Lie in the Moment

by Nicole Camden

  “Burner phones. I can’t track shit. Already tried.”

  Grimacing, Roland nodded to himself; he’d expected as much. “Any progress on finding the kid or the woman?”

  “Not yet. I’ll keep you posted,” Nick said flatly, and hung up.

  Roland set the phone aside and gunned the Rolls’s engine, turning around sharply and heading back down the ramp out of the parking garage. Even with the snow, at this hour and in this car, it would take him less than ten minutes to get to the South Boston police station. He just hoped ten minutes was enough time.

  SEVEN AND A half minutes later, he pulled up to a visitors’ lot behind Maura’s station. It was surrounded by a chain-link fence and piles of snow that had been shoved up to the curb by the plows; the entrance was manned by a uniformed officer from the canine unit, a German shepherd at his side. News vans were gathering on the side streets, and Roland saw that several cameras were pointed in his direction.

  Roland explained why he was there and the officer had let him pass, but it wasn’t even forty-five seconds after he was out of the car and striding through the lot toward the building that he was stopped by reporters.

  “Is it true it was your vehicle that was destroyed yesterday afternoon, Mr. Chandler?” A microphone was thrust in his face, and an eager brunette was matching him step for step, her camera crew jogging alongside them.

  “What do you know about what’s happened here at the station this morning? There’s a rumor that an officer was killed,” she continued.

  Roland didn’t pause, but his heart kicked into a new gear. Maura.

  The officer at the duty desk recognized him and gave him a visitor’s badge, but wouldn’t let him into the squad room until Maura or another officer came to collect him. In the meantime, the reporters who had arrived for the scheduled press conference were gathered around, peppering him with questions.

  “Why do you think you were targeted?”

  “Why were you meeting Detective Maura O’Halloran?”

  “What is your relationship with Boston PD?”

  Roland ignored the questions as long as he could, then said, “You’ll have plenty of opportunity to ask questions at the press conference later this morning.”

  “But Mr. Chan—”

  Roland didn’t hear the rest of the question. Maura was striding down the hall in her usual blazer and pants, her hair tied back neatly. She was pale, her freckles standing out even more against her skin, but she moved like she was ready to punch someone. Roland let out a deep sigh of relief. She stopped several feet away from the reporters, ignoring the flashing lights, and waved him forward.

  “He can come back,” she said to the officer who’d stopped him. “But get the reporters under control. They need to move back to the waiting area. This is a crime scene, for God’s sake.”

  Roland joined her, resisting the urge to take her arm.

  “Come on,” she muttered, turning away from the melee, “shit’s crazy around here. If you weren’t who you are, your ass wouldn’t be getting back here.”

  But you’re okay, he thought.

  He followed her back to the squad room, which was crowded with cops, both uniformed and plainclothes. “Someone was killed? A cop?”

  She nodded, gesturing to an empty chair near her desk. “Have a seat. As soon as the press conference is over—if the press conference is still on—we need to go somewhere and talk. In the meantime . . . ” She handed him a phone. “This was in my locker here at the station. I received several really interesting texts and then the phone just went dead, like my other cell.”

  She wasn’t looking at him as she casually handed over the phone; her gaze seemed to be focused on a nearby discussion between her captain and several other officers.

  “What happened?” Roland asked as he removed the back of the phone and pulled out the battery.

  Maura turned away from listening to the conversation and sat in the chair behind her desk. They were sitting side by side, but she still wasn’t facing him directly. Instead she pulled a fat file folder closer to her and flipped it open. Roland saw that it was the file on the bomber, a surveillance photo of the kid who was a known associate of Keenan. “A cop was shot and killed by someone who came from inside the station. I think it was the same person who left me that.” She looked at the phone in his hands.

  “Why are you pretending that we’re not having a conversation?” He paused what he was doing—examining her SIM card. “You didn’t tell anyone about this, did you?” He wagged the phone from side to side.

  She shook her head. “There’s no proof. The phone melted down after I opened the texts.”

  Roland disagreed, shaking his head. “He sent me pictures of you, too. And a video of you here at the station. In the shower. That’s proof.”

  He saw her shudder, just slightly, and he wanted to punch Keenan in the face. “Yeah, that’s what I saw, but I can’t prove anything, can’t prove it was Keenan, and I already dusted the damn thing for prints, inside and out. There aren’t any but mine. If you have the video, that’s something, but you and I both know that trying to figure out where those texts came from is a fat waste of time.”

  Since her SIM card was a charred mess—and so far Nick hadn’t been able to track any of the texts beyond proxy servers—he had a feeling she was correct.

  “So you’re just not going to mention it? No offense, Maura, but I’m surprised that you would break protocol this way.”

  “None taken,” she muttered. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me. And I did tell the detective lieutenant about someone being in the women’s locker room. I just didn’t mention the phone. They’re reviewing the surveillance cameras from the entrance to the locker room in the captain’s office.”

  “You’re not invited?”

  “I made the mistake of suggesting that this was related to Keenan. Captain doesn’t have much patience for me anymore.”

  Roland heard the dismay in her voice and held out a hand in commiseration, reaching for her. “I will talk to him. Now probably isn’t the best time, though.”

