Two Lethal Lies

by Annie Solomon

  She stopped. Had she said too much? Her face heated, and she tried to look away. But his hand was there, lifting her chin. There was heat in his eyes and a strange, crooked tilt to his mouth.

  And that was all she saw, because those lips covered hers and blocked out everything else.

  Mitch wrapped her tight against him. Once again, he couldn’t get enough. Not of her mouth, her tongue, her hair, her smell. But it wasn’t just her body. It was the awe she inspired in him. It was cold where he lived, too. Cold and lonely without a single soul to confide in. He’d lied his way through the last ten years, kept the world and everyone in it on the other side of a thick wall. And now this woman was blowing it up—bricks, barbed wire, everything—exposing something he didn’t even think he had anymore. His true self.

  It filled him with a raw kind of tenderness. With a boundless, freeing gratitude. And, as she opened her body to accept his, with the first green shoots of a barely recognizable love.

  Neesy was no sloe-eyed virgin. She’d been ridden hard and put up wet a time or two. But when Mitch touched her, it was like none of that had happened. Like this was her first time.

  And maybe it was.

  She’d had sex before—even with him—but had never made love.

  The chill, the hard floor, none of it mattered. She shucked her jacket, unbuttoned her shirt, let him see her, feel her. She straddled his lap, and his tongue lapped her nipple through the violet lace of her bra. Then her bra was gone, his face burrowed between her breasts, sucking her soul through her skin.

  She reached beneath his collar, rubbing her hands over his shoulders. He had such fine, muscular shoulders.

  Then he pulled her arms away, took her head in his hands, and kissed her slow and deep. She was giddy with the feel of him, and when they got their jeans off and he was inside her, she felt bound to him in a way she’d never been bound before. Not because she needed him, but because he needed her. Like a pledge, a vow to always be there. To believe in him the way he believed in her.

  His hands on her hips, he guided her to an achingly sweet climax. And when it was over and they’d calmed down, she nestled against him and didn’t care that they were in a bare, ugly room.

  She understood why they called it falling in love. She felt like she’d plunged off the tallest building in the world, jumped off the highest mountain, dropped off the sharp edge of the earth. And if she never hit bottom, if she stayed in the clouds, floating and flying forever, it was fine with her.

  Mitch closed his eyes, and despite the fact that he had every cop in the neighborhood after him, that he was charged with murder and kidnapping, that if he wasn’t careful, he’d be caught and his child, the one person in the world he’d given his life to protect, was at risk, despite the fact that he’d foolishly, selfishly, lovingly added another vulnerable soul to his load, he slept.

  31

  It took Roger a couple of days to trace information on exsanguination, and he wasn’t surprised to learn there had been others. He mapped out the similarities between each murder on a whiteboard in the office loaned to him by the Crossroads PD.

  All the victims were women, mostly marginal, like runaways and prostitutes, which made Shelby Townsend an exception. The eyes were always removed postmortem, and none showed signs of a struggle. There was never much mess at the crime scenes, which meant the murderer was neat and precise and had removed the blood.

  It was a strange crime, requiring very specific phlebotomy equipment—vacutainer needles, pipettes, tubes or bags, refrigeration of some kind. Which meant it couldn’t be done randomly. They’d found no evidence of this kind of equipment in Mitchell Hanover’s home or truck. On the other hand, no two murders were committed in the same place, which led to the conclusion that the perpetrator moved around a lot. Which Hanover did. In fact, according to the interview with the minor child, Julia, he had even been in some of the same places they’d found victims. She wasn’t able to confirm times and dates, so they couldn’t know for sure if he’d been there at the time of the murder, but it meant he was still high on the suspect list.

  Roger went over all of this with Abe Marfield, who stared at the whiteboard with its pertinent information. “What would anyone want with all that blood?”

  “Maybe a good cocktail,” Roger said.

  “You think someone is trying to convince us that vampires really do exist?”

