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

by Ed James

  “If I take you to him, you let Avery go. Deal?”

  Mason stared off at the passing traffic, then back at Holliday. “Let’s see.”

  “No. I take you, you let her go. End of story.”

  “I’m in charge here.”

  “I’ve got the card you need. Good luck getting anywhere near Vance without my help.”

  “I can’t promise what I can’t deliver, Senator. You take me to Vance and we see what happens.”

  “I’ll kill you. When I get Avery back, I’ll take great care murdering you. It’ll be hours, days, maybe weeks of excruciating agony.”

  “You think that’s a smart thing to say?”

  “I don’t care. If you were as good as your word, you should’ve released Avery by now. You’ve got whatever answers you need. So let her go.”

  “And let you torture me? Good one.”

  “Please.”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. You take me to Vance, and I’ll let her go. You even so much as think about torturing me again and I swear, it’s all over for you. You think you’ve got a card, but you don’t. I’ll get Vance by any means. Your choice if you don’t want to help. But helping is the only way you’ll get her back.”

  “I swear you’ll burn in hell for this.” Holliday gave him Vance’s number.

  Mason typed it in to his burner and set it dialing, the speaker distorted and quiet. He tapped the side and the volume slid up in steps, but the distortion didn’t lessen.

  “Who is this?” Sure sounded like Vance, his cigar-ravaged vocal cords dragging his voice deep, emphasizing words to cover that stutter.

  “It’s Chris Holliday, Frank. We need to meet. Our worst fears are coming to pass.”

  A long pause. Could just about make out Vance rasping his mustache. Always did that when he was thinking stuff through, like which iron to approach the green with, or which cable tie to use on a prisoner. “Like that, huh?” More rasping. “Meet me at the country club. I’ll be waiting.”

  “Frank, that’s not—”

  Click.

  Mason put the gun to Holliday’s temple. “Chris, you better not be playing me.”

  Holliday shook his head as much as he could without hitting the gun. “Vance knows it’s a safe place, out in the open. Nobody can pull anything there. He’s paranoid, always needs to be in control.”

  “What did you mean by ‘worst fears’?”

  Holliday looked over at Mason. “Nothing. I was keeping it vague.”

  “Chris, you need to be honest, okay?” Mason pushed the gun into Holliday’s side. “It spooked Vance. Makes me think it’s a code. Makes me think of Youngblood saying I shouldn’t trust you.”

  “Listen to me. Youngblood told us Vance arranged the CIA op. Vance’s worst fear is someone at GrayBox finding out they’ve been operating on US soil and trying to pay off politicians.” Holliday laughed. “No, getting caught paying off politicians.”

  Mason looked like he was buying it. “You better not be playing me here.”

  “You’ve got my daughter.”

  “Where is this country club?”

  “It’s not far, but—”

  “Drive.”

  Holliday pulled into the main parking lot. The place was crawling with golfers. Mostly older guys in the brightest colors, stopping and chatting. Resting on their bags or sitting in their carts.

  No sign of Vance’s Cadillac.

  Holliday pulled off toward the overflow lot, taking it slow.

  Mason’s head kept twitching around, like a quarterback looking for the right play, trying to spot the slightest hole in the defense.

  Holliday found a spot in the shade, wedged between the tennis courts and the pool complex, both looking empty. Thick bushes lined the parking spaces. Two golfers walked away from a sedan, not noticing them. He killed the ignition and leaned back in the seat, out of sight. “The deals happen out on the golf course. And I’m not stupid. I’ve got material on each of them. Youngblood, Vance, Olson. Insurance policies.”

  Mason glowered at Holliday. “You sicken me.” He pushed the gun into Holliday’s side, hard enough to hurt. “Act normally when Vance arrives.” He pulled the gun away then pocketed it. “Now get out and wait, be a good boy.”

  Holliday hopped down from the van and leaned against the side, arms folded.

  Mason disappeared into the bushes in front of the tennis court. Couldn’t even see him from here.

  I could get back behind the wheel and drive the van into him. Maybe wouldn’t kill him, probably just break some bones. But I could make him tell me where Avery is.

