The Perfect Lie

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  “I don’t know. I’m new here. I just got this job a week ago, and I don’t want to cause any problems.”

  “A woman is dead,” I said. “Why would it cause a problem if you told the truth?”

  “What I saw might be nothing, but the more I think about it, the more I’m not sure.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A woman coming out of Miss Berry’s bedroom.”

  “What time?”

  “Within the last hour.”

  “Are you sure it was a woman and not a man?”

  She nodded.

  “How old?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t get a good look at her?”

  “I was coming around the corner, headed to the next room I had to clean. I assumed the woman was a friend of Miss Berry’s, so I didn’t think much of it. It all happened so fast, no more than five or ten seconds.”

  “Did you notice anything about her at all?”

  “She wore a hat, and honestly, her hair didn’t sit right.”

  “What kind of hat?”

  “A beanie.”

  I pointed to my head. “Like mine?”

  “It was longer and a charcoal color. It had a pom-pom on top.”

  “What do you mean her hair didn’t look right?” I asked.

  “What I mean to say is, it didn’t look real.”

  I pressed her for the height, weight, and attire of the woman she saw. Again she struggled with her answers. She described the height and weight as average, and as far as clothing went, she could only remember the woman had on a large coat with a faux fur rim along the hood. Fake fur to match her alleged fake hair.

  “Anything else?” I asked. “Did she talk to you?”

  She shook her head. “She never even looked at me. She kept her head down, walked past me, and out the front door.”

  “Did you see where she went, or if she got into a car?”

  “She didn’t get into a vehicle. She walked down the street and went around the corner. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m not really helping.”

  “You’re helping, more than you know,” I said. “When the police get here, I want you to tell them everything you told me.”

  “The police are here,” a male voice said.

  Detective Murphy canvassed the room, then turned toward Blunt who was standing behind him. “Sounds like this girl has some useful information. Take her downstairs and see what she knows.”

  Blunt started to speak, but Murphy held up a hand. “Take her downstairs, Blunt. That will be all.”

  Both women left the room. Murphy walked over to the computer, bent down. “What’s this then?”

  “A typed suicide note.”

  He smiled, finding it amusing.

  We exchanged information. I updated him on my visit with Elias’s mother, and he told me Porter had dropped Alexandra’s laptop by.

  “We opened the password-protected book file,” he said. “It was blank.”

  “The entire thing?” I asked.

  “The entire thing, which means, it was wiped or transferred to another device, or wiped and transferred.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “My best guess? Someone transferred the file onto a flash drive. Could have been Alexandra Weston. Could have been someone else. Hard to say. Either way you look at it, someone’s gone to great lengths to make sure that book doesn’t get published.” Murphy slid a pair of gloves on, riffled through the zippered parts of Barbara’s bag. “I tried calling Miss Berry this morning. When she didn’t answer, I called Pierce Glassman.”

  “Who’s Pierce Glassman?”

  “Alexandra’s lawyer.”

  “Her lawyer?”

  “Not her estate lawyer. The guy who looks over her publishing contracts. Alexandra has been a client of his since her first book. I heard he was a confidant. Someone she trusted implicitly.”

  I added her lawyer to the growing list of men she’d kept in her back pocket. “What did you find out from him?”

  “Nothing. Seems no one is available for comment today. Called the guy three times already.” Murphy laughed, but it was obvious he hadn’t taken too kindly to being slighted.

  “It’s Saturday,” I said. “He’s not in the office.”

  Now on the third zippered pocket inside the suitcase, his eyes locked on something. Using a pen he’d pulled from his pocket, he lifted out a bag of white powder. Holding it up in front of him, he squinted his eyes, inspecting it. “What do you wanna bet this here is fluoroacetate, the same poison used to kill Alexandra Weston?”

  “I’d say there’s a slim chance it isn’t.”

  He winked at me. “Convenient, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. A little too convenient.

  CHAPTER 46

  I found Pierce Glassman stretching against a gate in front of a house that looked like it was big enough to accommodate three families. Maybe four. His knee was bent, his hand palming a shoe grazing his left butt cheek. He looked to be in his mid-fifties and was short, five foot seven inches or so, but decked out in Nike from head to running shoe, his svelte body made up for every single inch of it and more. Body to body, he’d never measure up to Finch, no matter how hard he tried, but he was a pint-sized sight to behold nonetheless. I beheld for a solid minute before Finch caught me. He shook his head, pulled the car over, and I put the window down.

  “Are you Pierce Glassman?” I asked.

  Without turning, he replied, “Who’s asking?”

  “Joss Jax.”

  “Very funny. Try again.”

  “Turn around, Mr. Glassman.”

  He turned and eyed me then Finch, unfazed. “What can I do for you, Joss?”

  “Detective Murphy has been calling you all morning. You haven’t returned his call.”

  “I will later, when I have time.”

  “You’re finished with your run, aren’t you? Looks like you have time right now.”

  “I need a shower. Then I have some paperwork to go over. Then I have a dinner date.”

