Wicked Lies

by Lisa Jackson

  He didn’t answer and she was instantly deflated. She planned to just hang up, but then changed her mind and left a message. “Hey, it’s me. You probably heard what happened at Seagull Pointe. I think Justice may have killed Madeline. Maybe another woman, too.” She paused, filled with emotion suddenly. Fear. Need. Anger. “Call me,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

  The Sands of Thyme Bakery wasn’t doing much of a business in the late afternoon, though the smells of cinnamon and coffee lingered and the glass cases held a few loaves of bread and overlooked muffins, left after the morning and noon rush. Only a few customers were scattered amongst the small tables, each nursing a cup and picking at the crumbs on their plates.

  Harrison found his sister leaning on her elbows at the counter and reading the morning paper.

  “You’ve been busy,” she said, looking up from his article in the Breeze.

  “The Breeze isn’t the Ledger.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not really about the paper. It’s about the story,” she said, quoting him. “This Deadly Sinners story is the kind of thing that gets picked up. A bunch of privileged teens burglarizing their friends’ homes.” When he didn’t immediately respond, she gave him a long look. “Aha. I get it. Someone’s already trying to yank this story from you, maybe steal a little of your thunder.”

  She was needling him, one eyebrow lifting. “Who? Not that jerk who was always breathing down your neck.”

  “That guy was at the Ledger. No, it’s Channel Seven.”

  “Pauline Kirby?” Kirstin guessed, sounding appalled. “Lord, she’s a witch with a capital B.”

  “Down, tiger,” Harrison warned, though he knew how she felt. Channel Seven’s reporting on Manny’s death had not been a warm and fuzzy experience for any of them. In fact Pauline’s team had shone their camera lights directly on Kirsten’s face and captured the glittering track of her tears for all to see. The other stations weren’t much better, but Kirsten had a real thing against Pauline, which Harrison appreciated.

  “She’s not my favorite, either,” he said now.

  His sister’s eyes slit, and he guessed she was remembering how callously she was treated by the press. “They’re all the same.”

  “Reporters?”

  “Yes,” she shot back. Then, after a moment, her lips twisted wryly. “You’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

  He smiled back, fleetingly; then his tone changed. “I should’ve been there more for you after it happened. I was too . . . single-minded.”

  She waved that aside with a brisk snap of her hand. “You wanted to prove Manny had been murdered. I wanted you to, too. But it’s all water under the bridge now.”

  She sounded so final, it surprised him a bit. “You think it was just a case of his being in the wrong place at the wrong time now?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Kirstin glanced toward the door as two of the patrons left their table and made their way outside, the bell over the door tinkling. “I don’t know if I’ll ever know. What I do know is it’s over and I have to move on.” She touched the back of Harrison’s hand. “Sad, I know, but true.” Then she let out a long sigh and retrieved her fingers while a customer ordered a coffee to go. With a smile, Kirsten took his money, gave him a smile and a cup, and pointed him in the direction of the freestanding thermoses.

  Harrison gazed at his sister, realizing for the first time how he was the only one still hanging on to Manny’s death, the only one who couldn’t let go.

  As if reading his mind, she said, “I’ve got Didi to think about. All this dwelling on the past isn’t good for her. I don’t want this dark cloud of suspicion hanging around us all the time. I’ve got a new life with my daughter and our dog. And we’re happy to have you in it, too, of course,” she added, again reaching a hand across the counter to catch his. “It’s just . . . every time you and I are together, one way or another, we’re either talking about or thinking about Manny’s death. I’m not saying I want to forget him. Lord, no. I want to remember him. Like he was. Like it was between us before all the really bad stuff started.”

  “You want me to give up the investigation completely?” he asked, surprised.

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Do what you have to do. Just . . . let’s . . . not make it all that you and I are about anymore, okay?”

  “I didn’t know I was doing that.”

  “We were doing that. Both of us. Even when it seemed like we weren’t.” She stared at him with eyes far older than her age.

  Harrison took it in, realized she was right. He’d been too immersed in his own need for revenge to really pay attention to what Kirsten was thinking. But then, he still believed in Koontz’s duplicity. “I’m not going to give up unless you tell me to.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to. Let’s just not have a postmortem on everything, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “That said, I think this story could launch you back into the bigger pond again.” She retrieved her hand and, with one finger, tapped on the paper with his article.

  “You think the Ledger will have me back?” he asked dryly as one of the customers placed his empty cup and plate in a tub before flipping up the hood of his jacket and stepping outside.

  She cocked her head. “I’m pretty sure you’re done with them. But yeah. They’ll want you back. Especially if you follow up the Deadly Sinners with the Justice Turnbull story.”

  “Did I say I was on that story?”

  “Oh, please. Of course you are.”

  The bell over the door jingled again as a new customer entered the shop. Harrison held up a hand in good-bye to his sister and headed out. His cell phone beeped at him as he was crossing to his car, and he realized he’d missed a call somehow. Before he could ring back his voice mail, however, the phone buzzed in his hand. Glancing at the caller ID, he saw it was the Breeze. Buddy. “Yeah?” he growled as soon as he’d snapped it on.

