Liar Liar

by James Patterson

  “This is why you won’t solve this case, Joe,” Pops said. “If you knew Harriet at all, you’d know using her mother as bait isn’t going to work. You’re not interested in the people involved here. You’re only interested in yourself.”

  “I’m taking you off this case completely, Morris.” Woods straightened. “I’ll send an officer to let you know what your reassignment is.”

  “Call it what you want.” Pops shrugged. “Consulting. Observing. Reassigned. Active or suspended—I’m not leaving the building and I’m not giving up my hold on this case, not while my best detectives are still out there.”

  Woods scoffed.

  “You need to warn all the victims by phone, and put physical protection on every victim Harry’s dealt with from Nowra to Melbourne,” Pops said. “There’s a reason Banks went so far south. He’s out in the wilds now. He won’t double back to the city to go after Harry’s mother, who everyone knows means very little to her. If we can find out where Regan’s going, we can—”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Woods held his hands up. “You’re rogue, mate. Your ‘best detectives’ are rogue, and you’ve joined them. This will be the case that ends your career.”

  “My career is the last thing I’m thinking about, you power-hungry prick.”

  It was rare that Trevor Morris lost his cool. But he was losing it now. He drew a deep breath, glanced through the windows of the briefing room, where a dozen or more officers were pretending not to watch.

  “You won’t find Regan Banks before Harry does,” Morris said. “You’re too blind. Too stupid. I just hope she finds him before he strikes again.” He turned to leave.

  “You’ve just expressed your support for the intentions of an officer who’s going to commit premeditated murder,” Woods began to shout as Pops walked away. “I’m suspending you, and I’m putting that in the report!”

  Put this in the report, Pops thought as he raised his middle finger and headed for the elevators.

  Chapter 41

  I HITCHHIKED A whole bunch as a teenager. It was often the fastest way to get out of town if I had decided to leave a foster home to go find my brother. I realized pretty quickly that the first place my foster family would look for me was at the local bus and train stations. They figured I wasn’t stupid enough to get in a car with a stranger. I was plenty stupid enough.

  A couple of cars passed me in the first five minutes after I rejoined the highway heading south. It was still raining and had been all night while I tried to sleep, fighting off memories of Bonnie Risdale’s house. Not wanting to risk showing my face at a hotel in the area, I’d lain down in the loading dock behind a closed service station, using my backpack as a pillow. I’d awakened with the expected aches and pains, renewed sensation in the bumps and scrapes I’d acquired jumping from the train.

  I wasn’t sure the passing vehicles could see me in the deluge, but I pressed on along the highway with my thumb out for a couple of kilometers. When a big truck put on his brakes after I’d spent fifteen minutes in the rain, I felt my whole body swell with relief and gratitude. I climbed up into the warm, dark cabin and threw my backpack on the floor.

  “You must be nuts, walkin’ around in this,” the driver said. He was a typical trucker. Potbellied, weary eyes under a dusty cap. I took the offered towel and wiped my face and neck as he started the vehicle back up.

  “As close as you can get to Narooma, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  He merely shrugged. Ten minutes passed in which I watched the trucker’s face out of the corner of my eye to see if he was taking any interest in my body or belongings. I casually passed my backpack into the tiny room behind our seat that held cupboards and a small camp bed for the long haul, and took a quick glance around the darkened space for knives, rope, guns, anything threatening. There was nothing but chip packets, empty pie trays, beer cans and water bottles, piles of clothes reeking of sweat, and a change of boots. On the floor, I spied a map of Alice Springs. If this guy had come from as far away as Alice, maybe he was out of the loop with the search for Regan and me. In any case, I kept my cap low and my profile to the man in the driver’s seat.

