Tell Me Lies: A completely addictive and unputdownable crime thriller (Detective Max Carter Book 1)

by Ed James

  “Tattoos?”

  “Not that I saw. Wait a sec… I saw a tattoo. When we were fighting.” Calhoun rolled up his left sleeve and brushed his forearm. “Looked like Semper Fi, you know?”

  Another token tossed on the pile marked ex-military. “You think he was a marine?”

  “That type, yeah.” Calhoun sucked in another breath, scratching at his chin. “When I got him out of the car, he was couple inches taller than me, a few pounds heavier. Lean, though. Really lean, but built. I know that’s a contradiction, but—”

  “No, I get it. What else was he wearing?”

  “Maroon hoodie, long sleeved. Don’t remember a logo. And faded jeans, stonewashed.”

  “Okay.” Carter swung around and caught Elisha’s attention with a raised eyebrow. “Get a facial analyst here now.”

  “Sir.”

  “Thanks.” Carter took one last look at Calhoun then walked off, pulling out his cell phone. “I better break the news to the boss.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mason

  My feet pound across the ground, thick with pine needles, mud squelching underneath each stride. Uphill now, my breathing harder. My foot slides back, but I catch myself on a tree and pull up, taking a few steps to the side to get leverage on the wild grass. Then I set off again, into a clearing, my breath steadying, my heart rate climbing as I cut between the trees, back through the mud.

  Shit.

  Mud means footprints. Even though the rain here is constant, it’s never enough to wash prints away. So I stop and think, soaking in my environment, looking for options.

  Back down at the distant parking lot, red and blue lights flash through the rain. Seven SUVs parked in formation toward the… toward where it happened. Nearer, a dog barks. They’re on to me.

  My time advantage is slipping. They’ll be on me soon enough. And I can’t lead them straight to Layla’s door and to Avery.

  What’s the play here?

  Keep moving for a start.

  No. Get rid of the burner first. Their presence shows they can trace me. They’re onto me. Somehow.

  Got to be Holliday.

  Don’t know. Can’t know, but shit. It’s likely. Jackass.

  I pull the SIM from under the battery and snap it, then bury it deep in the mud. I rub the cell clear of prints and toss it far away.

  Okay, so now what?

  I check behind me. Flashlights and shouts from inside the woods now.

  Where do I go?

  Doesn’t matter, just go.

  I walk off slowly, stepping on the inside of my shoes so I don’t leave a full print. And soon, through the thick foliage, I see a row of houses, the first signs of Seattle. A row of trees leads me over, the ground lined with rotting leaves.

  Okay. A plan. A destination.

  I keep my slow-step shuffle until the first tree, then I break into a run, using the carpet of leaves to cover my tracks. When I stop to look back, I can’t even see the way I came. Only the best military tracker could follow me, and they’re all abroad. Domestic FBI agents don’t stand a chance.

  So I set off again at pace and bound up the tall wooden fence, using my momentum to climb, then reach for the top, catching hold with my fingers. My wrist screams out as I haul myself up. For once, I’m thankful that I never let my pull-up regime slip.

  The fence is sturdy enough that I can stop and check back the way I came. Shouts from down below, crisscrossing the path I’ve taken. Hopefully muddying my smell. A dog barks. Shit. They’re close, way faster than I expected.

  Keep moving. I slide down the side of the fence and stop dead.

  A small child sits in a chair by a pair of French doors, a TV playing some cartoon behind him, the music bleeding out through the glass.

  And the disgust hits me. Brandon and Avery were doing the same thing when I dragged them into my world. A pair of innocents, watching Disney noise. And Brandon got shot because of what I wanted, what I tell myself I need.

  His scream will follow me to the grave.

  Brandon’s dead and I’ve turned into a monster. I’ve become them, like Layla feared we would.

  Snap out of it!

  The kid hasn’t seen me, he’s still stuck in the TV’s attention field. He rubs his nose with a tissue. Got a cold.

  Keep focused on the mission.