  “I didn’t give them the number,” Buddy stated before Harrison could say anything else. “I promise. But they’re right here. And they’re planning to film in front of West Coast High and they’d like to see you.”

  “They’re right there in front of you, at the paper?”

  “You got it.”

  “Is Pauline there, or is it just production?”

  “Production.”

  “I’m not anywhere near you. I’m in Deception Bay. Don’t tell them that. Tell Pauline to call me and I’ll . . . I don’t know . . . give her a quote, or something. Better yet, have her call the public information officer at the sheriff’s office. That’s what she’s paid for.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, hell. Give her my cell number. Give ’em all my number.” Clicking off, he climbed into the Impala, irked. He was going to have to hand out his digits to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, because Kirsten was right: his days of being banished to a small town were nearing an end. He was headed for the big game, which had been his plan all along, right? And if he was going there, he needed people to be able to reach him.

  And then, as if already knowing he was changing his protocol, his cell phone buzzed at him again.

  Without looking at the caller ID, he answered, “Frost.”

  “Hi, there,” Geena Cho said. “Got a minute?”

  “Geena, for you . . . always.”

  She snorted at his bullshit, then said, “You know what happened at Seagull Pointe?”

  “No.”

  “Where the hell have you been? Hiding under a rock?”

  “Something like that,” he hedged, realizing he hadn’t been near a television all day.

  “And you call yourself a reporter?” she joked. Then, before he could answer, her voice lowered. “So get this. It looks like Justice killed his mama, Mad Maddie. And some other lady, too, who was just found in a wheelchair, apparently, half dead. They transferred her to a bed and she later died. We’re putting her picture on the evening news because she’s unidentified at this time. T
hey’re keeping Maddie’s death under wraps as long as they can. Don’t want to cause a panic about Justice, but they’re pretty sure he’s the doer.”

  Harrison’s heart nose-dived. “Where did you say this happened? Seagull Pointe?” he asked, more convinced than ever that somehow Laura had reached him, taunted him, challenged him. His throat tightened at the thought, and he was sick that she, along with the two people already murdered, was in the psycho’s sights.

  “You got it. And you owe me a drink tonight at Davy Jones’s. I’ll be there around eight. Don’t tell anyone I told you. . . .” And she was gone.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said into the phone. Switching on the ignition he was about to throw his Chevy into gear when he remembered to check his phone log and the call he’d missed. He recognized the number as Laura’s. His heartbeat ramped into overdrive. “Damn.” He hadn’t expected her to phone him from work, and he listened tensely to her message.

  Justice may have killed Madeline. . . . Call me. . . .

  So, she’d already learned that Justice had possibly murdered his mother. But at least she was alive. Safe. Or had been when she’d called.

  Quickly, he pressed in her number, then waited impatiently while the phone rang and rang and rang. Swearing under his breath, he debated on leaving her back a response on voice mail, then instead decided on “Got your message. Call me back.”

  “Damn it all to hell.” He snapped on the radio, finding an all-news station, then revved out of the Sands of Thyme’s lot. He considered driving straight to Seagull Pointe, but he would really like to talk to Laura first. Make sure she was all right. He called again as he hit the highway and, like before, was sent directly to her voice mail. Swearing, he hit the gas, pushed the speed limit.

  He knew she was working, that she didn’t have her cell on her. That was undoubtedly the reason she wasn’t picking up.

  Still . . . his mind wheeled to unconscionable images—Justice Turnbull, the icy-eyed psychotic with his need to kill, and the victims. His own mother. An unknown woman and the others . . . oh, Jesus! He punched the accelerator and headed straight to Ocean Park, taking the curves on 101 a little too quickly, the cliffs and dark forest racing by on the eastern shoulder of the road, the sea shrouded by fog stretching to the west. The hospital was on his way to Seagull Pointe, and he intended to stop. If only for a few minutes. He needed to see Laura, to witness for himself that she was okay.

  Despite getting hung up behind a logging truck mounded with a heavy load of fir, he pulled into the lot at Ocean Park within half an hour. He parked what seemed a mile from the front doors, as the place was full of vehicles. Jogging, he made his way through the vehicles and into the building, where he didn’t bother with the reception desk, entering purposely and heading straight for the elevators. Ocean Park was only three stories high, but he wasn’t sure which floor Laura worked on and he would rather discover where that was on his own than reveal his intent to the beady-eyed, suspicious woman manning the desk.

  In the end he found that Laura worked mainly on the first floor, and he wound his way back to her nurses’ station, only to learn that she was busy with a patient. A petite woman with spiked hair and too much mascara asked him if he would care to wait in one of the two molded plastic chairs set against the wall. Unhappily, he planted himself on the edge of the first chair, taking out his phone to check the time. Five p.m. He’d really wanted to get to Seagull Pointe before the dinner hour. He hoped to interview as many people as possible about both Madeline Turnbull’s death and the unidentified woman left in a wheelchair. That was headline news in itself. Who was she? Did her condition have anything to do with Justice Turnbull?

  “Harrison.”

  Laura’s voice sounded from down the hall, and he looked over to see her walking his way. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail. The earpiece of a stethoscope peeked out of the pocket of her scrubs, and a look of worry darkened the even features of her face.

