Fatal Lies ( Lies Mystery Thriller Series Book 2)

by Andrew Cunningham

  “Whoa,” I said, putting my hand over my face.

  “Oh my God,” said Sabrina. “You would have thought someone would have cleaned it out.”

  “Let’s make this as quick as possible.”

  Luckily—or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it—there wasn’t much to find, and we were able to get through the job in less than a half hour.

  We gave the kitchen a once-over and moved to the bedroom. We didn’t want to ignore the kitchen altogether, just in case she was one of those people who hid important items in her freezer. Her important items turned out to be a dozen frozen burritos and two quart-containers of Hӓagen-Dazs Rum Raisin. The smell in the place originated in the refrigerator, which had been left open—probably by the cops—and the almost week-old garbage.

  The bedroom didn’t yield anything significant either. It was obvious that the authorities had gone through the place pretty thoroughly. The bathroom took us about thirty seconds, which brought us to the tiny living room. It was pretty Spartan—an ancient recliner in front of a fairly new TV. No couch. An end table next to the recliner had a lamp on it. There was a small bookshelf against the wall that was piled high with paperbacks, mostly mysteries and thrillers. A couple of Sabrina’s were there. That was it. Almost.

  While I was looking through the books hunting for secret documents, a small cardboard box on the floor next to the chair had caught Sabrina’s attention.

  “Find something?”

  “Probably not. Just kind of interesting though. It’s a pile of magazines; Time, Newsweek, U.S News and World Report, and a couple of others.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. Just something about them. They’re all different years.”

  “Maybe she found them at a flea market.”

  “But who reads a five-year-old Newsweek?”

  I had no answer for that.

  “I’m going to bring these along and look through them.”

  “You don’t think the cops would have looked at them?”

  “I doubt it. They’re just old magazines. They might have looked them over quickly to make sure there wasn’t something hidden in them, but that’s where the interest would have ended.”

  “That makes sense. What are you looking for?”

  “Don’t have a clue.”

  We took one last look around, then left, locking the door behind us. The air outside was still and humid, but it seemed fresh compared to the odor inside. We got in the car and I turned the AC on full blast.

  “I still smell it,” said Sabrina.

  “I think it’s stuck in our nostrils.”

  “How come pepperoni pizza never gets stuck in my nostrils?”

  We took off, waving to the neighbor, as we pulled out. She was still sitting on her porch watching us.

  I worked my way back to the highway and headed east toward Dallas.

  We were both pretty quiet for the next hour. There wasn’t exactly a lot to see, so I was thinking about all we’d done to that point and Sabrina was flipping through the magazines.

  “Found it,” she finally said.

  “Found what?”

  “A clue. Our very first clue.”

  Chapter 8

  “Okay, the first clues are the covers. They weren’t picked up at a flea market. All but one were stolen from the Lubbock library. You don’t steal random magazines. If you’re going to steal them, you steal them with a purpose in mind.”

  “And the one that didn’t come from Lubbock?”

  “The prison library.” She was looking at the label. I could’ve sworn I saw tears in her eyes. “Wow, that brings back memories. Every book I took out for six years had that same stamp.”

  She drifted off. I let her drift for a couple of minutes, then reeled her back in.

  “And the reason for the magazines?”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m getting there.”

  “In between naps.”

  She stuck her tongue out at me. “I was just thinking.” She gave me a wary look, expecting a snide comeback.

  I restrained myself. It took some effort.

  “Anyway,” she continued. “I was thinking that the issue from the prison library—it was a Time Magazine, in case you were wondering—set her on some sort of path, and once she got out she continued the quest by visiting the Lubbock library. She probably used the computer or microfiche or whatever they use there to research her subject, and then pulled out the magazines.”

  “Couldn’t she have just looked up the subject online? Why would she need magazines?”

  “I didn’t see a computer in her trailer, or any clue in her trailer that she once had one that the police might have taken for evidence. Don’t forget, she was in prison for twenty years. She missed the computer boom. Someone at the library probably helped her gather her information.”

  “Which was?”

  “You’re so impatient. Have you ever heard of John Wheeler?”

  “Rings a bell.”

  “He was a long-time senator from Pennsylvania. One of the ‘old boys’ who stayed on long past his prime. He finally retired a couple of years ago. He’s probably in his early eighties by now.”

  “And?”

  “And every one of these issues has a story on him.”

  “You’re right, a clue.”

  “I’ve never paid much attention to politics. I was kind of occupied for six years. Not a lot of interest in prison in the comings and goings of senators. But what I’ve gathered from reading the articles is that he was well respected by pretty much everyone. He wasn’t flashy and didn’t draw attention to himself, but got done what he needed to. He only seemed to have one bit of controversy in his career, one that never went away.”

  “Only one? And he was a politician?”

