John Hart - The King Of Lies

It was the last time I saw Ezra alive. For ten long minutes, I stayed in that house of horrors, that house of broken dolls; then I, too, left. I drove to Jean’s, but her car was gone and no one answered when I knocked. The door was locked. I waited for an hour, but she didn’t return. I went home and, in the best voice I could manage, informed my wife of the night’s events. Then I had another drink. Eventually, I put her to bed, then sneaked out. I spent the rest of the night at Stolen Farm, weeping on Vanessa’s shoulder like a goddamn child. At dawn, I crept into bed, where I put my back to my wife and watched gray light swell from beneath the blinds. I kept myself utterly still and held on to Ezra’s truth as if for my very life. At the time, I thought it was worth something, but time can be a murderous bitch.

I felt pain and looked down at my hands, clenched so tightly on the kitchen sink that they were bloodless. I released them and they burned, but the pain was relative. I forced the images of that night back into the past, where I’d tried so hard to keep them. I was home. Bone was in the backyard. Ezra was dead.

I heard an engine outside and walked to the laundry-room window. A car was moving slowly up the driveway, and recognizing it, I thought of fate and of inevitability.

My life had become a Greek tragedy, but I’d done what I thought I had to do-to keep the family whole, to save what was left. I could not have known that Ezra would be killed, that Jean would despise me; but there is an undeniable sharpness to fact. Mother was dead. So was Ezra. Nothing would change that, not my own guilt, not a lifetime of pain. Done is done, end of fucking story. So I asked myself, as I had so many times, What price redemption, and where to find it?

I had no answer to that, and I feared that when the time came, I would lack the strength to pay the price. So standing there in that hollow house, I promised myself one thing, that when all this was past and I stood looking back, I would not face the same regret.

I prayed for strength.

Then I walked outside, where I found Detective Mills waiting in the driveway.

You’d better not have car keys in your hands,” Mills said as I stepped onto hard concrete and squinted at the light reflected off her windshield. I held my hands out, palms up, to show they were empty.

“Relax,” I told her. “I’m not going anywhere.” She was wearing loose brown pants, low-heeled boots, and sunglasses. As always, the butt of her pistol showed from beneath her jacket. It was an automatic. The grip was checkered wood; I’d never noticed that before. I tried to remember if Mills had ever shot anyone. Regardless, I had no doubt that she could pull the trigger.

“As God is my witness, I don’t know what to do with you, Work. If it weren’t for Douglas, we’d be doing this at the station house. I have zero patience for your wounded-bird act. It’s bullshit. You’re going to tell me what you know and you’re going to do it now. Do I make myself clear?”

Strain and fatigue were painted on her face thicker than the makeup she tried to conceal it with. I shook out a cigarette and leaned against her car. I didn’t know what she was making of all this, but I had an idea. “You know why defense lawyers lose cases?” I asked her.

“Because they’re on the wrong side.”

“Because they have stupid clients. I see it all the time. They say things to the police that they can’t take back, things that might be misconstrued, especially when there’s pressure to break the case.” I lit the cigarette, looked down the hill at a passing ambulance, its lights off. “It has always amazed me. It’s as if they think that their cooperation will convince the cops to look at somebody else. It’s naïve.”

“But it keeps people like you in business.”

“There is that.”

“Are you going to talk to me or not?” Mills demanded.

“I’m talking to you now.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Not today. I don’t have the patience for it.”

“I’ve read the papers and I’ve been in this business a long time. I know the pressure you’re under.” Mills looked away, as if to deny what I was saying. “If I were smart, I would keep my mouth shut.”

“You don’t want to be on my bad side, Work. I can promise you that.”

“That’s what Douglas told me.”

Emotion tugged at the corner of Mills’s mouth. “Douglas was out of line.”

“He just told me to cooperate.” Mills crossed her arms. “Are we going to be straight with each other?” I asked. “No crap?”

“No problem,” she said.

“I’ll be as honest with you as you are with me. Fair?” She nodded. “Am I a suspect?” I asked her.

“No.” She didn’t hesitate, and I knew she was lying. I almost laughed, she was so transparent, but it would have been an ugly laugh, an “I can’t believe this shit is happening” laugh.

“Do you have any suspects?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Everybody,” she said, parroting the district attorney. I thought of Jean and prayed that she had not gotten that far in her interview with Clarence Hambly.

“Have you looked into his business dealings? Ex-clients?”

“I can’t talk about the investigation.”

“I know you talked to Hambly,” I told her, watching closely for a reaction, getting none, just the same unbending mouth and eyes I couldn’t see. “I know that you know about the will. Seems to me there are fifteen million reasons why you should be looking at me for the murder.”

“That Hambly. He’s a pompous windbag. He should learn to keep his mouth shut.” Watching her, I finally understood why she hated lawyers so much. She couldn’t intimidate them, and it killed her.

“So,” I prodded. “I’m not a suspect?”

“Douglas says to lay off you. He says there’s no way you killed your father, not for money. I can’t find any other motive.”

“But you’ve looked.”

“I’ve looked.”

“And you’re going along with that?”

“As long as you’re straight with me, I’ll give Douglas his say. For now. But in the end, it’s my investigation. Jerk me off and I’ll come down on you so hard, your friends will bleed. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” I told her. “What else did you learn from Hambly?” I tried not to show how desperate I was for this information.

Mills shrugged again. “That your father was stinking rich and that if you didn’t kill him, you’re one lucky bastard.”

“It’s just money,” I said.

“That’s good,” she told me. “Just money.”

“Are we going to do this?” I asked.

“Yeah. Fine. About time.”

“Then let’s drive,” I said. “Barbara will probably be home soon and I don’t need her involved in this.”

“Oh, I’ll talk to Barbara,” Mills said pointedly, making it clear that she was still the cop.

“But later, okay? Come on. You drive.”

She took off her jacket and tossed it in the backseat. Her car smelled of the same overripe peach perfume I remembered from the hospital. She had the usual cop radios and a shotgun locked to the dash. Voices chattered on the radio and she turned it down as she backed down my driveway. I studied her from the corner of my eye, took in the cuffs, mace, and spare clip on her belt, the way her shirt gapped open, showing a pale lace bra that didn’t go with the rest of her. Muscles stood out in her jaw, and I suspected that she would much rather have me in custody than be squiring me around town on the city’s nickel. I thought about what a good cop she was, reminded myself to be careful of what I said. She was looking for an excuse.

Once on the street, she turned right, past the park. We drove to Main Street in silence; then she pointed the car out of town, toward the long, impossibly narrow roads so typical of the county. “So talk,” she said. “And don’t leave anything out. I want to know everything that happened on the night your father disappeared. Don’t edit. Don’t choose. Give me everything.”