John Hart - The King Of Lies

“Thanks,” I said, and walked off. When I looked back, she was watching me, a puzzled look on her face. I could almost read her mind. Don’t I know you from somewhere? she was thinking. Then she turned away.

As I followed the hall toward the elevators, I thought about Alex. I was no shrink, so I could only guess at the state of her mind, but it had to be a wreck. Why the name change? I could understand wanting to escape her childhood, but why take her dead sister’s name? Because she’d died untouched and unspoiled, purified by her innocence and by the fire that killed her? Or was it guilt, and the desire that she live on in some small way? I would probably never know. But one thing was crystal clear, and that is what scared me. Alex Shiften was fiercely loyal, and she would take drastic measures to eradicate any perceived threat to herself, to Jean, or to their relationship. She’d killed her father to protect her sister. She’d killed Ezra to protect her relationship with Jean. Now I was the threat, and she was setting me up for the murder. She’d turned Jean against me. She’d undermined my alibi, somehow acquired a copy of the will, and planted it in my house.

Suddenly, I froze, paralyzed by a thought that came unbidden yet with horrifying clarity. Alex had undermined my alibi. She knew that I was not home with Barbara when Ezra was shot. Did she know where I was that night? Did she know about Vanessa? Dear God! Did she know that Vanessa could give me an alibi? Now Vanessa was missing.

She didn’t come home last night .

I couldn’t finish the thought. But I had to. There was no time left for fear or denial. So I asked the question. If Alex knew that Vanessa could ruin her plans, would she kill her?

The answer was unequivocal.

Absolutely .

The elevator opened. I pushed through the waiting crowd of green shirts and white coats and nearly sprinted for the exit. Outside, I realized that I had no plan. Nowhere to go. I looked at my watch. It was 10:30. I called Stolen Farm, knowing better than to hope, yet doing so with every fiber of my being. Just pick up. Please, pick up. The phone rang four times, and each unanswered ring was a nail in my heart. Alex had killed her. Vanessa was dead.

The grief almost overwhelmed me, yet through the pain, like a whispering traitor, came a single selfish thought: I had no alibi. I could go to jail for the rest of my life. The presence of that thought made me think that maybe I should. I squashed it and it did not resurrect itself, for which I was grateful.

Next, I called Hank. I had to talk to him, now more than ever. He didn’t answer at home, so I tried his cell phone.

“I was about to call you,” he said.

“Hank, thank God.”

“Shut up for a minute. We’ve got big fucking problems.” I heard his hand go over the mouthpiece, heard muffled voices. Almost a minute passed before he came back on the line. “Okay. I’m outside.”

“Listen, Hank. I think I’m onto something about Vanessa.”

“Work, I mean this in the most polite way, but we don’t have time to deal with your missing girlfriend. I’m at the police station now.”

“In Salisbury?”

“Yeah. I came here to check accident reports before I started looking for your friend. But it’s a damn hornets’ nest down here. We need to talk, but not on the phone. Where are you right now?”

“I’m at the hospital. I’m standing outside the emergency-room exit.”

“Stay there. Try to stay out of sight. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

“Hank, wait.” I caught him before he hung up. “What the hell is going on?”

“They found the gun, Work. The one you threw in the river.”

“What?”

“Just sit tight. Two minutes.” He hung up, and I stared at the dead cell phone in my hand for what may have been the longest two minutes of my life.

They’d found the gun. Could Alex have been responsible for that, too?

When Hank turned into the parking lot, I met him at the curb. I climbed into his sedan. He neither looked at me nor spoke. He turned left out of the parking lot, made several seemingly random turns, and then stopped at the curb. We were in a residential neighborhood. It was quiet, nobody in sight. Hank stared wordlessly through the windshield.

“I’m waiting for you to speak,” he finally said, looking at me.

“What do you mean?”

His face was hard; so were his eyes. When he spoke, I found that his voice had chilled, as well. “What river? What gun? Those are the questions you should have asked. It concerns me that you did not ask those questions.”

I didn’t know what to say. He was right. An innocent man would have asked the questions.

“I didn’t kill him, Hank.”

“Tell me about the gun.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” The lie came instinctively.

“You don’t have many people in your corner, Work, and you’re about to be all alone. I don’t help people who lie to me; it’s that simple. So you take a minute, and think about the next words that come out of your mouth.”

I’d never seen Hank so tense, like he could punch me in the face or rip his own hair out. But it was more than anger. He felt betrayed, and I couldn’t blame him.

If Jean hadn’t pulled the trigger, then I had no reason to lie about the gun. In fact, I should want the police to have it, if that would help convict Alex. But I’d wiped it down and ditched it, a crime in and of itself. Yet all that mattered right now was finding Vanessa, and if Hank could help me do that, then I would tell him anything he wanted to know. I had one question first.

“How’d they find the gun?”

Hank looked like he was about to drive off and leave me, so I spoke again.

“Swear to God, Hank. Just tell me that and I’ll answer your questions.”

He seemed to mull it over. “Someone called in an anonymous tip, said that they’d seen someone toss a gun into the river. A diver from the sheriff’s department went down this morning and found it right where the caller said it’d be. That was about an hour ago. They know it’s Ezra’s gun because it has his initials right there on it.”

“Do they know who made the call?” I was thinking about Alex. She would have had to know that the gun was clean before she’d do something like that. She would not want it traced back to her.

“The guy didn’t identify himself, but he described someone who looks a hell of a lot like you. Same build, same age, same hair, same car. They’re trying to track him down to do a lineup. If they find him, you’ll be the first to know. Mills will have you downtown so fast, your head will spin. And if he identifies you, that’s it; you’re as good as convicted.”

“It was a guy?” I asked. “The caller?”

“Didn’t you hear me? They’re trying to link you to the gun.”

“But the caller. It was a man?”

Not a woman?

“Look. That’s what I heard, okay? It’s not like I was on the phone. I heard it was a guy. Now tell me about the fucking gun. I don’t want to ask again.”

I scrutinized his features. He wanted me to be innocent; not because he liked me, although I thought that maybe he did, but because he did not want to be wrong, not about something like this. Hank Robins would never help a killer, and, like everybody, he hated to be played.

“You want to know why I ditched the gun if I didn’t kill him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

So I opened my mouth. I started talking and didn’t stop until I’d explained it to him. He didn’t say a word until I was through.

“So, you were going to take the heat for Jean.”

I nodded.

“That’s why you ditched the gun.”