  “Hard to believe, huh? Anyway, back in 1982 there was a coal mine disaster in his state. The Clover Mine. Twenty-two miners were killed in an explosion underground. It was all very suspicious, but the investigation didn’t last long. Wheeler, who was an influential senator, used that influence with state and local authorities to expedite the investigation, supposedly for the sake of the families. The disaster was ultimately determined to be caused by faulty machinery. The miners’ families were well compensated by the mine company and in many quarters Wheeler was hailed as a hero for not letting the process drag on. But there were others who said he did it to cover up wrong-doing. But no ties were ever discovered linking him to a cover-up. It’s something that dogged him his entire career.”

  “But not enough to stop him from getting re-elected many times.”

  “The people liked him. It was reporters and other politicians who were constantly nipping at his heals.”

  “So what were the articles about?”

  “Various things. About five years ago there were several mine accidents and the Clover Mine disaster was brought up again. For a couple of weeks, he was in the news again. Then there were a couple of articles about his retirement.”

  “So what does it all mean?”

  “Beats me. Maybe Daisy was related to one of the dead miners?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I said it was a clue. I didn’t say it was necessarily a good one.”

  “I’m starting to realize why you write mysteries,” I said. “There’s something exciting about uncovering clues.”

  “There is.”

  “Even if they make no sense.”

  Two explosions rocked the car. Sabrina screamed and I probably did too. I lost control of the steering and our car skidded around the highway as I slammed on the brakes. It only made it worse. A tire was gone and I could see sparks coming from the rim grinding against the pavement. I took my foot off the brake and tried to let the car slow down on its own. Gradually I regained control and steered the car over to the shoulder and brought it to a stop. As I turned off the engine, a car came alongside of us, less than twenty feet away, and stopped. The windows were tinted, but the passenger window was down halfway and a
rifle barrel was sticking out, pointing directly at me.

  “Get down!” I yelled to Sabrina.

  We flattened ourselves to the seats as two more explosions came, shattering my window. Glass blew all over us. Sabrina was reaching for her door handle when we heard the sound of a car horn blaring. The car with the gunman quickly accelerated, tires squealing in the process.

  “Oh my God! Are you okay?” I looked over at Sabrina. She was as white as my knuckles and breathing heavily, but otherwise appeared unhurt. In addition to my window being gone and a tire blown out, the rear window behind me and Sabrina’s window had both been obliterated.

  “They were trying to kill us,” she said, gasping for breath after each word.

  I grabbed her hand to stop it from shaking. Or maybe I was trying to stop mine from shaking. “Careful, you have glass all over you.”

  We just sat there, trying to regain our composure. A pick-up truck had pulled over in front of us and two men jumped out, concern on their faces. They each looked like the stereotypical Texas cowboy—hats, boots, and lean bodies with tanned faces. An empty gun rack showed across the back window of the cab.

  They ran over to the car. The reason for the gun rack being empty was clear. One of them was carrying the rifle and was looking over his shoulder at the car retreating down the highway.

  “You folks okay?” the older of the two asked.

  The other one, a younger version of the first, said, “They shot at you. I saw the rifle. They fucking shot at you.” Then he looked at Sabrina and said, “Sorry ma’am, for the language.”

  Sabrina waved it off, still trying to catch her breath.

  “Can one of you call 911?” I asked. “I’m still kind of shaking.”

  The younger of the two pulled out his phone and made the call.

  I asked the older one, “Was that you honking?”

  He nodded. “We saw them shoot at you. We knew it wasn’t a drug thing because you two passed us a while back and we could see you were just a couple.” He looked at Sabrina. “My son had made a comment about how shiny red your hair was.”

  Sabrina smiled, or tried to under the circumstances.

  He addressed his son. “Beau, you’d better put that gun back in the truck or the police might get the wrong idea.” Looking back at us he said, “We’ll stay with you until the police arrive.”

  “Thank you.”

  We picked the glass off each other and slid out

  I noticed that he didn’t ask us what it was all about. The taciturn Texas cowboy portrayed in books?

  Before the police arrived, I asked Sabrina, “Should we tell them the story or play dumb?”

  We were both still shaking pretty badly and I wasn’t sure Sabrina was even going to answer me.

  Finally, she said, “I guess we open up. After all, someone tried to kill us. We don’t need to tell them about Daisy’s trailer or the magazines, though.”

  “I agree. We can refer them to Moody for any additional information.”

  A few other cars had stopped and Beau was regaling them with the story of the rifle pointing out the window and our car getting shot up. He obviously lacked the reserved nature of his father. We’d made his day.

  Within minutes, the first State Police trooper arrived, followed shortly after that by another, two Sheriff’s deputies, and an ambulance.

  Luckily, nobody recognized Sabrina, which made her calmer. The paramedics examined us while one of the State cops questioned us. We told him the whole story and suggested he call Detective Moody in Lubbock for confirmation of the story.

  The two sheriff’s deputies knew the father and son cowboys and were asking them what they had seen. One of the State Police troopers was concentrating on us.

  “Can I get your names?”

  “Delmore Honeycutt.” I swear the guy gave a chuckle under his breath.

  “Sabrina Spencer.”

  “Hey, like that mystery writer.”

  “Just like her.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a mystery writer.”

  The guy did such a double-take, I thought he was going to give himself whiplash.

