Even When You Lie, page 12
The air conditioning blowing in my face isn’t as cold as the reality I’m coming to terms with, and I make myself smaller in my seat, nestling against the passenger door. “You lied to me. You let me think you hadn’t opened that envelope.”
“No,” he insists. “No, I didn’t. You never asked.”
“Would you have told me the truth if I had?” I demand.
“I don’t know.” His voice is soft, small even, so different than when he charms a jury or plays to the media at one of his stupid press conferences. “I like to think I would have. But I don’t know.”
This, at least, sounds honest, and like what I’ve come to believe he and I represent to each other, although it stirs my own guilt from where I’ve shoved it aside over the weekend.
I haven’t been entirely forthcoming lately, either.
“SilvaCo?” I ask. “What’s that?”
“It’s a Holcombe family company, one of Bridger’s dad’s companies that the family still uses,” Cade says. “SilvaCo—like Sylvie, see?”
The Holcombes own the bar that Cesar Morales bartended at, where he died—a drug deal gone wrong, the police believe—and then Heather, who has Bridger’s cell phone number, turns up at the law firm with that envelope for Cade.
But why? Why would Heather need to die, and why would I need to be warned off checking into it?
A dull throb starts at the base of my skull, and I pop another chocolate into my mouth before stealing a quick drink of Cade’s coffee.
“That’s disgusting,” I say.
“I’ve had worse,” he says.
I play with the foil scraps and let the silence build, watching the speedometer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He sighs. His hand brushes my knee, just above the scrape. For a long moment, there is only his touch, the warmth of his hand, the sounds of the engine, and the whir of the tires, and then he says, “I wanted it to go away. I hoped—foolishly, I know—if I could just stall long enough, something else would come up that needed your attention and you’d let this go.”
I lace his fingers with mine. As angry as I am now with this discovery and his admission, it would have been ten times worse Thursday night.
Thursday, when I had my own news to tell him, but I didn’t.
And now it’s early Monday morning, nearly seventy-two hours after that man attacked me on the trail and someone is in Cade’s—our—apartment, going through our things. Some small part of me wishes that Cade could have been right, that something else could have come along to distract me.
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
“That guy, whoever he is, left. Rafi texted me,” he says. “You?”
“Stu Holcombe knows I have that case file,” I say. “And someone may have gone through it in my desk, I think. I noticed it was rearranged before—well, I went to Heather’s house Thursday afternoon. I found Bridger’s personal cell phone number on a piece of paper in her bedroom.”
“Goddamn it, Reagan,” he mutters and breathes out a long exhale. “Shit.”
“I was going to tell you,” I say. “Probably when you got around to telling me about the club ownership. But you didn’t seem to want to hear about it Thursday when you got home, and I thought there’d be time this weekend. But Friday morning … happened.”
Cade doesn’t say anything. He only stares straight out the windshield.
“So.” My voice sounds small, almost fragile, even to myself. “That’s probably why that man came for me, then?”
I try not to think of him, of his hissing whisper in my ear, the sour smell of sweat and body odor, the way his hands feel around my neck, or his weight on my back, but he’s there all the same, crowding in between Cade and me.
Cade squeezes my hand. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Isn’t it?” I ask. “Why didn’t you call the cops tonight?”
“Why didn’t you call the cops Friday?” he asks.
“They wouldn’t have done anything,” I mumble. “And there might have been … questions.”
“Yeah,” Cade says. “Our living situation complicates things.”
I don’t argue that I live there because he invited me, I only pick at a fingernail until he moves my hand away.
“You have that file with you?” he asks.
“In my backpack,” I say. “With my pistol and knife.”
“The envelope is in my bag,” he says. “So there might be questions from the police about how you and I have certain items in our possession that connect back to two recent deaths currently under investigation.”
“But at least we have them,” I say. “So they weren’t in the apartment.”
He affords me a glance. “Reag, we’re riding a fine line here. We’re almost risking charges of tampering with evidence and obstruction if this goes much more sideways. And if Bridger or Kirby hear about any of this—”
“Yeah.” I pick up the can of espresso and brace myself for another drink. “We’re in too deep for the cops.”
Cade says, “I did offer to get you a drink.”
“I know.” I twist another wrapper around my fingers, wishing I could fold away my problems in it and chuck it in the nearest trash can. “Are you gonna be okay with this?”
He clears his throat. “What do you mean?”
“Bridger,” I say. “He’s practically your father. Your mentor, at least.”
“We’ll be fine, Reag,” he says, and I don’t push him for a better answer.
Some part of me knows that maybe he doesn’t have one.
We pass through a small town, a blur of lights along the interstate and a parked patrol car on the shoulder. The Porsche hums along right at the speed limit and perfectly between the lines, like Cade didn’t drink moonshine from late afternoon until the fireworks, and the patrol car doesn’t move.
“What will happen when we get there?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Cade says. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into waiting in the car while Rafi and I do a walk-through?”
Alone in the parking garage, so the man who broke in or maybe the one who attacked me could wait for Cade to leave me and then grab me again?
