Liars, Inc.

by Paula Stokes

“Let me give you a ride home, and I’ll explain everything.”

  “Sure. Okay.” The bag of stuff buzzes in my hand. I stop at the bottom of the steps and yank out the phone. I have three voicemail messages. My chest feels heavy. I know they’re going to be from Parvati, because she’s the only one that has this number. I shouldn’t listen to them. I should throw this phone in the trash can next to the curb. I line up like I’m going to take a free throw. Phone. Trash. Two points.

  But I’m a masochist, so I don’t do it. Instead, I play the messages while Uncle Expensive Suit looks on.

  “Max. It’s me. I’m at home. Look, there’s something I have to tell you about Pres. Call me the second you get this.”

  Now Parvati has something to tell me? Maybe something about how she screwed Preston every which way from Sunday? In my hurry to delete the message, I stub my toe on the uneven sidewalk and nearly fall flat on my face. A sharp beep signals the beginning of the next message.

  “Max. It’s me—”

  Delete. Next message.

  “Max. I—”

  Delete. Somehow, I feel a tiny bit better. I probably can’t avoid her forever, but I don’t have to talk to her when I’m pissed. Forget pissed. I’m wrecked. I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to tell her I know about her and Pres. I keep imagining the inevitable confrontation, but every time I open my mouth to speak, no words come out. How, exactly, do you tell the girl you were crazy about that she’s a lying bitch?

  “Messages from Ms. Amos?” Uncle Suit asks.

  I nod without thinking. How does he know that?

  “Gum?” He holds out a pack of spearmint sugarless.

  “Sure.” I haven’t had any water for hours. My mouth feels like crap.

  As I unwrap the gum and pop it in my mouth, I motion for him to hang on a second and dial my home number. As the phone rings in my ear, I watch the cars pass both ways in front of the Vista Palisades Police Station and Municipal Jail. The babysitter answers and I hang up. I’ll just go by the shop and let my parents know I’m out.

  Uncle Suit gently removes the cell phone from my hand. “We’re in a bit of a hurry,” he says.

  “Well then, why did you offer to—” I stop short, just in front of the parking lot. There’s a gray SUV with tinted windows parked in one of the first spots. It looks just like the car from the Ravens’ Cliff parking lot. “Actually, I just remembered somewhere I need to be.” I spin around, but Uncle Suit grabs me.

  “There is only one place you need to be,” he says, his voice as smooth as water, like he should be narrating a nature documentary. “And that’s with me.” I feel the blunt tip of a gun poking into my side.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “WHOA,” I SAY. “THERE’S NO need for that.”

  He presses a button and the doors to the SUV unlock with a snap. There’s another guy in the driver’s seat, wearing all black. He’s got pale blue eyes and close-cropped blond hair that’s going gray at the edges. Uncle Suit nudges me with the gun.

  “You guys sent the black guy to pretend to be my uncle?” I shouldn’t be smarting off considering there’s a gun pressed into my ribs, but I think it’s my brain’s way of not focusing on what’s really happening—that I’m being abducted, maybe by the same guys who took Preston. The driver reaches back to grab my shoulders, and Uncle lifts me up and tosses me inside the vehicle like I’m a sack of potatoes.

  He shrugs as he slides in beside me. “I only do the things that need to be done well. Besides, you’ve got Chinese sisters, right? Is it really that much of a stretch?”

  “They’re Korean,” I say, as the SUV’s doors lock with an ominous click. “And if you know that much about my family then you know no one can afford to pay any ransom, so what exactly do you guys want with me? Are you going to kill me like you killed Preston?”

  The driver glances back at me in the rearview mirror, his expression disturbingly neutral. He pulls the SUV out of the lot.

  “We didn’t kill Preston.” Uncle chuckles as he slides the gun back into his pocket. It looks a lot like the gun Parvati gave me. I wonder what happened to that, anyway. It was wrapped in my clothes in the backseat of her mom’s car when we got arrested. I bet the feds have it. Gonzalez is probably testing it against the ballistics report of every unsolved crime on the books.