  “Suit yourself. If you don’t return his call, he’ll be coming over later.”

  “I won’t be here.”

  “Barbara Berry is dead,” I said.

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  “How?”

  “Killed herself.”

  “How?”

  “Poison.”

  He raised a brow. “Forgive me if I have a hard time believing she’d off herself. Are you certain?”

  “She left a suicide note.”

  His eyes expanded significantly, but he maintained his nonchalant, unaffected attitude. “Saying what, exactly?”

  “Saying she’s responsible for the death of Alexandra Weston.”

  “You’re joking, right? You must be.”

  “No joke, Mr. Glassman.”

  “What reason did Barb give for killing Alex?”

  “She killed her to keep Alexandra’s memoir from being published.”

  “What?”

  Pulling his shirt up, he wiped his face with it, then approached the car. When he leaned down and stuck his head through the window, the car filled with an unsavory stench of sweat and body odor. Maybe he was trying to make me go away. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “What do you know about Alexandra Weston’s memoir?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t tell you that.”

  “The book has gone missing from Alexandra’s computer. The police have her laptop. The file is there, but the manuscript is gone.”

  “What do you mean gone?”

  “I mean someone either erased it, or transferred it to a flash drive and then erased it. You wouldn’t happen to have a copy or know where I can get one?”

  “I don’t read her books. I just negotiate the contracts. I’m not a storage facility.”

  “I didn’t ask if you read it or not,” I said.

  “T
hen what are you asking?”

  “Did she ever talk to you about the contents of the book?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever express concern about anyone being upset with her over what she wrote in the book?”

  His head indicated no, but his eyes said yes.

  “Did someone threaten her?” I asked.

  He didn’t reply.

  “Someone did. Who? I already know about Paula Page. Anyone else I need to add to the list?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. You’re wasting your time and mine. I can’t help you.”

  He stood up and smacked the hood of the car with his fist like he was giving us permission to drive away. Of course, we didn’t.

  “It just seems odd,” I persisted. “Barbara has been Alexandra’s agent for years. To my knowledge, they’ve never quarreled, never had a falling out, and had nothing but respect for each other. And now I’m supposed to believe this crazy scenario where Barbara kills Alexandra and then herself?”

  The attorney sighed. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but all I’ll say is this: Barb wouldn’t have stopped the book deal. She had no reason to. Even if the contents within the book were scathing, Barb still would have pushed to publish it. As far as Alex goes, she offended a handful of people over the years.”

  “Just give me a name,” I said. “One name. I’m sure someone comes to mind. If you had to name one person who wanted Alexandra dead, who would it be?”

  “I’ve said more than I wanted to already.”

  “You haven’t said anything.”

  “Good meeting you, Joss.” He turned and walked away, but shouted over his shoulder, “Barb didn’t kill Alex, by the way.”

  “I know she didn’t,” I yelled.

  I know.

  CHAPTER 47

  January 10, 1990

  Elias Pratt stood tall and straight, hands clasped around the metal bars of his cell, reflecting on what would become the last moments of his life. Earlier in the day, he’d been told the execution team, the “strap-down people” as they were called, had completed their series of pre-death rehearsals. The oak chair known as Gruesome Gertie had been tested on several occasions by a man similar to Elias’s height and weight. The man had sat in the chair, checked the straps, ensured the seat was sturdy—solid enough to perform its duty that night without fail.

  What sparse belongings Elias had were boxed up and labeled for shipment to his mother. His head had been shaved, and an adult diaper secured, hidden beneath his pants.

  Whether or not he feared what was about to come next, it didn’t matter; the hour was at hand. Now, moments away from being escorted to the execution chamber, he felt no differently than he had the night he’d crouched over Sandra Hamilton’s body, waiting to be picked up by the police. It was a kind of numb resignation. The very same resignation he’d felt his entire life. Admitting it to himself now, he felt lighter, like a bar of truth had been lifted. Life. Death. It didn’t matter. Aging only put off the inevitable death all people experienced in the end. Only his end would have nothing to do with old age.

  During his time in prison, Elias had tried reaching out to Sandra through letters. He wanted to explain what happened the night she found her parents on the kitchen floor, to make her understand the motive behind their murders, behind why both of her parents died by his own hand. Contrary to his other murders, theirs had nothing to do with a robbery or because of a desire to kill. But he imagined she knew already.

  He’d loved her.

  At least, he’d thought he loved her at the time.

  Now he was certain his skewed idea of love was much different than the feelings most men and women had for each other.

  Still, he’d been smitten ever since the first time he saw her step out of Toby Fink’s car at the drive-in, ratted hair pulled back in a pink and white polka-dot scrunchy, acid-washed jeans so tight they looked like they were painted on. Elias wanted to touch her, to be near her, to learn everything about her. And he had.

  The good.

  The bad.

  The secret so revolting his blood sizzled like water boiling over on a stove when he learned it.