  I thought about Regan. He’d said he’d always been bad, that the “layers” he’d built up over his life had just been hiding something evil lurking at his core. Had he been born bad, or had whatever his parents did to him when he was seven years old broken him? Changed the very essence of his being? Turned him dark? After Regan had entered the foster-care system, a judge had decided that the public should never know what had happened to him and had sealed the file. It was a move I’d heard of before. A report that detailed my friend Tox Barnes’s involvement in the accidental killing of a mother and child had been sealed to protect him from ever suffering persecution in his adult life over the incident. I knew that some of the worst child-abuse cases were sealed so that the victims would never have to fear a friend or loved one discovering what had happened to them. They could begin anew, leave their secret traumas locked safely away. If Regan’s parents had made him the monster that he really was, whatever they had done must have been horrendous.

  In time, I tried to shut Regan out of my mind. When the trucker failed to offer any attempt at conversation, I fell asleep.

  It was a big mistake.

  Chapter 42

  MY SLEEP WAS DEEP, enveloping, an almost choking fog of fatigue. I came out of it slowly, struggling to recall where I was. The truck. The grinding of the engine and the clunking of gears as the driver slowed. I sat up and rubbed my face, panic prickling up my legs and into my stomach.

  “What is it? Why are we stopping?”

  “Dunno,” the driver said, shrugging. “Accident, maybe.”

  I looked out the windows. Two rows of cars slowly creeping forward toward blue and red flashing lights. Patrol cars. A roadblock. Across the highway, the opposite lanes were halted as well, two officers wandering from car to car, flashing torches in on the occupants.

  “Oh, shit.” I scrambled up in my seat. “Oh, shit!”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t good.” I searched the roadside. Nothing but rock walls on either side of us, a section of the highway cut into a hill. “I’ve got to get out of here.” I had thought I was well out of the search zone, but the roadblocks seemed to have been extended farther than I’d guessed.

  “What’s the matter? It’s just an accident or somethin’.”

  “It’s not an accident; it’s a fucking roadblock.” I tried to soften my tone. “I…It’s for me.”

  “The police are looking for you?” He examined me, squinting. “Why the hell would they be doin’ that?”

  “My husband is a local cop,” I stammered. “The chief of police. We’ve been having problems. It’s been getting worse. He hit me a couple of times. Choked me once. I…I got scared. I ran. He said he was going to kill me.”

  The truck driver looked out the windows at the headlights on the highway, the patrol cars flashing. The gap between us and the car in front had widened. A car horn sounded from behind as the queue failed to move. There were only three cars ahead of us. A cop in a rain jacket waving. While the truck driver weighed my story, I glimpsed the name embroidered on his fluorescent shirt.

  “Stan,” I pleaded, “don’t send me back to him. Please. I just need some time to get to my mother’s place in Narooma. From there I’ll reassess things. Maybe try to get him some counseling.”

  “Jesus.” Stan took off his cap, ran a hand over his bald head. “This ain’t right.”

  “Please help me,” I begged. “Just…Just…”

  Stan watched a big officer in a peaked cap wandering between the cars, heading toward us. My fictional abusive husband, the chief? I watched Stan struggle with his loyalties. He sighed and gave in.

  “Get back there.” He turned and pointed. “They’ll probably search the cabin, but there’s a panel in the floor. I don’t know if you’ll even fit.”

  I leaped over the seat and ri
pped up the carpet where he pointed, spying a stainless-steel hatch. Beneath the hatch was a low shelf where a person could lean while they toyed with the engine parts. The noise of the engine was deafening from here. I squeezed into the space on my knees and doubled over, pulling my head down with my hands. The panel slid over me, and I waited in the noise and heat.

  The truck clunked as the passenger door above me was opened. I breathed into the gap between my knees, squeezed my eyes shut. It seemed an eternity before the truck seemed to be moving again, asphalt whizzing by. I pushed up with my back and slipped awkwardly out of the compartment, shoving away the stiff carpet flap and breathing the warm air of the cabin. It looked like the cops had indeed searched the sleeping cabin. The tiny closet door was open, and the camp-bed cover had been tossed over.

  “Thank you.” I crawled into my seat. “Thank you so much, Stan. I can’t—”

  “Cut the thank-yous,” Stan snapped. “I’m not in the business of hiding runaways from the cops. I don’t care who your husband is or what he’s done—I need this job.”

