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

by Ed James

Delgado’s eyes bulged. “You don’t have his number.”

  “I know it by heart.”

  Mason tossed the cell over. “Well, why didn’t you say?”

  Holliday dialed the number from memory, hoping it was right. Not many numbers he could do that with these days. Not with his smartphone in a hospital trash can. He put it to his ear. It rang and rang and—

  “Put it on speaker, please.”

  Holliday hit the button and the ringtone filled the wet air.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Carter

  Carter scanned either side of the freeway, searching for anything that could lead them to Delgado’s location. Just trees blocking rows and rows of condos. He gripped the cell again. “Peterson, have you refined the location yet?”

  “Getting there, sir.” Tyler clicked his tongue a few times, loud down the line. “Take your next left.”

  Carter pointed toward a wilderness of trees and distant water.

  Elisha complied, cutting in front of a Greyhound bus. “He’s sure? Because this looks like it doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “Are you—”

  “Positive, sir.” Tyler did some more tongue-clicking. “There’s a parking lot for hikers a mile down that road. The cell towers triangulate to near that point. I suggest you start there.”

  That mile wasn’t going to take long—Elisha was hurtling along the road like she was in hot pursuit, not chasing down a last-known cell location.

  Carter spotted the parking space first, four spaces on the left, with a red Volvo sedan parked in the rightmost spot. “Here!”

  The brakes squealed as Elisha pulled in.

  Carter got out first. He raced over to the Volvo and peered inside. Dog crate in the trunk, but no sign of anybody.

  Elisha joined him, looking around, frowning. “So?”

  “This is our only lead.” Carter looked around, wiping damp hair out of his eyes. “I’ve been waiting for him to slip up. Kidnapping Delgado and leaving his cell phone on is the mistake. Let’s make it fatal.”

  “They’re not here, Max.”

  Carter felt it deep in his gut, that ache that meant they’d lost him again. “We need to—”

  His cell blared out. Unknown caller. His heart skipped a beat. That could be the abductor, those seeds he planted now blooming. Letting Avery go. Or goading him. He put it to his ear. “Carter.”

  “Son, I really—”

  Bill.

  Carter checked the display again. A new number, Seattle area code. “Have you bought a burner?” He stepped away from Elisha, hiding behind a minivan.

  “I got this new SIM card whatchamacallit thingamabob.” He’d gone the full Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Carter had no idea how many shots of bourbon it took to get there. No, he knew full well. And it was measured in quarts, not shots. “The only way I can get hold of my son. How could you block me, Max?”

  “If you’re after a why, rather than just instructions on how to…” Carter sighed. “You should ask yourself why I might want to block you. Might give you an insight into your failings as a father.”

  All that came was a gasp. “Son, I really need your help.”

  “Bill, even if I wanted to help, I’m in the middle of a major operation.”

  “Son, I’m desperate.” And drunk as a skunk.

  “Wasn’t Mom desperate?” Carter hung up and stared at the cell display. What was the record for number of contacts blocked in a day?

  Elisha raised her eyebrows. “Max, you okay?”

  Carter pocketed his cell. “I’m good.”

  A woman came running out of the woods, panic in her eyes.

  Carter stopped her. “FBI!” He held out his shield for her.

  She pointed behind her, struggling for breath. “There’s a man!” She gulped in air as four dogs bounded up to her. “Handcuffed to a tree!”

  Three hundred and seven steps into the woods, in fact. Arms around his back, head slumped, on his knees, suit pants muddied, white shirt damp and see-through, tie and jacket gone.

  Xander Delgado looked up, eyes bulging. “Mmf!” Something red was stuffed in his mouth. “Mmf!”

  Carter jogged over. “We’ll get you down.” He rubbed at his arm, trying to calm him, then opened his mouth and pulled at the red fabric. A folded-up necktie. He dropped it on the dirt. “I’m FBI, sir. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” Delgado shook his head, anger leaching out of every pore. “Holliday! This is his fault!”

