The Last Best Lie

by Kennedy Quinn

  “Cross the line?” I said to Miss Livy.

  She tapped the “pause” icon on the screen. “It’s a local youth organization sponsored by our police. It refers to crossing the lines that divide us: race, gender, religion, social status. Mr. Thibodaux even added a ‘crossing the Mason Dixon line’ element by getting a friend of his from Chicago, a chief of police I believe, to arrange for children from a high school there to form a similar group. This video is of a project they did jointly with Habitat for Humanity to build new homes in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood in that city.”

  I nodded, and she hit the “play” icon.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez?” Jake said, off screen.

  A middle-aged man and a heavily pregnant woman, accompanied by a toddler of perhaps four years old with deep brown eyes and cascading tendrils of brown hair, solemnly walked up the stairs. They were met with friendly hoots and a chorus of “Hey, Mrs. R.! Hola, Mr. R.! Hi, Maria, did you see your new bedroom?”

  As they took their place standing beside the kneeling Christopher, Adalida, who had been standing behind him, draped her arms around his neck and kissed the top of his head. Her face radiated contentment and love. He looked up at her, beaming. She bent, brushed his cheek with her lips, and then stood, resting her hands on his shoulders as all eyes turned to the small family.

  From behind the camera, Jake said, “Juan, Emma, and Maria, on behalf of Habitat for Humanity and members of the New Orleans and Chicago chapters of “Cross the Line,” welcome to your new home.”

  “Yeah!” Chris shouted. He turned his head. “On three, guys! One, two, three—”

  “Cross the line! Build the future!” The teens shouted in raucous unison, flashing hand signals and pumping arms in the air. This followed by choruses of “Yeah! All right! Woohoo!”

  Mr. Rodriguez cleared his throat, his eyes swimming with tears he was clearly trying to hold back. His wife made no such attempt. She glowed with pride and anticipation, large tears rolling unabashedly down her face. “It’s so beautiful,” she said with heavily accented English. “Gracias, everyone. You cannot know what this means to us. We can raise our family with pride in this house. Family is everything. And you are all now our family, too. Maria?” she said, hugging the little girl to her legs. “Will you say thank you?”

  Maria swayed, smiled shyly, and clutched the hem of her dress. “Mommy, I got to pee.”

  Laughter erupted. “Me too!” A boy shouted.

  “Oh my God, so do I! Me first!” Alyssa squealed and then merrily jostled with the boy to get through the door of the house before him.

  Jake’s voice rang out as the video picture swayed and dipped back to the ground. “Everyone hit the head. I’m not stopping a hundred times on the drive home. Where the heck’s the off—” The screen went blank.

  We both took a deep breath. I felt the weight of despair starting to sink in my stomach. They’d been so happy, Jake and Adalida. And now she was dead and he … was he next?

  I straightened my shoulders. No. Not now. Now I need to move forward, to find what kind of monster would do such terrible things to this once-happy man and so many others. And to me, if he could. No. Mope later. Act now.

  Moving us back on track, I said. “Um. You know, Miss Livy, from what I saw there, I’d say Chris and Adalida had something going. Are you sure Chris wasn’t her boyfriend?”

  Miss Livy lifted an eyebrow. A subtle flush bloomed on her cheeks. “There was a time when I thought that they were a couple. We could all see the affection. I hate to say it, but … I heard that Christopher had, upon occasion, been seen in the company of … well, others.”

  “Other women?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly other women?”

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Well, my dear, if one is not a woman then one is …” She motioned with her hand as if expecting me to complete the sentence.

  I shrugged. “A girl?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “No, dear. A man.”

  “Ohhh. Chris was gay. Was that a problem?” I said, immediately on the defensive that, in this day and age, people could still carry such ridiculous prejudices.

  She waved a long-fingered hand in the air. “There were rumors. And, for some people, yes, my dear, that is still an issue.”

  I sighed, not really wanting to pry as to whether she was one of those people. Never ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer.