“No.” I clutch at Cade’s arm more fiercely than I want to, and when he side-eyes me, I loosen my grip and look away, suddenly frightened that he’ll know what I’m thinking. “I mean, that’s silly. You might need the help.”
“Of course,” Cade says, and graciously doesn’t point out that I couldn’t defend myself Friday.
I lean across the console so I can at least rest my head on his shoulder. “I liked that place. It was a nice surprise.”
He kisses the top of my head. “We’ll go back.”
I close my eyes and let myself believe him.
CHAPTER
14
DALLAS SLEEPS AROUND us, the buildings dark and the streets empty. Heat lightning flickers in the distance, but its threat of a thunderstorm is empty. There will be no rain.
Cade slows the car for the turn onto North Field Street and downshifts. “You never told me what it means that Rafi has bad paper.”
“Oh,” I say and peer out the passenger window. Occasional lumps mark where someone sleeps in a doorway, huddling close to a building in the hopes that residual coolness will seep out the walls. “A bad conduct discharge, or a dishonorable discharge. After the surge, when you had guys who had deployed over and over again, they were handing them out like candy.”
“To people with multiple combat deployments?” I hear the frown in his voice. “That’s hardly fair.”
The military doesn’t much give a damn about fairness, only war, but Cade won’t understand that. Oh, he might say he will, but he’s never experienced it, and there are some things that can only be known once they’ve been lived.
“It’s not fair,” I say. “Especially when we asked so much of them.”
“What will happen?” he asks.
Paperwork, I want to say, the real ammunition of the Pentagon for the endless wars waged by the generals and senior noncommissioned officers who made rank off building perfect PowerPoint slides and always knowing just whose ass to kiss.
But, given Cade’s profession and his day-to-day activity with depositions and briefings, he might be able to provide some assistance.
I side-eye him. “There’s an appeals process. I’ll help getting the documents filed and make some calls.”
“I know it’s not my area of expertise,” he says. “But I trust you’ll let me know if you need a lawyer’s name on anything to speed things along …”
“Of course,” I say.
He drives us into the garage, just like any other time, only now my fingernails dig into his arm, and I flinch at every shadow, cringing closer to him every time I think I see movement.
We arrive at the Porsche’s parking bay, and he backs the car into its spot. My car gleams under the garage lights in its spot, the glass intact and the tires whole.
A shape moves at its rear bumper.
I tighten my grip on Cade.
“Easy,” he says. “It’s Rafi.”
He turns off the engine and sets the emergency brake, then climbs out to speak with Rafi in low, muffled tones.
Maybe they think they’re protecting me, that after Friday I’ll be grateful they can handle this for me, but Cade ought to know that’s an impossibility.
And if he doesn’t, I can remind him.
I need to take back control; control is power, and if I can at least fake it enough to convince myself, it won’t be a lie, and so Cade will believe.
I pull my pistol and knife from my backpack, shove the knife into my pocket, and tuck the pistol into the back waistband of my pants. It’s loose without a holster but will ride there securely enough for the time it takes to get to the apartment. I step out of the car, swing my backpack onto my left shoulder, and let the door click shut.
Rafi’s gaze meets mine over the top of the car. “Reagan.”
At first glance, he looks like any other Latino guy in Dallas in the summer. His hair is cut and he’s clean-shaven except for his now-trimmed goatee. He’s casually handsome dressed in his T-shirt, khaki shorts, and running shoes, and no passerby would guess that three days ago he slept on a bench at the trailhead.
“Rafi,” I say.
“Sorry to interrupt your weekend,” he says and looks back to Cade. “White man, wearing gloves this time of year? That caught my attention, so I followed him. When he went into the building, it made me nervous, especially ’cause he went through the side entrance that has no doorman. He didn’t have a key to your apartment, but whatever he used to open the door, I saw him use again, like he locked everything back up so you wouldn’t notice. Maybe if you got cameras in the hallways, you can get something.”
Cade looks away and brushes his fingers on his watch when he says, “Maybe,” and so I know this is a lie.
“I tailed him like you asked,” Rafi says. “He didn’t look to be carrying anything when he left, but something might have been in his pockets. His car was parked at that public parking lot down the street. It must have been there a while since it was pretty crowded down here for the fireworks. I got his plate number, if you got any friends that are cops.”
“Not me,” Cade says. “Her, on the other hand …”
Miller may not want to do me any more favors, not after giving me that file last week, so I ignore this. “He probably parked there while he was scouting. How do we know the door isn’t rigged?”
“I don’t think that’s what he’s after,” Cade says. “I think he’s only after the information he thinks we have.”
“Kinda walked like that guy from Friday,” Rafi says. “With his shoulders all hunched up by his ears. You can always pick out a man by his walk.”
“That guy tried to kill me Friday,” I say. “Who’s to say he wouldn’t try again?”
“Reagan,” Rafi says, his voice low like he’s trying not to startle me. “That man could’ve snapped your neck if he wanted to ’fore I even got there. I don’t think he was trying to kill you.”