  Carter maneuvered behind him and tried to unlock the cuffs. Nothing. Delgado had gouged away a chunk of bark. “Elisha, call Richardson and get Linskey’s keys here.”

  “On it.” She jogged off through the mud.

  “We’re going to get you out of here.” Carter crouched in front of Delgado. “What happened?”

  “Holliday. I caught that douchebag in my office, rooting through my files. With this buddy of his, John Mason. Looking for some information in my files.”

  “They were investigating you?”

  Delgado lashed out, but the rattling cuffs held him fast. “Get me out of here!”

  Carter held up his hands. “I understand that you’ve undergone a traumatic event, sir, but I need you to remain calm, okay? Now, do you have any idea where they’ve gone?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Holliday

  Mason was in the passenger seat now, the pistol on his lap. “I chose to bring you. Don’t make me regret it.”

  Holliday gripped the wheel tight, like it was Mason’s throat. “I’m not going to pull anything, believe me.”

  Mason glared at Holliday. “I know you served your country. You were a medic, but I know what you’re capable of.” He picked up the pistol and inspected it. “I served too. They told us it was all about the greater good. Protecting our way of life, all that jazz.” He flipped the revolver open and checked the bullets. “But I also know how the guys in charge see people like me. On any mission, they know how many civilian deaths are acceptable. They know how many of their own men they can lose. Every American death in any of our wars, it can always be turned into political capital by people like you.”

  “Is that what this is about—you’re an anti-war campaigner?”

  Mason thought about it for a few seconds, his eyes losing focus. Then he snapped the chamber back and held up the gun. “Just don’t make me regret my choice.”

  “I won’t.” Holliday pulled up outside the gated community. A long wall ran along the perimeter, rough stones cemented together, with flat slates lying on top. Very European. Harry Youngblood’s house was anything but, just about visible through the gate. The sort of McMansion that sprouted all over Seattle in the boom. “What do you want me to get from him?”

  “You’re not going in alone. We’re going in together.”

  “You heard him, right? He told me to come alone.”

  “I heard him and I’m choosing to ignore it.”

  No point arguing with him. “What evidence do you need?”

  Mason stared into space. “I just need to know what happened that day. Every single detail. Who it was for. Why. What they did with them. And I need concrete proof.” He stared at Holliday. “Now, get us in there. I’m sure you’ll figure out how.”

  Holliday rolled down the driver window and reached for the intercom button, pulse pounding his bones as he waited for a response. Any response.

  The intercom crackled and a screen blinked into life. Harry Youngblood stared out, his cheeks red. Artfully messy hair, tie loosened. He took a drink of scotch from a tumbler, ice cubes rattling.

  A buzzer sounded and the gate started rattling open.

  Holliday pulled through the gate and drove toward the house. He got out first.

  Mason caught up with him by the time he got to the door. “Remember, play it straight.” He stuffed the pistol in the back of his pants and tugged Delgado’s suit jacket down. Still a visible bulge, if you knew where to look.

  The house door opened and Harry
Youngblood leaned against the jamb, clutching that whiskey tumbler. Looked like he’d topped it off. Youngblood was freakishly tall, way over six and a half feet. He swirled his glass around, the ice cubes tinkling. “Told you to come alone, Senator.”

  Holliday caught a nervous twitch from Mason. “This is John.” He stepped closer to the door. “He’s my new assistant. Ex-SEAL. He can be trusted.”

  “Chris, this discussion is between you and— WOAH!”

  Mason pointed the gun at Youngblood’s head. “Get inside, jackass.”

  Hands up, Youngblood backed inside the house, stepping slowly through the hallway. Framed stills from violent movies lined the gray walls. “What’s going on, Chris?”

  “I’m in charge here, okay?” Mason kept the gun on Youngblood. “Don’t screw with me and you’ll stay alive.”

