The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  He was dead. A dark stain had soaked his shirt and his head was thrown back, exposing a gaping wound in his throat from a knife that had cut him to the bone and almost taken his head clean off. There were bullet wounds in his legs, stomach and under his chin. Clearly postmortem and from the feds firing through the door. I checked my right and saw Harper.

  She stood at the double doors that led to the stairwell. She was still swearing. I saw her raise her gun, then bring it down hard on the door. A metallic clang and nothing else. I ran to her and saw that a U-shaped bolt held both handles of the doors closed. It looked like a lock for a motorcycle. A single piece of steel, in a horseshoe shape looped through both door handles then locked in place by a steel bar across the bottom.

  Harper hit it again.

  “Son of a bitch locked the doors and took the elevator,” she said.

  She stepped back, then kicked the doors hard. They didn’t budge. Whoever shot at us must’ve called the elevator, and slipped the lock on the doors before they opened fire.

  Harper swore once more, then lowered her head and breathed hard.

  She ran past me, and I knew where she was headed. I’d seen it on the building plan in the lobby. I followed her and almost knocked over Beck, who came charging out of Barker’s apartment.

  “Fire escape,” cried Harper.

  Beck and I followed her into the super’s apartment, past his corpse and saw her standing in front of the window with a chair raised above her head. There were two bullet holes in the glass already, high up in the corners. More strays from the feds blind firing. The chair flew through the window, hit the iron railing of the fire escape, tumbled over it and fell to the street.

  Harper put one boot on the windowsill and leapt onto the black, wrought-iron fire escape. The floor was fine, black iron with a steel mesh. She landed lightly. Beck placed a foot on the windowsill and launched himself out of the broken window.

  In the half-a-second that he was airborne, a cold panic hit the back of my neck like a bucket of iced water.

  The shooter had planned this. All of it.

  He knew we’d come to Barker’s apartment. He’d planned on killing the super. He’d planned on lying in wait for us. He’d planned the lock on the stairwell doors, the shot through the door, and making his escape in the elevator.

  I was about to lean out, to warn them. There wasn’t time. In the instant that Beck’s weight hit the fire escape, the entire section of floor twisted in a scream of metal on metal. Beck was thrown back, toward me, but low, and his head hit the bricks and he disappeared. The floor had twisted on its diagonals which meant Beck went down and the section of floor Harper stood on, went up, throwing her high and in the same direction as Beck.

  Glass bit into my left hand as I grabbed the frame of the broken window, and stretched out my right hand toward Harper.

  Fast feet behind me. Either Allen or Kit were almost at my back.

  I caught the collar of Harper’s jacket, and her right hand grabbed my elbow, but the force of Beck tilting the floor so violently meant Harper had significant momentum and I couldn’t stop her hitting the wall to the right of the window. She dropped and I held fast.

  The glass shards left in the window frame had cut my palm, making my grasp slippery. I held on.

  But when Harper reached the bottom of her drop I couldn’t hold.

  The window frame broke in half, and Harper’s weight pulled me clean out of the window, head first.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  My thighs and knees raked across the remaining shards of glass that protruded from the bottom of the frame. I felt my pants rip and my shoe come off. Probably Kit or Allen making a last-ditch grasp and only succeeding in relieving me of my footwear.

  Harper landed feet first on the iron stairway one floor below us. The momentum of her fall took her all the way down and her back thumped into the stairs.

  I ducked my head and closed my eyes.

  The top of my shoulders landed on something before my legs swept down and my heels found the iron stairs with terrible force. My left foot had lost a shoe so the impact was much worse without the cushion of the heel. The pain shot right up my leg, into my shin.

  The pain felt good.

  It meant I was alive.

  I turned and saw that I’d landed on Beck’s stomach. I got up onto my hands and knees and saw Harper on the stairs above him, her mouth open in a moan of somebody who just fell one story and landed on a set of iron stairs. She was in a shitload of pain but alive.

