Twisted Lies

by Robin Patchen

  He stepped out of the truck and inhaled the crisp scent of approaching rain. The sun would set in a few minutes, though with the low blanket of clouds, there was no colorful show.

  In front of the house next door, four boys—maybe eight or nine years old—played a two-on-two game of soccer. They were using a minivan parked in the far driveway for one goal, and, if he had to guess, two trees on the other edge of the property for another. Their shouts and laughter filled the evening air.

  Nate walked around to open Marisa's door. Unlike most women, she'd waited until he got there. He wondered if Vinnie Depalo had displayed good manners. He hoped so—Marisa deserved to be treated like a lady.

  She stood beside him and sniffed.

  Nate wiped an errant tear from her cheek. She'd managed to pull herself together, though he'd noticed her wiping tears on and off during the traffic-laden drive. "You okay?"

  She nodded and took a deep breath. "I have to be, don't I?"

  He took her hand, and they walked up the concrete sidewalk to the house. He rang the doorbell, and they heard the muffled chime from inside.

  A woman's voice called, "Just leave it on the porch."

  He looked at Marisa, who shrugged. He knocked.

  "I said leave it on the porch!"

  He called, "I'm not the pizza guy."

  A moment later, the door opened. On the other side stood a woman who looked nothing like the person Marisa had described. She wore pink and black fleece pajama pants and a black sweatshirt. Her blond hair was pulled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she had a pair of glasses pushed up, holding back escaping strands. She wore no makeup. When he looked past the outfit, though, he could see that this Jessica English was a beautiful woman. High cheekbones, dark blue eyes, well-shaped lips.

  Still, he doubted this was the right person. She seemed nothing like the sophisticated New Yorker Marisa had described.

  She eyed them and said, "Can I help you?"

  "We'd like to speak with you," he said.

  "What about?"

  "Charles Gray."

  She stared silently, and he might have believed he'd been right about having the wrong woman, if not for the slight narrowing of her eyes. After a couple of beats, she said, "What about him?"

  "May we come in?"

  She stepped outside, looked at the boys next door, and peered in the other direction. Was she afraid they'd been followed? He'd found her address online, so surely she hadn't been trying to hide.

  She looked at her wrist as if checking the time, though there was no watch there. "I have a lot of work to do."

  "We won't take up much of your time," Nate said.

  Marisa added, "It's very important we speak to you."

  She sighed. "Fine. Come in."

  They followed Jessica to the living room. Hardwood floors, dark purple floral sofas, and a flat-screen TV on a dark wood stand in the corner. A small fireplace filled the far side of the room. Above, a mantle painted gray was adorned with photographs. The room was nicely decorated and tidy, though when Nate peered through to the kitchen, he saw snack wrappers and soda cans on the counter.

  Marisa sat on the couch, and he sat beside her. Jessica chose a chair catty-corner. "Is Charles in trouble again? Last I heard, he was still in prison."

  "He is," Nate said. "We're on a bit of a quest."

  Her expression told him what she thought about quests.

  "You and Charles were an item before he was arrested, isn't that right?"

  "Are you a cop or something?"

  He shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, I should have explained. This is Marisa Vega"—he nodded in her direction—"and I'm Nate Boyle. I'm a reporter. I wrote a series of stories about the fraud at G&K."

  "You're the guy who took the company down."

  "No, not at all. I just wrote a few stories. The feds took them down."

  Jessica jutted her chin in Marisa's direction. "Why is your name familiar?"

  "I was engaged to Vinnie Depalo."

  "You're the one they think stole the money!"

  Nate noted the qualifier—they think, she'd said. Maybe Jessica would be more helpful than Anderson had been.

  Marisa sat straighter. "I didn't steal it."

  "We're trying to figure out who did."

  Jessica yanked her glasses off her head, pulling a few hairs with it. "Everybody thinks you did it."

  "I didn't," Marisa said.

  "Didn't you escape the country or something? Why are you back?"

  "I ran because I thought Charles would try to kill me, the way he killed Vinnie."

