The Perfect Lie

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “’Scuse me,” the woman said. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m just looking for the people who live here.”

  “No one’s home just now.”

  “Do you know when they’ll be back?” I asked.

  “Day or two, I guess. Why? What do you want with Miss Sabine?”

  “I’m not here for Sabine. I’m here for Louis.”

  “You’re the second person to come here lookin’ for him today. First was the police.”

  “Did they talk to you?”

  “Tried. I didn’t care to answer the door.”

  Her hands moved to her hips, and she squinted, looking me over like she struggled to find even the smallest connection between Louis and me. “Louis don’t live here no more, you see. Sabine kicked that boy’s ass outta here. She don’t want him back neither. Not until he cleans up his attitude and cleans up his life. He does nothin’ but cause problems for everybody.”

  “When did she kick him out?”

  “Been about a week ago now.”

  “Any idea where I can find him?”

  She crossed her arms in front of her, leaned back like there was an imaginary wall behind her to hold her up, and said, “Maybe. Depends on who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  “My name is Joss. I was in the bookstore where Louis worked the night Alexandra Weston died.”

  “Who?”

  “Alexandra Weston, the true-crime writer.”

  She shrugged. “Never heard of her before.”

  “She was murdered the night before last, at the same place Louis worked.”

  The revelation failed to elicit a response.

  “What does Louis have to do with it?”

  “Maybe nothing. I won’t know until I talk to him. He didn’t show up for work today.”

  She didn’t seem surprised.

  “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Where you from?”

  “I work in California,” I said.

  “I didn’t ask you where you work. I asked where you’re from.”

  “Heber.”

  “Where?”

  “Heber City. It’s in Utah.”

  “Huh. Never heard of it. You a special kind of cop or somethin’, sent here to investigate?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you poking your nose into business that ain’t yours?”

  “Alexandra Weston was a friend. We work in the same profession. We’re both authors. I’d like to know why someone wanted to kill her.”

  The term friend was a bit loose, but it suited its purpose.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “I was hoping Louis saw something the night she died that could explain what happened.”

  She squinted one eye, looked at me like she was trying to decide whether what I’d just said was genuine. “Try Eddie Trumaine. He usually hangs out with him after work. Ask me, I bet that’s where he’s been stayin’ too.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The driveway in front of Eddie Trumaine’s dive of a home, if one considered a worn-down shack a home, looked like a used-car lot for misfit automobiles. Six vehicles in various phases of disrepair and decay were stacked three deep in two rows on the oil-stained asphalt driveway. Two cars were missing tires, another two had dents in various shapes and sizes, one had been spray-painted a flat, gray color, and the last was missing one of its back windows. A replacement window had been fashioned out of thick painter’s plastic and black, zebra-patterned duct tape.

  Not exactly what I called sweet rides.

  Finch sized up the patchy, dry grass on the front lawn, the bullet-shaped holes in the white stucco on the front of the home’s exterior, and the treasure trove of rundown vehicles, and said, “I’m coming with you.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but true to form, he was halfway to the front door before I’d even switched off the ignition. I got out, placing a hand on the hood of the gray car as I passed it. Still warm.

  I knocked and heard what sounded like glass shattering on a tile floor, followed by the sound of footsteps moving rapidly in the opposite direction. Finch leapt off the porch, disappearing around the corner. I wiped the dusty windowpane with a hand, surveyed the inside of the house. Louis was on the ground, face up, not moving. I turned the handle on the door and was met with an overwhelming, foul smell of decay. I pulled the sleeve of my sweater over my hand, cupped the same hand over my nose. I gazed down at Louis. He was still dressed in his security uniform and had more than one bullet to the chest.

  I didn’t need to check for a pulse.

  He’d been there for some time.

  He wouldn’t have one.

  Finch flung the front door open, dragging a twenty-something-year-old kid behind him. The kid had a big, round, reddish circle around his left eye. It grew puffier by the second.

  I looked at Finch. “Did you punch him?”

  “It’s his own fault. He wouldn’t listen to me when I asked him to stop running. Now I’m confident he will.”

  The kid squeaked a pathetic yelp, struggling to break free. With every yowl, Finch constricted the arm he had around the kid’s neck even tighter.

  “Unless you wanna get choked out, stop fighting me,” Finch warned. “This is your one and only warning.”

  Too paranoid to listen, the kid remained focused on his primal need for flight.

  “Suit yourself,” Finch said. “Up to you.”

  Finch increased the squeeze, and the kid’s eyes started bulging.

  I approached the kid. “Are you Eddie?”

  “Yeah,” he squealed. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  “If you calm down and stop trying to run, Finch here will let you go. All we want to know is what happened to Louis, okay? Nod if you understand.”

  He nodded. I exchanged glances with Finch. He didn’t budge.

  “At least let him talk,” I said. “You’re choking him.”

  Finch relaxed his grip.

  “I didn’t do nothin’,” Eddie said. “What happened to Louis ... it wasn’t me. I had nothin’ to do with it, okay?”