  A car crunched over the gravel toward Holliday. A black Cadillac, Vance’s bushy mustache visible above the wheel.

  Holliday set off toward him, but something in the van caught his eyes. The smartphone Mason used to contact his accomplice was sitting by the handbrake.

  If I can give it to the feds, maybe they can find Avery…

  Chapter Forty

  Mason

  I’m on my knees, sharp foliage scratching my cheeks. My arm’s on fire. Half a towel stuffed in a gunshot wound isn’t cutting it. I really need to go to the hospital or get a field medic to—

  Holliday is a trained medic. Two tours of Iraq on the frontline. But there’s no way I can trust him to operate on me.

  I tighten it, but it doesn’t staunch the flow much, just slows the constant dripping.

  Holliday stands by the van, frowning at a Cadillac parked a few spaces down. What is he doing?

  Then it hits me—I’ve left the smartphone behind. He just needs to slot the battery in place and he’s got us. If he gets that to the feds, they can trace Layla and Avery, and this is all over.

  And he knows it. Keeps looking at it, weighing the decision.

  But Holliday walks across the parking lot and gets in the Cadillac.

  I let out a slow breath. Almost lost control there.

  But at least I know that it is Vance in the Caddy.

  I crawl off, spider-style, hands and feet on the mud, until I’m right beside the van. I ease the door open and get the smartphone and the battery, then button them in the jacket pocket. The door shuts with a sound, but nobody’s listening. I crawl over to Vance’s car.

  They’re talking, and Vance has a seriously deep voice. Sounded like it on the phone, but it’s rattling through the car’s body like a radio up too loud. Getting louder too, like he’s getting pissed at Holliday.

  Another peek through the foliage.

  Vance sparks a match and sucks on a cigar.

  Time to move. More spider-crawling and I’m by the back door, driver side.

  They’re still talking, Vance doing most of it, that deep bass growl getting louder, pausing only to suck on his cigar.

  I ease the door open, so slowly it doesn’t make a sound, and hold it there. Secondhand smoke hits my nostrils, in danger of sending me back to some dark places. The bitter, rubbery tang can spark off memories like nothing else.

  I take a second to get a proper look at Vance. Big guy. Muscles straining at his golf shirt. Crew cut like it was still the eighties, the sort of mustache you don’t even see in gay bars these days. Distracted from looking in his sideview mirror by shouting at Holliday: “Chris, I’m not just going to—”

  I kneel on the back seat and stick the gun against Vance’s head. “Take it slow, Frank.”

  “What the h-h-hell?” Vance is trying to keep it cool, like he’s had a gun at his neck hundreds of times in his life. But he can’t cover his stutter any longer. “Chris, you lying c-c-c-cocksucker.”

  “I’ve got no choice, Frank.” Holliday has hands up. “He’s got my daughter. I’m sorry.”

  “Cocksucking motherfu—”

  I pistol-whip him, cracking the revolver off his cheek, hard enough to send a message—shut up. “I’m in charge here, Frank.” I sit in the middle of the back so I can better see his face, pointing the gun at his head, the sights focusing on his left ear. “You mind if I call you Frank?�
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  “Of course I mind, you—” Another crack to the cheek and he rocks forward.

  “You know, for a guy with that kind of mustache, you sure say cocksucker a lot.” I pat the seat next to me. “You entertained a lot of young twinks in here, huh?”

  Vance narrows his eyes at me, but keeps quiet. Lucky guess, but I’ve got him where I want him. And he knows it.

  “I’ll let you go, Frank, but you have to tell me one thing. What happened on October second.”

  “Nothing happened. I was in the Bahamas, getting my cock sucked by—”

  “No you weren’t.” I stuff the document in front of his face. The page Harry Youngblood printed. Soaked with rain, splattered with blood. My blood, mixing with Harry’s. “October second, you were in Seattle. Tang Elementary. Nice little place down by the lake. What were you doing there?”

