The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  “Nothing particular,” said Howell.

  “Well, maybe the clue is who is not here. There are no correctional officers in your room, nor are there any outside. Your ankle isn’t chained to the bed any more, either.”

  He sat up just a little and looked around.

  “You’re right. How come?”

  “Because your trial is over. Technically it was a mistrial, but the DA is no longer pursing any charges against you. You’re a free man,” I said.

  I told him everything that had happened since the suicide attempt. He got the full story – unlike Scott Barker. It was unfair of me. The back of his head hit the pillow like I’d just socked him in the mouth.

  “I want you to know that I lied to Scott Barker. The DNA test was false. In fact, it was never performed. Harper got the lab to write a false report. It wasn’t a real trial any more – we needed Barker to cooperate. Plus, I was holding back something important.”

  Laying a single page in Lenny’s hand, I said no more and let him read it. It was from the IVF clinic. Being a soldier on active duty, Lenny had signed a release for the clinic – his wife could use his sperm at any time without his permission.

  “What does this mean? He said.

  “It means Caroline is your blood, your daughter. But her birth mother was Julie Rosen.”

  Harry moved to the door of the private room, opened it. Howell closed and then opened his eyes and looked at Harry. I leaned over the bed and pinched Howell’s cheek between my finger and thumb.

  “Oww,” he said. “What did you do that for?”

  “I just wanted you to know, for sure, that you’re not dreaming,” I said, moving aside so he could see the door.

  Caroline Howell held a walking stick, and was still unsteady on her feet. Harry took her other arm and walked her gently into Howell’s hospital room. In a matter of days, she’d regained a little of her color, put on maybe five pounds, and her physiotherapist felt that Caroline would regain some of the muscle in her legs that had wasted away in those six horrific months.

  When she reached the bed, she gave Harry a kiss on the cheek, and placed both hands around her father’s tear-soaked face.

  “Daddy,” she said.

  They wept together. Her long blonde hair stuck to his wet cheeks, and he smelled her, and held her, and kissed her and she held on to him. They cried together for the time that they had lost, for the suffering that they had endured, and for the promise, however faint, of a possible return to normal life.

  Watching that scene, I tried not to think of Scott Barker. I tried not to think of his face when I lied and told him Caroline was dead. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to know what pain he’d caused – I wanted him to feel it and I wanted it to rip him apart.

  Caroline didn’t know that she was really Emily Rosen. When or if she ever found out was nothing to do with me. It would’ve been hard for Howell to see Caroline in the first few days after Harper dragged her out of the hole. She was dehydrated, skin and bone, and sick. Her hair had begun to fall out. It was one of the hardest things I ever did – just watching that girl, curled up and bleeding in a concrete hole in the ground.

  How she must have suffered. How she must have begged Scott Barker to let her go. For months she must’ve prayed and begged and cried.

  When I thought of that, I didn’t feel so bad for lying to Barker. He was happy to torture a child in this way, just not his own child. And he had heard every word of her pleas and ignored them.

  I breathed out, rubbed my eyes and felt a strong urge to go visit my daughter. Right then I wanted to hold her.

  “Let’s go, Harry.”

  Before we left, I remembered something else.

  “Thank you, thank you!” said Howell.

  “You don’t have to thank me. I just need you to employ me, one last time. There’s still the little matter of your divorce.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  The offices of Gore & Penning epitomized everything that I despised about lawyers. Maybe it was the combination of oak paneling and glass. Or the bowl of free gold-plated pens that they had in reception. The pens were embossed with the company logo. I was the opposition, here to try and negotiate a financial settlement between Lenny and Susan Howell. I even wore one of my better suits, and I carried a file and an iPad. I still got a disapproving look from the receptionist who probably spent more on manicures in a week than I spent on food.