  “I apologize for my impatience,” Uncle continues. “I just didn’t want a large number of people to see us together.” He gives me a brief smile. It looks all wrong on his face. “We’re not going to hurt you, Max. We just want to debrief you.”

  “Debrief me?”

  He nods. “We needed you out of jail so we could speak privately. My name is Langston, and that’s Marcus.” He gestures toward the driver. “We work for Senator DeWitt.”

  I cough and nearly swallow my gum. “DeWitt paid my bail? Why would he do that?”

  Langston doesn’t answer, so I keep thinking out loud. “I’ve only spoken to Preston’s dad twice in my life. He must really think I’m innocent.” Unless, of course, he really thinks I’m guilty and decided to hold his own trial, presided over by a couple of thugs with guns.

  “The senator doesn’t believe you’re a killer.” Langston strokes his well-trimmed goatee. “And he’s unconcerned about the money, since he’ll get it back eventually. He trusts that you won’t do anything foolish like try to run away again.”

  I finish the thought in my head: But we’ll come find you if you do. The SUV turns onto the main road that leads out of Vista Palisades. “Where are we going?” I ask. Langston doesn’t answer. Houses and strip malls whiz by. People walk their dogs along the cracked sidewalks. Kids with giant backpacks head home from school.

  Too bad no one can see me through the tinted glass.

  “We’re just going for a drive.” Marcus turns on the radio. Classical music has never sounded so creepy.

  “I need my phone.” I tap one foot, rapidfire, against the SUV’s floorboards. “My parents are going to worry.”

  “We only need a little of your time. It’s better if your parents think you’re still in jail for the time being.”

  “Yeah, that would work, except my mom’s probably planning on visiting me two more times in the next hour,” I say. “At least. She’s having a little trouble dealing with things.” It feels weird to call Darla my mom, but now doesn’t seem like the time to explain my entire history to Langston.

  He tosses the phone back to me. “Fine. Tell her you don’t know who bailed you out, that you’re with friends, and you’ll be home later.”

  Except I don’t have any friends anymore. “Great,” I say, knowing that explanation won’t be enough for Darla. Hopefully she’s still at work. I dial my number again, expecting the babysitter. It goes straight to voicemail. Ji and Jo are probably doing their lethal tag-team screaming act. I leave a quick message assuring everyone I’m fine and that I’ll explain everything when I see them. Luckily, Ben and Darla are about as low-tech as it gets and don’t have caller ID. They won’t be able to call me back and demand more information.

  “So who are you guys?” I ask. “Like private investigators or something?”

  “Sort of.” Langston crosses his legs at the ankles. He’s wearing shiny black shoes with white wingtips, like something you might see on a golf course.

  Marcus weaves his way through a neighboring suburb and turns onto the interstate. I lean against the window and watch the highway fly by. We’re heading toward L.A. In front of us, a dump truck spits occasional bursts of sand and gravel onto the road. My mind starts doing that hamster-wheel thing again. How bad would it look if word got out that Senator Remington DeWitt had bailed the leading suspect in his son’s murder out of jail? He has to have an agenda. But what is it?

  “What do you guys want to know?” I ask. “Where’s Senator DeWitt?”

  “The senator and his wife just returned from dealing with things in Las Vegas,” Langston says. “Due to the politically delicate nature of Preston’s murder, the DeWitts have t
asked Marcus and myself to follow up on some leads.”

  “They think Preston’s death was politically motivated?” I fiddle with my seat belt.

  “Let’s just say they know you aren’t responsible.”

  “I wish they’d tell the feds that.”

  Langston smiles slightly. “The FBI means well.” He pauses. “But Senator DeWitt hasn’t made them privy to all of the pertinent facts. Some of the relevant information is too classified.”

  Something pings hard against the front windshield. I flinch, even though it was probably just a pebble from the truck in front of us. “So why am I here if I’m so innocent?”

  “We need to make sure we know everything that you know. We’re gathering information to track down the real killer.”

  I nod. “What if I can’t help, though? Are you going to toss me back in jail?”

  Langston’s smile widens. “You knew to go to Las Vegas. Tell me about that.”