  “I doubt it, but whatever the murderer wants it for, it’s probably ritualistic. Plenty of religions and cultures see blood as sacred.”

  “You’re thinking, what, voodoo, Santeria?”

  “Possibly. What do you know about it?”

  “I ran into some Santeria practices in Chicago. They use blood sacrifice, but strictly animal, not human.”

  “Anything can be corrupted within a twisted mind.”

  “Well, I’ve been in Crossroads for five years now, and there’s never been even a hint of Afro-Caribbean religion here. We don’t have the population. Same thing for voodoo.”

  “And Hanover?”

  Abe shrugged. “Nothing showed up in the house search. But I still like him for this. At least he has a motive.”

  “Still, if Shelby Townsend had her nose in this story, maybe she was working on other stories that made enemies.”

  Abe looked at him closely. “Let me get this straight. You’re thinking Mitch isn’t responsible?”

  “Not ready to make conclusions.”

  “And the other? The murder and kidnapping?”

  “Oh, that’s open-and-shut. We just have to find him.”

  “Well, take a look at this.” Abe handed over a copy of a newspaper article. A picture of Julia with her father, Dutch. “They’re in Chicago. From everything I know about Mitch and his kid, that’s where he’ll be.”

  32

  Mitch wanted to fly straight to the Drake, but Neesy wasn’t happy about going there looking like a hillbilly. Over his protests, she stopped at a JCPenney on the outskirts of the city. There, she bought herself a black suit, which Mitch assumed was supposed to look dull and professional and looked anything but on her ample curves.

  She also bought him a coat and a pair of gloves, along with a change of clothes. By the time she was satisfied, he was wired and tense, and could hardly wait the twenty minutes it would take to get to the Drake.

  They worked out a rough plan, and he parked in a public garage a few blocks from the hotel. Before Neesy left, she pulled a bag from their impromptu shopping spree and took out a handful of curls. “Everyone notices red hair.” She tugged the wig on, checked for stray hairs in the mirror, and turned to him. The color, a medium brown, did what the suit couldn’t: it took the luster out of her face. She looked almost… ordinary. A pair of drugstore glasses he hadn’t even known she’d purchased completed the transformation. “Okay?”

  “Not how I’d like to remember you.”

  She laughed. “Hopefully no one will remember me.”

  He took her face in his hands, sober now. “Be careful.”

  “Like a mouse with a hawk circling overhead.”

  He kissed her, and when it was over, she still had her eyes closed. “Besides,” she said with a shivery sigh, “I need more of that.”

  He stroked her cheek. God, she was soft. “Gotta come back for it.”

  Neesy felt Mitch’s gaze on her back all the way out the parking garage. She didn’t mind the heat of it. Not the part that was a man looking at a woman. What she felt was the responsibility of it. Like she was a soldier sent to the front with a message that could win the war.

  She couldn’t mess up. Mitch was depending on her.

  Not to mention Julia.

  This was Neesy’s chance to repair what she’d done when she let Dutch take Julia. And in some ways it was a chance to repair what she could of her own childhood. To make sure that no other little girl was mistreated by those who were supposed to love her.

  She spotted the hotel a block away. A gold canopy over the entrance was
trimmed with lights. Had it been dark enough, it would have glittered and shone. Even in the day, the entrance had a gilded glamour, with its bellhops and uniformed doormen. A discreet flag with THE DRAKE printed in medieval script fluttered in the knife-cold air.

  A doorman with gold braid on his sleeves held the door open for her. “Welcome to the Drake,” he said, as though she were the Queen of England.

  The impression of royalty persisted inside. She didn’t want to appear out of place, so she raised her chin, not gaping but trying to take it all in nevertheless.

  From the doorway, she went through a foyer and up a set of stairs lined in sapphire and gold. She was almost afraid to step on it.

