Fatal Lies ( Lies Mystery Thriller Series Book 2)

by Andrew Cunningham

  It took us a while to get started, mainly because we got kind of distracted by the pictures.

  “Okay,” I said, “I know that everyone laughs at pictures of those who came before them, but were they kidding here?”

  “I don’t sense a fashion statement,” said Sabrina.

  “That’s just it. Other eras seemed to embrace certain styles, as funny as they might have been. These people just seemed confused.”

  “You were in school then.”

  “I was in grade school. All is forgiven when you are in grade school.”

  “Lucky for you.”

  Finally we got to work, going through the yearbook slowly, page by page. Success came early. We were in the H’s when Sabrina tapped a picture excitedly with her forefinger.

  “That’s her!”

  I had to admit that she looked like the pictures I had seen of Daisy, just much younger and much prettier. The name under the picture read Lucinda Holt.

  “Lucinda?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah, your name is Delmore and you’re questioning somebody else’s name?”

  That shut me up.

  She was actually quite attractive, which made me sad. It looked like she had so much promise. How did she become the Daisy who died such a lonely death? There was so little resemblance. And yet, there was no doubt that this was her. There was nothing under her name to indicate involvement in any extracurricular activities, but that wasn’t uncommon. The vast majority of the pictures lacked any other information.

  I had brought my laptop with me, so I fired it up and went to Ancestry.com and typed in her name, but without any other information to go on, it proved to be a dead end.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “I guess now we go back to see Senator Wheeler, only this time armed with a name and an assassination attempt.”

  “Back to the airport,” I said.

  *****

  Senator Wheeler opened his door and sighed.

  “I have nothing to say to you. I told you before that I have no idea who that woman was.”

  He was wearing black today. All black. Black shorts, a black t-shirt, black running shoes, black socks, in sharp contrast to his shock of white hair and white bushy eyebrows. He wasn’t very original in his wardrobe selection. This was definitely not a tennis outfit. Today he was going running. Pretty impressive for someone of his age, I thought. He started to close the door.

  “Lucinda Holt,” I said.

  He stopped and stared; the door froze in place.

  “Who?”

  But the damage had been done. He was caught and he knew it.

  “Don’t know who you’re talking about,” he said lamely. He resumed closing the door, but without conviction.

  “If you say so,” continued Sabrina with an edge in her voice. She was sending a message. “Someone tried to kill us because we visited you the first time. I’m sure you’ll be getting a visit from the police. Sorry we bothered you.”

  We turned and started back toward the car.

  He sighed again, then said, “Wait. Not here. Let’s go to my backyard.”

  He took us around the side of the house to an enormous swimming pool in a beautifully manicured backyard. Beyond the pool we saw a putting green and tennis courts. He motioned for us to sit in some poolside chairs. They were super comfortable and they reclined. A far cry from the cheap plastic Wal-Mart lawn chairs I’d grown up with.

  “What’s this about someone trying to kill you?” he asked. He seemed genuinely concerned.

  We told him. We made sure not to leave out the part about Seymour scattering the man’s innards all over the wall. When we finished, Wheeler had a shocked expression on his face. He didn’t seem to be faking it.

  “I honestly don’t know what to tell you.” He looked scared. “I have no reason to hurt you, and frankly, I wouldn’t even know how to find someone who could do that.”

  I believed him.

  “Tell us about Lucinda,” said Sabrina.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Yes, we’re aware of that. We’re just trying to figure out why she died and who murdered her.”

  “It’s never been determined definitively who killed her. Why would you be looking into it after thirty years?”

  I cocked my head and looked at Sabrina. Her head was cocked in the same position looking back at me.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “She was killed about two weeks ago.”

  He stared at us, then said, “I think we are talking about two different people. Lucinda Holt was killed by a serial killer right before college graduation. They never caught the killer.”

  Okay, we were massively confused.

  “How do you know?” asked Sabrina.

  “Because she was the daughter of a childhood friend. She disappeared that spring. It was the work of The Taunting Man, a serial killer who terrorized the Boston area. After a few weeks, the press got a taunting note from the serial killer—the notes were a trademark of his—saying that he had killed her and that they’d never find the body. They never did. Eventually the case was set aside and I guess it was forgotten.”

  “No,” said Sabrina. “Lucinda Holt became Daisy Leduc. Daisy spent twenty years in prison for supposedly killing her husband. She got out of prison about a year ago and was murdered in a small town in Texas two weeks ago.

  “Impossible.”

  I noticed though that even as he said the word, he seemed puzzled about something. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

  He continued, standing up as he talked. It was a clear sign that the interview was over. “I don’t know who this Daisy person was, but she wasn’t Lucinda. That, I can guarantee you. I’m sorry that someone tried to kill you, but I know nothing about that. You can make your way back to your car.”

  He walked into the house.

  Five minutes later we were sitting in the rental car in Wheeler’s driveway. I hadn’t even started it. The keys were still in my hand.