  I step across the patio slabs through the rain and duck down the side of the house, emerging into an older neighborhood. An old Honda Civic rusts in the driveway, the rain snaking over the windshield. Perfect.

  But don’t get carried away, don’t rush and ruin everything. I lean out and take a look.

  The street’s quiet, nobody around, no houses directly overlooking.

  I try the Honda’s door and it opens. Another look around, no sign of the kid’s mother or father watching the car. So I get in and sit on the driver’s side, muscle memory taking over as I pull out wires and get the ignition sparking in seconds.

  I take the intersection and pull in to a stop two blocks from Layla’s house. I can see it, halfway down the long stretch. I check in all the mirrors for signs I’m being followed. Can’t see any of the seven candidate cars for tailing I’d identified on the way over—three Toyotas, two Fords, a Nissan, and a black Saab.

  I keep telling myself—this isn’t an anti-drugs sting, the FBI will be all guns blazing, sirens wailing, and lights flashing, like back at the parking lot. SUVs from all directions, swooping in to catch me. SWAT teams. Helicopters.

  Not a woman pushing a stroller. Not an old dude in a beat-up Chevy.

  So I wipe the few spots I’ve touched and get out of the car, don’t even lock it. The neighborhood’s not so bad that it’ll be stolen within the hour, but it’s not far off.

  I take it slowly over to Layla’s house, trying to avoid looking over my shoulder, trying to avoid looking like a criminal on the run. Using car sideview mirrors to check behind me. Still don’t think I’m being followed. One last chance to check as I wait to cross the road, going through the list of possible tails. None of them approaching, none of them parked nearby. I’m in the clear.

  So I jog over the road to her home, stopping to let an almost-silent Prius past. Still freaks me out how quiet they are. Bastard almost hit me.

  I knock on the door and wait. Try to avoid looking behind me but I fail, my head jerking around. Nobody’s watching me. Not that I can ever be a hundred percent sure.

  Feels like I’m waiting forever, stuck with the knowledge of what my actions have done to a small boy.

  It’ll be all over the news. She would know. She should have gone. Leaving me alone, but still keeping Avery as leverage. Means I should run and hide, put this behind me.

  Meaning I’ve failed.

  The curtains twitch on the room facing the road, and I catch a glimpse of Layla’s eye. Seconds later, the apartment door opens and I slip inside.

  Layla takes a long look at me. She knows. She turns around and leaves me in the hallway. Avery’s still sleeping in the bedroom.

  I lean against the wall. “That cop saw me. My face will be everywhere.”

  “Come on.” Layla grabs my arms and leads me through her apartment. Backpacks ready to go, but she hasn’t gone yet, instead letting me explain myself. In the back room, the TV is playing, cable news blaring out, loud enough to wake a sleeping child, just not a drugged one. She mutes it and jabs a finger at the screen. Doesn’t even look at me. “You shot Brandon, didn’t you?”

  I swallow hard, staying standing. “He’s dead?”

  She still doesn’t look at me. “Did you kill Brandon?”

  “I swear I didn’t.” I perch on the edge of her sofa and run a hand through my hair. The screen’s moved on to some Seahawks sports news, but I’m tracking the news ticker for updates. Nothing on Brandon’s condition. Then I catch myself tugging at my beard and stop. “A cop stopped me.”

  Layla finally focuses on me, her face twisted full of hatred, disgust, shame, revulsion. “Did you shoot him?” />
  “The cop did. I took him out, then ran for it. He fired a shot in the air, warning me, so I dove and he shot again. Missed me, but… he got the kid.” Saying it out loud like that, none of it seems real. Just a story now, not events leading to a boy’s death. Might as well have shot him myself. “I don’t know if he’s dead or not, but I swear, Layla, I didn’t shoot him.”

  She looks hard at me for a few seconds then holds out a hand. “Gun.”

  I reach into my hoodie pocket and the lump of metal’s still there. I hold it out, but she snatches it from my grip.

  She pulls the magazine free and checks it. Then the chamber. A sigh, then she rests the gun on the chair’s arm.