  Relief washed over him and he shot to his feet. God, it was good to see her.

  She was near enough not to shout when she said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I got your message. Called you back, but you didn’t pick up.”

  “I know. I’m on duty.” She glanced around and seemed to notice the teenager slouched in one of the nearby chairs. He appeared to be asleep, his iPhone tethered to his ears as he listened to music. Nonetheless, Laura shepherded Harrison away from the cluster of uncomfortable chairs.

  “I knew you were working, but I just didn’t know if you . . . needed me. You told me to call you, and when I couldn’t get through . . .” He left the thought unfinished, thinking about how she’d challenged Justice. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

  “Everything’s fine.” She glanced around again, very aware of others’ listening ears. As if on cue, an older nurse appeared from the south hallway, one Harrison recognized from Friday night. Perez, he remembered as she approached, a frown deepening across her face as her gaze fell on him.

  “You’re that reporter,” she said, her dark eyes moving from him to Laura.

  “I’m following up on the victims of Justice Turnbull’s attack,” Harrison said to shift the spotlight from Laura.

  “One of them was released earlier today,” Laura answered, giving him a grateful look, which Perez didn’t see.

  “I’m assuming that would be Dr. Zellman, as he had the less critical injuries?” Harrison asked.

  “I really can’t give out any patient information,” Laura said, and he caught the warning in her eyes.

  Nurse Perez jumped in. “Mr . . . . ?”

  “Frost,” Harrison supplied. “Harrison Frost with the Seaside Breeze.”

  “Frost,” she repeated. “If you have questions, there’s a protocol. Talking to our nursing staff isn’t the way it’s done.” She shot Laura a warning glance.

  Harrison nodded. “All right. I’ll check with the front desk and have them connect me with your media liaison.”

  “Good,” Perez said with a bite. She looked Harrison up and down, clearly wondering at his easy capitulation.

  He sketched a good-bye to both Nurse Perez and Laura, keeping up appearances, but his jaw was rock hard on his way back to his Chevy. Perez’s attitude bugged the hell out of him, but he reminded himself that Laura was healthy and safe. That was all he really cared about here, at Ocean Park. As he was getting into his vehicle, his cell rang and it was Laura.

  “I only have a second,” she said. “I’m off around eight tonight.”

  “I’ve got a meeting with a woman from the TCSD at the same time,” he said. “I’ll come by your place afterward.” He made it a statement, but he was waiting for an answer. “Make sure Nurse Ratchet isn’t with you.”

  “Nurse Rat . . . Oh, I get it. Funny,” she muttered, and he thought there might be relief in her tone. “Trust me, Perez slash Ratchet is not invited.”

  “Good.”

  “See you.”

  “Looking forward to it, Lorelei,” he said, meaning it.

  “Only my family calls me that,” she told him again.

  “I know.”

  “Okay,” she said after a moment and then hung up.

  Lang checked the clock in his Jeep: 5:15 p.m. He was driving back from the crime scene site, where he’d met with Deputy Delaney and viewed the dead male body that had attracted the carrion birds. He and Delaney had ended up hanging around a lot longer than either of them wanted while the CSI team swarmed over the scene and the ME finally arrived and examined the body before it was sent to the morgue.

  “Busy day for Gilmore,” Delaney had said, referring to the medical examiner. “First the body at the nursing home and now this guy.”

  Lang had nodded. “I’m going to check in at the department and then call it a day.”

  “You and me both,” Delaney had said, giving a last look around, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

  Lang drove straight to the TCSD without encountering too muc
h traffic and caught O’Halloran as the sheriff was getting ready to leave. “The would-be wife’s on her way from Salem to see if the body belongs to James Cosmo Danielson, her significant other,” O’Halloran informed him as they stood on the worn wood floor of the hallway outside the sheriff’s office.

  “Did our Jane Doe’s picture hit the news?” Lang asked.

  “Uh-huh. Got her photo and Turnbull’s posted about everywhere we can think of.”

  “Okay. I’ve got a little paperwork to finish. Then I’m outta here. Unless there’s anything more to do tonight?”

  O’Halloran sighed and shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Nothing from the cars watching the lighthouse or the motel?”

  “We’re having to move around and answer other calls, you know,” the sheriff said, a bit defensively. “We’re short staffed already and stretched thin with this Turnbull business and the Tyler Mill fire, along with everything else, but we’re still patrolling regularly. Somebody’ll find him.”

  Lang had fallen in step beside the sheriff as the older man headed for the back door. They could see through a window to the back lot and together watched as a beat-up Ford Focus dragging its back fender suddenly careened through the mud puddles of the parking lot and came to an abrupt halt outside the back door.

  “Who’s this?” O’Halloran muttered.

  “Don’t know.”

  A woman jumped out of the Ford, her long brown hair a mass of tangles, a baby in one arm and a toddler stuck to her leg like a burr, holding on to her around a tie-dyed dress of olive green, brown, and burnt orange that looked as if it could use a good cleaning.

  “Glad I’m leaving,” the sheriff muttered.

  “Me, too,” Lang said.