  She nearly gasped when she got to the lobby. A huge floral arrangement was the first thing she saw. Above it, a heavy crystal chandelier made the one over her mama’s dining room table seem sad and shriveled, even if it had worked. Under her feet, the thick, crimson carpet was topped in places with blue rugs that absorbed most sound. The place was as hushed as a library.

  Another set of stairs took her to the front desk. She squeezed her fingers around the chain handle of her purse, hoping the clerk couldn’t spot a fake Chanel from behind the desk.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Neesy braced herself and smiled. “A hotel phone?”

  He directed her to an alcove with a small brocaded ottoman and a phone with nothing but a receiver. She and Mitch had rehearsed what to say, but she had no idea how Dutch would respond and whether he would buy her story that she missed Julia and wanted to make sure she was okay. Neesy took a breath, picked up the receiver, and, when the operator came on, asked for Dutch Hanover.

  The two minutes she waited seemed like two hours. Hotel guests walked by, all of them appearing to have a greater right to be there than she did. Were they staring at her? Would anyone be able to identify her? Self-conscious, she turned her back to face the alcove instead of the expansive room. Where in the great salt mountains was that operator?

  When the hotel operator finally got back to her, she spoke in an impersonal voice. “Mr. Hanover is no longer a guest at the hotel.”

  Her heart stopped. “He’s… he’s checked out?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I do see he left a message for anyone who inquires about him.”

  She swallowed. “A message? What kind of message?”

  “I’m sorry. You’ll have to check with the concierge for that.”

  She disconnected, mystified and a little uncomfortable. Was the message for Mitch? The operator had said “whoever inquired.” Who had Dutch expected?

  She found the concierge desk, and the man behind it was as solicitous as a diplomat. “Mr. Hanover? Yes, of course.” He removed an envelope from a drawer and handed it to her.

  Neesy examined it. No address, no note. Just clean and white. “And Mr. Hanover said to give this to whoever asked for him?”

  “Those were my instructions,” the concierge said.

  “And has anyone asked?”

  He smiled. “Only you.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then didn’t know what to say.

  “Is something wrong? I hope the message isn’t of an upsetting nature. I had the impression he wanted to change a meeting time.”

  She waved his concern away with a little laugh. “Oh, no, it’s nothing at all. In fact, he said he might have to do that. So… thank you.” She held up the envelope and took a couple of steps back. “Thank you.”

  “Careful!”

  She started, turning just in time to miss nicking a settee. “Sorry,” she said to the piece of furniture, then thanked the concierge again.

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  She turned and fled.

  33

  Mitch was pacing in front of the car when Neesy returned.

  “Let’s get out of here.” She slid into the passenger seat, and Mitch climbed in behind the wheel.

  “Why? What happened? Where’s Julia?”

  “I have no idea. They’d already checked out.”

  Mitch slammed his door shut. He’d been waiting like a man set for execution or deliverance, and the last thing he wanted to hear was that neither option was viable.

  Neesy pulled off the wig and shook out her hair. “Sorry.”

  “Screw that,” Mitch said. “Not your fault.”

  “I hope not. But that place—the hotel—gave me the creeps.”

  Instantly Mitch was on alert. “Did something happen?”

  “Kind of.” She told him about the message. “It was like he knew you’d be coming.”

  “What’s in the envelope?”

  She grimaced. “I was afraid to look.” She fished in her purse and handed it to him.

  He examined it, shot her a thin smile. “Too slim to be a bomb.” Then again, there were bombs that exploded only inside a man’s soul. The contents of the envelope could be nothing, a message intended for someone else. But he knew his brother, and inconsequential wasn’t his style. He went in for pitch-perfect cruelty, the subtle kind that only the victim understood. So he braced himself for a picture of his Junebug, hurt, pleading, even, God forbid, worse. His mouth dry, he slid open the envelope.

  And pulled out… a brochure.

  Across the top it read DISNEY WORLD RESORTS.

  “What the…,” Neesy said. “Why would he leave that for anyone?”