  Beck was dead. His head was almost tucked behind his right shoulder. He must’ve broken his neck when the back of his head hit the bricks and he fell through the platform.

  The surge of adrenaline that hit me in the fall began to subside, and I started to feel the burning in my legs. I glanced down and the pain doubled. My thighs were torn from the glass, and I reached down to peel away the rip in my pants and see how bad it really was, when my hand started to burn. I turned over my wrist and saw a glittering stripe of broken glass in my palm.

  Somehow, I registered the sound of a car; the engine revving high, tire squeal and a horn below me. Only thing I saw in the street below was a set of headlights disappearing into the distance – headed for the freeway. The shooter, making his escape.

  But who the hell was he?

  Another sound made me look in the opposite direction. Somebody tapping on glass. I swung around and saw an elderly couple standing at the window of their apartment, gazing out at me. We were now on the seventh floor.

  I heard Harper swearing again, and I swore too.

  But I didn’t call out a cuss word, like she did.

  I made a promise.

  A promise to Beck, to Washington, to Howell and to myself.

  I swore that when I found out who was responsible for this I would personally put them in a pine box.

  Then the pain dissipated and I caught my breath. I was aware of Allen and Kit above me, calling down to see if we were okay. I ignored them. I ignored the confused couple opening their window to help us. I ignored Harper kicking the stairs with her heels and roaring in frustration. I ignored the pain.

  My mind was on other matters. The letter from Rebecca to Julie. I was beginning to get an inkling of what it really meant.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  We lost a full hour at the scene.

  Senior FBI staff were swarming the place. And the old spook from the justice department had arrived: Alexander Berlin. He had brown hair cut short, blue suit, white shirt, red tie, but I couldn’t tell the color of the rod that was jammed up his ass. I guessed the rod was at least as old as he was – maybe late sixties.

  With some pleasure, Lynch and Berlin spent a full half hour laying into Harper, Kit and Allen. It didn’t matter that they’d just been shot at, didn’t matter that Harper’s partner took a shotgun blast in the chest, didn’t matter that Harper’s back was probably bruised to the bone.

  Only thing Lynch and Berlin cared about was that they’d taken two civilians, in the shape of Harry and me, not only into the heart of an ongoing investigation but straight into the middle of a firefight. Agent Beck was dead, and Washington was fighting for his life. A civilian was also dead – the super. This was messed up.

  Underneath the super’s bed, the feds found an acetylene torch and an angle grinder. The son of a bitch had burned and then cut the iron supports at opposite diagonal ends of the iron frame that made up the top platform of the fire escape. He’d left the support bars hanging in place by a thread of metal. Harper’s weight on it alone had been insufficient but as soon as Beck’s boots hit the floor the final threads gave way and the platform bucked and twisted.

  He’d planned ahead.

  All security camera footage had been wiped. There were no cameras on the street. Nobody saw the car pull away from the building.

  We had exactly zero.

  After the lock on the stairwell had been cut through, I sat on the floor of the landing, with my pants around m
y ankles as a paramedic put steri-strips onto the cuts in my thighs. The bandage on my hand felt tight. He’d picked the glass out of it as best he could. He then placed two pads on each of my thighs and asked me again to go with him to the hospital to get the cut on my hand stitched. I declined, again. He gave me some painkillers which I swallowed dry.

  Berlin’s rant was cut off by a call on his cell. He made his way into Barker’s apartment to take it. I hadn’t heard all of the conversation with Harper. He’d taken her aside for some of it.

  Now that Berlin was out of the way, Harper dropped the mask. She’d declined to go to the hospital too, but now I saw the pain on her face. She put her hands over her head, slowly, and stretched her back muscles.

  She swore like a longshoreman throughout the manoeuver.

  “What now?” I said.

  She checked her watch. I checked mine. Under two hours until I was due back in court.

  “Basically, we’re shut down and shut out,” she said.

