Deadly Lies

by Chris Patchell

  “Beer,” Alex said. “Whatever’s on tap.”

  “Same.” Luka inclined his head toward the pool tables.

  A small cluster of men wearing leather jackets milled around the back, pool cues in hand. Pitchers of beer adorned the small tables in the middle.

  Alex sat back, eyes scanning the crowd. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled. He saw a man with shoulder-length dirty-blond hair make his way through the crowd toward the back of the bar.

  Hello, Knucklehead, Alex thought as the bartender set the pint glass down on the bar, foam head spilling over the rim. Picking it up, Alex took a sip. Clad in hip-hugging jeans and a tight fitting T-shirt, Honeywell caught the attention of more than one female as he walked by. Some flashed enticing smiles that went ignored, Alex noted as he continued his covert study.

  What’s the matter, Knucklehead? Do grown-up women not turn your crank? Are you only into teenage girls? The image of Natalie’s smiling driver’s license photo filled his head, and he looked away.

  Alex glanced toward the television behind the bar. Taking little note of what was playing, he tried to slow his racing pulse.

  “You see your boy?” Luka asked, his eyes glancing up into the mirror behind the bar.

  “He’s over at the pool table closest to the door.”

  Luka’s nod was slow as he checked out the group.

  “Looks like he fits right in.”

  “It’s probably not the first time he’s worked alongside them,” Alex said. “I’ll bet his cousin’s the tall guy.”

  “Maybe we should ask them to join us for more dirty, warm beers.” Luka smirked. Pursed lips conveyed his disdain toward the quality of beverage served in this fine establishment. Alex grinned, too, as he swallowed a mouthful of the watered-down swill.

  A figure, big and burly, emerged from the crowd and made his way toward the restrooms. Looking up, Alex wondered if this was the undercover agent that Wilde had spoken about. If so, he looked every bit the part of a card-carrying, badass member of a motorcycle gang. His bloodshot eyes strayed toward them for a moment, and he spat on the floor as he passed. The bartender glanced over just then, and Luka grinned at Alex.

  “Friend of yours?” he asked, for the bartender’s benefit.

  “No, but he looks a little like your girlfriend.”

  “More like her mother,” Luka said with a laugh.

  The two talked sports while the minutes crawled by. Typical guy talk. Nothing that would raise suspicion. Luka got up to go to the restroom, leaving Alex by himself at the bar. One of the girls with the Gunns was making a show of dancing at the table, her slender form moving seductively to the beat of the music. A few men crowded around to watch. Honeywell peeled away from the group and walked up to the crowded bar, coming to a stop a few stools down from Alex.

  “Hey, man, those your bikes outside?”

  Honeywell’s flat eyes fastened on Alex’s face.

  “Fuck off.”

  Alex raised his eyebrows, curving his lips in a disarming smile.

  “Sweet rides, that’s all.”

  Honeywell nodded to the bartender, who poured another pitcher of beer. Alex studied him. On the surface, he was a good-enough-looking guy with a scruffy goatee. No obvious tattoos. The tips of his fingers were stained black—probably engine grease—but there was something hollow about his flat, blue eyes. Or was that just the cop in him talking? Surely it’s nothing a girl like Natalie would have noticed.

  “Know anything about bikes?” Honeywell asked. His voice had a lilt to it, a hangover from his formative years in Louisiana perhaps?

  “A little,” Alex said. “My buddy has a Ducati.” Alex cocked a thumb toward Luka’s pint of beer.

  “That makes him the fucking expert.” Honeywell’s attitude was dismissive, but Alex thought it seemed a little forced this time.

  “Yeah, that’s what I told him. You want a real bike, get a Shovelhead.”

  Honeywell paused, his eyes fixed on Alex, who held his gaze without flinching. This was the moment of truth. Would Honeywell engage? Alex’s pulse picked up as he waited for a response.

  “Look, Asshole, you don’t know shit about bikes.” Honeywell rolled his eyes. “If you did, you’d know that every dickhead and his pup owns a fucking Shovel and thinks they’re Easy Rider.” Honeywell leaned in, resting his elbow on the bar. “If you want a ride, get a Knucklehead. It’s ten times the bike of a fucking Shovel, and you won’t look like every other swinging-dick-weekend-warrior-fucknut on the road.”