  She went on. “Still, Adalida and Christopher were always close. They were both artists: he a painter, and she an interior designer. I believe her pursuit of art brought them both to Chicago the summer she died. As I recall, Christopher was accepted by a rather prestigious summer arts program, one he became aware of during their stay in Chicago for the project you just saw. After high school, Adalida applied for an internship at a Chicago school of design and was accepted. Her father would not let her go to such a place alone, of course. So, Mr. Thibodaux arranged to join her for two months. I don’t really know what happened after that. But I do know that Adalida came back angry enough to spit fire at young Christopher and equally furious with her father.” She shifted her stance, her physical fidgeting displaying the mental discomfort her voice intimated. “When Christopher came home a few weeks later, they made up, as I heard it, yet things remained horribly awry between Adalida and her father. I’d like to believe that, given time, a father and daughter’s love would have seen them through the anger.” Miss Livy looked away, the shadow of regret on her face.

  I rubbed my hands together, touched with sadness for the man I knew and cared about. “But before that happened, she killed herself.” Miss Livy opened her mouth to protest. I quickly added, “Or was said to have done so.”

  Miss Livy inclined her head. “That seems the case.”

  “I wonder if she met that boyfriend in Chicago when she went to visit Chris?”

  “I honestly don’t know, my dear.”

  Hmm. Hunter would have been in Chicago by then. If Adalida’s beau had been a married man or otherwise “forbidden” as Miss Livy said, maybe Jake had talked to Hunter about … whoa! Could Adalida have had a fling with Hunter? Maybe she went to Chicago not to study art with her childhood friend, but to be with Hunter! Oh, Jake would have been furious!

  Wait. Madison, get real. Jake and Hunter couldn’t possibly have remained friends if that’s what happened. Unless Adalida had been the aggressor. I put my finger to my lips in thought and then went on. “Okay, so I can see her being mad at her father for not accepting her boyfriend. But why was she angry at Chris?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “It sounds like I should talk to Christopher.” I stared at his portrait, perplexed. Where had I seen him before? “Do you know where he lives, Miss Livy?”

  Her easy smile turned downward. “I’m afraid he disappeared soon after Adalida died. He may have gone back to live with his sister who’d moved to Chicago to be with him.”

  “Chris had a sister in Chicago?” There was a pricking at the back of my neck, as if my body knew I was on to something and was poking at my mind to catch up already.

  “An older sister,” Miss Livy added. “She went to the city to become someone, as they say today. Although she, eventually, moved again to join family in Canada. Québec, I believe.”

  “You wouldn’t know how to get in touch with her, would you?”

  She nodded. “I’ll print the address for you.” With a few more finger flicks, she’d called up an address book on the tablet, selected the information, and sent it to a printer that I heard whir to life in the room next door. She left the room to retrieve the document.

  I stood and went back to study Chris’s picture as I waited for Miss Livy’s return. He seemed so very familiar, but I couldn’t place him. It was infuriating!

  My stomach rumbled as delectable aromas wafted from the kitchen to taunt me. Miss Livy came back, scented like a cinnamon roll, and handed m
e a paper. “It’s the address of Chris’s cousin, Melissa DuChampes. Even if Christopher is not there, his sister, Tina, may be.”

  My knees almost buckled in surprise. “Tina! Did you say Tina?”

  “Why yes, my dear. Christopher’s sister’s name was Christina. But she went by Tina.”

  The woman from the alley was Chris’s sister! I grabbed Chris’s picture, covering those distracting and magnificent eyes with one hand. Light bulbs went off in my head like popcorn as the similarity of the shape of the cheeks and jaw became immediately obvious. “That’s why Chris looked so familiar! This explains everything!”

  “It does?” Miss Livy asked, seeming alarmed by my intensity.

  “Um. Well, maybe not everything.” I paused, scratching my ear. “Actually, it doesn’t explain much of anything. But it must mean something. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  I paced, my heartbeat quickening. Tina was the sister of Adalida’s best friend, Chris, who may or may not have been her boyfriend because he may or may not have been gay. Three years ago, Adalida may or may not have committed suicide. After which Chris disappeared. Or did he kill Adalida, making it look like a suicide, then run away? But why? And why, after three years, did Chris’s sister want to kill Jake? And if Chris wasn’t Adalida’s boyfriend, who was? Hunter? Could he stoop that low? No. Jake would never have forgiven him for that. Yet what if Hunter had wanted revenge for being denied Adalida? But after three years? What was the trigger?