  Vance takes a puff on his cigar. “I’m not telling you—”

  I wrap the ethernet cable around his throat. The cigar drops onto the walnut dash and rolls toward the window. “Don’t think I’m one of your twinks, big bear.” I tighten my grip and pull him back in his seat. His arms flail around, trying to claw at me, but I’ve got him good. He’s not moving anywhere.

  Holliday just sits watching. Attaboy.

  I loosen the grip, let Vance catch his breath. Then yank him back against the seat, even tighter than before. “I will kill you if I don’t get what I want.”

  He’s frantically nodding, even makes a gurgling sound that’s positive enough to sound like agreement.

  “Let’s start over, Frank.” I slacken off the cable but don’t let go. “October second. Tang Elementary. A child died there. Name was Jacob.”

  Vance rubs at his throat. “Little fat kid, r-r-right?”

  “Jacob Wickstrom.”

  Vance looks around.

  I tap him with the gun again. “And you killed him.”

  “You motherf—”

  So I pull the cord tight around his throat again. “What happened, Frank?” I let it slacken off. “The truth, now.”

  Vance gasps, his tongue lolling. “It’s easier if I show you.”

  “How?”

  “I wore a camera that day.” Vance grasps at the cable, but he can’t get any purchase. “It’s on my computer back home.”

  Something like excitement tingles at the base of my spine, mixing with sheer terror.

  I let one end of the cord go and pull it back, letting him go for now. “Drive.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Carter

  GrayBox’s headquarters sprawled out in the night sky, a mile-long two-story lizard with a thick middle and limbs hanging off every couple hundred feet.

  Carter got out first, stepped onto the pavement, and led through the crammed parking lot. “My grandfather was a Redmond boy. Used to tell me when this was all logging country. Look at it now. The new Silicon Valley.”

  Elisha frowned at him. “Poppa Carter was a logger?”

  “No, Poppa Carter is from London, England.”

  “Seriously?” She laughed. “That explains a lot.”

  GrayBox drones filed out of the front door, even on a Saturday. Mostly men in their twenties, all with that pale-skinned look you got from staring at a computer screen all day, every day.

  Carter splashed through a puddle and got out his cell, answered right away. “Peterson? You got me an update on that Vee-dub?”

  “Sir, SAC Nguyen asked me to go to her office. What should I tell her?”

  “The truth, Peterson. We’re not hiding anything. I just need to know what’s happened.”

  A gust of wind whipped Elisha’s hair.

  “Okay, sir. I’ve got a last-known location for the van. Turned off the freeway in Bellevue, then disappeared.”

  “Disappeared how?”

  “My assumption is it hasn’t reappeared. Whether it’s gone underground or the plates have changed or it just hasn’t passed a camera.”

  “Good work. Keep looking for me, okay?”

  “It’s looking like a dead end.”

  “That’s what I expected.” Carter grimaced. “But keep looking, okay? Remember, you’re my MVP here. Don’t stop until you find it.”

  “Sir.” Tyler seemed to put a bit of enthusiasm in it.

  “How’s the facial recognition going?”

  “Slowly. I’ve been sidelined with this.”

  “That’s your number one priority now, okay?” Carter ended the call and set off through the teeming rain toward the office building.

  Richard Olson’s office was at the back of the complex. One wall was floor-to-ceiling windows with a view across to the famous Microsoft campus a half mile away. Baseball memorabilia filled another wall, signed balls and bats and muddy shirts. War mementoes covered the third, guns and photos and a dummy in desert camouflage, the chest overflowing with medals. Looked like a general. Probably Olson’s old uniform.

  Olson stood behind a desk in front of the fourth wall, wearing a thin VR helmet, a fraction of the size and weight of the one Carter bought for Kirsty’s birthday. He swiveled around, toting a plastic gun, then crouched low. “Don’t mind me.”

  “You can see us, then?”

  “And hear you too. A window pops up when someone comes in the room.” A large monitor sat on the desk, showing Olson’s point of view as he got shot at in a desert city by masked terrorists. “You’re FBI, right? Special Agent Max Carter and Agent Elisha Thompson.”