  “I understand.” I nodded.

  “I’ll drop you at the next exit. From there, you’re on your own, lady.”

  “I got it.” I grabbed my bag. “No problem.”

  I settled deep into my seat, hugging the bag to my chest. My limbs were throbbing. I tried to tell myself I had overcome the riskiest part of my journey. I’d had a run of bad luck, but the real danger would come when I found Regan. It would be smooth sailing for a while, surely, if I just kept my head down and carried on.

  I was wrong.

  Chapter 43

  THEY STOPPED ON the slope of the highway leading down to the bridge, a long row of red lights before them in the steadily easing rain. Whitt had tried to sleep in the cramped, cigarette-scented motel room in Nowra but found the Dexies had drowned out all fatigue. He’d considered waking Vada at 3 a.m. to discuss possible theories about Regan’s whereabouts, but through the curtain he could see her sleeping form in the bed, the gentle curve of her hip, her eyes closed softly in perfect slumber. It had seemed a shame to wake her. Sitting in the car beside her now, he found himself thinking of that image, remembering the envy he’d felt at her calm.

  At each end of the long bridge was a two-man team of patrol officers searching vehicles, waving the occasional car past after looking through the windows and searching in the boot. Across the region, several roadblocks shut down highways and major roads, making it almost impossible to get in or out of Nowra by car without being searched. Vada and Whitt spoke to the two officers closest to them. Young men, a couple of beat cops probably brought in for overtime to cover the roadblocks. The officers seemed to resent Whitt and Vada checking up on them, sniffing and looking Whitt over as he stood by them.

  “We’re Boyraville jurisdiction,” one of them said. Whitt read his name badge: Christopher Dunner. “Boss has already been in to check on us.” Their gaze was skeptical. Whitt wondered if they could tell he was high.

  “Command wants things tightened up at the roadblocks,” Whitt said. “Regan Banks somehow managed to get through every roadblock on the way into Nowra and back out again. That includes blocks on side roads.”

  “The guy’s a fucking ghost.” The other officer, Constable John Swartout, spat on the asphalt. “He must have a police radio. He’s listening to the channels, hearing about the setup.”

  “Or someone just wasn’t vigilant enough and he got through.” Whitt shrugged. “It’s cold out here. It’s boring. One lazy check is all it takes.”

  The two officers glared at him. He walked to the edge of the bridge and looked over at the river rushing beneath, the vertigo giving him a cold rush. When he was sure that Vada wasn’t watching, he popped two Dexedrines. His partner had begun walking toward the other end of the bridge to see the officers stopping cars traveling in the opposite direction.

  When Whitt’s phone rang, it was Chief Morris again. Heat flooded his face, as though the man was calling because he could somehow see what he had just done.

  “Whitt,” Pops said, “we’re going to have to go a bit off-reservation here.” Chief Morris explained the confrontation with Deputy Commissioner Woods, the planned trap for Regan using Harriet’s mother as bait. “His priorities are all wrong,” Pops said. “He’s interested in making a spectacle of this case rather than actually solving it. I’ve got a small team of officers here working on the side for me. Can I count on you?”

  “Of course,” Whitt said. “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how Regan got into the records room,” Pops said. “I’m worried he’s got eyes in here. I don’t know how he knew where the records room was or that it was a soft spot in the security. I’ve got officers going back through CCTV in the months prior to the shooting to see if Regan was ever in the building.”

  “Surely he never entered the building himself,” Whitt said. “He must have hacked the CCTV and looked around, found a route in. Maybe he bribed an ex-officer.”

  “I don’t know.” Pops sighed. “Thousands of people come through this building every day. Perps. Witnesses. Security. Lawyers. Specialists. He might have stolen a swipe card. Worn a disguise. If he came in, we will find the footage. I’m also going to start cold-calling all the victims Harry has ever dealt with and warning them.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Whitt exhaled. “Really?”

  “It’ll panic them. Sure,” Pops said gravely. “But if Regan can’t get ahold of one victim because she panicked and went to stay at a hotel for a few days, it’ll be worth it.”

