Liar, Liar

by Winter Austin

  Which was damn near impossible. He couldn’t actually be attracted to Liza Bartholomew. No way, no how. No woman would take Cheyenne’s place.

  He was vulnerable at the moment. That was it. Normally after the anniversary night, he would still be secluded in his home, quarantined from all human contact for the next day or so. He wouldn’t emerge until it was over and he could face people again. But this murder, Liza’s abrupt arrival—it was throwing him all sorts of out of whack.

  Nothing else explained his irrational need to open his mouth and insert foot. Or have weird pangs of embarrassment. And feel those funny little sparks in his chest. Or an uncontrollable need to experience the feel of her lips against his own.

  Yeah, he’d completely jumped off the roof with only a red sheet tied to his neck.

  Pulling into the department lot, he bypassed his usual parking spot behind the building and took an open slot next to a dark green truck. Leave it to Con to be right on time. Gathering his fatigued and aching body, Shane slid out of the cab and hauled ass to the front door.

  The drone of conversation lured him to the open bullpen. Camped out at her desk with her red head bent over a binder, Murdoch was discussing something with Con. Once the young deputy had taken Shane’s advice and became his budding investigator, she’d spent long hours learning how to do the job with Eider PD’s lone detective. Con O’Hanlon was a good instructor, and Shane welcomed his experience in helping pull out Murdoch’s natural instincts.

  “Murdoch, don’t you have somewhere to be?” was warning enough for the two to know he’d arrived.

  Con nodded a greeting and pushed up from his seat next to the desk.

  Murdoch flipped the binder shut then swung her chair around. “Took you long enough.”

  “Showing someone the ropes takes time. I’m back, so shove off. Go remind that Aussie bartender why he’s going to marry you.”

  His deputy’s features wrinkled in an expression that resembled a grossed-out teenager. “If I’m getting your implied meaning, that’s wrong on so many levels.” She vacated her seat and gathered her gear. “Later, Con.”

  Con’s inquiring look gave Shane a twinge. Shit! He’d said something that put his friend on alert.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you actually tease her quite like that before.”

  Shane shrugged, heading for his office. “Doesn’t mean I’ve never done it. You just weren’t around to hear it.”

  “You didn’t do it with Nic, or Cassy for that matter.” Con took up his usual spot in the most comfortable chair in the office besides the one behind Shane’s desk. Kicked back and looking all too relaxed with his right ankle resting on his left knee, Con interlaced his fingers and tapped the tips against his chin. Freud had entered the room. “So, what’s the deal with Agent Bartholomew? And why did Roslin Avery burn her home to the ground?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Murdoch. Then again, I didn’t miss much coming from the jail when Roslin started in on her ranting about thirty minutes ago.”

  Now that he mentioned it, Shane hadn’t heard a peep out of the woman when he arrived. “What calmed her down?”

  “I think she passed out. Apparently, it’s hard work being a crazy woman. Now, about Agent Bartholomew?”

  Shane jerked open a deep desk drawer and rummaged for his emergency box of chocolate fudge Pop-Tarts. Bolting down that rib-eye sandwich as he returned from Cassy’s might have been a mistake. He was still starving. “What about her? She’s here for reasons I can’t divulge.”

  “Any investigator worth their badge will be able to put two and two together on that one.”

  Aha! One packet left. Shane snagged the foil-wrapped sugary goodness. Reminder, bring another box. Ripping off a corner with his teeth, he freed the precious tarts from their cellophane.

  “Boyo, you’re about to turn fifty, and you’re still eating those?”

  “Your point being?”

  Con’s eyebrows rose. “If Nic caught me eating that garbage, I’d get my arse kicked three ways to Sunday. Two words: heart attack.”

  “When did you turn into an old nag?”

  “Where’ve you been? I’ve always nagged. So says my wife.”

  Rolling his eyes, Shane took another bite out of the doubled tarts. Theirs was an unexpected friendship, Con being much younger while they were in school, and each having wildly different interests. The years Shane was away from McIntire County—aside from his aging parents—he’d maintained contact with Con, but the Irishman knew nothing about Shane’s other life. Sadly, about the time he’d been working up the words to ask Con to be his best man, Cheyenne died.