  His thoughts turned to Paula. If he had been capable of love, true love, he now knew it would have been for her. While plain and simple, the kind of girl most men never gave a second glance at, she was more devoted to him than any woman had ever been. So devoted, she had killed because of her love for him. He only wished he’d realized his true feelings for her before he’d crouched over Sandra, sacrificing his life for hers when he could have turned and fled. Fled and never looked back. Now he realized why Paula did what she did afterward, and why she told everyone she’d been raped. She’d killed for him, and still, he’d given up his life over Sandra.

  Two officers approached Elias’s cell. The taller one muttered, “It’s time.” He didn’t look Elias in the eye when he said it. The other officer shouted for Elias’s cell to be opened. As the cell gate parted in front of him, Elias couldn’t help but wish it could remain shut.

  Officers positioned themselves on both sides. He was then escorted into a room built with cinderblocks. The blocks were painted a dingy shade of white, which perfectly matched the tone of the room and what it was used for sometimes. Gruesome Gertie was in the center of the room, unoccupied and alone, her appearance so frightening he took two steps back when he saw her. The shorter of the two guards shoved him forward, and in one swift, surreal moment, Elias was stuffed into the chair. In seconds the leather straps were secured. One under the chin. One across the chest. One around his waist. Two over his wrists and elbows. A tight mask was positioned on his head, waiting to be pulled over his face when the time was right.

  The warden, coroner, and physician were all in place, eyes shiny, seeming almost too eager for the show to begin. Through the two-way glass in front of him, he scanned left to right, recognizing many faces in attendance. There were a few witnesses from prior victims’ families, at least two members of the news media, his mother, and one of his brothers.

  No Sandra and no Paula—only a faithful Alexa Weston sitting in the middle of the second row. Her face was stern, emotionless. In the company of everyone else, Elias figured she had no choice but to be impartial. To the world, she was supposed to see him the way they all did, as nothing more than a ruthless killer. He supposed it was true. No matter what spin she spun in her book to make him seem humane, he wasn’t. He smiled, recalling the past, knowing how proficiently he’d worked her over. He was sure she loved him, in her way, and she probably thought he felt the same, even though he didn’t.

  Sitting here now, watching her smooth a hand over her abdomen, over his baby, his unborn seed, he was filled with satisfaction.

  My legacy will live on.

  A man placed a microphone in front of Elias’s face. “Do you have a final statement?”

  He leaned forward, eyed Alexa for the last time, and spoke the words of investigative journalist I.F. Stone. “Every emancipation has in it the seeds of a new slavery, and every truth easily becomes a lie.”

  The headpiece was slipped over his face, and as the first round of electrical currents was administered and his body strained against the straps, he laughed and laughed and laughed, knowing no witness in the room, save one, would ever understand the last thing he had to say.

  CHAPTER 48

  November 29, 2015

  Alexandra Weston

  Sitting in a living room far smaller than the one she’d sat in many years earlier, Alexandra did what she didn’t do best. She waited. Stared at Paula Page. Paula stared at the floor. Alexandra wanted to move things along, but knew she couldn’t. Not yet. First she needed to allow ample time for Paula to absorb what she’d just said.

  A minute ticked by.

  Then two.

  Paula, it seemed, was too rattled to speak.

  Not that Alexandra blamed her.

  Writing a “where are they now” version of the most famous criminal
s Alexandra had interviewed over her thirty-five-year career was something she had no interest doing. The idea was good, and she had no doubt the book would sell well. The problem was, it didn’t fit into her plans to publish her memoir and retire. With this project taking up so much of her time, her memoir would have to wait until the following year.

  Since publishing Elias’s story twenty-five years earlier, Alexandra had come to see him in a different light. No longer young and naďve like she was when she wrote about him the first time, she could now see how he’d manipulated her, clouded her mind into writing the story he wanted her to tell. She regretted it. No man had ever managed that before, and no man since. Even now, she didn’t know how she had been so blind.

  The opportunity to fix past mistakes was an opportunity at redemption. It wouldn’t be jaded or muddled with confused emotion. It would be filled with only one thing: truth. Part of that truth was sitting across from her now.

  At long last, Paula’s mouth opened, and what followed was exactly what Alexandra expected. “What are you going to do with the information you know about me?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “What do you mean yet? What do you want to keep quiet?”

  “I don’t want anything,” Alexandra said.

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  “I thought you should know.”

  “How do you think it’s going to look when everyone finds out you knew I shot Sandra and you kept it to yourself?”

  Alexandra crossed one leg over the other. “How stupid do you think I am? I’m not going to say I found out all those years ago. I’m going to say I only recently discovered it.”

  “Then I’ll say you always knew.”

  Alexandra bobbed her shoulders up and down. “Do whatever you like. No one will believe you over me.”

  “Look around, Mrs. Weston. I’ve lost everything. My husband. My home. Thanks to you, he divorced me after finding out I lied about being raped. Imagine how it felt to lose the life I had and then find out you left it out of the book anyway. I don’t understand why you did it.”