Breathe, Justine. Be calm. They won’t make you wait forever. They have to tell you why they’ve brought you in. Wait and see what they’re up to first.
She was right. She sat for two hours before a female officer came into the room, with the young flic behind her. She spoke excellent, though heavily accented, English.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle. I am Inspector Amelie Badeau. I apologize for the delay in coming to visit with you. I am afraid I was home, getting some rest. It has been a very difficult twenty-four hours for us.”
“Well, I’m sorry for you, but I’d like to know why I’m here. No one has bothered to tell me.” She looked pointedly at the young flic, who stared back impassively.
“Non?” Badeau glanced over her shoulder at her young colleague. “I am sorry about this confusion. If I have been told correctly, you were found on the Pont d’Iéna with a knife, about to throw it into the Seine. A knife that we believe was used in a double murder last evening. While I was being summoned, our laboratory ran an analysis on the knife and found it had blood on it. Further analysis showed two blood types, both of which match the blood types of the victims at Sacré-Coeur last evening. We will have to wait a few days for the DNA testing to be complete, but it seems to me you were caught disposing of a murder weapon.”
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know about any murder.”
But of course she did. It had been all the talk, all day, while she was enjoying herself strolling through Paris. All the disparate threads of conversation she’d overheard throughout the day ran through her head:
Two Americans died on the hill, did you hear...
This makes us look so bad, and after all the negative press this year...
They nearly cut the girl’s head clean off...
They were posed, as if they were having sex...
Can you believe these stupid tourists...?
At the base of the church steps, such sacrilege...
I am scared, I hope they find who did this...
“You have not heard? It is such a shame. Two young lives cut short. With your knife, mademoiselle.”
“I didn’t do this. I found the knife...”
“Oui? D’accord, that may be. We have all night for you to tell me about the knife. But why don’t we get comfortable and discuss what brought you to Paris? I understand you have recently arrived and rented a flat. You applied for a work visa. You plan to stay for a year?”
Sutton wasn’t about to be swayed from the topic at hand. “I didn’t have anything to do with the two murders. Those children, Lily and Rick, I don’t know who killed them. And I want a lawyer.”
The woman smiled kindly. “I didn’t tell you the victims’ names. So you are aware of the case, are you not, mademoiselle?”
Sutton shut her eyes briefly. Stop being stupid.
Badeau continued in that friendly, concerned tone. “You are not in America, Mademoiselle Holliday. You don’t have the same rights as you might be afforded at home.” She settled back more comfortably into the chair as if getting ready for a nice, long chat. “Now, tell me, what brought you to Paris?”
Sutton closed her mouth, her lips seamed together as if sewed shut, and shook her head. She wasn’t going to say another word. This was bad, very bad, and she couldn’t take the chance of screwing herself more. She knew she’d get a lawyer eventually, but shit, what was she going to do, call the embassy and ask for help? She had a fake passport, a fake identity. She was here under very false pretenses, and that was illegal. She couldn’t imagine the embassy staff was predisposed to helping foreign nationals who flouted the law.
She shook her head at the woman, who smiled as if she understood completely.
Badeau signaled her compatriot to leave, then, when the door shut, leaned close, and said, “You might as well start talking. We know what you’ve done. And we know who you are. We have video of you on the grounds of Sacré-Coeur, trying to admire your handiwork, and again, later, laying flowers to make it seem you were simply there as another grieving tourist. The murder weapon was found in your flat. We are searching it thoroughly as we speak for more evidence. It does not take a genius to pull the threads together. Now,” she said, smiling kindly, “it is time for you to tell me the truth about your involvement in the murders.”
Sutton fought back tears. Oh, God. She was well and truly screwed.
“I want a lawyer.”
“Pfft.” Badeau gave a Gallic shrug. “If you are not willing to talk to me about the murder, would you perhaps like to talk about the real reason you’re in Paris?”
“Lawyer.”
Badeau shook her head and sighed heavily. “You will do well to cooperate with me, Mademoiselle. I want only to get to the truth, to understand what is actually happening.”
Silence from Sutton. She was a sphinx. She would not break.
“Suit yourself. I was going to wait to talk to you about this. You’re possibly the most famous missing person on the planet right now. A missing person, and the number one suspect in a gruesome double murder. Yes, we know who you are, Sutton Montclair, from Franklin, Tennessee.”
SOMETIMES, YOU GET EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT
In a darkened apartment, barren of anything but an old, dusty couch, a cobweb across a cracked window, and a state-of-the-art laptop computer, a phone rang.
When answered, a voice said, “It’s done. She’s been arrested.”
“Has she been charged?”
“I don’t know. But she’s been in there for five hours now. They caught her red-handed trying to toss the murder weapon. She doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting out of this. She’s not that good a liar. And they know exactly who she is. I left nothing to the imagination.”
“Good. Make sure she’s charged, then come home.” A pause. “I miss you.”