  “No,” she agreed, avoiding his touch. “And maybe we shouldn’t look too friendly here in the station. Bad enough I was with you at the bowling alley.”

  “Bad enough?” He tried not to sound offended, even though he didn’t really know why he was offended. Maybe he had just grown too used to adulation.

  She waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”

  Roland let it drop. It wasn’t important at the moment, but when he got her alone, she was going to get a taste of “bad enough.”

  “Hey,” Bert said, holding out his hand for Roland to shake. “Good to see you again, Roland.”

  “You, too, Bert. How’s Michael?” He stood and shook the man’s hand.

  “He’s doing better, thank you.”

  Maura, still sitting at her desk, looked back and forth between them. “I take it you two know each other?”

  Boatman shrugged, scratching behind his ear. “We’ve met at the hospital a couple times during one of Shaw the Magician’s shows.”

  Maura nodded. “Your friend the magician, Milton?”

  Roland nodded.

  She looked vaguely troubled, a frown notched between her brows. He started to ask her what was wrong when another voice interrupted their conversation.

  “Roland, we weren’t expecting you quite this early.” Maura’s captain was a short, square-jawed man who strutted with his chest forward and his chin angled high. He led a small crowd of both suited detectives and uniformed officers, their expressions taut and set.

  “Captain Maynard,” Roland acknowledged. “I needed to speak with Detective O’Halloran.”

  The crowd turned to look at Maura. Most of them nodded respectfully, but Captain Maynard’s expression turned disgruntled. “Yes, well, I’m afraid the press conference regarding the bombing has been pushed aside in the wake of what has happened here this morning.”

  “Understood,” Roland said, g
lancing at Maura. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “I appreciate that,” the man said with a nod, already walking away out of the squad room, the crowd of officers following behind.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Maura turned on him. “I thought you were going to help me convince him that Keenan is behind this.”

  Roland sat down next to her again and plucked the folder with photos of the possible bomber out of her hands. “He was too busy to listen to anything I had to say at the moment.”

  Bert snorted and heaved himself into his desk chair. “He’s too busy to listen to anyone, ever.”

  Roland flipped through the images of the kid who was suspected of working with Keenan. “Have you been able to contact his family? Find out if they might know where he is?”

  Glancing at Bert, Maura raised an eyebrow at her partner.

  Bert shifted, sighed, and said, “I spoke with his father—who was not pleased to be woken up at this hour. Apparently the kid ran away over eighteen months ago, but not until after he set off a small explosive device in the trash can outside his high school. Luckily no one was hurt. His mother wouldn’t answer the phone and his cousin Jessie wasn’t home when we called. Chicago PD is on the lookout for him as well.”

  “Did his father seem concerned?”

  “Not so you’d notice.”

  Shaking his head, Roland flipped the folder closed and handed it back to her. “I can find out more at the office. Maura, why don’t you come with me?”

  She looked taken aback. “Come with you? Why?”

  Roland looked at Bert, who was studiously examining his coffee mug. “So I can get you a secure cell phone, for one, and two, so you can act on anything Milton and Nick find out about the kid.”

  “I’m waiting on surveillance footage from here at the station. Someone was in the locker room with me this morning. And I can get my own phone.” She was glaring at him with her eyes narrowed.

  Nodding his head in Bert’s direction, Roland said, “I’m sure Bert will call you.”

  “The captain will want to oversee that footage, Maura. One of our own was killed.”

  Roland shifted. He hadn’t asked Maura or Bert about the officer who had been murdered. “I’m sorry. Was it someone you knew well?”

  Both detectives looked away. Maura ran her hands up and down her thighs and then clasped her hands together, as if to keep them still. “He was about to retire,” she said softly. “One of my father’s friends.”

  Roland mentally winced. “Does he know?”

  Shaking her head, Maura stood. “I’m sure he does. I can’t go to your office right now. Since there’s no press conference at the moment, I need to get home and check on my father and Maddie.”

  “I’ll drive you,” he offered, somehow knowing that she would refuse.

  She did more than just refuse; she flat-out denied him and everything about his existence, with a single cold shake of her head. “That’s the last thing I need at the moment.”

  “Is it?” he said softly, his voice dangerously low. If Maura O’Halloran thought he was going to let her out of his sight after the events of this morning, she would soon learn otherwise.

  MAURA WASN’T SURE how she ended up sitting in a Rolls-Royce at noon on a Monday, her fingers surreptitiously rubbing the butter-soft leather seats while Miles Davis played on a fine sound system, but somehow nothing seemed quite as bad as it had just a half hour earlier. Roland had threatened to tell her captain to take her off Keenan’s case completely if she didn’t allow him to take her home. At first she hadn’t believed him, but his face was so deadly serious that she’d given in. She’d been irritated about it, determined to shut him out completely, but now, sitting in the quietest, fastest, sexiest car on the planet, she found her anger sliding away, along with a good deal of fear. So she was shallow, sue her.

  “How often do you drive this car?” she asked quietly, enjoying the way he handled the power of the V12 engine. He drove with ruthless efficiency and speed—she didn’t have to tell him once to hurry up.