  “Okay.” Youngblood pushed through double doors into a colossal living room. Must’ve filled most of the floor. Place was a bachelor’s dream, just missing the signed guitars on the walls. Six double windows, three on each facing wall. The left side of the room continued Youngblood’s violent movie fetishism, at least twenty Peckinpah stills sandwiched between huge film noir posters, not far off billboard-sized. In the middle was the mother of all TV sets, at least a hundred inches, the curved screen filled with some desert warfare video game. On the opposite side, a bucket chair like something the captain in a sci-fi movie would sit in, all hinges and levers. He led over to a long dining table, big enough to seat twenty, next to a galley kitchen that looked like it’d never been used. He pulled out a bench and dropped his glass, the whiskey spraying over the flagstones. Harsh fumes wafted up.

  Mason grabbed him by the throat. “We’re here for information, simple as that. You give me what I want, you’ll live. Screw around, and I’ll kill you. Capiche?”

  Youngblood nodded slowly, like having a violent assassin break into his home was a regular occurrence. “What do you want to know?”

  Mason sat opposite, holding the gun in one hand, careful and calm. “You ran a military exercise on October second at Tang Elementary.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Harry.” Holliday cut in before Mason could threaten him. “Olson fired you, right?”

  “Didn’t even get a chance to defend myself.” Youngblood reached over for a refill. “Kangaroo court, man. All because that prick Xander Delgado had some juice on me. Fired me like that.” He clicked his fingers, his frat ring catching the light. “Said my employment contract is very clear on the matter.”

  “What did you do?”

  Youngblood looked like he didn’t care. He’d just lost his job and he didn’t have anything else to lose. Except his house and all the junk he’d collected.

  Holliday tried to plead with his eyes. “Harry, this guy has my daughter. The only way she’ll live is if I get the truth. I’d beg, but his gun saves me the effort. You’re going to tell us about this exercise.”

  “What’s there to tell?” Youngblood nudged an empty glass away like he was conceding a checkmate. “We helped the army evacuate a school and some nearby businesses.”

  “You didn’t get fired for that.”

  “You don’t think that’s what I’ve been mulling over since Olson pulled me into his office? Delgado grilled him over that operation in front of a baying audience. Richard hates to be publicly shamed. I just paid the price for his humbling.”

  “Bullshit.” Mason put the gun to Youngblood’s forehead. “What you’re covering up is the fact that a boy died during that exercise.”

  His son?

  And it hit Holliday like a bullet to the chest. He stared at Mason, at his wide-eyed sneer, at the calmness and the control slipping away with each heartbeat, at his nostrils and lips twitching.

  “What was his name?”

  Mason looked at Holliday, his steely glare a distant memory. Tears welled in his eyes, and he swallowed hard. “What?”

  “The boy who died was your son, right? What was his name?”

  “Jacob.” His breathing came harder, louder. “His name was Jacob, and this animal killed him.”

  “This isn’t on me.”

  “Of course it is. You’re involved. You did this to my son!”

  “I swear I didn’t.” Youngblood couldn’t make eye contact with him, his face set hard. “You shouldn’t trust Holliday. He’s corrupt. He’s in the pocket of—”

  “Shut up!” Mason pressed the gun into Youngblood’s flesh. “Tell me what happened to my son!”

  “I wasn’t there!”

  “But you ran it, right? That kid died because of you.”

  “Some kid was taken, that’s all I know. All I want to know.”

  “Olson said you were in charge.”

  “He’s wrong. Franklin Vance ran it. Whole thing was his baby. And if Frank Vance comes to me with a gig, I know not to ask too many questions. Just take the money and keep quiet.”

  “What gig?”

  “If I tell you, will you let me go?”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Frank had a side operation. I don’t know what it was, or who it was for, but the money was good. Very good. Like I said, I run a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy with Frank. If you want to know more, you need to speak to Vance yourself.”

  “No.” Mason put the gun at Youngblood’s belly. “I will shoot you. Don’t doubt that. Every last detail. Now.”