  “Then why is Louis dead in your house?” I pointed across the room. “And why’s there a gun case with no guns in it? And why did you run?”

  Eddie looked at the open door on the gun case. “I don’t know.”

  The odor of rotting flesh saturated the room, filling my lungs with a nauseating feeling that almost had me expelling everything I’d eaten. “I need to get out of here. Let’s talk outside.”

  “Hold up, Joss,” Finch said. “Aren’t you going to call the police first?”

  I shrugged. “What for?”

  “What do you mean ‘what for’? So they can deal with this dead body and figure out what the hell happened to this guy.”

  “Time is no longer of the essence for Louis,” I said. “He’s already dead.”

  “Yes, but the sooner they examine the body, the better, right?”

  “If he’d just expired, yes. My guess? He’s been dead almost twenty-four hours.” At the risk of upchucking all over the body, I bent down, pointed at it. “The greenish-blue color on his face and neck tells me he’s been dead for at least that long.” I grabbed a fork sitting beside a half-eaten chicken pot pie on the coffee table, lifted Louis’s shirt a couple inches, peeked beneath it. “Yeah, the discoloration is spreading. He’s been here for a while. You better start talking, Eddie.”

  The three of us headed outside.

  On the back deck, a weather-worn chair was positioned beside a brand-new barbecue grill. Finch shoved Eddie into the chair. “Sit down. And don’t get up.”

  Tiny beads of sweat dotted Eddie’s forehead. “Look, I don’t know who you two are. But I told you, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with this mess!”

  “What happened to Louis?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, lady.”

  “Oh ... kay. Tell me what you do know.”

 
He stood there looking terrified. Whomever he was afraid of, it was clear we were less of a risk to him than the other person was.

  “Look, there’s no way out of this.” I said. “If the cops haul you in, it’s only going to get worse for you. Protecting the person you fear won’t save you when word gets around you were interrogated by police. Even if you lie, say you didn’t say anything, no one will believe you.”

  He raised his chin, said, “You got it all wrong. I’m not afraid of anyone. I can take care of myself.”

  I resisted the urge to burst out laughing. “Why did you run when we got here?”

  Again he hesitated, perhaps debating his options, like he had any. “For all I know, you two are the ones who killed him.”

  “You were in the house when we got here,” I said. “Which tells me you knew he was dead.”

  “Naw. You got it all wrong. I mean, I did see him when I got home, but I wasn’t here when it happened.”

  “Where were you then?”

  “I spent the last day with my girl. Since Louis started sleeping here, she won’t stay over anymore, so I’ve been chillin’ at her place. I just came to shower and change my clothes. I walk in, see him dead on the floor, then you two show up, and I didn’t know what to do. So I ran.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Ten minutes, tops.”

  “When was the last time you saw Louis alive?” I asked.

  “Two nights ago.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “Louis rolled up in here with a wad of cash in his hand. He was wavin’ it all around, all showin’ off, actin’ like he’d just won the lottery or some shit.”

  “How much money are we talking?” I asked.

  “Seven, eight C-notes, at least. Maybe more.”

  Confused, I looked at Finch.

  “Seven or eight hundred dollars,” Finch said.

  “Couldn’t he have just gotten paid from work and cashed the check?” I asked.

  Eddie shook his head. “Naw. He don’t get paid until the end of the month, and he never has that kind of cash even when he does get paid. He has all kinds of bills. He’s dead broke.”

  “Where did the money come from then?”

  “All he said was he was quitting his job. Found somethin’ a lot more lucartive.”

  “You mean lucrative?” I asked.

  Eddie nodded.

  “Did he say who gave him the money or anything about his new job?” I asked.

  Eddie scratched his head. “I mean, he just said he was movin’ outta his mom’s place for good.”

  I sensed he was still lying. He did know something. He just wouldn’t say.

  I picked my phone out of my pocket, looked at Finch. “I’m ready to make that call now.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Several hours later, I’d downed my third shot of vodka, which may have actually been my fourth shot, or my fifth. At this point, I was no longer counting. A man who’d been eyeing me from across the bar for the last half hour mustered up enough liquid courage to brush chicken-fingers crumbs off the front of his plaid, button-up shirt and make his move.

  He stood.

  He smiled.

  I smiled back.

  He raised his beer bottle.

  I raised my empty shot glass, thought about summoning the barmaid for a refill.

  The ice between us was officially broken.

  I wondered if he’d wave next.

  He didn’t.

  Forty-five minutes earlier, before he’d noticed me noticing him, I watched him scan the room, turn toward the wall, wrestle his wedding band off his finger, and shove it into his front pocket when he thought no one was looking. It was a douche move, and it begged the question: Why walk into the bar with it on in the first place just to take it off minutes later? The answer, of course, was a simple one. Whether or not he took it off depended on him first assessing the goods, scouting the bar to see if there was anyone worth taking it off for. I didn’t know whether I felt flattered or disgusted. Actually, I felt a bit of both.