My hand flutters against my neck, almost involuntarily, and I move it away just as quickly, shoving it into my pocket, hoping that the men won’t notice.
But he’s right.
Manual strangulation is hard, harder when you’re attacking from behind, so the easier way to do it involves using a garrote.
I droop against the side of the car before I remember this is Cade’s baby and I might scratch something.
For once he doesn’t seem to care.
He only reaches into the back seat to grab his bag and attaché case. “Still wouldn’t mind getting my hands on the bastard.”
Rafi grins. “Gotta catch him first.”
“You get a good look at him?” Cade asks and motions for us to follow.
“No,” Rafi says. “Pure luck I saw him even.”
“You just hang out here all weekend?” I ask.
Rafi shrugs. “I was worried that man from Friday would come back for a second try.”
Cade presses the button for the elevator. “And he went right to our place?”
“Yeah,” Rafi says.
“So whoever it was knew we were out of town,” I say.
Rafi shrugs. “Maybe he scouted the garage before, and I didn’t catch him.”
The elevator doors open, and we enter, Cade and Rafi flanking me. I try to ignore the feeling that they both think I need protecting and instead tell myself it’s because I’m the bridge bringing them together, that if it weren’t for me, they would pass each other on the street and only give each other a nod, if they acknowledged each other at all.
But that only serves as another reminder that whoever is behind this, Holcombe or not, isn’t going to just leave us alone.
I wrap my arms around myself and stare at the floor.
* * *
Cade turns the apartment doorknob.
The lock catches, and he and Rafi exchange a look over the top of my head.
“I know you know your business,” Rafi says, barely above a whisper. “But before you look for anything missing, you’d best look for anything he left behind.”
Cade nods and unlocks the door.
“Ma’am,” Rafi says and holds out his hand. “Let me.”
I know what he wants. As a Ranger with multiple combat deployments, Rafi is still more capable with my pistol than I’ll ever be, plus he has his size and strength to back him up.
I don’t bother to ask how he knew it was there, but slide it out from the small of my back and hand it over to him.
He glances at it long enough to click the safety off, then steps past me and Cade.
He opens the front hall closet, pantry doors, and powder room door.
He proceeds into the bedroom, and I follow him with my mind, checking under the bed, in the closet, under the lower racks, and back out into the master bathroom.
“It’s just us,” he says.
Cade says, “Good,” and clicks on a light switch. He looks under the kitchen counter, behind the art on the walls, under the coffee table, behind the television, and lifts each lamp to check its base.
Rafi returns to the kitchen and hands me my gun. I check the safety and put it in my backpack, hoping we won’t need it tonight.
“I’ll check the bedroom and bathroom,” Cade says. “And then we can look for anything missing.”
I follow Cade to the bedroom as he checks the lamps on the nightstands, feels around behind the headboard and under each piece of furniture, and moves into the bathroom.
“Shit,” he says. “We’d never have known that guy was here.”
The surrealness blankets me. We’ve driven two hours and arrived here in the dead of night, only for everything to appear perfectly in place. Whoever broke in must have known we weren’t here, and yet he came into the apartment anyway. Nothing appears disturbed. There are no bugs or cameras planted, so what was he doing while he was here?
“Reag,” Cade says, and draws me close to kiss the top of my head. “You okay?”
I don’t trust myself to answer. I only cling to him.
His grip tightens on me, and he turns my face up to his and kisses me. “Let’s see if anything is missing so we can get some sleep, okay?” he murmurs in my ear.
“You think Rafi can crash here tonight?” I ask.
“Why don’t you make that offer?” he says.
I step out of his embrace and open the front hall closet, grab the pillow and blanket that are there, and hand them to Rafi.
He smiles, understanding immediately, and says, “Thank you.”
Cade and I search through the kitchen, but everything is in its place, the food and wine, the glasses and dishes all accounted for. Not even a bottle of Cade’s pricey whiskey is touched.
I tell myself the intruder wouldn’t have taken anything at all if the file and envelope were with us, that he couldn’t want anything else, but some part of me knows that if he wants to scare us off, he wouldn’t just be content to go through the apartment without leaving something behind to show us he was there.
My clothes all hang on my side of the closet. My workout gear and headphones are in their spots, and every piece of underwear is neatly folded and tucked away.
Cade hunts through his ties, his cuff links, and his watches, but shrugs when we make eye contact.
I open my nightstand drawer and the box that has my Air Force medals, rank insignias, my parade gloves, and a spare flight cap.
Everything is there.
Everything except …
“My dog tags,” I say and dump the box out on the bed. “Motherfucker.”
“Your dog tags?” Cade raises an eyebrow. “You have dog tags?”
“Of course I have dog tags,” I snap. “Did you think that was only for Top Gun or something?”
“He got your dog tags?” Rafi asks from the doorway.
I sort the medals onto their side, stack the soft rank intended for the shoulders of my dress uniform and the subdued rank for my everyday uniform, and shove aside the metal rank, hoping against hope that the silver tags bordered by their black silicone silencers are just hiding under something else.
