA match to the skin sample they had taken from the corpse.

  After Winthrop, the trail grew cold, and Alex was certain that Honeywell had left town soon after burying Natalie on the hillside. Curling his hand into a tight fist, Alex pressed his fingers against his lips and continued to think about Honeywell. Kayla Miller was still missing. He was convinced Honeywell had fled to California, and he wondered if Kayla was another of his victims.

  The Medford police said the waitress working with Kayla the night she disappeared saw a guy who looked like Honeywell in the café but couldn’t be sure it was him. She swore he left before the café closed. Without more to go on, finding Honeywell was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. How long could the bastard hide?

  “Alex?”

  Swinging around in his chair, Alex saw the smiling face of Kris Thompson, with Jackson lumbering in behind. He noticed that Kris and Jackson carried matching cups of coffee. Leaning back, Alex allowed himself to hope for some good news. “What have you got?”

  “A ping on Honeywell’s bank account.”

  “Tell me,” Alex said, glancing past Kris to a sober-faced Jackson.

  “The hit comes from an ATM machine in San Jose, California.”

  “Son of a bitch must be hurting for cash.”

  “Let’s get the tape from the ATM camera and see if we’ve got a clear picture of Honeywell mugging for the camera,” Alex said.

  “Already under way, Boss. I’m having them upload the footage to our secure server. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.” Kris’s smile was radiant, and Alex nodded in approval.

  “Great work.” After the long dry spell since finding Natalie’s body, the welcome lead had him smiling for the first time in days.

  Less than two hours later, the trio was huddled around Kris’s computer, examining the black-and-white video stream. Instead of seeing the face of Jerry Honeywell captured by the video from the ATM’s security camera, they saw a skinny guy, early twenties, wearing a white T-shirt and a leather vest bearing what looked to be gang insignia.

  “Get some hard copies. Face. Vest. Let’s nail down the gang affiliation.”

  Jackson nodded at Alex.

  “I’ve got a buddy in the SFPD. Luka Petrovich. We used to work Vice together back in the day. Bet he knows how to track down this son of a bitch. He’s got some pretty persuasive interrogation tactics.”

  The two locked eyes. The timing was perfect. At Jill’s goading, Alex had agreed to present at the Major City Chiefs’ Conference in San Francisco. Maybe he could do a little legwork on the case while he was there.

  “Let’s give him a call.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  After giving his address to the crème de la crème of the American law-enforcement community, Alex left the Major City Chiefs’ Conference and made a beeline for the Hall of Justice, home of San Francisco’s homicide squad. He found himself escorted back through the winding maze of industrial-mint hallways, which opened up to the homicide’s bull pen.

  “He’s over there.” The sergeant pointed a gnarled finger toward the back corner of the room.

  “Thanks,” Alex said.

  Detective Luka Petrovich was slumped in a chair behind his desk, facing away from Alex as he approached. A thin woman was perched on the edge of the detective’s desk, arms folded, face ster
n, looking like a librarian scolding a student. Her thick red hair was pulled severely back from her face, further emphasizing her disapproving glare. Slowing, Alex hung back, still within earshot.

  “So how did the suspect end up breaking his nose?” she asked, eyes narrowed as she focused on the detective. Her thick orange eyebrows formed a straight line over her hazel eyes, and she impatiently awaited the answer.

  “He tripped and hit the table.” Broad shoulders shrugged beneath a wrinkled white shirt, and Alex discerned a thick Russian accent.

  “That’s not what he said.” Eyebrows lowering further, the woman glowered.

  “You could check camera,” Petrovich suggested in a helpful tone, as if she hadn’t thought of that already.

  Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes cast fiery arrows at the detective. “Why yes, I could have, if the video hadn’t failed.”

  “Really?” Head tilted to one side, the detective continued. “Well, station in Vallejo is not well maintained. Budget shortages.” He shook his head in what appeared to be mock wonder. “What can you do?” His accent made his w’s sound more like v’s. Based on the look on the woman’s face, she remained unconvinced.

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve had this discussion, Detective Petrovich. If I get one more complaint about you, I’m going to recommend a thorough investigation into your conduct.” Her voice trailed off then as she glanced at Alex.

  “Detective Petrovich? I’m Alex Shannon, Seattle PD. We spoke on the phone.”

  Luka rolled back in his chair and stood, extending a hand, an easy smile crossing his face—one that was strictly at odds with the scowl sported by the woman facing him.

  “This is Detective Shelia Holmes. Internal Affairs.”

  Alex tried not to let the surprise he felt register on his face when he shook her hand. Ignoring Alex, she cast a disapproving glance toward Petrovich before stalking away, her thick heels clacked on the floor.

  “Hope I didn’t interrupt.” They both watched her leave.

  “Redheads hate me,” he said, with an impish smile. “She’ll be back. Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good, let’s go.” Luka stood and grabbed his jacket. The Russian accent was now more subtle, and Alex suppressed a grin. Was playing the rube a tactic Petrovich used often to deflect uncomfortable questions? If so, it was a good one.