Liar, Liar

by Winter Austin

  On the other side of the desk, Roslin arranged herself, crossing her legs at the knees and getting generally comfortable. When she was satisfied, she tilted her chin and looked at Liza. An air of self-importance replaced the once confused one. “What do you need to know about my Gene?”

  Her Gene? Interesting.

  “Well, let’s start with how you met him.”

  Roslin wagged her right hand in an “ah posh” gesture. “We met several years ago.” She sobered. “I was working in a bank in Clarinda. He walked in, and I was in love.”

  That Mr. Ripley slash Gene Avery walked into a bank was surprising, but Roslin’s immediate attraction to him was not. He’d had a charisma that snagged women easily, which worked to his advantage.

  “We were married three months later, and then he got the job here as a superintendent.”

  “Mrs. Avery, was he a superintendent when you met?”

  Her brunette hair swung. “Naw, he was just finishing his schooling to be one.”

  “What was he doing in the bank?”

  Roslin seemed to chew on this question. Four clicks of the second hand later, her gaze dropped to her lap. She twirled her wedding band. “He was thinking of getting a loan to finish paying for his classes.”

  “Did he? Get a loan?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t in charge of that.”

  For Ripley to take out a loan was suspicious. The man hadn’t made any attempt to embezzle money from banks. It wasn’t as easy a score as hitting small businesses and citizens. That he’d reached a point of conning a school was a bold step for him.

  How had Roslin fit into all of this? Smokescreen? A piece of arm candy to deflect any undue suspicion from him? Then there was the matter of his hep C and possible love affair with another man. Liza would get to that soon enough.

  “Did he talk about his job a lot?”

  “Not really.” Roslin gnawed on a fingernail.

  “What does ‘not really’ mean?”

  Shrugging, she ceased her nail biting and balled her hand in her lap. “He would talk about the kids. Never naming names.” A little too hurried on that part. Could be something to do with confidentiality school officials were supposed to keep. “Other than that, he didn’t say much.”

  Liza tapped the legal pad, rereading the notes. This part was going to get real messy. “Mrs. Avery, you loved your husband, didn’t you?”

  She nodded. A sheen coated her eyes. Aw, crap. If she started crying, Liza wouldn’t get anywhere with her. Slow and easy.

  “Did he ever feel ill, or generally unwell with no explanation?”

  Roslin’s grief was circumvented with a frown. “Not that he mentioned, no.”

  “Sorry for the intrusive question, but how often did you have sex with him?”

  That floored her. Roslin gaped at Liza, her mouth working like a fish’s. When the initial shock wore off, red tinged the high points of her face. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours or this department.”

  “Better the question come from me than the sheriff a bit later.”

  “And why would that have any bearing on my husband’s death? Sex lives are a private matter.”

  “Not if they cross lines that prove motive.”

  Roslin let out a half shriek, half laugh. “Are you telling me the sheriff thinks I killed Gene?”

  Leaning forward, Liza stared at the woman. Roslin stared back. It looked like the widow had a backbone after all. Of course, Liza was well aware of this; she was the one who had to fight the crazy stoner before she shot the sheriff.

  “Please answer the question, Mrs. Avery.”

  “No. I believe my lawyer would tell me to not answer.”

  Liza sat back. “Well, when your lawyer decides she’s ready to resume her duties, then we can ask again.” Making a show of shuffling papers that Shane had left on his desk, Liza counted off the seconds. “You might want to be tested for some things, like say, oh, some of the hepatitis strains.”

  Heated silence filled the office. This was why she liked interrogating people. Everyone who sat on the other side of her assumed she was a pushover, the good cop. They were not prepared for the fastballs. And Roslin Avery would not be the exception to the rule.

  “Why did you burn the house?” Liza braced for the fallout over that zinger.

  “I don’t remember why”—clipped words, pissy attitude—“since everything about that day is hazy.”

  That tended to happen when one mixed drugs and alcohol.