  Spooky. Carter took a seat, gesturing for Elisha to do the same. “Need to ask you a few questions, sir.”

  “Should I have my lawyer here?”

  “Depends on the answers you give.”

  “Cute. Very cute.” Olson walked slowly, like he was inching along a corridor. “Take that!” The CEO swept his plastic gun around like it was real. “This is how I blow off steam. That hearing this morning sure raised my blood pressure.” He ducked low, pointing the gun high. “This is immense. We’re looking at acquiring the company.” He was back up, pacing slowly, his head scanning around. “Started as a training tool for the military, but the tech’s so advanced now that you can get this working on a five-hundred-dollar laptop. I want to get in before Microsoft or Valve. We could make a few bucks selling this to losers in their moms’ basements.”

  “That what Harry Youngblood was playing at home?”

  “What?” Olson tore off his helmet and chucked it on the desk. He blinked hard a few times, adjusting to natural light again. “He shouldn’t have it at home.”

  “You know he was murdered, right?”

  Olson let out a deep sigh, full of bitter regret. “You know, when security called up, Special Agent, I checked out your name and credentials. Kind of odd that the lead of the child abduction team is coming in here, asking about a murder, don’t you think?”

  “Very insightful.” Carter nodded slowly. “Mr. Youngblood’s death came up as part of our investigation into the abduction of Senator Christopher Holliday’s children.”

  “I saw that on the news.” Olson swung his chair around to look out the window, across his empire. “His son’s dead, right?”

  “He’s in the ER, sir, fighting for his life. His daughter’s still missing.” Carter left a long pause, trying to goad him.

  Olson wasn’t giving anything up easily though.

  “Why did you fire Mr. Youngblood?”

  Olson collapsed into his leather chair and pressed a button on his PC. The screen went blank, but the fan kept whirring. “Harry was a buddy. We served together in Desert Storm, way back when.”

  “You were a general, huh?”

  “Three-star.” Olson looked out of his window. “Afterwards, we went our separate ways. I built GrayBox. Harry started doing private security work for the competition. Got married, had a couple of gorgeous kids, but then divorced.” He grimaced. “Guy fell apart. Quit his job, ended up staying in his mom’s basement. Can you believe it? Guy like that, reduced to living like some loser?”

 
“So you took him on?”

  “Least I could do. I was setting up a strategic deployment division, and Harry’s good people. Solid. Dependable. Loyal.” Olson rubbed his neck. “Or so I thought. And with so many connections. Within a year, I put him in charge of the division. We support the US military, mostly overseas.”

  “Mostly?”

  “About ninety percent. The home-soil stuff is usually security work. Either way, Harry’s job is to identify areas where our expertise would be appreciated and then help roll it out. Grease the palms, make the deals. Before you get all het up, we’re doing a service for our nation, plugging gaps our military can’t fill. We’re protecting this great nation of ours.”

  “So why was Xander Delgado looking into your company?”

  “That congressional investigation is horseshit.” Olson settled back in his chair. “Delgado put you up to this?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shoulda seen it. Delgado was up on stage, grandstanding, tearing me a new one, just to make himself look good.” Olson sniffed, then leaned forward, his elbows clunking on the table. “Listen to me, my company supports our nation’s soldiers in foreign theaters. We’re heroes. Someone like Xander Delgado wants to drag our good name through the mud, just to help his own career, help him get re-elected. Thinks he can be president one day.”

  “But Delgado was more interested in a home-soil operation, right?”

  Olson held Carter’s gaze, the steely glare of a CEO, then picked up the VR rifle and used it to scope Carter. “You sure this shouldn’t be on the record?”

  “My objective is finding Senator Holliday’s daughter. You’re close, right?”

  “Wouldn’t say close. I play golf with Christopher once a month. Good guy, but not a friend.”

  “Must get a lot of time to talk on the golf course, right? Do some deals?”

  “We’re members of the same country club, that’s it. Governor Duvall’s invited us to play Inglewood a week Saturday. That’s it.”

  “Did you meet Senator Holliday this afternoon?”