  The man’s face was decent in a Keebler-elf sort of way, and his broad smile reeled me in—for a moment. When the moment passed, he shoved the tips of his fingers into his jeans pockets and headed in my direction. For a man who looked like he was pushing forty, the overall package wasn’t half bad. Sure his male-pattern baldness seemed to have taken a turn for the worse in recent years, even though he attempted to hide it by spiking up what sparse, brown hair he still had left. I imagined he assumed it wasn’t noticeable, but denial hadn’t been kind.

  He reached the table and hovered over me, his eyes like a vulture, waiting for an invitation he’d never get. With all the alcohol I’d poured into my body, he probably assumed I’d be an easy lay. If so, he was mistaken.

  “Hey there,” he began. “Want some company?”

  I didn’t want company tonight, especially his, but I offered the seat beside me anyway. Whoever said chivalry was dead must not have ever hung around a bar after eleven o’clock on a weeknight.

  He sat. “What’s your name?”

  “Lacey.”

  I thought about going full throttle and throwing in a last name too, but Lacey Thong was a bit too much to swallow, even for a dimwit like him.

  “I’m Jordan,” he said. “What are we celebrating?”

  “We’re not. Celebrating, I mean.”

  “What are we mourning then?”

  I attempted a fake smile, which I assumed looked a bit like a coyote wooing a fluffy rabbit, and said nothing.

  “Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.” He placed a hand on my wrist. “It’ll be okay, you know. Been through a few breakups myself.”

  I resisted the urge to ask if he was referring to mistresses or wives or both. “I never said we broke up.”

  “You don’t have to. I can see it in your eyes. I’m good at reading people.”

  I bit my upper lip, attempting to keep the growing urge to laugh contained.

  The barmaid walked over. I flicked my shot glass in her direction so fast it almost slid off the table. The confused look on her face when I said “uno mas” made me question whether I’d slurred my words, but she took the glass and nodded anyway. Jordan ordered a shot of whiskey. Both beverages were brought over, and we clanked our respective glasses together.

  “So you’re in a relationship then?” he said. “That’s okay.”

  Of course it was.

  “I’m not, and it isn’t,” I said.

  Now he looked confused. I downed the vodka, blinking a few times at the shot glass after I set it down on the table. It looked more and more like two glasses the longer I stared at it, but I was sure the waitress had only given me the one.

  Jordan licked his lips, took a moment to compose his wind-up, and then made the pitch. “So, uhh, sweetie. You wanna lift home?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “What your intentions are.”

  He leaned over, whispered, “You saw me staring earlier. Hell, who wasn’t? Every man in this room would give his left nut to spend an hour with your fine ass. I believe you’re clear on my intentions.”

  Wow. What a sweet talker. How could I say no to such a fantastic offer?

  “I’m clear on your intentions,” I said. “But are you clear on mine?”

  “I have a suite a couple blocks away. No need to rush you home, is there?” He paused then added, “I tell you what. I’ll pour you another vodka or two when we get there, and we can talk.”

  “We’re talking now.”

  “It’s big and it’s private.”

  He glanced at his crotch as he said the words, making me wonder if “it’s big” referred to something other than his place or if it referred to his place and the growing erection inside his pants. Either way, big was relative. It meant different things to different people. And big wasn’t always accompanied by talent.

  “What do you say then?” he asked. “Should we go?”

>   “I’m fine here for a while.”

  He trailed a finger up my arm. “You won’t regret it.”

  His patience apparently spent, he winked, stood, held out a hand. Under most circumstances, I would have considered the gesture a courteous one. Not this time. I rose and faced him, wrapping a hand around his belt buckle. I yanked him forward, pressing his body against mine.

  He laughed. “Hey now, you ... ahh ... I mean, maybe we should save all this pent-up energy until we get to my place, sweetie.”

  I smirked, jammed a hand inside his pocket, fished out the wedding ring he’d concealed earlier. “What about your wife? Will she be joining in on the festivities too?”

  His face paled, then warmed to a sharp, vibrant raspberry. “She’s ... it’s ... not what you think.”

  “It isn’t? You’re not married then?”

  “No, I am. It’s just ... complicated.”

  “It always is with assholes like you, isn’t it?”

  He stroked my hair with his hand. I bristled.

  “Come on now,” he said. “Don’t ruin our night together.”

  “I don’t sleep with married men.”

  “You don’t understand. Things haven’t been the same between us lately. I’m not a bad guy. I just ... feel distant. We’re not close like we used to be. I don’t know if I’m still committed.”

  It was a disgusting jumble of words from a man with no conscience, his eyes dead, without shine, like he’d strayed so far from the path he no longer knew how to find it.

  “Married is married,” I said. “Period. When you married your wife you vowed to be there for her for better or worse. Not for when it feels good. Rationalizing something you’re unwilling to fight for shows me who you really are without even knowing you.”

  Aware the midnight rendezvous was now a fleeting opportunity, his tone changed from vivacious and flirty to stern. “Give me back the ring.”

  “Why, so you can shove it into your pocket and go for round two with someone else after I leave?”

  “This isn’t funny, Lacey.”

  “Good, Jordan, or whatever your name really is. It shouldn’t be.”