  “What kind of FBI agent are you?”

  “The kind that is looking into an embezzling case.”

  “You mean stealing?”

  “Something like that.”

  Roslin’s eyes widened. “Is that why Neil Lundy called me last night? He kept asking me a ton of questions I had no answers for.”

  “Neil Lundy, the school board president?”

  “Yes. He wanted to know if Gene ever had large amounts of cash at home or brought lots of paperwork that looked like school stuff.”

  “Did Gene?”

  Roslin shrugged again. That seemed to be her go-to answer for everything. “I don’t know. I already told you, he didn’t talk about his job or bring anything home. I told Neil to mind his own business and quit bothering me; didn’t he realize my husband was murdered? Is that why Gene was killed? He was stealing money?”

  “Mrs. Avery, I have no idea at this point.”

  Her hand flying to her face, Roslin gasped. “Was he caught up with the mob or something? Oh, maybe burning the house was a good thing if he left anything there they could want.”

  The crazy woman had returned.

  “Mrs. Avery, your husband was not involved with the mob.”

  “How do you know?”

  Patience, Liza, patience. “I just know. Back to Mr. Lundy, was there anything else he asked you?”

  She shook her head. “He was just angry that I couldn’t tell him where Gene took the money.”

  And she couldn’t clue in to what was going on from that? This woman was shaping up to be as useful as a concrete parachute.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Avery, that will be all for today.” She stood, hoping the woman got the hint and left.

  Liza had more research to do before Lundy and the rest of the school board arrived. If that man was nosing around in her investigation, he had some explaining to do. He had been overly concerned, as he should be if he was in charge of the board when money went missing under his watch, but harassing the widow for answers was her job.

  God, would this case ever come to an end? The clock was ticking.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  What did Liza know? She was wrong. She knew nothing about his situation and was only playing guessing games. What would Cheyenne think, indeed? He had nothing to worry about, and just because he wanted to kiss the hell out of her didn’t mean a damn thing.

  Crude as it sounded, he was scratching an itch. A sixteen-year itch.

  God, he was such an ass.

  With that piercing thought, the drugs kicked in, and he finally found sleep. Except, the hydrocodone gave him whacked-out dreams. Once their heavy effect wore off and he woke again, Shane was disorientated but a little more enlightened. Next time he would rather tough out the pain than relive a psychedelic trip down memory lane. Yet, had it not been for the drugs, he might have forgotten a vital piece of information that had slipped his mind after being shot.

  The person who shot him was a woman. Thank God she was a piss-poor shot or he’d not be breathing air.

  He tried to dredge up any recollection of her voice and her shape, but everything was a blur. Things happened too fast, and he was still hazy over details. He did recall he’d fired back, and may have scored a hit on the woman trying to kill him.

  To be sure, he was going back to Riker’s, hoping against hell that Con and his crew were long cleared out. Not a conversation Shane was willing to have with his friend, if he got caught disobeying orders and not taking i
t easy with his wound. Especially if word got back to Liza.

  Since the narcotic-induced haze had cleared from his head, he felt comfortable enough to drive, but the breath-stealing pain needed remedied. Popping enough aspirin to choke a horse, he geared up and snuck out to his dad’s beat-up Ford. Liza had been thorough in locating all of his keys, but he had secret stashes in places where no one would think to look. No human soul could claim he wasn’t prepared for a Red Dawn scenario.

  By the time he reached the opposite side of town, the aspirin had kicked in enough to take the edge off his pain. Once he reached the field where he’d parked last night, his body picked up Superman’s vibes, and he was able to exit his old beater with the ease of a thirty-year-old. Scratch that, he moved more like a forty-year-old. Now he just had to remind himself to take it easy out here and not overdo it or cause his injury to bleed through the stitches.

  After a check with his binoculars—not an Eider police officer in sight—he set off across the field. Following the bent grass, he returned to the tree grove, pausing long enough to catch his breath. Damn, this was more difficult than he expected.