  “What just happened?” I asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Are you sure that was Daisy in the yearbook?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then what’s all this about her being killed? What was he covering up?”

  Sabrina was silent. I could see the wheels churning in her head Something was going on up there, so I let her think.

  “Nothing,” she finally said. “I don’t think he was covering up anything. He was as confused as we were. At the same time, it struck a chord with him, something he was trying to reconcile in his head.”

  “I caught the hesitation in his voice,” I said. “I think you’re right.”

  “So everyone thought she’d been killed when in fact, she changed her name and moved away. Why?”

  “And if she really wasn’t killed, why did the killer take credit for murdering her?”

  “To inflate his kill count?”

  “But that would be stupid, because if she ever showed up, it would affect his credibility, such as it was. A serial killer like that, one who sends taunting notes, is extremely egotistical. He wouldn’t chance being proven wrong.”

  “Then I’m confused.”

  “So am I.”

  “Maybe she had a twin,” I suggested. “Maybe Daisy was her twin sister.”

  “That should be easy enough to find out. Somehow I doubt it. I think Wheeler would have offered that as an explanation if that were the case.”

  “Then we have a woman who died twice. But the fact that they never found her body the first time is a bit suspicious.”

  “Maybe we should read up on the serial killer,” said Sabrina. “Maybe we’ll get a clue from that.”

  We drove back the to the Pittsburgh International Airport, stopping at a restaurant along the way. We had a few hours before our flight back, since we weren’t expecting our visit with Wheeler to be so short. The restaurant was a casual place, so we felt comfortable turning on the laptop at the table. I looked up Boston’s ser
ial killer, from the early ‘80s. As Wheeler had said, he was known as “The Taunting Man.”

  I could never understand why the media gave names to these people. It only helped to stroke an already sick ego. It seemed to me that if they gave them names like “Loser” or “Idiot,” it might create a different situation. Embarrass the guy enough and maybe he’ll stop. I realized it was naïve on my part. A serial killer is going to kill, no matter what. I just hated that they gave them stupid names.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot on the killer. Well, there was a lot, but it all said the same thing: they had no idea who he was and he was never caught. In a period of three years, from late 1980 into 1983, he killed fifteen women. They were all stabbed multiple times. There was also evidence of torture and rape. Police reports said that he held each victim for many hours before killing her. Lucinda was the only victim whose body was never recovered.

  “Daisy was stabbed multiple times,” said Sabrina.

  “Thought about that,” I said.

  With each murder, he sent a note to the police taunting them to do something about it. But there just wasn’t enough to go on. In early 1983, right after Lucinda’s death/disappearance, the murders stopped. The police assumed he had either died or had left the area.

  When we had gleaned everything we could about the serial killer, I moved on to Wheeler’s past, hoping I’d find something I missed the first time we researched him. Most of the articles were about the mine disaster of 1982 and the role he played in getting the miners’ families compensated. The Clover Mine went out of business about ten years later. It never recovered financially from the disaster.

  There were many who thought it wasn’t an accident, and theories abounded. The most common theory was that the mine was sabotaged by a rival mining company, but the experts said that the theory made no sense. There was no bad blood between the mines.

  “Found another clue,” I said, as I read on. “The rival mine is owned by a Lucas Holt, who had to be Lucinda’s father. Didn’t Wheeler say that Lucinda was the daughter of a childhood friend?”

  “He did, but don’t you think the media would have found the connection?”

  “One would think. But what I do know is that we finally have some leverage on Wheeler. Now he’ll have to talk to us.”

  Chapter 14

  He didn’t have to because he wasn’t home. We drove back to Wheeler’s mansion, only to be told that he had gone out of town and wouldn’t be back for a few days. Yeah, right. When we saw him earlier that day, he didn’t look like someone who was leaving town. Between our attempted murder and the story of Lucinda, had we scared him? But maybe he had legitimately gone away. The funny thing was, even though we knew he was concealing something, I don’t think either of us felt that he was a dishonest man by nature. So what did all that mean? We had no idea. Honest or not, we needed to talk to him again and pressure him for the information he was holding back on.

  “Now what?” asked Sabrina, looking at her watch. “We’ve missed our flight.”

  “Another hotel and we fly out in the morning?”

  “Let’s drive home,” she said. “I know it’s a long drive, but we need a break. Besides, maybe we can visit the site of the mine disaster. That’s not too far from here.”

  Hey, why not. Any alone time I was able to get with Sabrina was okay with me. When we first got together, I couldn’t understand how someone as spectacular looking as she was could be attracted to someone like me. I mean, it’s not like I was a freak show. I was pretty decent looking, but I’d never be mistaken for a movie star. I had a receding hairline that I was self-conscious of, but there was nothing I could do about that. So at first, I thought she might come to her senses and realize that there had to be someone better out there, so every moment spent with her was bonus time in my life. Luckily, Sabrina actually fell in love with me. Being with Sabrina was still bonus time, but I was no longer scared that it was only temporary.