  “I have some interesting news on the untimely death of our superintendent,” Con said, dropping his Freudian facade.

  “Let’s hear yours first.”

  Con dug out a notepad from his uniform pocket. Licking his forefinger and thumb, he paged through the sheets to the right point. “Apparently, a few school board members got suspicious about some activities Mr. Avery was performing.”

  “Such as?”

  “Going to ‘special’ training classes for administrators that there are no records of him having attended. Trips for functions he claimed he was required to be at, and once again, no records of these functions.”

  “So, that’s how he did it?”

  Con’s mouth quirked. “Did what?”

  He knew. Shane never underestimated this man with his knowledge.

  “Let me guess, all that money he claimed for reimbursement can’t be found? The board has been trying to audit his finances and ran into red tape and hoops they have no hope of getting through.”

  Con’s twirled finger encouraged Shane to continue.

  “And now that he’s dead, they’re even more panicked, because the audit revealed that money has been shifted around in accounts that were previously unnoticed.”

  “Which begs the question . . . ”

  “How did Avery get access to those accounts when superintendents aren’t allowed to even get a whiff of them without board and state approval?” Shane polished off the last of his chocolate fudge tart and leaned forward, swallowing the sugary bite. “The better question is, how did a conman convince a whole school board that he was qualified to run a school when he isn’t even a real superintendent?”

  “That’s your tidbit of news?” Con asked. Then the light bulb blinked on over his head. “And that’s why Agent Bartholomew is here.”

  “Gene Avery isn’t who he claimed to be. He’s been under investigation by the FBI for years.”

  “Do we even know what his real name is?”

  Shane shook his head, rocking back in his chair. “Bartholomew hasn’t revealed that to me yet. From what I gathered, she might not have a clue. The guy changed IDs like he changed clothes. Hell, he probably forgot who he truly was.”

  “How’d he manage to avoid capture this long?”

  “Plastic surgery. The photo she had of him didn’t even match the man in the morgue.”

  “But it caught up with him.” The Freud expression returned.

  “Someone in this county figured out who and what he was. Right now, my money is on Roslin.”

  “Because she burned down the house? While I’m not one to argue the matter, nine times out of ten, it would be the spouse. But that man gathered enough enemies in his lifetime; it could be anyone. And let’s not forget, Roslin came with him. We don’t even know her background. Let’s get a clearer picture of who Gene Avery really was and how many people he screwed over in the past who are capable of murder.”

  “That will have to come from Liza.”

  Aw, shit, he opened the cunning drawer of his friend’s mind on that one.

  “Liza, eh?”

  “Don’t read anything into it.” Shane pushed to his feet. “You keep working the school board and the money trail. If you can track down the funds he squirreled away, maybe we can locate his other ill-gotten gains. I’
ll focus on Roslin and the other personas of Gene Avery.”

  “How are you so sure I’ll succeed where the FBI hasn’t?”

  Shane grinned. “I’m not. I’m playing on the hunch that your fresh eyes will catch something they’ve missed.”

  “That’s a whole lotta wishful t’inking.”

  • • •

  The food had been fabulous, the shower even better. Thankfully, she still had clean undergarments tucked inside her to-go bag, no awkward moment of “borrowing” something of Cassy’s. ’Course that woman’s taste in bras and panties was truly an eye opener.

  What kind of panties did Hamilton like? Oh, Liza, what kind of thoughts are those? Sweet mercy, don’t you have any pride?

  Nope, not a bit. The cowboy sheriff was truly an interesting topic she wanted to explore. Forget whatever she’d learned before, Shane Hamilton was an enigma that deserved solving.

  Oh, let it be me.

  From the moment he’d shown her how to take care of the horses and then made sure she was set for the night, Liza wanted to know what a good-night kiss from him felt like. It was crazy thinking about him like he was an itch that needed scratching.