  He could hear Drummond’s lecture like the man was standing right next to him. “Sheriff, your body is using all its resources to repair the damage inflicted upon it. You’ll tire easily and quickly. That’s why I told you to rest.”

  “Well, Doc, no one ever said I had a lick of sense in my noggin’.”

  Dismissing his mental physician, Shane picked his way through the grove to the point where he’d been shot. Which was easy enough to find with all the blood that had gushed from his wound. Squares of trauma gauze and ripped gloves from the EMS’s attempts to staunch the flow were still laying about. Shane situated his body as it had been just as the woman had shot him. Closing his eyes, he took a few deep—as deep as his tender abdomen would allow—breaths, then opened his eyes and looked at the scene with the eyes of a seasoned investigator.

  Here, in the grove, he got stronger flashes of how it went down.

  Shane’s gaze focused, and he watched the female phantom fade into the trees to his far right.

  He scanned the ground. Too trampled here. He pushed farther out. Each step was measured, his brain calculating and categorizing between useless and potential clues. But fatigue dragged on his limbs, making it difficult to breathe normally. He leaned against a tree.

  Fatigue dragged on his limbs, making it difficult to breathe normally. Resisting the urge to sit down and not get back up, he gave himself a few minutes, then pressed on, slower this time. He emerged from the tree grove and stopped.

  Two distinct paths cut through the overgrown field, a few yards apart. Eenie meenie miney mo, which way did the shooter go? Probably through the field going away from the road.

  He might be covered in ticks before this jaunt was over. His wound alone would prove complicated in twisting and bending over to check and rid his body of the parasitic nuisances.

  Too late for preventative measures. In for an inch, in for a mile.

  Halfway along he spotted a dark blotch on the faded grass. Squatting down, he pulled out his phone and prepared to photograph it. Lifting the blades up for closer inspection, he grunted. Blood.

  Gotcha.

  He snapped a few pictures and sent them to storage. Pulling out one of the paper bags he’d snatched out of his cabinet, he snipped the blades, letting them drop inside the bag. He was about to stand when his body finally gave out. Flopping back on his ass jarred his injury.

  “Sonofabitch!”

  Shane sat there, panting through the waves of pain. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Gulping, he tried to shift, stopping the instant his ravaged nerves screamed. A red haze shrouded his vision. His head felt like it would float away, the sensation turning his stomach.

  Any attempt to get up would be futile. Resigning to his fate, he laid back, gasping as the pain made a path along his torso like someone stair-stepping punches up his body. Through the whoosh of blood in his ears, he made out the faint ringing sound. The noise increased as his pulse settled. His phone.

  Pawing it out of his coat, he didn’t bother with the caller ID. “Hamilton,” he ground out.

  “Where are you?”

  Her voice penetrated his fogged brain. “Nic?”

  “Yes, Shane. Where are you?”

  Oh God, oh God! Breathe through the pain. Once the wave receded, leaving him quaking from the adrenalin dump, his brain was a bit clearer. “Where are you?”

  “Oh, you’re in so much trouble, mister. I’m sitting in your driveway, and your old beater is missing. Damn it, Shane Hamilton, I always knew you had a death wish.”

  “Shit, Nic, I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I shouldn’t. God only knows why the hell I do. Maybe it’s because if Con lost you as a friend, I’d have to pull my husband back together. Now where the hell did you run off to?”

  “Why are you at my house?”

  She let go with a litany of off-colored words he hadn’t heard her use in ages. Motherhood had tamed that tongue of hers, but it appeared it was only on a leash. “Answer me. Where are you?”

  “Well,” he panted, “I’m looking at a . . . ” he gingerly probed his side and checked his fingers, “blood spot.”

  “You went back to Riker’s? Ah, shit! Get your ass back home, right now.”

  Shane chuckled. That had been the wrong move. “Nic, that’s impossible at the moment.”