  He kept his eyes on the road as he replied, but a hint of amusement played around his mouth. “Often enough. It attracts too much attention in the city.”

  “Yeah.” Since she was guessing it cost upward of half a million dollars¸ she imagined it would attract quite a bit of attention. Half a million. Truly, the mind boggled. “Shouldn’t you be in the office today?”

  “One of the benefits of owning the company. Occasionally, you can leave without permission.”

  “Why do you work at all?” If she had billions of dollars, she would . . . do exactly what I do now, she concluded in her head. She wasn’t built to do nothing. She’d go batshit crazy in a week.

  “People depend on me. Employees. Milton. Nick. Wealth doesn’t always mean irresponsibility.”

  “So you’re just a humanitarian at heart, huh? That’s why you drive this beast?” She rubbed the dash slowly, petting the exquisite wood grain like a lover; it was slick and soft beneath her touch.

  “You’re molesting my vehicle.”

  Maura hid a smile. “You know that no one drives their own Rolls. Where’s your driver? Your friend Milton has a driver.”

  She stretched her legs out, suddenly realizing how tired she was. The car was huge, as wide and long as a minivan, though it only sat four people. Yawning, she leaned the seat backward.

  “I didn’t buy this beast to let someone else drive it,” she heard him reply, as if from a long way off.

  “Maura,” Roland murmured, shaking her shoulder. “Wake up. We’re here.”

  Jerking upright with a sharply indrawn breath, Maura automatically reached for the duty weapon at her hip. He checked her motion, putting his hand over her wrist.

  “It’s all right,” he said quietly, and used his gaze to direct her attention out the passenger’s-side window. Through the tinted glass, she could see her father sitting in his wheelchair in the open front door, a checkered afghan thrown over his legs. The afghan, she knew, was more to conceal the gun he was carrying than to keep him warm.

  Their house was one of many tall, narrow, three-story brick houses with a short flight of stairs leading to a front stoop. Wrought-iron banisters lined each set of steps. Their neighborhood had grown trendy over the past decade, but O’Hallorans had lived in the house since the 1940s. She’d had to get special permission to add a wheelchair ramp to the back of the house.

  “I’m never going to hear the end of this,” she concluded, reading her father’s expression as he stared at the massive Wraith—which was taking up most of the space by the curb in front of their house. He would know whom it belonged to as sure as he knew the weight of a loaded gun in his hands.

  Roland nodded, still holding her wrist. “Come on, I’ll walk you inside.”

  “Not necessary.”

  He ignored her, opening the driver’s-side door and stepping out onto the snow. She watched him walk around the front of the car, admiring his profile, the sharp line of his nose, the sunglasses, and the sweep of gray at the temples of his otherwise dark hair.

  Realizing that she was sitting in the car like an idiot, she opened her door quickly and threw a leg out, stepping ankle-deep into an icy puddle.

  “Shit,” she muttered, and accepted the hand he held out to her. He drew her up with that crazy strength that never failed to surprise her. He shut the car door behind her and set the alarm, but Maura still scanned the street to make sure no one was paying too much attention, even though the streets were mostly empty at this time of day, while the kids were in school and their parents were at work.

  Snow glistened brightly in the sunshine, sparkling where it lay undisturbed on top of trees and the eaves of roofs and looking like gray slush everywhere else.

  Maura shoved her hands into the pocket of her coat and trudged toward the steps that led to her house, knowing that her father intended to embarrass her. He always embarrassed her; it was what the man did.
He would be especially unhappy about this, though. Unhappy on top of grieving for his friend.

  “You never listen to a damn word I say,” her father muttered as Maura and Roland began to climb the steps to her house, Maura leading the way but Roland no more than a pace behind.

  “I listen,” Maura replied. “I just ignore.”

  He pointed one bony finger at Roland. “He’s no good, Maura. And I don’t want him in this house.” Her father’s glasses were crooked on his face and his once black hair was completely white, though still thick and full. The eyes behind his glasses were red and soggy-looking.

  Next to her, Roland removed his gloves. “Sir, I understand your opinion of me, and back then you were right, but I haven’t been that boy for a long time.”

  Something in his voice made Maura glance up at him, glance up at the long lean face with the high cheekbones and the narrow, straight nose. She thought he was telling the truth. What had he done, that even now he still tried to make amends?

  “You’re worse. Now you cover up your crimes with charity. Once a crook, always a crook. That’s what I say.”

  Maura stamped her feet and sighed. “Dad, it’s freezing out here. Let’s go inside and you can tell me again why you think Roland is a bad guy.”

  “Don’t know why you’d listen now when you never have before,” he muttered, but he wheeled himself backward and then turned around, leading the way into the house.

  Maura followed him, stopping in the doorway and facing Roland. He was standing too close. Much, much too close. Her eyes were level with his chest. She felt her cheeks heat as she recalled sliding down the length of his body, kissing him, taking him deep in her mouth. Behind him, the Wraith glowed in its emerald-green glory.

  “You should go,” she urged, knowing that her father wouldn’t let up. “The Rolls isn’t safe in this neighborhood.”