  There’s something about him that makes me want to talk. Maybe it’s because I don’t feel like I can talk to Parvati anymore. Or because I’m so hurt by her lies that I finally care more about finding the real killer than about protecting her. I tell Langston about the cover story, how Pres and I pretended to go camping. And then about snatching Pres’s hard drive. I don’t tell him it was Parvati who took it. I’m not sure I could even bring myself to say her name right now.

  “Did he ever mention Violet Cain to you before?”

  “He mentioned a girl named Violet when he asked for the cover story. He said he played online poker with her. I thought it was weird, Preston meeting chicks on the internet. He could’ve dated almost any girl at school.”

  “But didn’t Preston despise most of his classmates?”

  It was true. That was probably the main reason Pres and I stayed friends after he enrolled at Vista Palisades and basically took over the school. He might have excelled at playing Mr. Popularity, but beneath the surface he was a loner, just like me. Just like Parvati. A lot of kids think high school represents the best years of their lives, but others recognize that it’s mostly irrelevant bullshit, and that life doesn’t even begin until afterward. All of us belonged to the second group, but Preston had always done an excellent job of pretending.

  “How did you know that?” I ask. Then it hits me. This guy has already gotten to Parvati. That’s probably why she tried to call me so many times.

  Langston reads the expression on my face. “She’s an interesting girl, Ms. Amos.”

  “Yeah, she is. But I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Fair enough.” Langston nods.

  Marcus exits onto a different highway, and the SUV heads north, away from the city. The lanes opposite us are backed up, bumper to bumper with traffic.

  “Did Preston ever tell you about his childhood?” Langston asks.

  I blink hard. “I don’t really know anything about him from before the day we met. Just that he grew up rich since his dad is in business and politics.”

  Langston strokes his goatee. “I see.”

  I don’t see how any of this can possibly be relevant to Preston’s murder. I also don’t understand how DeWitt can be convinced of my innocence, unless he somehow knows who killed his son. But in that case, why would he need me? “Look,” I say. “I appreciate you getting me out of that shithole. But what does any of this have to do with who killed Pres?”

  “For several months the DeWitts have been blackmailed about their son.” Langston pops his gum. “I have been on retainer with them for years, so naturally they asked me to investigate. The blackmailer was exceptionally clever, and I never figured out who was behind it. Eventually the senator grew weary of being abused and decided to stop paying. That was a few weeks before Preston disappeared.”

  “You said blackmailed about Preston?”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Langston’s mouth tightens into a hard line. “Let’s just say there are things about Preston that the senator needs to remain a secret.”

  “What? Was he like a superhero or something?” I ask, only half kidding. Charismatic. Natural aptitude for everything. Invincible on the football field. The ability to fly or start fires with his eyes doesn’t seem completely outside the realm of possibility.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss what Preston was or wasn’t,” Langston says abruptly. “But you and Ms. Amos probably knew him the best. If anyone can help find his killer, it’s one of you two.”

  I nod. I need to find Preston’s killer just as much as these guys do. If someone does want me to go down for this crime, they’re probably not finished framing me.

  I take a deep breath and then tell him about the anonymous tip that claimed Pres and I were fighting, about the bloody phone showing up in my trunk. “Do you know why anyone would try to set me up?”

  “Nothing comes to mind. Do you still have the phone?” Langston asks. “That could be helpful to me.”

  “It got left at Colonel Amos’s cabin, so I’m sure the FBI has it. But it didn’t have anything on it—no files, no apps. Just a few calls from me and his parents.”

  “Did you find anything else in your car?”

  “No. Preston left some of his camping equipment, but that’s all,” I say. “I hid my car about a mile away from the cabin in a nature preserve. Apparently, it hasn’t been recovered.”

  “Marcus and I will find the car and make sure it stays hidden from the feds. We’ll tell you if we find anything of interest,” Langston says. “In the meantime you should go back to your normal life. Let us know if anyone approaches you about Preston, but otherwise stay out of it. These people are dangerous, Max. They won’t hesitate to kill you if you get in their way.”