  Jessica's gaze softened just a bit. "Charles can't have meant for your boyfriend to die. At the trial, he said he was only trying to scare him."

  "You believe that?" Nate asked.

  "Charles was no killer. Sure, he broke the law, but mortgage fraud isn't murder."

  "People will go to great lengths to stay out of prison."

  "Not Charles." She shook her head, and the bun on top wobbled. "Not that."

  Nate nodded and leaned forward a bit. "You two were pretty close."

  She didn't say anything. Nate didn't either, and the moment got uncomfortable. After a minute, he said, "Do you keep in touch with him?"

  She scoffed. "Are you kidding? The guy's a felon."

  "He was a felon when you were with him. He just hadn't been convicted yet."

  "I didn't know. He was rich. How was I supposed to know he was breaking the law?"

  "So he never confided in you?"

  "Nothing like that."

  "Even when he feared he might be in trouble? Even after Vinnie died, he never told you anything?"

  She yanked the elastic holding the bun, and her hair fell around her shoulders. Nate imagined all those shampoo commercials where women let their gorgeous locks fly free. This was nothing like that. She finger-combed it, but clearly it was too snarled to get her fingers all the way through.

  "Sorry." She looked at Marisa. "Your hair ever start to hurt when you've had it up all day?"

  "All the time." Marisa smiled, though Nate could tell it was forced.

  Nate tried again. "So did he ever tell you—?"

  "I had no idea what was going on. I thought maybe... I mean, Charles mentioned he was afraid they were going to be audited or something. I had no idea they were involved in fraud. Not the go-to-prison kind, anyway."

  As if mortgage fraud were perfectly acceptable. "When did you find out?"

  "Same as everybody else. When he was arrested."

  "Did he tell you anything about Vinnie's murder?"

  "Of course not! You think I'd want to marry him after that?"

  Nate sat back, unsure of where to go from here. She hadn't given them any information that would help, and Marisa was right—they weren't getting at all closer to the truth.

  Marisa stood and walked to the fireplace mantle. "Is this your son?"

  Nate watched as Jessica's face paled a little. "What about him?"

  Marisa turned and smiled. "He's adorable. Is he one of the boys playing next door?"

  "Every kid in town plays soccer," she said.

  Defensive. Interesting.

  Marisa lifted one of the photographs and peered at it closely. "Is this his father?"

  Jessica's laugh was more snort than giggle. "That's his soccer coach. One of them, anyway. He's a great guy, always hanging out with the boys who don't have fathers." She looked at Nate. "With supervision, of course. I'm not an idiot."

  "Of course," Nate said.

  "How old is your son?" Marisa asked.

  She took a deep breath. "I could lie."

  Nate shrugged. "I'm sure there are records, though, and I'm really good at ferreting out the truth." When Jessica said nothing, he said, "Does Charles know?"

  She shook her head. "And he doesn't need to."

  Marisa set the photograph down and resumed her seat. "You don't think he has a right to know he has a son?"

  "I'm not taking Hunter to see him in
that place. Ever. And by the time Charles gets out—if he survives Sing Sing with that heart—he'll be too old to play the doting daddy."

  "Still," Nate said, "I'd want to know."

  "He has other kids. And anyway, I doubt Hunter is the only one he doesn't know about." She turned her attention to Marisa. "You know how he was, right? You were one of his... What did he used to call them? Dalliances?"

  "I was not," Marisa said. "Never."

  "Whatever." She turned her attention back to Nate. "I knew he'd had a lot of affairs before me, but I thought we had something special. I thought he loved me. And then I found out the truth. The guy would screw anything in a skirt." She looked at Marisa. "Or a maid's outfit. Did you wear one of those little white aprons? I bet he really liked that."

  Marisa's face turned bright red. "I was never with him. He was..." Her voice trailed off, and she looked at Nate.

  "Marisa didn't sleep with him," Nate said, "not that Charles didn't try."

  "You don't have to lie to me," Jessica said. "Did you have the braid before? I bet he loved that." She closed her mouth in a straight line and shook her head. "I know how he was. He could charm his way under the queen's skirt, if he had five minutes alone with her."