  If she was honest with herself—and hell, when wasn’t she?—Shane was the type of guy she could see testing the waters with again. He carried himself in a way that declared to the whole damn world that he was in charge and the world better take notice, but not in a way that was bullish. He was more unassuming, the whole silently assertive type, and it spoke to a part of Liza that she was just beginning to understand about herself.

  She was tired of being alone and tired of making all the decisions, wrong or right. Of having her supervisor breathing down her neck, and Kurt dumping his crap on her shoulders. She didn’t know how much longer she could struggle under the burden of these loads.

  Okay, let’s consider this antidepressant commercial over.

  Wearing a loose pair of athletic pants and a long-sleeved tee, she wrangled all of her clothing into the washer. There were just some things she was crazy grateful for, and spending time in someone’s home with a washer and dryer rather than in a hotel was one of them. Now that she was satiated, Liza wanted to curl up in bed.

  She peered into the Hunts’ bedroom, then down the hall to where a new guest wing had been added but not completed, then to the living room, and back to the bedroom. It would be just too weird to sleep in the couple’s bed. The couch did look comfortable. One night wouldn’t kill her. With a shrug, she padded into the living room. After locating a fitted sheet to cover the cushions, a fluffy pillow, and a thick flannel blanket, Liza made a cozy nest and crawled in.

  Clicking through the multitude of satellite channels, she found a music-only station playing the Eagles style of rock. She dragged her leather carrying case close, and, one by one, she pulled out the files, reviewing each header, though she didn’t really need the reminders. Laying them out over the coffee table and the empty spot on the couch beside her, she took a deep breath.

  There has to be something in them I missed. Something that can tell me who might have killed him.

  “Sure, Liza, you know who wanted to kill him. How about everyone he’s stolen from, or the friends and family of the people he so callously killed?”

  The folder with the information on the warehouse fire was smack in the middle. That file she hadn’t memorized. It was the black mark on this whole case, the catalyst for her wanting to leave the FBI. It was the part in the entire affair that didn’t make sense. The warehouse fire was the only incident to her knowledge where Ripley had actually killed.

  Liza reached for the file. If she skipped the photos of the bodies, she could read the report, revisit what she remembered. Not that she could ever forget the sight of the charred building and the smell of cooked flesh.

  Don Henley sang out. Her hand spasmed, and she snatched it away from the file. Grabbing up her cell, she sighed. For all that’s holy and right.

  “Hello.”

  “What are you doing, Liza? Quinn saw you on TV tonight and freaked out.”

  Oh God, she’d hoped the TV crews hadn’t gotten footage of her. “Kurt, I’m fine, as you can clearly tell.”

  “But Quinn doesn’t know that, or understand. He’s been banging on his bedroom door for the last two hours. I can’t get him to calm down.”

  “Turn on your video chat and show him. Now.”

  “Liza.”

  “Kurt, do it!”

  Damn him for waiting so long. Damn it, damn it, damn it!

  Liza jerked her phone down, accessed the video chat app, and waited for Kurt to do the same. The peach walls of his home popped up on her screen. Repetitive banging echoed through her speaker, the only sound, other than Kurt’s labored breathing. He entered the dimly lit bedroom and dropped down on the floor next to his son. Liza winced at the reddened fist. Blood smeared the white wood.

  “Q, hey, buddy, Auntie Liza is on the phone.”

  The boy wouldn’t acknowledge his dad; his fist kept up the steady cadence. Pain meant nothing to him; somehow his nerves and his brain wouldn’t register the connection. So the doctors claimed. Liza’s uneducated guess was that Quinn wanted something to feel, and pain had been the most logical choice in his jumbled mind.

  “Quinn, baby, look at me.”

  His fist paused halfway to the door. A blood droplet splatted on his jeans.

  “Quinn, it’s Liza. I’m on the phone. Look at me, baby. I’m right here.”

  Slowly, in increments, Quinn’s head swiveled toward the phone in his father’s hand. A pair of beautiful brown eyes latched onto the sight of her, and a spark that he only had for her flared to life in those blank depths. His tenderized hand reached for the phone and ripped it from his dad.