  “Well okay,” Alex said, looking like he’d just been schooled by Honeywell’s response. “Not sure that I’ve ever seen one,” he said, taking a pull from his beer. “What’s so great about a Knucklehead?”

  “Oh, man. If you have to ask …” Honeywell shook his head slowly from side to side in mock incredulity.

  “Yeah, I know.” Alex grinned. He waved his hand at Honeywell in a self-deprecating gesture. “The wife is dead set against it.”

  “Fucking poser.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Alex asked. “We’re all so busy trying to look different that we all end up looking the same.”

  That won him a soft chuckle. He was getting somewhere.

  “Tell you what,” Honeywell said. “I’m going to bust out of here soon. Follow me outside, and I’ll show you the difference between a Shovelhead and a Knucklehead.”

  “Cool.”

  Honeywell wound his way through the crowd carrying the pitcher of beer. Alex watched as he exchanged a few words with a guy that Alex could only assume was none other than the infamous Henry “Duke” Dugan, Honeywell’s big, badass cousin.

  Duke’s dark hair was short, clean cut, and Alex could see small silver hoops winking from his earlobes. He was in his early thirties with a deep scar on his chin, and the same dead, blue eyes as his cousin.

  Alex saw Duke glance toward the bar and give a quick nod. Then Honeywell turned and headed toward the door in no particular hurry. Alex knew this was the moment of truth, his one chance to get Honeywell on his own. The smart thing to do would be to let him go. But the urge to get to know the guy who’d killed Natalie was too strong.

  Luka hadn’t returned by the time Alex stepped outside. The night air was cool on his hot skin. The parking lot was set back from the road, and he could hear the hum of cars passing by. Honeywell stood beside one of the motorcycles. As Alex watched, he slid his key in the ignition, and he motioned for Alex to come closer.

  Alex’s gut clenched as he closed the distance between them. Hyperaware of his surroundings, he focused on Honeywell’s eyes, which glittered darkly in the bright glow from the neon signs. Honeywell pointed down the line of motorcycles.

  “Shovelhead, Panhead, Knucklehead. Three different eras, three different motors. The V-Twin Pan came after the Knuckle. Shovel came after Pan. This one here,” he curved a long finger at the bike beside him, “has a Shovelhead engine. See how the rocker covers look like old coal shovels? Panheads have rocker covers that look like upside-down cake pans. Knuckleheads look like the knuckles on your hand.” Honeywell’s fingers clenched into a fist.

  “Now, if you lean in here and check this out,” he gestured, indicating something behind the rocker cover that Alex was certain he would find fascinating if he could bring himself to give a damn. “Seriously, check it out. This is the shit right here.”

  Alex leaned in, aware of the danger. Following Honeywell out here into the darkened parking lot hadn’t been smart. Drawing in a slow breath, he lowered his hand to his ankle. Luka had lent him a gun from his private collection.

  “You know my daddy used to tell me that it’s not until you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything. Now, do you mind telling me, boy, what the fuck you want?”

  “Not sure what you mean,” Alex stalled, raising his eyebrows in what he hoped passed for surprise, fighting the urge to pull the gun.

  “Don’t play games with me, cop,” Honeywell said through clenched teeth. “I could
sniff you out clear across the room. You think I’m some kind of hayseed? You think I’m stupid?”

  “Hey, buddy, it’s time to go,” Luka called over his shoulder. The music from the bar escaped in a burst of sound, silenced once again by the closing of the door.

  Alex didn’t tear his gaze from Honeywell. He knew they were outnumbered. He knew he couldn’t risk moving on Honeywell. Not without backup. Still, Alex found it damned near impossible to disengage.

  “Alex,” Luca said.

  “Right,” Alex shot back over his shoulder. “Hey, thanks for the Harley tutorial,” he said, rising to his feet. A thin smile crossed his face as he read the naked hatred in Honeywell’s eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  “That went well,” Alex said bitterly, taking the beer from Luka.

  “At least we know where to find him. Now we just need to get the logistics in place.”