  "I was in love with Vinnie," Marisa said. "Charles tried, I said no. The end."

  "Right." She rolled her eyes at Nate, as if the very thought of telling Charles no was akin to a fat kid turning down a Kit Kat. "Besides, it wouldn't matter. I thought all that stopped with me. Apparently not."

  "How'd you find out the truth?"

  "The other cleaning lady, the ugly one."

  "Leslie?" Nate suggested. He ignored Marisa's glare, but he could feel it.

  "Right," Jessica said. "Her. I was up there—"

  "At G&K? In the offices?"

  "Yeah, I went there sometimes after the place closed. He didn't like people to know I went there, but they knew. He had a couch in his office." She shrugged. Nate was glad he didn't have to hear the details. "He'd left the room to take a phone call, and the lady came in. She told me he met girls up there all the time."

  "When was that exactly?" Nate asked.

  "Right before he got arrested. I knew I was pregnant, and I'd even thought I might tell him that night. But she told me about the other women, and I wasn't so sure. After that, Charles was busy night after night for, I don't know, a week or so, and I figured the maid was right—he was seeing other women. And then he got arrested."

  Marisa leaned forward. "Leslie told you that? You sure it was her?"

  "I don't know her name."

  Marisa turned to Nate. "Leslie always told me to keep my nose out of everything. Just clean and keep your mouth shut. So it doesn't make sense."

  Leslie obviously broke her own rule more than once. She'd told Charles about Vinnie's contact with the FBI, and now this.

  Nate pulled out his cell phone and flipped through his photos until he got one of Leslie. They'd taken it at dinner that night in Mexico, before she and Ana had gone for their walk. She had leaned closer to Ana, so the shot showed them both. Leslie wore a wide smile, rare for those days in Acapulco when fear had clung to her like sweat. He turned the camera's screen to Jessica. "That her?"

  Jessica looked at it. "You two friends or something?"

  "She's my sister," Marisa said.

  "No joke? You sure got the better genes." She leaned closer. "Yeah. That's her. The frizzy hair—has she ever tried to tame that?"

  Nate thought the woman was pushing it to criticize Leslie's hair, considering the state of her own.

  Marisa ignored the question. "You're saying that woman, Leslie, told you Charles had women up there all the time after hours."

  "Yeah. Acted like it was a nightly thing. She's the one who told me you and him—"

  "That's a lie. My sister wouldn't have told you that. She knew better." Marisa looked at Nate, and he shook his head. They'd talk about it later.

  "Why would I lie about that?" Jessica asked.

  Nate turned to Marisa. "There has to be an explanation. When we find Leslie, we'll ask her." He turned back to Jessica. "This is a nice house. You like living in the suburbs?"

  She looked around and smiled. "After Charles was convicted and Hunter was born, I decided it was time for a change. Everybody knew Charles and I'd been together, and suddenly, it was like he had some communicable disease and I was a carrier. My boss at the advertising agency suggested I take some time"—she made air quotes around those words—"which was code for find yourself a new job. So I sold my condo in the city and moved here."

  "Pretty nice place for a woman with no job."

  "I made a good profit on my condo. We lived in an apartment for a while, but this house became available. And..." She sighed and said, "Oh, what difference does it make now? Charles had given me a lot of money, and a lot of jewelry and stuff. I sold it all. The profits from that crap paid the mortgage the first year, until I was able to establish myself. Now, I own my own business working for a lot of those same agencies on Madison Avenue that wanted nothing to do with me eight years ago. I'm cheaper and better than their in-house people. And I work right here." She looked down and laughed. "Usually, in my pajamas."

  "Seems like a good gig," Nate said.

  "It isn't what I thought I wanted for my life. I never imagined I'd be a single mother—never in a million years. Which is kind of stupid, in retrospect. Truth be told, I got pregnant because I thought that would be the final push Charles needed to leave his wife. I never even thought about the fact that there'd be a baby." She shook her head. "When Charles got sent to prison, I got stuck with the kid. Except once he was born and I looked in that tiny face, I fell in love."

  Marisa sniffed and swallowed.

  "You have a kid, Marisa?"