  “So you believe me?”

  “For now.” She gives me another look, but this time it’s full of fear and worry. “What are we going to do?”

  “We’ve got a choice here, Layla. I could take Avery. Drive her somewhere, call the FBI. I could call Holliday. We can disappear like we planned.”

  “But then what would we do?” She looks at me with raised eyebrows. “We’d have no answers, just those questions still burning away at both of us. And you’ve committed a federal crime. People will hunt you until the day you die.”

  I smile at her. “Which might not be too long coming.”

  “This isn’t funny.” She slaps me, hard. My cheek stings. “All this, for nothing other than a boy’s death?”

  “No, I agree. But…”

  “What?”

  “Layla, you’re not involved.” I follow it up with a shrug, my face still on fire. “Nobody’s seen you. Your DNA isn’t on any evidence. You’re nobody to them. But I am. No matter how careful I was, my DNA will be all over that car. It’s just a matter of time before they process it and match it to my military record. Then they’ll find me. It’ll take days, maybe, but they’ll find me. Layla, I can take Avery and return her. Stop any blowback on you. Stop this before it gets any worse.”

  She looks like she’s considering it. “Was Holliday there?”

  “I think so.”

  “We need better than ‘I think so’. Was he there or not?”

  “I flashed the lights at someone who looked a lot like him, and he started walking up to the car. Right height and build. But the cop stopped me and I didn’t see him again.”

  “So he hid?”

  “Must’ve.”

  She thinks it through for a few seconds, staring at the TV. “Either way, he’ll know what’s at stake now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Holliday was there, then he saw what happens when he doesn’t go along with our plan. And if he wasn’t, then his son got shot. Either way, it means he’ll fear us.”

  “Fear me. You’re not doing this. You can still get out.”

  Layla’s glare shoots over at me. “If we stop now, we won’t have any answers and a boy will be dead for no reason.”

  I glance over at the door, not far from where Avery’s sleeping. “Is this worth the cost?”

  “I’d die for this information.” She picks up the gun and carries it over to me, wiping it with a sleeve before putting it in my hands. “I can’t stop until this is over. If this is already over, if they’re onto us and it’s just a matter of time before they burst through that door, then I’d rather be dead and not have to suffer anymore.”

  She means it too. Every single word.

  “It all comes back to that information. We have no lives to get on with, no ‘the way things were’. All we can do is kill the pain for short bursts of time, mute the noise in our heads when we fail to sleep at night.”

  And I agree with her. I’d rather die than suffer the pain for another night. Whatever happens, this ends today.

  I let out a sigh. “That cop will give them a description of me from the parking lot.”

  Layla walks over to a drawer and gets something out. She drops a pair of clippers in my lap, the dangling plug hitting off my ankle bone. “There’s a razor and shave gel in the medicine cabinet.” She tugs at my hair. “I suggest you take it all off, right down to the skin.”

  I stand up and look her deep in the eyes. “Are you still in?”

  “One hundred percent.” Every movement multiplies her words, her nodding, her stern smile that turns to a grimace. And I see it in her eyes. She wants this as much as I do. Maybe even more.

  “Okay.” I take the clippers through to the bathroom and plug them in.

  Then I notice a burner phone sitting on the side of the bathtub. I pick it up and dial a number from memory.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Then

  Faraj

  Faraj woke up, breathing hard, blood pumping hard in his veins. No rage, no fury, just sheer terror.

  Pitch black. He couldn’t see anything.

  An oily smell.

  Eerie silence.

  He tried to move his hands and feet, but he couldn’t. Sharp pain bit into his wrists and ankles. Something metallic clanked, sounding way louder than it should.

  He twisted his head, but something dug into his neck. He shifted his left elbow and it hit something hard—cold metal.

  His stomach rumbled with hunger, his lips dry. Something covered his mouth, and all he could do was whimper, dampened by bitter-tasting leather.

  I’m trapped.

  I’m going to die here!

