Christiane Heggan - Where Truth Lies

“Move under that streetlight where I can see you.” She gave the shovel a shake. “And put your hands in the air.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cool as a cucumber, the stranger did as he was told. Grace estimated that he was between thirty-five and forty, with dark hair, eyes that watched her with undisguised amusement, and a little lopsided smile that, at any other time, would have made her want to smile back. Not this time.

“Maybe you should put your weapon down before it misfires – ”

“And maybe you should stop cracking jokes and take this situation a little more seriously.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you aware that breaking and entering is a crime?” Resting the shovel on her shoulders and holding it with one hand, she used the other to take her mobile phone out of her bag.

“I wasn’t breaking and entering.”

“You did last night. I have the bump to prove it.”

“I’m sorry about the bump. And the concussion, but the man who inflicted those injuries wasn’t me.”

Her finger above the nine key, she stopped. “How do you know about the concussion?”

“My father told me.” When she frowned, he added, “I’m Matt Baxter.”

The phone almost dropped out of her hand. Matt Baxter. The FBI agent.

Also available from Christiane Heggan

NOW YOU DIE

THE SEARCH

SCENT OF A KILLER

DEADLY INTENT

DECEPTION

CHRISTIANE HEGGAN

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Gerd and Maria, for their warm

and wonderful hospitality.

To Anne and Jerry for persuading us

to accompany them to Austria.

And to Bob, who turns every vacation

into an unforgettable adventure.

Point Pleasant, Pennsylvania June 13, 1986

“W hat do you mean, she’s dead? ”

The two men stood under the moonless night sky. They were in their early twenties, solidly built, with the speaker only an inch or so shorter than his friend. Both had been celebrating, and while they had drunk more than their share, they were sobering up fast.

“I don’t know what happened.” The other man’s voice shook as he ran his hand through his hair. “One minute she was fine and the next she stopped breathing.”

“Don’t give me that crap! You were having sex with her, for God’s sake! You have to know what happened.” He kept stealing quick, frightened glances toward the car, but made no move to approach it. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing! I slapped her a little when she started hitting me, not hard, just enough to shut her up, and…” He took a shallow breath. “She hit the back of her head on the door.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I didn’t mean to kill her, I swear.”

“Maybe she’s not dead.” Finally gathering the courage to take some kind of action, the shorter man walked toward the old Chevy Impala parked off the road, and peered inside. At the sight of the lifeless body sprawled on the backseat, one arm dangling, he swallowed. Fighting off a wave of nausea, he opened the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if she’s dead.” He leaned over the body and pressed two fingers to the girl’s throat, waiting to feel a pulse.

“Well?”

“She’s dead. And we’re in deep shit.” He sat on the ground and took his head between his hands. “I told you this was a bad idea, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“Hey, I didn’t hear you complain once we got underway, did I? You were just as anxious to screw her as I was, standing there, waiting your turn.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s the truth. You’re in this just as deep as I am.”

“You’re the one who killed her.”

“And you’re the one who forced her into the car.”

“I’m going to be sick.” He wrapped his arms around his midriff, and started rocking back and forth. “What are we going to do?” he moaned.

“First things first.”

“Meaning what?”

“We have to get rid of the body.”

The man on the ground looked around him. “Where?”

“The river?”

“Are you crazy? That’s the first place the cops will look. And once they find the body, there will be evidence, you can be sure of that.”

“Then you think of something, Einstein.”

There was a short silence before the man on the ground stood up. “She was hitchhiking, which means that anybody could have picked her up, right?”

“Right.”

“And everyone in town knows that she has a history of running away, once when she was fifteen, and another time when she was seventeen. She ended up in Tennessee that time, and stayed there for a whole week before she called her folks to say she was all right.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Nobody’s going to be surprised to hear that she did it again. If you remember, Chief Baxter was pretty pissed off the last time. His entire police department and more than a hundred volunteers combed the countryside for days, looking for her.”

“So?”

“So they’re not going to bust their asses looking for her now. Sure, they’ll go through the motions, but after a few days, they’ll assume that she took off again, and this time she intends to stay away.”

His friend finally got it. “And all we have to do is bury her someplace where they won’t find her.”

“That part isn’t so easy.”

“Yes, it is. I know a place.”

One

Boston, Massachusetts October 9, 2006

“Oooh, and don’t forget this baby.” Angie Viero took the black dress out of Grace’s bedroom closet and held it at arm’s length. “No vacation is complete without a sexy little number like this one.” She was a short, compact woman of thirty-five with a lovely, expressive face and thick, curly black hair everyone loved except Angie.

Grace McKenzie snapped the dress from her friend’s hand and hung it back on the rack. “I’m going to Napa Valley to visit my father, not to audition for an X-rated movie.”

“How will you ever find a man if you don’t advertise?” Angie lamented. “You’ve got a great body, girl. Show it off.”

Grace took two pairs of blue jeans, both faded and soft as silk, and tossed them on the bed. “I swore off men, remember?”

“It’s been two whole months since you broke up with what’s his name.”

“Preston.”

Angie made a face. “The name alone should have been a red flag. Anyway, just because Preston was a world-class jerk doesn’t mean that all men are created equal. Look at me. I found Mr. Right. So will you.”

“I’m not interested in finding Mr. Right.”

“Girlfriend, you’re about to change your mind.”

Grace let out a groan as Angie took a photograph out of her pants pocket and dangled it in front of Grace’s nose. “What do you think of that? Is he a dreamboat or what?”

Grace glanced at the photograph of a good-looking man in tight shorts and a T-shirt that emphasized his impressive torso. “Where did you find that one?”

“On the Internet. There are dozens—hundreds—of dating services out there, did you know that? No, of course you don’t. You don’t want to make the effort, Grace. That’s your problem.”

“My problem is that when it comes to choosing men, I suck. And I’m not talking just about Preston. There have been other fiascos. It’s enough to make me want to become a nun.”

“No need to do anything so drastic, not when you have me to act as your screener. What do you say? From now on, no more losers for Grace McKenzie.”