  "A daughter. She's"—Marisa looked at Nate, and he nodded—"the reason we're here. She's been kidnapped." Tears streamed down her face, but she didn't falter. "They're holding her for ransom because they think I stole all that money from G&K."

  Jessica glanced at Nate as if he might dispute the facts. "I can't imagine."

  "No, you can't," Marisa said, "so if you have any information—"

  She lifted both hands. "I swear, if I knew anything, I'd tell you. I was never convinced you took the money. I always thought..." She looked at Nate. "Have you been to see Charles's wife?"

  "Ex-wife," Nate corrected. "Not yet."

  "That's right. I heard she finally divorced him. Apparently screwing everything that moved was fine, but going to jail—probably too embarrassing for the old bat." She shook her head. "Anyway, I always thought she did it."

  "Why?" Marisa asked.

  "Because she knew about me. Knew he was in love with me. He'd been to see a divorce lawyer, and I think she found out. And she probably knew a lot more about what was going on up there than he ever said. I bet she did it just to get back at him."

  NATE AND MARISA DROVE off the quiet street in White Plains and stopped in a gas station parking lot. After Nate wrote down everything he could remember about the conversation with Jessica English, he called Garrison from the car, and Nate and Marisa filled in the former FBI agent on the conversation.

  "I figured about the kid," Garrison said.

  "How did you know?" Marisa asked.

  "I worked the case long after you disappeared. I knew she was pregnant. But it didn't seem relevant. It's...unbelievable."

  "Why do you say that?" Marisa looked at Nate with raised eyebrows.

  "She's twenty years younger than Charles." Garrison said. "It's just..."

  "I'm with you," Nate said. "Apparently being rich is very attractive."

  "Apparently." Garrison's one word dripped with sarcasm.

  Marisa sighed. "We're not all like that. And she's certainly paid the price for it."

  Nate turned off the car, and Garrison's voice suddenly seemed too loud over the car speakers. "Did you guys believe her?"

  Nate turned the volume down. "She certainly had an answer
for everything."

  "Not a lot's changed," Garrison said. "The mistress thinks the ex-wife did it. When you talk to Pamela Gray, she'll tell you Jessica did it."

  "Speaking of," Nate said, "do you have a phone number for her? And her address?"

  They could hear shuffling. "You got a pen?"

  Nate poised his pen over the notebook. "Go ahead."

  Garrison rattled off a number. "That's the house phone. I never got a cell for her."

  "Maybe she can't afford one," Nate said.

  Garrison chuckled. Marisa barely cracked a smile.

  "We'll call her. Thanks."

  Nate ended the call and dialed Pamela Gray's phone number. A women with a heavy Spanish accent answered.

  "This is Nate Boyle calling for Pamela Gray."

  "I'm sorry. Mrs. Gray is not here."

  "Can you tell me when she'll be back?"

  "May I take a message?"

  Marisa whispered, "Take it off Bluetooth and give it to me."

  Nate said, "Hold one moment, please." He handed Marisa the phone, and she spoke into it in rapid Spanish.

  Nate's high school Spanish classes proved useless, as he'd argued to his mother at the time they would. The two women talked, then Marisa said to Nate, "What's your phone number?"

  Nate told her, Marisa translated it into Spanish, and the two chatted for a couple of minutes. Marisa even laughed once before she hung up and handed him the phone.

  "Pamela Gray has gone to Chicago to attend a charity board meeting. She won't return for two days. I told the housekeeper it was an emergency, and she promised to give Mrs. Gray your phone number and tell her we need to speak with her. I told her it was a matter of life and death."

  "Did the housekeeper think she'd call?"

  "She said unless it was Pamela Gray's life on the line, I shouldn't expect a response. However, I did get Rosa to agree to call or text us when Mrs. Gray returns on Friday. It's her understanding the woman will be home late morning."

  "Well done."

  "Gracias." Marisa smiled, but it faded fast. "What do we do now? We're out of leads."

  They weren't, not really, but Nate wasn't about to tell her his theory without backup. He needed his friends. "We're going back to Nutfield."