  “If he doesn’t bolt first. He had me made as a cop.”

  “Maybe not.” Luka flopped in the leather chair across from him. “Hey, look on the bright side—Axel’s is a pretty nice place. I have a new favorite hangout.”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, they both laughed.

  “I should have just let him go so your guys could handle him.” Alex rolled his head back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Shit happens,” Luka said with a philosophical shrug. “We’ll get him later.”

  “Guess it could have been worse. We could have had the ATF all over our asses.”

  “For what? We’re just a couple of guys out for a beer.” Luka took a long swallow from the chilled bottle. With one foot he pushed an empty pizza box off the coffee table onto a pile of newspapers stacked on the floor.

  “Hell of a place you’ve got here.” Alex scanned the room full of IKEA furniture, empty beer bottles, and dirty dishes.

  “Bachelor pad. The maid comes on Thursdays.”

  Despite his grim mood, Alex managed a smile. After a long pause, he sat up, staring at his beer bottle.

  “What now?” Luka asked.

  “Now we go to work,” Alex said. Luka’s eyes flashed at him.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Honeywell had a high school sweetheart who moved to California. Lisa Cullen. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Looked a lot like Natalie Watson. She was killed by a hit-and-run driver about seven years ago, when she was in college, right around the time that Honeywell was here.”

  Luka’s eyelids dropped to half mast as he considered the implications.

  “I’m not big on coincidences.”

  “Me neither,” Alex admitted, draining the last mouthful of beer from the bottle. “I was thinking that maybe tomorrow morning we could take a drive. I’d sure love to meet Lisa’s parents in person.”

  Albert and Mary Cullen lived in Windsor, a quiet town in the heart of the Sonoma Valley. Luka pulled up to the curb of a well-maintained bungalow in a picturesque neighborhood bordering on a park. Perfectly pruned trees studded the immaculate lawn. The neatly trimmed rosebushes flanked the short walkway leading to the front door.

  Alex emerged from the passenger seat slowly. The painful drumming in his head from last night’s beer picked up in tempo as he pressed the doorbell. Some nights, beer was like potato chips. Why stop at just one?

  A melodic tinkle of chimes unleashed the skittering of toenails on the floor followed by the slow clicking of high heels.

  There was nothing welcoming in the frosty expression on Mary Cullen’s face. Her eyes were the flinty color of Puget Sound before a storm. She looked from Alex to Luka, then back again. The unsmiling lips tightened a fraction more.

  A flurry of furious barking erupted from the fluffy dog at Mary’s heels. Not the deep belly barks Molly uttered, but high-pitched yipping that made Alex wince—the cringe-worthy high-pitched tone of fingernails squealing down a slate chalkboard.

  “Rocky, shush.” The dog flinched as if struck, but fell mercifully silent. She turned back toward Alex. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Detective Alex Shannon. This is Detective Luka Petrovich. We’d like to speak to you about your daughter, Lisa.” Alex held out his police identification.

  Mary shifted subtly, placing her weight on a back foot, like a fighter poised to meet an opponent. The flawless coat of makeup she wore looked on the verge of cracking as her eyes narrowed. Alex thought about Joyce Watson. While the similarity between Natalie and Lisa was unmistakable, their mothers could not have been more different. Mary’s cold, ice-queen beauty could not hold a candle to the natural warmth that radiated from Joyce Watson’s smile.

  “Detective Shannon, didn’t we already speak?” Mary asked, in a sharp, clipped voice. “Aren’t you a long way from home?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Mary was already closing the door before he finished his sentence, red-tipped fingers of her knobby hand pressing against it firmly. Alex stopped the door with his shoe. The meaning behind Mary’s glare was clear. They were not welcome. But Alex had come too far to leave empty-handed. One way or another, she would talk to him.

  “Mrs. Cullen, please. We’ll only take a few minutes of your time. It’s in regards to the death of a young girl in Seattle. Your daughter knew the suspect, Jerry Honeywell.”

  A trace of indecision flashed in her eyes, and Alex smelled victory. With an exasperated sigh, Mary stepped back and opened the door.

  “You have ten minutes,” she said, retreating down the tiled hall, the small Pomeranian skittering at her feet. Trading a wary look with Luka, they fell into step.

