The Perfect Lie

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “Now hang on,” Murphy called after me. “There’s no need to get upset. I appreciate your interest and your help. And I loved meeting you in person.”

  I didn’t turn back.

  I didn’t reply.

  I just kept on walking.

  CHAPTER 22

  The female caller on the other end of the phone spoke in short, staggered sentences—fragments mumbled in strings of three or four words like the cell reception was cutting in and out. It took a minute before I recognized her voice. “Chelsea, I can’t understand you. Slow down. I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.”

  “There’s someone behind me!”

  “Who’s behind you?”

  “I don’t know. A man ... or maybe a woman. I can’t tell.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my car.”

  “Yes, but where?” I asked.

  She paused. “On the corner of ... umm ... Chestnut and Sixth.”

  Still in the parking lot in front of the police department, I snapped my fingers, got Finch’s attention, put the call on speaker. “How do you know you’re being followed?”

  “Every turn I make, the car turns too.”

  “Can you tell what kind of car it is?”

  “It’s ... ahh ... dark blue, like a bluish-black.”

  “What about the make and model?”

  “I’m not sure, an old lady car. It’s big.”

  “Can you get a look at the person in your rearview mirror?”

  “I see what looks like a coat with the hood pulled over the head, and he or she is wearing glasses.”

  “What kind of glasses?”

  “Sunglasses.”

  “Hang on.”

  I glanced at Finch, weighing the decision I needed to make. I could get to my rental car and find Chelsea or sprint back to Murphy’s office. I pivoted and ran, phone in my hand, Chelsea still on the line. Being a mediocre runner at best, I wasn’t surprised when Finch shot past me. He flung the door open to Murphy’s office. Murphy looked up and indicated we needed to wait. He was on the phone. I jerked the phone receiver out of his hand, slamming it down on its base.

  He glared at me. “What in the hell do you think you’re—”

  Finch leaned toward Murphy, communicated what was going on. I grabbed a piece of paper from his desk. It looked important. I didn’t care. I scribbled down Chelsea’s location on a piece of paper, handed it to him.

  “Chelsea, you still there?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s happening now?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you still being followed?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what to do!”

  “Keep doing what you’re doing. Help is on the way.”

  “How far away are you? I don’t know how much longer I can keep looping around.”

  “Stay as calm as you can. We’re sending someone to you.”

  “My car is almost out of gas. I’m going to have to pull over.”

  In unison, Murphy, Finch, and I yelled, “No!”

  “Don’t pull over,” I said. “Unless your car stops, you keep going. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are your doors locked?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Murphy leaned over to speak into the phone. “Chelsea, this is Detective Murphy.”

  “Where’s Joss? I want to talk to Joss.”

  “I’m here,” I said.

  Murphy looked at Finch. “You two keep her talking. Have her circle the block a few more times until we can get to her. Do not let her park her vehicle for any reason or engage in any kind of contact with the person she believes is following her. Understand?”

  Murphy bolted out of the door.

  “Keep driving, but stay close to those cross streets,” I said. “Detective Murphy is sending someone now. Can the person behind you tell you’re on the phone?”

  “I don’t know. I’m talking to you on my Bluetooth through the car.”

  “When did you first notice you were being followed?”

  “About ten minutes ago. I kept seeing the same car behind me when I stopped at each traffic light, so I turned into a neighborhood to see if the car would still follow me, and it did, through five streets and back out onto the main road I’m on now.”

  “Are you alone?”

  It was an obvious question, but I asked anyway.

  “Yeah, it’s just me. I was heading to the funeral home. My mom’s services are in two hours. I wanted to go early and, you know, spend some alone time with her before everyone else gets there.”

  Keeping her talking was keeping her calm. I kept going. “How was your visit with your mom’s lawyer?”

  “He told me ... he said ... my parents are already divorced. I just don’t get it. How could she do that? How could she keep it from me? How could he keep it from me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe your mother was trying to protect you.” When she didn’t say anything, I said, “Chelsea, you still there?”

  “Hang on a sec. The car was behind me a few seconds ago, and now it’s ... I don’t see it anymore.”

  Murphy walked in.

  “How far away are your guys?” I asked.

  “One, two minutes tops,” Murphy replied. “Chelsea, I have two officers en route. Get back to those two cross streets so they can find you.”

  A few seconds passed, and then Chelsea screamed.

  CHAPTER 23

  Chelsea’s voice, panicked and afraid, mewled through the phone like the wounded howl of a wolf—petrified, fighting to break free when there was nowhere to go. “The mother-effer is trying to force me off the road!”

  A wave of guilt gripped me. I shouldn’t be here in Murphy’s office, waiting, incapable of helping her. I should have gone to her. Every agonizing second now was precious. Every second could save her life. It could also end it.

  “Chelsea, what’s happening?” I asked. “Talk to me.”

  “I have to pull over. I don’t have a choice. I have to!”

  “No!”

  I faced Murphy. “Why aren’t your guys there yet? How long does it take?!”