  Harry walked down the stairs with four bottles of water in a paper bag. He handed one to me. Harper and Kit declined theirs. Harry put the bottles on the floor. As he bent down he noticed the bloodstains on his cuffs and the spots of blood on his suit. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, spilled some water on it and began to dab at the stains.

  “Any update on Agent Washington?” he said.

  Without looking at him, Harper shook her head. She was staring at the floor, her hands on her hips.

  “I’m headed to the ER now, nothing else I can do here,” said Allen, and he and Kit shook hands with Harry and me and left.

  “What’s happening, Harper? Talk to me,” I said.

  “It’s Berlin’s show now. Lynch has got him on board and as far as they are concerned the shooting tonight may not be related to Caroline’s case.”

  “You’re kidding me,” said Harry.

  “He thinks Scott Barker is full of shit. That he’s playing a game to mess with Howell. The official FBI position has now changed. There is no credible evidence to the contrary so our position is that Caroline Howell is dead. We are still actively pursuing Marlon Black and McAuley as accomplices in her kidnapping and murder.”

  “You think one of them was the shooter?” I said.

  “Maybe. The problem is we’re now looking for that shooter instead of looking for Caroline Howell.”

  “What the hell is this? I thought the feds had re-opened the case,” I said.

  “Washington did. But he’s no longer on the case. This is politics. Did you notice who signed Barker’s immunity agreement on behalf of federal law enforcement?” she said.

  “No, I haven’t seen it,” I said.

  Harper pointed at the open door of Barker’s apartment and said, “Patrick Lynch. He’s in charge and he doesn’t want it on his record that he made a deal to let a kidnapper and murderer go free. They signed the agreement because they thought Barker was going to bury Howell. We know how that turned out. So, all agents are now pursuing Marlon and McAuley. Berlin is on his way to talk to Barker right now. If Barker won’t talk to him, and he probably won’t, Berlin can say he fully explored Barker’s credibility. If she is alive and she dies in the next eight hours – Berlin and Lynch have clean hands. Every law enforcement officer who signed that immunity agreement is praying that Caroline is already dead. They don’t want her found.”

  “What are you gonna do?” I said.

  “Head back to the precinct and see if I can get into the crisis room.”

  My cell phone hummed in my pocket. I drew it out, didn’t recognize the number but I took the call. I listened, thanked the caller and disconnected.

  “Harry and I need a lift,” I said.

  “Where to?” said Harper.

  “The hospital. Lenny Howell just woke up.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Before we got in the car, Harper persuaded a medic to dose her up on muscle relaxants and ibuprofen. After ten minutes she was good to go and insisted on driving. Said she was fine. Harper reminded me of a quarterback who’d taken a big hit and dosed up to finish the game. Damn, she had a lot of heart. She drove the midnight streets of White Plains while I talked. Harry was up front beside Harper and I sat in back so I could stretch out my legs while I waited for my painkillers to kick in.

  We headed downtown, winding through the streets in the Crown Vic. The sharp, burning sensation from the cuts in my legs and hand began to ease off as the first drip of pain relief began to seep into my system. No one spoke during the ride. I thought Harry and Harper felt just as numb as I did. Yet, there was hope in that car. The one person who might know the truth had just come back into play. Now, more than ever, Caroline Howell needed her father.

  We parked outside the hospital and walked briskly through the paramedic’s entrance to the ER, with the help of Harper flashing her badge to security. On the way in we discussed how to handle things with Howell.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t tell him every little detail about what’s happened. We can talk about Scott Barker, try and find out what we need to know, but we don’t tell him that Barker says he has Caroline and she is alive. What if Barker is lying or worse, what if he’s telling the truth and we don’t find her in time? This man just tried to punch out. If he finds out she’s alive and he loses her again …”

  They both nodded. A staff nurse directed us up one flight, and we found Howell’s private room easily enough in the long, pale corridor. His room was the only one with a correctional officer and a cop stationed outside.

  Again, Harper’s badge got us inside.