  “Holy moley. No kidding?”

  “No kidding. But if you could keep it as quiet as possible, I’d appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Mind if I get your autograph? I’ve read one of your books. You’re good.”

  “Thank you. You might have to wait a few minutes for the autograph. My hands are still shaking.”

  With all the fawning, he forgot to ask me what I did, which, I thought, was a good thing. What did I do? Was I retired? I didn’t really have a job, unless you counted the research I was doing for the book. Hmm, I’d have to think about that.

  Beau and his dad, Larry, supplied the cops with a pretty decent description of the shooter’s car. I realized how much it had unnerved me when I thought that I couldn’t remember even the color of the car.

  We had a few small cuts from the broken glass, and the paramedics cleaned us up. When it was determined that we had no mortal injuries, they left. The tow truck came and took our rental car to the nearest police impound lot for the forensic team to go over. I called the rental company and explained the situation. They didn’t seem pleased, but said it was up to the insurance company now.

  We were there for quite a while and Sabrina mentioned to me that we probably weren’t going to make our flight. The fawning trooper, Sergeant Gilroy, heard her and asked her what time our flight was. She told him and he looked at his watch.

  “I can get you there in time. We’re done here.”

  He put on his lights and siren to emphasize his determination to get us to our flight. I was pretty sure that was against policy, but he was having fun. When we got to the airport, he actually walked us through security and to our gate. We made our plane with fifteen minutes to spare. As thanks, Sabrina got his address and promised to send him signed copies of all of her books when we got home.

  When we sat down in the plane, we both breathed sighs of relief. The minute the plane was in the air, a deep sleep consumed us.

  Chapter 9

  We slept most of the way home, only waking when the pilot announced that we were approaching Boston. Rather than driving out to the house in western Mass, we decided to stay in the apartment in East Boston. I sent Mo a text telling her that we’d be there for a few days. She seemed pleased. She didn’t like very many men, but somehow I had passed muster. And she absolutely loved Sabrina.

  We landed at 10:00 in the evening. We got my car out of long-term parking and started home. My East Boston house was less than ten minutes from the airport, but we were starving and we stopped at a Chinese restaurant and picked up some take-out. We got to the house a little before 11:00. I found a parking spot almost in front, appreciating being home.

  Lights were on in Mo’s apartment, and when we walked in the front door of the building, she opened her door. She took one look at us and said, “You guys look like shit.”

  There was nothing subtle about Mo, short for Molly. She was of average height and extremely attractive, with long flowing jet-black hair. Guys were always coming on to her, not realizing that she was gay. She was a many-degree black belt in some martial art I had never heard of, which was maybe why she was attracted to Sabrina immediately. Although Sabrina had never studied the martial arts, her self-defense training from her fellow prisoners made her dangerous. I think Mo picked up on that—and maybe on Sabrina’s post-prison fragility—and felt a kinship with her.

  Mo could also swear with the best of them—better than most—although she tended to tone it down in front of Sabrina. One wouldn’t normally expect a mouth like that on a second-grade teacher, but she was respected in her profession and saved the swearing for when she was out of that setting. Probably a good thing.

  “We feel like shit,” I said. When we got off the plane we realized just how stiff we were from the violence of the moment in the car. I held up the food. “Wan
t to join us?”

  “Sure. I’m always a sucker for Chinese. Besides, I feel a good story coming on.” She peered at Sabrina. “Is that glass in your hair?”

  “Part of the story.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  She helped us with our carry-on bags. As we passed the second floor apartment, Seymour stuck his head out the door.

  “Welcome home. You look like shit.”

  “Thanks for your observation,” I said to him.

  “Just pointing it out.” He closed his door.

  Seymour was tall and skinny, in his late fifties, and pretty much of a grouch. He worked an eBay business out of his house and was quite successful. He bought various items on eBay that were poorly described and weren’t moving, re-listed them with a much more exciting description, and made a killing. He stayed in his apartment most of the time, keeping an erratic sleep schedule. He wasn’t agoraphobic, he just hated people. He also ate pizza for almost every meal. He wasn’t picky. He ate the good stuff from the best pizza places and he made his own. And he also wasn’t above pulling out a frozen pizza and heating it up.

  As grouchy as he was, he always seemed to like me better than most people. Once I bought the building and let him live there rent-free, he got even better, sometimes even smiling. That said, he was still a grouch and nothing was going to change that.

  The strange thing about my two tenants was that they were about as disparate as you could get and I never saw them talking to each other. And yet I knew that whatever we told Mo that night would get to Seymour by the next day. I’m not sure I would ever understand it.

  Knowing we were coming home, Mo had put on the lights in my third floor apartment so it would look homey when we walked in. I set the food down and Sabrina and I wheeled our carry-ons into the bedroom while Mo put out the food with some plates and utensils.

  When we were eating she asked, “So how was Wisconsin?”

  Sabrina looked at me and laughed. “I’d kind of forgotten we were there.”

  “We ended up in Texas,” I said to Mo.

  “You have a plate glass window fall on you?”