  “They will be, anytime now,” he said.

  Eyes wide, he glared at me, no doubt a nonverbal cue meant to warn me not to increase Chelsea’s anxiety level any more than necessary. I didn’t care. I wasn’t an optimist. I was a realist. “Any minute now might be too late.”

  The sound of glass shattering echoed through the phone. A car door opened and slammed shut.

  “Chelsea, are you there?” I asked. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”

  “The car door behind me just opened. Someone’s coming!” she screamed.

  “Can you get away?”

  Sirens whistled in the background.

  “Get away from me!” she screamed. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Get away!”

  A shot cracked through my phone’s speaker, and the line went dead.

  CHAPTER 24

  Thirty minutes later, I sat on a chair inside the hospital room where Detective Murphy was having Chelsea checked out to ensure she hadn’t sustained any injuries. The shot we’d heard earlier wasn’t fired from an officer’s gun. And it wasn’t fired from her attacker. It was fired from Chelsea’s mother’s gun, which Chelsea had stashed inside the glove box after her mother’s murder.

  “I’m fine,” Chelsea spat as the nurse inspected her. “I’m not missing my mother’s funeral over this.”

  “Don’t worry about that right now,” I said.

  “I’m not worried. I’m pissed that asshole got away.”

  The asshole she referred to had fled on foot after Blunt and Parks failed to catch him. Or her. We still weren’t certain which gender we were dealing with. A tireless Officer Blunt was still searching. The attacker’s car had been towed. Every inch was being inspected.

  “When can I get out of here?” Chelsea asked. “Please. I can’t miss the funeral.�
��

  “I have a few questions first,” Murphy said. “Joss, can you give us a minute alone?”

  Chelsea shook her head. “No way. She’s staying. I don’t know you.”

  Offended by the comment, Murphy huffed then crossed his arms. “You know I’m a detective. I showed you my badge.”

  “You ever see Training Day? The Shield? The Place Beyond the Pines? All cops. All corrupt. You seem nice. You’re probably a great guy just trying to do his job. But right now, the only adult I trust besides my fiancé is Joss.”

  He laughed. “This isn’t a movie. This is real life. But okay, if it makes you feel better, she can stay.”

  Chelsea glanced at the clock on the wall. “Can I be out of here in fifteen minutes?”

  “We can postpone the funeral for a few hours if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said. “After the car crashed into you, did you get a good look at the person following you?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t get a look at her face, but I think she was a woman.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She wasn’t big, you know, like a guy. She was small.”

  Murphy frowned. “What was she wearing?”

  “Black pants and, umm, black boots, the kind you wear in the snow. She had a black hoodie pulled over her head. It was tied around her face so I couldn’t see anything.”

  “What color was the hoodie?”

  “Black. Everything was black.”

  “Plain or patterned?”

  “It was plain.”

  “Was there any lettering on the hoodie?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any tattoos or markings?”

  She shook her head. “I just told you, I couldn’t see anything. She was covered up.”

  “Hair color?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t see her actual hair. It was covered by the hoodie. I just said that.”

  “How tall was she?”

  “My height.”

  “Which is?”

  “Five foot nine.”

  Murphy’s cell phone rang. He answered, listened, then said, “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Thanks. I need to put an APB out. Suspect is female, approximately five feet nine inches, dressed in all black. Hoodie, pants, snow boots.” He gave some additional details and ended the call. “The car is registered to a Zack Montana. There’s only one problem. Zack reported the car stolen a few hours ago. Besides the fact he’s a guy and not a girl, he’s also six foot four, so he doesn’t fit the profile you just gave me. He said he ran into the coffee shop, came out, and his car was gone.”

  Murphy looked at Chelsea. “I’m going to let you go, but you won’t be alone. One of my men will remain with you for now.”

  “Uhh, I don’t want someone I don’t know following me around. My fiancé is coming to pick me up. So, no thanks.”

  “Trust me,” Murphy said. “No offense to your betrothed, but he can’t offer you the protection we can. Besides, you don’t have a choice.”

  CHAPTER 25

  It had been several years since I last attended a funeral, but in some ways, it felt recently familiar, like an ephemeral dream I’d had only yesterday. A dream that haunted my existence. It took every fiber of my being to remain seated. All I wanted to do was bolt out the back door.

  Few things were certain. Alexandra’s murder was personal. Louis’s murder was personal, but in a different way. I still didn’t know how yet, but they didn’t feel the same. The failed abduction of Chelsea was tied to her mother’s murder somehow. Although Barbara Berry had accused Alexandra’s husband, I didn’t believe he was the killer. He didn’t care enough about whether Alexandra lived or died. Not even when it came to his precious money. He almost seemed relieved to be rid of her. I didn’t believe he’d harm his daughter either.

  At the back of the room, a man leaned against the wall, alone, his arms folded in front of him. He was too far away for me to get a good look at him, but for a split second he looked familiar, and I found myself struggling to draw breath.

  “What is it?” Finch asked. “You okay?”