  I nod, but my mind is still spinning. Langston seems all right (now that he’s put his gun away), but I can’t just sit back and rely on him and Marcus to find Preston’s killer. Parvati and I came so close to finding Pres. The fire in Vegas couldn’t have been burning for very long if we beat the fire department to the scene. If only I was a few minutes quicker somewhere along the way. If only I had acted instead of reacted, my friend might still be alive.

  I try to think about what I would have done next if I hadn’t gotten arrested in Vegas. Probably go back to the hard drive. Which I can’t do. So then . . .

  “Can you get me inside Preston’s room?” I ask. “Like you said—I know him best. I might see something helpful.”

  Langston strokes his goatee again. “I went over the bedroom and basement myself after the FBI finished up, but I suppose it can’t hurt for you to take another look.”

  I nod. I’m not sure if there’s anything in Pres’s room that’ll help me find his killer, but I don’t know what else to do. My only other option is to call Parvati back, and every time I so much as think her name, I see her and Preston naked in his bed. I hear both of them telling me how they’re just friends, have never been anything but friends. It’s a shitty feeling when you realize the two people you trusted most in the world are liars.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT’S DEAD QUIET IN PRESTON’S house. Apparently, the federal agents all split once Pres’s body was identified. No point in hanging around hoping for a ransom call anymore.

  The inside of the house is dark except for the white glow of a TV screen. Preston’s mom sits on the sofa in the living room, her cat curled protectively on her lap. One hand mindlessly strokes the animal’s fur as she stares glassy-eyed at the wall-mounted flat-screen. It’s the nicest TV in the house, with a better picture and sound quality than the one downstairs, but I’ve never seen anyone but Esmeralda ever watch it before. Preston always wanted to hang out in the basement. He said the living room felt cold and dead, like a funeral home. Funny considering it’s filled with his baby pictures.

  Claudia DeWitt doesn’t even seem to notice me. There’s a little brown pill bottle on the glass coffee table, along with a mostly empty bottle of wine.

  “We need to look in Preston’s room,” Langston explains. “W
e’ll just be a few minutes.”

  Claudia works the keys on the remote control, slowly scanning through the channels. She doesn’t even look at us.

  We pass the study on the way to the stairs. The door is open just wide enough that I can see Senator DeWitt seated at his desk, his pale face illuminated by the glow of his computer. Behind him, a trio of deer heads hang on the wall.

  Marcus mutters something about updating the senator on our progress. He knocks on the doorframe outside the study and the Senator DeWitt gestures for him to enter. Langston and I continue upstairs. I stand in the center of Preston’s bedroom, trying to see if anything sticks out as unusual.

  Langston leans against the wall just inside the door, watching me scan the room systematically. “You see anything?”

  “Give me a few minutes.” I turn a slow circle. Plain white walls, black lacquer dresser and desk. Bookshelf. Bed. No, not the bed. I can’t even peek at the wrinkle-free navy comforter without seeing the tangle of cream-colored sheets, Parvati, the curve of her naked back.

  “Max?”

  “I said hang on.” Irritation creeps into my voice. Probably not a good move toward a guy with a gun strapped to his armpit. I force my eyes away from the bed and turn toward the closet instead. The sliding door is still partially open. Surprising. Maybe the feds haven’t been letting Esmeralda clean in here.

  I pull the closet open the rest of the way. Half empty, according to Parvati, but still twice as many clothes as I own.

  “We did a thorough check of the closet,” Langston says.

  Ignoring him, I flip through all of Preston’s clothes, patting down the pockets, checking for keys or notes or anything else small that could be a clue. No luck. Several pairs of tennis shoes and shiny loafers are lined up on the floor of the closet. I shake each of the shoes, but nothing falls out except some sock lint and a couple of tiny pebbles. The shelves above my head are mostly empty except for some old yearbooks and a couple of empty shoeboxes.

  Next, I move to the dresser. The top is a mix of sports trophies and toiletries. A picture of me, Preston, and Parvati clowning around at a party is tucked into the side of the mirror. I check each drawer. Boxers. T-shirts. Socks. A junk drawer full of computer cables. Surf wax. Small bottles that look like energy drinks but are labeled as “Herbal Detoxifying Elixirs.” I uncap one of them and peek inside. Ugh, it smells terrible, like a rotten starfish.