  She told me to wait. I took a seat, grabbed a bunch of free gold pens and set about scraping the company name off the side. They let me wait for a long time. Maybe a half hour. In that time I’d managed to get the name off five of the pens, which I stashed in my jacket pocket. A gold pen is a gold pen, after all.

  A tall, blonde young woman in a striking, figure-hugging green suit came up to me and asked if my client would be arriving anytime soon.

  “No. It’s just me,” I said.

  She looked puzzled. Then she asked me to follow her. I walked for a long time, through wide, air-conditioned corridors jam-packed with young expensive lawyers in young expensive suits, as they talked on the phones, or tapped at laptops or hauled paper.

  We arrived at a glass-walled conference room. She opened the door and ushered me inside. This was a corner office, massive, and boasting a tremendous view of the Manhattan skyline. It was a little after nine, and the ten lawyers on the other side of the table, with their backs to the view, were all sipping coffee from Gore & Penning branded mugs. In the middle of the group was Susan Howell. Five lawyers on her left, five on her right. Beside their decaf macchiatos and slimline lattes, each lawyer had a leather, company branded document folder and an iPad.

  Pausing in front of my chair, I waited to see if any of the assholes on that side of the table would stand up and shake my hand. None of them did.

  I sat down in a seat in the middle of the conference table, facing Susan. She wore fat, oval, dark sunglasses and didn’t register my presence.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked the young blonde woman in the green suit.

  “No, thanks. I’m not staying that long,” I said.

  On either side of Susan Howell sat Gore and Penning, respectively. Two middle-aged, sharp-faced divorce lawyers.

  I set my file on the table, with the iPad on top. I took a moment to look at all of the faces of my opposition. This meeting alone was probably costing Susan Howell ten grand an hour. The rest of the lawyers were male. Clean, short-back-and-sides haircuts, dark suits and sensible ties.

  “Are all these people going to be talking?” I said.

  “Not all of them,” said the lawyer on Susan’s left. “I’m Jeffrey Penning. I’ll be leading this negotiation,” he said.

  I leaned back, laced my fingers together and placed my hands behind my head.

  “Are you comfortable enough?” said Jeffrey.

  “Pretty much. Say, why do you guys sit at that side of the table? Why don’t you sit at this side so you can see the view?”

  No one spoke.

  “When is your client arriving?” said Jeffrey.

  “He’s not. You deal with me,” I said.

  Jeffrey shook his head, tutted. I wasn’t surprised when several of the young lawyers on his side of the table watched him do this and then joined in. I’ve seen some sycophantic behavior before, but nothing like this.

  “You don’t practice much in the field of divorce, do you, Mr Flynn?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “You see, if you had a little more experience you’d know that we bring our clients to these conference negotiations so that we can discuss settlement. If we’re going to have a meaningful negotiation maybe we should reschedule.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’m not here to negotiate. There won’t be a negotiation. Ever. I’ve got one offer to make. It’s my final offer. Either your client accepts it, or she doesn’t. Either way, we’re not negotiating,” I said.

  Gore started the laughter rolling around the table. Through a smile
he said, “We’ve heard that one before, Mr Flynn. There’s always another offer. You’ve seen our initial proposals. We think they’re fair. Eighty-five per cent of all assets. Bearing in mind that we’re negotiating, we’d be prepared to recommend seventy-five per cent to our client.”

  Silence. I leaned back, closed my eyes and stifled a yawn.

  “Are you sure we can’t get you anything?” said the lady in the green suit.

  “Actually, I like your pens. The ones you have in reception that you give out for free. I’ll take a box of them, if you don’t mind. But could you scrape off the Gore & Penning logo first?”

  Nobody laughed. She looked dumbstruck. Then she turned on her long heels and left.

  “Can we be serious for a moment?” said Jeffrey.

  “Good idea,” I said. “I’d like to speak to your client in private.”

  “Not a chance,” said Jeffrey. The nodding dogs in two-hundred-dollar ties started up.

  “Oh, don’t worry, gentlemen. We’re not discussing the divorce,” I said.