  “They’ll take your badge if you go too far,” Whitt warned.

  “I hope they try,” Pops said.

  Whitt watched the dark outline of some creature approach the riverbank below him, a slithering shadow.

  “Do we need to be worried about Tox?” Whitt asked. “He’s a sitting target in that hospital. Regan might have said he’s going after Harry’s past victims, but we can’t trust his word. He could mix things up at any time. He’d want to finish Tox off, wouldn’t he? The man tried to kill him.”

  “I asked for police protection for his hospital room and didn’t get any, of course,” Pops said. “I’m calling in a guy I know, an ex-cop. He works in private security now. He’ll watch the room. You take care of yourself. It’s public knowledge you and Harry worked together.”

  Whitt watched as a car approached the two officers patrolling the end of the bridge nearest to him. His head felt hot and heavy, his temples throbbing. Whitt rubbed his face, tried to get a grip. He’d taken too much Dex. He was on edge.

  “Regan told Harry he’s planning to meet her somewhere,” Whitt said, trying to focus. “Somewhere that she’ll be able to see the real him. That must be why he came out of the city.” He explained Harry’s call, trying to keep his voice even, resisting the urge to spew his words out in a jittering stream. He told Pops about Regan’s claim that Sam was responsible for his incarceration.

  “But where would Regan go?” Pops wondered aloud. “Where do you get to see the real Regan Banks? And when is this meeting supposed to take place?”

  “I suppose when he’s finished unraveling her. When she sees what he wants her to see.”

  “The guy’s a nutjob,” Pops said. “We need to look closer at him. Figure out where he’ll be and when.”

  Whitt didn’t answer. He forgot all about the call when he heard the shouting at the roadblock behind him.

  Chapter 44

  THE OFFICER STUMBLED back in shock from the window of the car, a young woman in a tight red dress exiting the vehicle on pretty velvet heels.

  “He’s just a friend, Christopher!” she said.

  “You said you were going to church!” said Officer Dunner, incredulous. “That’s how you dress for church? Who is that guy? Hey, you! Get out of the car!”

  Whitt felt his heartbeat double and then double again. A strange desire prickled in him, a taste for violence. His world was shaking with the impact of his
steps. The two officers were approaching the car as the male driver exited, his hands up in surrender.

  “We’re just friends.” The young man’s voice was high-pitched with panic. “We just went to lunch, that’s all.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Dunner was crowding the young driver, his partner Swartout coming along for the ride, blocking the man up against the vehicle. “That’s my girlfriend, mate. That’s my car! What are you doing in my car with my girlfriend?”

  Whitt watched as the girlfriend grabbed at Dunner’s uniform, trying to stop him barging the driver with his chest as the other officer came around him, hindering his escape.

  “Tommy, Tommy, get back in the car,” the girl cried. “Christopher, leave him alone!”

  Before Whitt could intervene, the two officers had taken hold of the driver and were shoving him into the hood of the car.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Whitt pulled out his badge. “What happened? You two officers, stand down!”

  “I didn’t do anything!” the young driver protested. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend! Ow! Shit! Let go of me! This is assault!”

  “We got this under control, Detective.” Swartout came toward Whitt, a hand up, trying to back him off. “It’s just a lovers’ tiff. Nothing serious. Why don’t you go check the roadblock at end of the bridge? We can handle this.”

  “Officer, I told you to stand down.” Whitt stepped around Swartout. The young woman was still trying to drag Christopher off the driver, until he shoved her, almost knocking her to the ground.

  “Let him go!” Whitt snarled.

  The blow was sudden. Even Whitt didn’t see it coming. As he balled his fist, his arm seemed to move of its own volition, as though a trigger had been pulled. He swung up and punched Officer Dunner in the side of the face, a direct hit in the right temple, splitting the flesh. Whitt hadn’t punched anyone in more than a decade. It seemed to be over before it began, the shock reverberating through his arm, shoulder, chest. The officer flopped onto the concrete, releasing the young man he’d pinned to the bonnet of the car.