  Her hiss of exasperation would have tickled his ear. “Don’t move,” she growled.

  “I don’t plan on it.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  At the rustle of clothing against the grass, Shane peeled one eyelid open and squinted at the figure blocking the sun.

  “You are in such big trouble, mister.”

  “So you’ve already said.” In the time he waited for Nic to find him, the pain had subsided, but he wasn’t glutton enough to make a solo attempt back to his truck. “What took you so long?”

  “You didn’t exactly wave a red flag so I could locate you.” Nic reached down and flicked something from his coat. “Oh, how fun. You’re covered in ticks.” Her eyes widened. “And bleeding.”

  “About that.” He pulled out the paper bag and held it up to her. “Would you get this to your husband? I managed to wing the woman who shot me.”

  “A woman?” Nic took the bag. “How do you know it was a woman?”

  “She spoke. I don’t think she cared to disguise it, probably thinking she’d kill me and no one would be wiser.”

  “Oh, you bastard, you couldn’t even die. Now what’s she going to do?”

  “Smart ass.”

  Nic flashed one of her best shit-eating grins. “At your service. Let’s get your ass off the ground and to my truck.”

  Shane struggled up onto his elbows, wheezing as pain radiated from the wound. “This might take a bit.”

  “Manage to get yourself into a sit; I can’t lift you from the ground like that.”

  “What’s wrong, marine? Has retirement softened you?”

  “Bite me.” She crouched next to his head. “If you must be an ass about it, I’m pregnant.”

  It took four point eight seconds for her words to penetrate his befuddled mind. “You are? Damn, O’Hanlon, do you two go at it like rabbits?”

  Her bemused expression darkened. “If you weren’t already trying to kill yourself, I’d sock you in the gut for that remark.”

  “And that’s why I said it.”

  After a few failed attempts, he got off the ground, and then with Nic’s support, he managed to get onto his feet. Shane did his best not to lean too much on Nic, but the woman was considerably shorter than he was, and it was difficult not to rely on her strength. Nic was one of the toughest women he’d met, and that was saying a lot as she was the only female to have ever passed the Marine Recon’s rigorous sniper training, and still the lone female in American military history to hold the title.

  “I should drive my truc
k home.”

  “You’re doing no such thing.”

  “I’m not leaving it here.”

  “Let me handle it.”

  Her tone brokered no objections. Shane put a clamp down on his tongue and cowboyed up. It was a crying shame she’d retired from police work. He’d had aspirations of making her the next sheriff, but Nic had other plans. In the long run, it was for the best she had left law enforcement. Her PTSD could prove unpredictable when she was put in life-or-death situations. For the last few years she’d been seeking professional help, and that along with Con and her babies, Nic was finally calming the demons.

  “I miss the good ole days,” he said.

  “Good ole days of what?” She guided him over a hump in the field.

  “When things hadn’t gone to hell in a handbasket. When you were still one of the best damn deputies I ever had.”

  “I still am, I’m just retired. And what about Cassy?”

  “She’s not you.”

  Nic chuckled. “No one can be me. I’m unique.” She adjusted his arm over her shoulders and marched on.

  Once they reached her vehicle, she deposited him in the passenger seat. Shane groaned as he reclined the seat. His whole body was on fire now, and it was killing him to breathe.

  “Next time you’ll listen to the doctor’s orders,” Nic said as she dug out her cell phone.

  “To quote you, bite me.”

  Her sardonic smile brought back memories of the Nic he’d first hired after she arrived in the middle of nowhere Iowa to interview for his lowly deputy position.

  “Murdoch, it’s Nic. Load up that Aussie half brother of mine and haul him out to the field behind Riker’s Club . . . Yes, you heard me right . . . Because I said so. Don’t make me pull rank on you, squirt . . . Make it fast.” She ended the call and tossed her phone back into the cup holder.

  “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

  “Not every day you get to rip your old boss a new one for playing the dumbass card not once but twice.”