  “You’re not discussing anything alone with our client,” said Jeffrey.

  “Really. That right, Susan?” I said.

  She hadn’t moved. For a second I thought it might be a mannequin behind those glasses and leopard-print dress.

  “It doesn’t really concern you guys. You see, Susan, I want to discuss a locker in New Rochelle train station.”

  Her hands shot out and gripped the forearms of the men either side of her.

  “Leave us alone,” she said.

  She didn’t need to say it twice. The commanding tone of her voice was enough. Gore and Penning stood, reluctantly. Their team did likewise, but Jeffrey Penning was wary. He didn’t want any off-the-books transactions, because it meant those assets wouldn’t feature in the official financial settlement and he couldn’t claim his percentage on those assets.

  “Nothing under the table, Susan. We agreed that,” he said.

  “Get out,” she said.

  One by one, the legal might of Gore and Penning left the room. Jeffrey was the last to leave. Before he exited I said, “Oh, I meant to tell your receptionist – my assistant will be joining me any minute. Make sure you show her in, right away.”

  “Why of course,” said Jeffrey, sarcastically, and he slammed the door on his way out.

  “This room feels a lot bigger now, doesn’t it?” I said. I flipped open the iPad and fired it up. Susan said nothing.

  I turned the screen around and stood it up vertically on the stand that was built into the protective cover.

  I said nothing, just hit play.

  The video was from the train station, date stamped a week before Caroline Howell went missing. The feds had been through every inch of security camera footage. They weren’t able to see anyone approach the locker that contained the cell phone that Lynch found during the fake drop.

  I knew, somehow, this was important. I don’t like loose ends. When someone takes the trouble to so perfectly hide their activity, it meant there was a damn good reason for hiding it. It had been a month since Caroline was reunited with her father. I’d spent three days solid with the feds, going through the footage. At first, the FBI tech told me there was no point. How would I be able to see something that they couldn’t?

  I’d told the tech I wasn’t looking for someone placing anything in the locker. He didn’t understand that, but he was curious enough to let me trawl the footage with him.

  I’d found it on the third day. The camera that covered the lockers was normally static, but it did have a limited range of movement. That was the first discovery I’d made and it helped me narrow down what I was looking for.

  Two separate teams had viewed this footage. They were looking for somebody opening the locker door, placing the phone inside, dropping fifty cents in the slot, closing the door, turning the key to lock it, removing the key and walking away. They saw no one at the locker.

  But somebody had to have taken that key. Somebody did go to that locker because Lynch found the locker key in the toilet cistern. The feds didn’t see anyone take the key on the video – fact. So I was looking for the reason the feds didn’t see anyone taking that key.

  I was looking for the distraction.

  On the third day of searching I saw the first move. It played now on the iPad in front of Susan Howell. A kid, wearing a black hoodie, took something out of his pocket, pointed toward the ground and kept walking. He put the small item back in his pocket without breaking stride. Thirty seconds later an elderly lady passed in the same direction as the youth in the hoodie, and when she reached the spot where he’d pointed something toward the ground, her feet went out from under her like she’d hit black ice. Her toes went right up over her head and she landed on her back – her shopping bags spilled their contents over the floor and three passers-by came running to see if she was okay.

  The kid had used a slip bottle. A small, 50 milliliter squeezy bottle containing water mixed with a little olive oil.

  The camera shifts to focus on the fallen lady. All attention is on her. At the top of the screen you can see the lockers but you don’t get a full view. If someone had been standing at the locker you’d see their legs and midriff – no more. Nobody at the interesting locker. However, the locker immediately opposite just got occupied. A tall man has opened that locker, placed a bag inside and he’s there for a full five minutes with his arms deep within that locker. He closes it, and as he leaves he walks toward the camera. It’s the briefest of glimpses and has been slowed down in this footage.