  The words blurred in front of him, relief and fear vying for control. “Well, at least we know where we’re going next.”

  “But… if he expects you to follow him, he’s setting up a trap.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? If you go there, every cop in the world will be waiting.”

  “So will Julia.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Look, I’m going.” He gripped the wheel, not wanting to say the rest. The buts multiplied in his head: it was too soon; they’d just started; he needed her, wanted her. But he’d known all along what would happen in the end. “You’ve been… great,” he said slowly. “I appreciate it. But maybe it’s time to say good-bye to your cousin.”

  She stared at him. “I’ve been great? You appreciate it?”

  “What I’m trying to say is—”

  “I know what you’re trying to say. Get lost.”

  “No! That’s not what I meant.”

  “Hey, I’ve heard ‘wham bam thank you, ma’am’ a million times. I just didn’t think I’d hear it from you.”

  He reached for her hand, and she jerked it away.

  “Neesy…”

  Her jaw tightened, and her eyes filled. She snapped her head away so he couldn’t see.

  For half a second, he looked out the windshield into the depths of the garage. The concrete was crude, heavy, and unadorned, protected by its hard functionality.

  And there was Neesy. Soft, pretty, and easily hurt.

  He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. When she didn’t jerk away, he slid the hand around her back and pulled her toward him. She came stiffly, but she came.

  “It’s enough,” he said gently. “You’ve done enough. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, too. Go home. Go back to Crick’s. Live your life.”

  “I’m not sure I want to live that life anymore.”

  “Living with me is no life at all.”

  “Julia did okay.”

  “She’s a kid. It’s all she knows.”

  Neesy was silent, but his shoulder was damp where her head rested.

  “How would I even get there?” she said at last.

  “I can put you on a bus.”

  “I leave in the coolest car in the world and come home by bus? How am I supposed to explain that?”

  “Just say you totaled your car.”

  “Uh-huh. And what do I do about a new one?”

  “I’ll figure something out. What do you want? Porsche? Cadillac?”

  “Oh, yeah, me and a Caddy. I can just see everyone in Crossroads taking that in stride.”

&
nbsp; “So I’ll buy you a used Honda. Whatever. Just—” He untangled himself to turn over the engine, but she grabbed the key out of the ignition before he could.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I told you. I’m taking you to the bus station.”

  “The hell you are. I’ve had my ass frozen off in a blizzard and my face cut up by the wind in this damn city. If Florida doesn’t sound good to you, it does to me. Sun and sand—”

  “—and cops and killers.”

  “Yeah, well… nothing’s perfect.”

  “You’re nuts; you know that?”

  “Exactly why I need a vacation.” She gave him a hard-nosed look. There were tearstains on her face, but her green eyes glittered as sharp as cut emeralds. “Get out. I’m driving.”

  34

  The Chicago division of the FBI was housed in the glass-and-steel federal building. Roger Carrick had been there a couple of times for meetings, so he knew where it was. He presented his credentials, but the special agent in charge who headed up the division wasn’t keen on helping.

  “We’ve already contacted New York. You’re out of Iowa. What’s your interest?”

  Roger explained, and after a few moments’ consideration, the SAC said, “You’re too late. Hanover’s already gone. But I’ll let you talk to Dyson. He kept the lookout.”

  Dyson proved to be a trim, competent-looking man who had moved on to other things. “We were on the hotel from the minute Hanover got here with his kid,” Dyson told him. “The brother never showed, and Hanover and the girl have already left.”

  “What about the staff? Did you talk to anyone at the hotel?”

  “No reason to. Nothing happened.”

  “Did Dutch say where he was going?”

  The other agent shook his head. “Truth is, we tried to keep a low profile. He has his own security, and he wasn’t all that cooperative. Seems he wasn’t happy with the way the original investigation had been handled.” He eyed Roger, who eyed him right back. “Anyway, he’s gone and so are we.”