  The fury burned in his gut. Not righteous anger, but dark, dark fear.

  Calm down. Center yourself.

  That’s what Daddy said.

  Use the anger, don’t let it use you.

  He tried swallowing, but there was no moisture in his mouth.

  Start over. Think it through.

  What do you know?

  How did you get here?

  And it came back.

  Hayden’s body spray. Jacob fighting him. Coach Smith stopping them. And those soldiers bursting in. Coach doing nothing. Jacob trying to protect me.

  And…

  The soldiers grabbed Jacob as they took me.

  Is he here?

  Is that what happened? Did Jacob save me?

  “Jacob?”

  Barely a sound. Nobody to hear it either.

  Faraj lashed out with his elbow again and the metal clanged. He tried to speak but he couldn’t make any sound.

  I’ve been buried alive like in that film Jacob found in his daddy’s closet. I’m going to die alone.

  “Jacob?”

  Something cracked, and bright lights burnt at his eyes.

  “Wakey, wakey.” A man stood on the left, his pale skin bleached even further by the bright light. All Faraj could make out was his lips moving. Nasty lips, bitter, sneering. “You had enough yet, s—son?”

  The soldier with the stutter!

  Faraj looked around, his eyes adjusting. He was on his back, looking up. The man was in a room, dark behind the bright light. He could make out the shape of the box he was in—a metal coffin.

  They’re going to bury me!

  Another man leaned into the hatch and put a bottle of water to Faraj’s lips. He started pouring and didn’t seem to care that most of it splashed over his chin and body, soaking the soccer shirt.

  Faraj put all his effort into speaking. “Where am I?” Still sounded like a mouse whispering, but his lips were less dry. “Is Jacob here?”

  “Just tell us where your father is, son.”

  Why do they want to speak to my daddy?

  Give them nothing. Silence is the best way. Means you keep all the cards.

  “Son, you want to go back in this box? Or you want a burger and fries?”

  Faraj couldn’t keep his breathing under control. I have to do this… “He left us! I don’t—”

  “Cut the crap, you little cocksucker.” A hand reached into the box and grabbed Faraj’s throat. “We know you’ve been speaking to him. How do you contact him?”

  “I don’t know where he is!”

  “That wasn’t the—” The man stopped. His nasty lips pushed together.
“Okay. But you do know how to get in touch, don’t you?”

  “No!”

  “That’s how you’re playing it, then.” He leaned over and grabbed Faraj’s throat, hard, fire burning his neck. “We’re not playing, son. We will kill you if you don’t answer our questions.”

  Warm liquid trickled down Faraj’s leg.

  “For the last time, son, how do you contact your father?”

  “Where’s my mom?”

  “Son. You’re not going to see her until you start talking to us. Okay?”

  “Please! I want my mom!”

  “I’m going to lower this coffin lid again. Maybe then you’ll want to talk, huh?” The man leaned over and grabbed a handle.

  “Wait!”

  “So you do know?”

  Faraj lay back, eyes closed. “Signal.”

  “Signal? The app, right?”

  “Right. It’s on Mom’s phone. I send Daddy a message and he calls me. Told me how to delete the messages when we’re done.”

  The man stood there, frowning. “Signal, huh. You need a cell number for that, right?”

  Faraj stayed silent.

  “Son, what’s your father’s number?”

  Daddy told me to keep it secret, even from Mom. I can’t tell him.

  “Son, you want to see your mom again, you better start talking to me.”

  I don’t have a choice. They’ll kill me if I don’t give them it!

  And if I do? Will they really let me see Mom?

  “Son, I’ve got some Ben & Jerry’s in the next room. You like a bowl of that, huh? I’ll even give you the whole pint.”

  “Two oh six. Five five five. Oh one oh two.”

  The soldier looked over at someone else.

  “It checks out. That’s a Seattle area code.”

  “So he’s still in the country?”

  “Doesn’t work like that. You can go to Syria and still use a US cell number.”

  Faraj leaned back and let the clamps caress his neck. “Are you going to let me see my mom?”