  Wait! Jake taught George a trigger to warn me because he knew he was in danger. Something must have happened recently. What? Maybe Tina killed Adalida, and Jake just found out. But why would Tina want Adalida dead in the first place?

  I shook my head, trying to break free the haphazard strands of my thoughts. “Miss Livy, I need to find Tina.”

  “Then let’s try to call her.” She led me back to the couch and to a cordless phone sitting on the glass and mahogany end table. Taking the paper, she dialed the number for Melissa Du-Champes and handed me the phone.

  Melissa answered on the first ring. I asked for Chris, but she cut me short and told me my question wasn’t funny. I sputtered, and Miss Livy motioned for me to hand her the phone. Within moments of congenial, but firm, conversation, Miss Livy hung up.

  “She wouldn’t let you talk to him, either?”

  “She was very circumspect, but she’s obliged to protect her family, after all. However, I think if you went there, you might get to see Tina, at least.”

  “Go there?” I rubbed at my stiffening shoulder and rotated my neck. I’d have to ask for help now. I couldn’t afford to let Tina get away. “Hunter,” I grumbled absently.

  “My dear?”

  “I was thinking about Maxwell Hunter, Jake’s ex-partner. I’ll need his help.”

  “Not a pleasant thought.” Miss Livy raised an eyebrow.

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally. If you will pardon my un-Christian attitude, I should not like to. I have heard he is quite difficult, especially since his wife died.”

  “Wife?” I said, irritated with myself for the jealousy the word enflamed.

  “As I heard it, his wife was the calming influence in his life. He’d always been hot-tempered, but after she passed on, some ten years back, he became as the devil himself. Mr. Thibodaux truly had his hands full keeping that man out of jail. In fact, Mr. Hunter was, how do they say, allowed to retire following some sort of trip to our nation’s capital five years ago.”

  “Really?” I remembered the dry cleaning ticket from Jake’s lockbox. Perhaps there was some connection. “I’d bet that put Hunter in bad with his precinct.”

  “Indeed. Heaven help him if he ever gives them reason to cast him in jail, I can tell you.”

  The devil tapped me on the shoulder. “Is that so?”

  Miss Livy narrowed her eyes. “You look like the cat that just got the birdcage open.”

  “I think I just did. Do you mind if I make another quick call? This one’s local.”

  “Not at all, my dear. Go right ahead.”

  I called F. Gloria to see what had happened to Hunter. He was in jail, as I suspected. She told me it had taken several of the store’s security personnel to do it, but they’d taken Hunter down and held him for the local police. Hanging up, I told Ms. Livy about the incarceration. I didn’t say why Hunter was in jail; it felt too indelicate to mention the circumstances to such a lady. Happily, she didn’t press for details. I said, “If I can get in to see him, I think I can convince him to fund a trip to see Tina.”

  “That would be uncharacteristically kind of him,” she said doubtfully.

  Not really, because I’m going to blackmail him. “Well, we, um, have a relationship.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Oh, no!” I said quickly. “Nothing like that! It’s more that we’re both indebted to Jake and want to help him. But I doubt the local police will just let me stroll in to say hello.”

  Miss Livy smiled, her eyes dancing. “Do you know that I attend church with the mothers of many of the policemen at the eighth district where Mr. Hunter is currently being detained?”

  That brought a wide grin to my face.

  “Hand me the phone, my dear.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Less than an hour later, I was following a young New Orleans policeman to Hunter’s cell.

  My escort had a boxer’s heavy, square frame and a buzz-cut sharp as porcupine quills. But he also had the sweetest eyes: long, black lashes surrounding the kind of chocolate brown that melted in my mind.

  “So, tell me,” I said as we walked, “did you know Hunter or Jake?”

  “No, ma’am. They were before my time. But I heard of them, all right.”