  The room was illuminated by a sickly desk lamp that sat on the nightstand. The lamp was bent over, almost like it was about to collapse. Whatever nicotine-colored light came off the bulb made Howell look terrible. His forehead shone with sweat, and I couldn’t tell if his skin had become jaundiced or if it was the fault of the yellowed light bulb cover. A stick-on bandage, about the size of a pack of cigarettes, sat on his throat. His wrists were heavily bandaged. He stirred from a deep sleep and tried to turn his head but the bandage caught his movement, stopped it, and he winced. His eyes closed and moments later, he began snoring softly.

  I heard the rattle of cuffs and saw a bright pair attached to Howell’s ankle. One end on Howell’s right leg, the other attached to the bed rail. It was as excessive and unnecessary as most of the practices in the US penal system.

  “He’s waking up,” said Harper.

  We approached the bed, and I watched Howell fight awake. He looked like he’d been given a strong shot of something for the pain.

  “Lenny, it’s Eddie. I’m here with a friendly fed and a buddy of mine. Can you talk? It’s important.”

  “It didn’t work,” he said.

  His voice sounded like a rusty chainsaw. I took his hand in mine, careful not to touch his bandaged wrists.

  “I’m glad it didn’t work. Something happened. The trial has changed. George Vindico isn’t …”

  “Jesus, poor George. How is he?” said Howell, struggling with every word.

  “His name is not George Vindico. He’s been lying to you, Lenny – for years. I think he had something to do with Caroline’s disappearance. His real name is Scott Barker. That name mean anything to you?”

  “What?” he said, drawing up his elbows, trying to lever himself into a sitting position. His arms slipped on the sheets and his head dropped back down with a cry, and a grimace.

  “Take it easy. I just need to know who this guy is and how he connects to you, or your late wife, Rebecca.”

  Something stirred inside Lenny, and his gaze became clearer, his face more animated. His words tripped out faster and with greater precision, but his throat still sounded raw.

  “I know the name. I remember it, but I never met the guy. I was on my last tour of Afghanistan. I’d saved up to open my company when I got home. Rebecca was pregnant with Caroline. Her sister, Julie, was pregnant at the time too and Rebecca had given her some money to set her up in
a rental cottage outside of town while she had the baby.”

  He took a coughing fit that spread fresh agony across his face. I held a cup of water out for him and he sipped at it from a straw. Satisfied, he licked his lips and continued.

  “I didn’t think we could afford it, but Becca insisted it was the least we could do to support Julie. Her sister had problems and this was the first time she’d been clean in years. My wife thought it was important to support her while she was pregnant, as much for the baby as Julie. I think Becca was afraid that without support Julie would start using again – hook up with her old friends.”

  He wanted to say more, but his throat gave out. I offered him more water but he waved it away, and took a moment before he continued.

  “Becca called me one night, while I was on base. Told me Julie’s old boyfriend Scott Barker had come back into her life. Becca was afraid of this guy. He was bad news. At one time Becca dragged Julie out of Barker’s apartment – he was beating her. Anyway, I said I would get a couple of buddies to watch the house for a while and maybe go have a talk with this Scott Barker – make sure he knew to stay in line.”

  He fell silent. His mouth was dry and his tongue was no longer able to wet his lips. I gave him another sip of water. He drank little, but it was enough to grease his pipes.

  “She didn’t want that. Said it would come back to bite us. So I didn’t. A month later Caroline was born, and two months later I came home to my new baby girl … our miracle … docs … docs said we couldn’t have kids. She was so beautiful.”

  Those words pulled at him as surely as if they were yanking on his stitches.

  “And what happened with Julie?”

  “I don’t know. When I came back she was already in jail. Becca cut all ties with her. Next time her name was mentioned was in the note Becca left for me when … after … she took her own life. I guess, some part of Becca blamed herself for what happened with Julie. I guess she felt she could’ve done more, and maybe that terrible thing wouldn’t have happened and her niece would’ve still been alive.”