“I know you do. I’ll see you soon enough.”
“Have you enjoyed yourself?”
A throaty, satisfied laugh. “You have no idea.”
EVERYONE
“The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.”
—Ernest Hemingway
LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE
Hey. It’s me. Miss me? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Have you figured it out yet?
They’re lying.
But I know the real truth.
Which means you’re going to have to listen to me.
Ha ha. Joke’s on you.
You realize they get paid to lie, don’t you? It’s what they do for a living, so of course they lie to each other, and of course they’ve lied to you. I mean, come on, they can’t even agree on where they met, or how the evening went down. It was Chicago, if you’re wondering. Not London or New York. They were at a conference in Chicago, and the only thing they both agree on is they got bone drunk and screwed all night. Have they told you about their significant others at the time? The ones they dumped? No?
Well, let me tell you. When Sutton and Ethan met? Sutton was practically engaged to a man named Tobias Winters. Good guy, Toby. A little older than her, gray hair, gray goatee, plenty of cash to keep her feet warm by the fire. Madly in love with her, too. He’d do anything she asked.
And Ethan was living with a woman. Nel, her name was Nel. She used to do his hair. She was a doormat, absolutely worshipped the ground he walked on. Now, I understand his scenario a bit more than Sutton’s. I mean, who wants to be with someone like that? It has to be boring—vanilla pudding, vanilla ice cream, vanilla milk shake—all day, every day. You can’t really blame him for looking for something more, he’s a man, and Sutton is a temptress witch, and it’s easy to understand how she could pull him away from hi
s life, his work, his world, without a second thought to the people she’d hurt if she did. She’s a home wrecker. Always has been. This isn’t the first family she’s broken up.
Ethan didn’t stand a chance against Sutton, and neither did that vanilla milk shake of a woman he was with. When Sutton burst onto the scene, Ethan forgot all about poor old Nel. Dumped her on the side of the road, put her clothes on the street at the end of the driveway. She came home, three days after his trip to Chicago, and found everything she owned on the street and the locks changed.
Come to think of it, Nel could have done it. Or Toby. He is perfectly capable of murder. I hear the breakup there didn’t go as smoothly. Toby threatened to kill Sutton. They shouted and screamed late into the night. The police were called. There will be records on file should you care to check.
Until now, have you even stopped for a single moment to consider the people they hurt? Thought about the betrayal and pain they’d felt? Who’s to say Nel and Toby didn’t meet for a drink one night and concoct a plan to take Ethan and Sutton down?
Would you blame him? Would you blame her?
I wouldn’t.
I understand the desire to see them both rotting in the ground perfectly.
Now, I have to get ready for my date. I bought new lingerie for the occasion. Red. I do like red.
I miss good old Ethan. He was fun.
And he’s going to enjoy tonight, whether he wants to or not.
I am going to enjoy it even more. Because everything I have worked for is happening.
Stupid Sutton. She has no idea what I’m capable of.
And neither does he.
AIN’T NO REST FOR THE WICKED
Franklin, Tennessee
Ethan’s patience was running out. Not only had he sat in this infernal cell all night, counting the bloody tiles (four thousand four hundred and seven tiles on the floor and wall; he managed to count them twice), the towheaded cop had rushed in, asked him strange questions, and rushed away before explaining what the bloody hell she was talking about. And he’d been left alone again.
Graham was clearly mad. Sutton didn’t own a wig. Did she?
Did he know his wife at all anymore?
Oh, what did it matter? She was dead. He was in jail. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard pallet. In jail, about to be arraigned, paraded in front of the courts and television cameras.
Bill would be thrilled. There would be a massive bump in backlist sales. Offers would come from every house to write the true story of his marriage’s demise. He could hear the rejoinders now: Why did you do it, Mr. Montclair? Why did you kill your wife?
Would they let him do pressers from the penitentiary?
He’d been on this thought train for about an hour when the door opened and Joel Robinson walked through, eyes shining in excitement.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“I only want to hear that you can get me out of here, right now.”
“Actually, I think I can.”
Ethan stood up. “What’s happened?”
“You might want to sit back down.”
“Joel. Please.”
“They aren’t 100 percent sure the body they recovered is Sutton.”
Ethan sat, hard. “What? How? Her rings...”
“That blonde cop, Graham? She’s saved your ass. She’s insisting you’re innocent and the body isn’t Sutton’s. Apparently, there was an inconsistency at autopsy. We’re still waiting on dental and DNA, dental will be in anytime, but she’s already pushing for you to be released.”
“God bless her. Now, tell me everything.”
Robinson adjusted his pants. “You sure? If it turns out she’s wrong...”
Ethan only paused for a moment. “I’m sure.”
“Okay. I have two shots they let me take from the crime scene photos. The body was burned, right?”
He grimaced. “So I heard.”
“They have Sutton’s wedding set, recovered from the victim’s left hand. Here’s a picture. These are her rings, yes?”