  “What did you hear?”

  He shrugged. “That they knew how to get the job done. And they did it the right way—Jake anyway. But after his missus passed on, Hunter was nothing but trouble. He kept pissing people off—pardon my French—left, right, and center. A lot of people are getting a kick out of seeing him behind bars.”

  That should have made me happy. So why was I suddenly feeling sorry for Hunter? So what if he lost his wife; he’s a rat. Why should I care how he feels? I exhaled forcefully, as if trying to push the thoughts out with my breath. “But Jake, he had a good rep?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I heard you’re working with him. That puts you in good around here.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Miss Livy called. That’s how come the boss let you back here.”

  “Just like that?”

  “It was Miss Livy,” he said, as if that clearly explained enough.

  “Tell me more about Jake.”

  We paused at a door. My companion tapped a keypad on the wall to the right, and I heard a heavy bolt slide back. We walked through it into another, darker, decidedly warmer and more humid corridor. “I heard he was a straight-shooter. Took care of the good guys, whipped up on the bad. People put up with Hunter on account of him, mostly. Jake kept his ass—pardon my French again—from being grass more than once. I heard, though, that Hunter finally did something so bad Jake had to get him out of town or arrest him himself. In the end, he convinced the bosses to let Hunter walk without charges.”

  Doubt, whether from instinct or wishful thinking, nagged at me. I couldn’t see Jake putting up with a crooked partner, although no one’s actually accused Hunter of dishonesty, so far, just bullying. “I don’t suppose you know the details?”

  The officer shook his head. “Nope. I heard Jake kept the evidence though.”

  “But if that were true, wouldn’t Hunter hate Jake?”

  “Who says he didn’t?”

  Just then, two policemen turned into the corridor from a side hall. Older men, one blond and one a redhead, both wore uniforms stretched against age-widened bellies. They laughed in a nasty way, like high school dweebs who just vandalized some bully’s locker.

  As he passed, the blond brought his hand to a non
existent hat. “Ma’am,” he said, but as he looked me full in the face, his eyes went wide. “Holy moly! Sara?” The man’s broad mouth split into a grin and his eyes went wide and bright, glee shining out from them. He glanced back down the hallway. “Hunter’s gonna shit a brick!”

  The man’s partner narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “No,” he said, peering at me like a specimen on a lab slide. “That’s not her.” He grabbed his buddy by the arm and pulled him away. “Sorry, miss, our mistake.”

  Sweet-Eyes and I watched the two men stride away.

  The blond sputtered. “But doesn’t she remind you of—?”

  “Let it go,” the redhead said. “It’s nothing to laugh about. People died, remember?”

  I looked up at my escort. “What was that all about?”

  The man shrugged, seeming equally perplexed. “Don’t rightly know. I could ask—”

  “No,” I said, an uneasiness settling over me, like I was missing out on a clue I couldn’t afford not to get. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He pointed to the hallway from which the men emerged. “Yes, ma’am. This way.”

  We turned the corner and proceeded another fifty feet. Most of the jail was modern: hardly luxurious but relatively clean and in working order. But here, the fluorescent lights weakened and sputtered intermittently. A swamp-like humidity pressed in around me. I’d bet someone “accidentally” turned off the air conditioning back here.

  Hunter sat in a cell at the end, perched on a cot so frail it looked like it might collapse from exhaustion. In the diffuse lighting, I glimpsed a toilet, skewed to one side, and a sink hanging on the wall. The faucet dripped an annoying drip, drip, drop, drip, drip, drop. Hunter looked a bit battered, but otherwise relatively at ease, as if he’d just ordered a crème brûleé and was more bored than angry with the waiting.

  If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it. Instead, he focused lazily on my escort. “Phones still out, boy?”

  Sweet-Eyes rested his weight against the bars. Grinning, he said, “Damnedest thing. They worked fine this morning. Then you go to make a call to your lawyer, and every phone in the building up and dies.” He smiled. “Don’t you fret, though. We all know how important you are. I’m sure everyone’s just a’scramblin’ to set it straight.”