  “It’s nothing. I thought I saw ... it’s just ... I thought—”

  “Thought you saw whom?”

  I was rubbing my wrist again.

  Finch placed his hand over mine, stopping me from making my wrist any redder than it already was. He stood and turned, eyeballing the man until he was satisfied. Then he sat back down. “It’s not him, Joss.”

  “I know. I know it’s not. I can’t help it sometimes, you know?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. Not while I’m with you.”

  It was those rare moments when he wasn’t that I worried about.

  I shifted my attention, focusing on the people around me. Most of the funeral attendees were nobodies, people I didn’t recognize. Scattered among them, attempting to look discreet, were a few officers dressed in plain clothes, including Blunt, who refused to look at me even though she knew I was there. Her eyes flicked around like darts trying to hit multiple targets, assessing every move, every twitch. My eyes were fixed on one person, Roland Sinclair, who kept his eyes on Alexandra’s casket.

  The services concluded with a song, and Roland stood. In his hand were two pink and white lilies. He walked to the casket, bent down, lifted Alexandra’s hand to his lips, and kissed it. He tucked the flowers beside her waist, took a deep breath, then walked away. Porter approached him on his way out. The two exchanged terse words, none of which seemed pleasant.

  Roland was the first to break away from the conversation. I stepped into the aisle before he passed me, wrapping my hand around his arm. “Mr. Sinclair, can I speak to you?”

  Tears pooled inside his eyes as he looked at me. “Not here, Miss Jax. Come with me.”

  I followed him outside and came face to face with Doyle Eldridge. His hands were folded in front of his waist. He paced the area in front of the first step, scratching at his head, then brushed past me, entering the funeral home. I didn’t know whether to talk to Roland or go after Doyle. I decided Doyle could wait. If he caused a stir inside, the cops would take care of him.

  I looked at Roland. “Alexandra’s husband just spoke to you. What did he say?”

  “Porter Wells isn’t Alexandra’s husband. He’s her ex-husband.” A black Jaguar with tinted windows pulled next to the curb, stopping in front of us. He opened the door, turned toward me, and said, “Get in.”

  I surveyed the crowd still in the church and didn’t see Finch. Thinking I’d be fine sitting in the pew for a few minutes while he went to the bathroom, he would probably be shocked when he returned and didn’t find me inside the church. Actually, maybe he wouldn’t be so shocked.

  “I don’t have much time,” Roland pressed. “Are you coming or not?”

  I slid onto the black leather in the backseat. Roland sat next to me. After the car pulled away, I looked out the back window and saw Finch, hands on hips, angry.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “I’m going to the airport. Where you choose to go afterward is entirely up to you.”

  It was easy to see what Alexandra saw in Roland. Dressed in a fitted gray suit, he was sophisticated and tall, at least six foot four, with short, dark, wavy hair and tanned skin. He looked Italian or Sicilian and smelled of jasmine and bergamot. I hoped he didn’t notice how I was shamelessly breathing him in.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

  “What question?”

  “I asked you what Alexandra Weston’s ex-husband said to you just now.”

  He twisted the top button on his shirt until it broke free, glanced out the window. “He blames me for Alex’s death.”

  “Why would he blame you?”

  “He has his reasons, which only make sense to him, I suppose.”

  What were his exact words?”

  “He said, ‘It’s your fault she’s dead. You murdered her.’”

  CHAPTER 26

  “Why would Porter blam
e Alexandra’s death on you?” I asked.

  Roland tugged at his chin. “Mmm ... jealousy perhaps?”

  “He knew about your affair, didn’t he?”

  “Alleged affair.”

  “It’s been in the tabloids for some time.”

  He winked. “And that makes it true?”

  “Are you denying it? I saw the way you looked when you leaned in to say goodbye. That wasn’t friendship. That was love.”

  “Spoken like a true author. You have a sharp eye. Good for you. I love my wife, Miss Jax.”

  “And you loved Alexandra too.”

  “Would it be so wrong if I did? Most people are lucky to have one true love in a lifetime. I’ve had two. I don’t regret it, and I’m not ashamed.”

  Forbidden love. It reminded me of the off-screen romance between screen actors Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy in the ’30s, a controversy still disputed today.

  “I’m not trying to pry into your relationship with Alexandra,” I said.

  “Then what are you trying to do?”

  “Find her killer.”

  “Why? What’s in it for you? You didn’t even know her. Not really. Whatever obligation you think you have because you’re here in town or because murder is what you write about for a living is unnecessary. The cops will sort it out.”

  “Maybe, but I’m here and I want to help.”

  He stared at me for some time before saying, “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not sure I believe you either.”

  He smiled. “What do you want from me?”

  “Answers to my questions,” I said. “Real answers.”

  “What are your questions?”

  “In your opinion, is there a chance Porter could have killed Alexandra?”

  “There’s a chance any person you saw today did it, and though I dislike Porter immensely, it’s doubtful he had anything to do with it.”

  “Why do you think that?” I asked.

  “He’s not clever enough to stage her murder himself.”