  Youngblood looked at him for a few long seconds then pointed across the room. “It’s on my computer.”

  Mason grabbed a handful of Youngblood’s hair and stuck the gun under his chin. “Show me.” He hauled him up and pushed him over to the living room, then sat him in front of the screen.

  Mason stepped around to the other side of the desk and trained the gun on Youngblood.

  On the giant screen, in front of a desktop photo of desert violence, a small window showed the view outside. A black Suburban sat there, idling. The window rolled down slowly, and Special Agent Max Carter peered out, looking pissed.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Carter

  Carter gave the tall gate a shove, but it wouldn’t budge. “He’s in there.” He pointed at the Lexus then looked at Elisha. “Call it in.”

  “On it.” She swung around and pointed at the two agents emptying out of another Suburban, got them to head around the back.

  Carter put his cell to his ear, each ring another second that could allow the scumbag to get away.

  SAC Nguyen sounded out of breath, her footsteps echoing in a tight space. “Max, I’m kind of busy.”

  “We’ve got him, Karen. We’re at Harry Youngblood’s home, and Holliday is inside with the abductor. I need approval to enter the building.”

  “Max, how many have you got with you?”

  “Four.”

  “Including you?”

  “Karen, I need to get inside.”

  “Max, the SWAT units are at these demonstrations. Stand down until I can get more agents over. I’ve scrambled them and—”

  “I can’t do that.” Carter killed the call. He raced over to the Suburban and popped the trunk. Right in the middle was the Enforcer battering ram. He lugged it over to the gate and pressed it against the wood. “Step back.” He pulled the handle.

  The gate toppled in, landing on a brick driveway. An orange Audi sports car sat on pebbles, glistening in the rain.

  Carter held up a hand while he collected the Enforcer, then he took lead, making sure the team of three knew he was fighting alongside them. A hulking porch protruded from the front of a three-story home, the sort of place where the architect just kept on adding features until it was a complete mess. He dashed over to the front door and thumped the wood. “FBI!”

  No answer.

  He stepped back. “Go!”

  Their two colleagues stood on either side of the door, guns drawn and ready.

  Carter prepped the Enforcer and repeated his entry maneuver on the house door. He
was first through, pistol drawn, adrenalin powering through him, the over-warm air cutting across his face as he took it slow across the hallway’s bleached-gray wood flooring. Black-and-white movie shots on the walls, Pulp Fiction and a seventies Clint Eastwood, opposite some ultraviolent Korean films. Halfway along, he held up a clenched fist and got the team to stop. Sounded like people speaking through a door.

  But something in their tone didn’t feel right.

  The two agents took up positions on either side of double doors, waiting.

  Carter gave them a nod, but held up a hand. He nudged the door and peered in. A wide living area, stuffed with sports memorabilia, artworks, and upmarket furniture. He listened hard.

  Over by a computer, a man held a handgun against another man’s head. The seated man looked like Harry Youngblood’s headshot from the report, his giant frame tucked as close to the floor as he could manage.

  The standing man was tall, muscular like a marine. No hood this time, just a suit jacket. “Let’s start with what happened to Jacob.” Same accent as the man he’d spoken to on the phone.

  Youngblood shut his eyes. “That kid.”

  What are they talking about?

  Crouching, Carter eased his way into the room, crawling to hide behind couches, one of three in front of what looked like the side of a building—some stenciled artwork on a pile of cinder blocks. An original Banksy. Youngblood had just torn down a wall and transported it.

  The abductor pulled his gun away from Youngblood’s head, keeping his aim, but at a distance. “So you do know about it, then?”

  “There’s a report in here.” Youngblood waved a hand at the machine. “I can email you it.”

  Mason looked torn. “Print out the evidence. Whatever you’ve got. Just print it.”

  Youngblood clicked the mouse, and a laser printer started up somewhere in the room, zapping through some sheets.

  Carter rounded the sofa and darted over to a dining table, keeping low, using another couch to block him.