  Mary led them back through the immaculate house. The color scheme was a sterile white on white. Alex checked the walls for family photographs and found none. The house looked as if it were being staged for sale, well decorated, but with no personal touches. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was a study in white, accented with a few splashes of color—red apples in a ceramic bowl, a vase of golden sunflowers placed dead center on the kitchen table.

  The smell of coffee filled the room. Alex stole a wistful glance at the coffee maker, wedged into the corner of a cupboard. He had little doubt that Mary was not inclined to share. Coffee would only extend their visit.

  With a quick wave of her hand, Mary motioned for them to sit at the kitchen table. They complied. Rocky stood guard at her master’s feet, growling softly and showing the tips of his sharp fangs.

  “I understand that Lisa and Jerry were a couple in high school. What do you remember about him?” Alex asked, forcing his taut body to relax, adopting a comfortable air.

  Mary’s face tightened another notch. Her flinty eyes met his.

  “Jerry came from a troubled home. He lived with his uncle in a cabin north of town. He met Lisa in art class during their junior year.” Mary averted her gaze. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. It was a long time ago.”

  “They were close?” Luka asked, and Mary’s lips pursed in response.

  “It was a high school crush. Of course, everyone thinks that their first love is their last. There’s nothing new there.”

  He knew what she meant about first love. There was a time when he thought Abby was the only woman in the world for him. And then there was Jill.

  “Why did you leave Winthrop?” Alex asked.

  “It’s simple. My husband got a new job in California.”

  “How did Jerry take the news?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The resolute line of her mouth assured Alex his instincts were right. There was more to this story. Prying it out of Mary wouldn’t be easy.

  “I think you do. Was Jerry angry when Lisa left? Did he follow her?”

  “As far as I know, they never saw each other again after we left Winthrop.”

  “Really? I find it hard to believe that a boy who has no one else in the world would let Lisa go so easy.” Alex kept his eyes glued on Mary’s face as he let the silence stretch out between them. Her gaze was razor sharp a
s an exasperated sigh escaped her parted lips.

  “Why are you here, Detective? Lisa’s dead. No good can come of this. Why are you so anxious to dig up the past?”

  Rocky’s low growl bumped up a notch.

  “Hush, Rocky,” Mary commanded in a voice that was no longer detached.

  Rocky flinched and grudgingly obeyed. If a dog was capable of looking pissed, Rocky pulled it off. Alex watched Mary struggle to maintain her icy exterior, a battle she was losing. Her cheeks flushed red, and she fidgeted with the frayed edge of a placemat. Leaning forward, he spoke softly and hoped that by opening up about Natalie, he could tip the tide in his favor.

  “Natalie Watson was sixteen years old when she met Jerry Honeywell online. I found her body near a cabin in Winthrop two weeks ago. Here’s a picture of your daughter in high school.” Alex placed a photocopy of the yearbook photo on the table. “This is a picture of Natalie Watson.” With their photos side by side, there was no denying the similarity between the two girls.

  Mary’s lips trembled as she studied the photographs. She covered her mouth with a shaky hand.

  “I still don’t see what any of this has to do with Lisa.” Her words were blunt, but her tone was less emphatic now.

  “I think that learning more about Lisa will help me figure out what makes Jerry tick. I know this is painful. I know you want to leave what happened to Lisa in the past, but I don’t think Natalie will be the last girl he hurts. I think he’s only getting started. I need your help, Mary.”

  The sound of the telephone cut the tension in the room. Ignoring it, Mary stared out the kitchen window. She sat so perfectly straight and still, Alex wondered if she heard it at all. He stole a quick glance at Luka. Luka gave an encouraging nod. Mary’s hand left her lips and traveled to her throat. She swallowed hard.

  “Can I get you coffee?”

  “Sure,” Alex said.

  “Please,” Luka agreed.

  Rising from the table, Mary crossed the room and poured three cups of coffee. Playing the part of the gracious hostess, she brought out the crystal cream and sugar containers, placing them in the center of the table between the two detectives. She settled back into her chair. Alex resisted the urge to prompt her. At last, she began.