  I watched Susan carefully as the footage went into slow-mo. She tried not to look at him. But she couldn’t help herself. This man had been her lover, after all.

  It wouldn’t stand up in court, but it sure looked a lot like Marlon.

  The old lady has been helped to her feet, her shopping recovered and placed back into her bags. She stumbles forward, toward the locker. She reaches out and puts a hand on the locker door, just to stop herself falling. The hand is on the door for a few seconds. Then she stands up again and goes on her way. The door didn’t open. She put nothing in the slot. The footage is too grainy to tell, but I knew she got something.

  She got the key.

  “This is actually very clever. These lockers sit back to back. Marlon uses the locker which has a balsawood backing. On the other side of the balsawood is the locker that the feds opened the night of the drop. We know what the feds found in there – and now we know Marlon knocked down the balsawood partition between the lockers, placed the phone inside from the rear and replaced the partition. He got into the drop locker from behind. He also put the fifty cents in the slot. So you don’t need to open the locker and place a coin inside. All you need to do is twist and pull out the key – which you did, when you steadied yourself after your fall.”

  “That’s not me. You’ll never prove it.”

  “I don’t have to, Barker told us about your involvement. It wasn’t his idea. Marlon fell for you, just like Lenny did. You figured out he wasn’t who he said he was, and he cut you in for a share of the ransom.”

  A vein pulsed in her throat.

  “Look, I know you married Lenny for his money. Nothing else. You were happy as long as he was rich, but when money started to get tight you needed to take whatever you could get and blow out of town. I’ve talked to two of your ex-husbands. They don’t speak highly of you. I’m not surprised. You never told Lenny you’d been married three times. He just knew you were a widow. Your last husband died from carbon monoxide poisoning and if the feds find out about this I’m sure they’ll look at your late husband’s death a lot closer. Your might have gotten away with this too, but you got greedy. With the fire, you got a bigger payout on the house from the insurance company than you would’ve achieved had the house actually sold. But here’s the thing – you’re not getting one cent from Leonard Howell. That rock of an engagement ring you got sitting in a safety deposit box – it’s time to hock it. That’s what y
ou get. You’ll settle this case now, with no payout, no alimony, zip. You walk away with what you have. If you push this divorce – everything I told you will come out in a public court.”

  I pushed two copies of an agreement across the table. And followed it with one of my new anonymous gold pens.

  “Sign it and get the hell out of here. The feds will put this together soon enough. You don’t want to be here when they do,” I said.

  The paper had come to a stop in between her outstretched arms. She drew back her hands, letting her nails scrape the tabletop.

  She signed it through gritted teeth, both copies, pushed them back toward me and stood.

  The door opened and Jeffrey Gore said, “Your assistant is here.”

  “Your assistant?” said Harper, as she strode into the room.

  “Sorry, I didn’t think I should mention the FBI in here. Susan might not have signed the paperwork otherwise.”

  “What paperwork?” said Jeffrey.

  I handed him a copy of the document Susan Howell had just signed and watched Jeffrey’s face collapse as he read it. His client didn’t seem all that surprised to see Harper. She hung her head, and waited while Harper read her her Miranda rights, cuffed her and walked her out. Jeffrey balled up the agreement and threw it at my back as I left.

  “I promise you, this isn’t over,” he said.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I said.

  Outside the downtown offices of Gore & Penning, two feds waited in an unmarked car. Harper delivered Susan Howell into the hands of her colleagues.

  “Take her in,” she said.

  One of the agents began to take off the handcuffs around Susan’s wrists.

  “Leave them on,” said Harper.

  “We got our own. Don’t you want your cuffs back?” said the agent.

  “No,” said Harper. She reached into her jacket, removed her piece, and shield and gave them to the agent.

  “Deliver these and my cuffs to the SAC. Tell them I quit,” she said.

  The two agents stood dumbstruck for a moment, before tucking Susan Howell into the back seat, getting into the car and driving away.