  “Hey, Q. See, nothing happened.” She fluffed her hair. “Did I look beautiful for the camera?”

  A wistful grin popped up. He nodded hard enough to give himself whiplash.

  “Oh, good. I thought for sure they were filming my bad side.” She tilted her chin left, tapping her cheek. “You know, this side.”

  She got a flash of the pearly whites. Her heart soared. No irreparable damage done. It was her own damn fault. She’d seen the news crews at the fire. And she knew part of Quinn’s nightly ritual was to watch the six o’clock news; he had been an information junkie from the time he could sit and watch TV. Up until he lost his mother, he’d scream bloody murder if anyone disrupted the routine, but since her death, not a peep out of him. He’d replaced screaming with beating his hand against objects when he became upset.

  “I heard you wanted to see me.”

  An eyebrow crooked.

  “Sorry I can’t be there right now, buddy. My job sent me on a trip. But I promised Dad I’ll be back soon. Okay?”

  The smile faded. His uninjured hand shot out and jerked hard on his father’s shirtsleeve then pointed at something behind them. Kurt hopped up and went to get whatever Quinn wanted. When he returned, he held a dry-erase board and marker. Quinn yanked it out of his dad’s hands; the kid had no regard for his rough behavior, something she needed to work on with him. He scribbled quickly, then pointed the phone screen at his board.

  Will you bring me a rock?

  The phone jerked back to his hopeful face. The kid loved rocks and was bound to be a geologist when he grew up.

  “Yes. I know someone who can show me some pretty ones.” She’d have to ask Hamilton if he knew of a good place to get the rocks.

  That brought back the happy boy.

  “Quinn, let your daddy take care of your hand, okay?”

  Uncertainty painted his features, then he shrugged and handed the phone to Kurt. Liza heard the scuffle of a nine year-old boy scrambling to his feet before Kurt’s pained face filled the screen.

  “I can’t do this, Liza.”

  “Yes, you can. He loves you.”

  “He loves you more. I’m just someone in his way.”

  It had been easy when Stephanie was alive to l
et her handle Quinn, the doctors, and the psychologists. Kurt could just sit there, letting her explain all the medical terms to him, show him how to handle Quinn’s behaviors, and keep Kurt on track with a routine. Now her foster brother was alone and frustrated. There was no way he could quit his job working for the oil and natural gas company. The money was too good, and it kept the bills paid for Quinn’s treatments. Liza had become his lifesaver, and it was irritating as hell. Kurt was a grown-ass man. He should be capable of handling his own family drama. After Stephanie died, Liza became too available to help with Quinn. Admittedly, she had been looking for an excuse to spend less time at the office and more time with her nephew, until Ripley resurfaced. Now Quinn, and Kurt, paid for her absence. But she had to catch Ripley before she could focus on them.

  She ran her thumb over the screen where his cheek was. “Stop thinking like that. You’re the only thing standing between him and an uncertain future. He’s got everything we never had, and you keep telling yourself that. Every day.”

  “I don’t know what to do any more. I do everything Stephanie taught me, what the doctors say, and I still can’t reach my son. You’re the only one he responds to.” Defeat was starting to win.

  “Have you talked to Mom and Pop Bartholomew?”

  “Yes, but they’re having some problems with a new foster.”

  Two wonderful people who took a chance on two rebellious teenagers and adopted them were saints in Kurt’s and Liza’s eyes. Mary and Michael Bartholomew were still trying to be saviors to kids in the foster system.

  “Kurt, one step at a time. Go take care of his hand, get his pjs on, and give him his ice cream. Don’t forget the cherry.”

  “I never do.”

  “I’ll call you in an hour.”

  “Liza, hurry up down there.”

  “I’m trying. I’m really trying.”

  Her phone went black, the wallpaper of a beach scene replacing the blackened screen. Dropping the phone in her lap, she swallowed hard, but it did nothing to loosen the tightness in her throat. This phone call would set her back. How could she focus on the events happening in Eider and her case when she was bombarded by the reality of Kurt and Quinn’s predicament?