He turned his phone to face Ethan. It was a close-up shot. All he could see was the shine of platinum and diamond against a sort of ashy black background. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, those are her rings, without a doubt. The wedding band was new when we married, we picked it out at Tiffany, but the stone is my grandmother’s. I’ve been seeing it all my life.”
“All right. Here’s the other.”
Robinson swiped to the left, and Ethan saw a mass of red hair on the ground.
“From what I’ve been told, when they took the body, the scalp fell off. They bagged it and took it into evidence. Only it wasn’t a scalp. Once the ME started messing with it, he realized it’s a wig. The scalp of the victim was burned, and the real hair, if any, was seared away. This is definitely a wig.”
Ethan got a glance of strawberry and dirt, then the phone lit up, obscuring the picture. Robinson answered, smiled grimly, and pocketed the phone.
“It’s not her. Dental doesn’t match. They’re coming to let you go.”
Ethan was too shocked to fully comprehend what was happening. “But...her rings... Who is it? Who’s dead in the field?”
“Who, and who killed her, I dunno the answers to either. Truth be told, right now, I don’t care. All I know is whoever it is, it’s not your wife. And that’s very good news indeed for you, my friend. Without a body, everything they have is sketchy and circumstantial. You’re not in the clear by a long shot, you’re still their number one suspect, but now they have nothing definitive to hold you on.”
“What do they have? How in the world could there be evidence when I didn’t commit a crime?”
“Guy who runs the farm out there? He saw you walking in the field Thursday night. That’s pretty damning evidence for the cops, you being at the scene of the crime, after dark, with a witness to place you there.”
“But I went there to pay off Wilde.”
“So you say. The cops see suspect and dead body within five hundred feet of one another, and they draw their own conclusions. Anyway, there’s all kinds of computer stuff pointing your way, stuff I barely understand, and the search of your house turned up gas cans and rags in the garage, but that’s something I can easily explain away. Every responsible car owner has a spare gas can lying around. There’s something else happening, too. It’s to do with your son’s case.”
The thorn that had been pulled from his heart when he realized Sutton could still be alive smashed back into place. “What is it?”
“That’s what I need to find out. I was hopeful that there’d be a discovery after the arraignment this morning, but since you aren’t going to court, I’m not going to find out right now. My main objective is to get you home. We’ll go from there. They’ll be down here shortly. Ethan.” Robinson shook his finger. “Do not, I repeat, do not say anything, just gather up your things and leave. I’ll be waiting outside to drive you home.”
Ethan nodded. As Robinson was walking out, he said, “Joel?”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t hurt her.”
Robinson nodded. “I know.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Officer Graham came through the door. She looked like she’d been up all night. Her hair was standing on end, she had circles under her eyes, but when she approached, her smile was genuine.
“Time to go home, Mr. Montclair.”
He stood, hands in his pockets, feeling the tug of his loose waistband sliding onto his hips. They’d taken his belt and shoes when he entered the jail.
“I know you’ve heard that the body we found is not Mrs. Montclair. I was also told you’ve positively identified the rings the body was wearing as your wife’s wedding set.”
He followed her out the
door, not speaking, as Robinson had instructed. Graham walked him to the counter where they’d done his intake processing. He wondered if he could ask to see his mug shot.
“We’re not finished, not by a long shot, but for now, Mr. Montclair, you’re free to go. Shirley here will get your things back to you. Your lawyer is waiting outside. There’s a boatload of media, too, but I figured you might want to walk out smiling for once. If you’re able.”
He gave Graham half a smile, accepted his wallet, shoes, and belt from the gray-haired battle-ax behind the counter. Fitted the worn leather through the hoops, slid his feet into his loafers. Stayed silent as the grave.
Graham walked him to the jail door. She pushed it open. A shaft of sunlight and fresh air encompassed him, and he took his first full breath in days.
Against the advice of his attorney, he softly said to the cop, “Thank you for believing me.”
Graham shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I believe you, sir. If you killed Mrs. Montclair, I will find out. And then I’ll nail you to the wall.”
ADMIT IT
Paris, France
Sutton didn’t panic, not right away. She just couldn’t believe how quickly it had all fallen apart. She hadn’t even been in Paris a full week, and here she was, at a police station, a murder suspect.
So they knew who she was. That was problematic, but explainable. She prepped the conversation in her mind, for when she was forced to speak the words aloud.
My husband was abusing me.
I ran away.
The new identity is for my safety so he can’t find me. I’ll be in danger if he does.
She listened to Inspector Badeau with half an ear. Deciding she’d wait for a lawyer to be present was self-preservation at its best, but Sutton’s grudging silence hadn’t stopped the woman from talking and talking and talking.
It wasn’t until Badeau said the name Ethan that Sutton tuned back in. My God, had she nodded off?
“Pardon?”
“Madame Montclair, are you listening to me at all?”
Lie to Me Page 27