  We drove through the rolling hills of western Pennsylvania in search of coal. Turns out, there was plenty of it out there. We followed our GPS to a spot nearby the mine, since the mine itself didn’t come up when we punched it in. After three or four wrong turns, we found it. Or, we found the gate anyway. The gate and a very large No Trespassing sign.

  We couldn’t actually see the Clover Mine. The gate was on the road leading to it. I was guessing that the mine itself was quite a ways in. Other than the gigantic sign telling us that if we set foot on the property helicopters were going to swoop down and blow us to pieces (well, maybe it didn’t exactly say that), there was absolutely nothing to see.

  “Well, that was fun,” said Sabrina. “We’ve done enough dangerous things lately, so sneaking onto the property probably wouldn’t be in our best interests. What now?”

  “Try to find Holt’s mine and check it out?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  They may have been rival mines, according to some sources anyway, but they weren’t exactly close in proximity. It took us over an hour to find it. It was a thriving enterprise, called the Western Penn Mining Company.

  After seeing the sign on the main road, we followed a private road about fifteen miles before arriving at the mine. It was like a small town. There were houses, a store, a large building that held the mine offices, and people. Lots of people. They were all over the place and most were dressed appropriately in miner’s clothes. Had we arrived at shift change? At the end of the town was the entrance to a large mine.

  We pulled up to the offices and walked in the visitor’s entrance.

  I approached the girl at the closest desk. She was young—early twenties—and was snapping gum and texting someone on her cell phone. She looked up and smiled.

  “Hi.”

  Hmm, articulate.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m wondering if you can tell me how we can find Mr. Holt.”

  “Who?”

  “Uh, the owner of the mine?”

  She looked confused. Luckily, an older woman working in the next room had heard me and she stepped out.

  “Are you looking for Lucas Holt?”

  “We are.”

  “I’m afraid you are about ten years too late.”

  “Did he die?”

  She laughed. “Oh no. He retired. Technically, he still owns the mine, but it’s run by a company he hired. I haven’t seen him in years. His wife still stops in from time to time to make sure we aren’t screwing things up.”

  It was obvious what she thought of Mrs. Holt. We thanked her for the information and left the office. There wasn’t anything we could do there, so we left for our long trip home.

  We spent the first part of the trip trying to figure out what was going on. It all started with Daisy, but there were other players involved. The blonde and her friend seemed to be the next in line as to involvement, but we weren’t sure why. Then there were the two would-be assassins. Were they connected to the blonde or were they a separate party? Then we had Senator Wheeler, whose role in this mess was a big question mark. Finally, there was Lucas Holt. Was he responsible for the Clover Mine disaster? We felt like we were totally behind the eight ball.

  Two hours into the trip we got bored with that subject and started talking about things that had nothing to do with the case. That made us feel better.

  Surprisingly, we arrived home in one piece. No one tried to run us down or blow us up. That was a nice change of pace. When we got to Boston, we returned the rental car and I called Mo to see if she could pick us up. She was more than happy to. We gave her most of the story on the short ride back to the house. All she could do was shake her head.

  As we drove down Saratoga Street, where our building was, I saw a nondescript Chevy parked in a parking spot near my house on the same side of the street. There were two people sitting in the car, a male and a female.

  I ducked down and yelled out to Sabrina to do the same. “Mo, keep driving and go around the block.”

  When we turned the corner, we b
oth came out of hiding.

  “There was a car parked up a few spaces up from our building. Two people were sitting in it, a man and a woman. The woman was blonde. I’m positive it was the woman from Texas. Mo, go back up to Saratoga Street and find a parking spot a block or two behind them. It’s time we go on the offensive.”

  Chapter 15

  Mo found a spot about a block in back of the Chevy. It was the only spot available on the whole street and it would have been a good one except for the fact that the old clunker car directly in front of us had some major intestinal troubles. It was spewing a stinky black smoke from its rear end as its owner worked on the engine, apparently without much success. Between the smoke and the open front hood, the blonde and her boy toy couldn’t see us. Unfortunately, we couldn’t see them either.

  “What do you suggest we do?” asked Sabrina. “Call the police?”

  “Probably the best thing to do.” I dialed Detective Marsh’s number, but it went to voicemail. I left him a message and said we’d call 911.

  I dialed and was immediately put on hold by a robotic voice telling me that all lines were busy.

  “I think I know why,” said Mo. “I got a text alert saying that there is a major office building fire downtown Boston. That’ll clog up everything. We could sit here and follow them if they leave.”

  “I’m tired of trying to always catch up,” I said. “I think I’m going to go talk to them.”

  “Is this the same Del Honeycutt who, just a year ago, was working a dead-end job and couldn’t do anything more daring than to brave a Red Sox game on a rainy day?”

  “Times change,” I said, trying to work up the courage to follow up my comment.