The Liar's Lullaby (30 page)

Lewicki was silent.

“I know you’ve gotten the SFPD to shut down the investigation into Tasia’s death. I don’t know what kind of pressure has been applied to the top brass. I doubt I’ll ever find out. I can only extrapolate from the kind of pressure that’s been applied to me and others. And it stinks.”

She knew at that moment she’d let loose a snarling pit bull, and that if she didn’t fling the phone into the bay and dunk her head in a tub of ice, she would not be able to rein it in.

“Message received, Mr. Lewicki. The political lesson has been absorbed. I concede. But honestly, sending the ATF to raid an elderly couple’s mom-and-pop business? The IRS audit of Captain Bohr, that’s a cliché. It shows lack of imagination. The ATF raid may have been an attempt at freshness and flair, but it’s so damned crude, I can’t believe it’s something the people pulling the strings will get high marks for.”

“Doctor, watch your words.”

“As for changing Gabe Quintana’s orders—that’s a trick. That’s the golden ticket. Sly. An oblique attack. Probably half a dozen intermediaries between the idea and the execution.”

The pit bull was barking, snapping, lunging. She surrendered to the rage.

“And, ultimately, it’s unnecessary. Sending a man to war, leaving his child bereft—slick. And I’ll probably never be able to prove it. But who knows, maybe I’ll walk onstage when the
Bad Dogs and Bullets
tour holds its requiem for fallen performers, and take the mike to tell everybody how
efficiently
the elected government of our country encourages citizens to take a clear look at their civic duty.”

She took a breath. Her heart was pounding hard, and she thought maybe the spot where she was standing had started to melt. Lewicki didn’t come back right away.

Then he said, “Do I need to use the term
projection
, Doctor? I saw Edie Wilson’s segment a few minutes ago, as I’m assuming you did. Speaking with Mr. Quintana’s ex . . . girlfriend, is it? Is that accurate?”

This time it was Jo’s turn to stay silent.

“Effective reportage, I’d say, gauging from your reaction. Though there isn’t a sealed criminal record. Just an arrest, eleven years ago. Quintana beat a man to within an inch of his life with a silver belt buckle in a bar fight. I don’t know why he escaped prosecution—perhaps because he agreed to report for duty in the air force immediately thereafter.”

Jo shut her eyes.

“I don’t know all the circumstances, but having been in the military myself, I’d guess it’s lucky Mr. Quintana is being permitted to serve as a pararescueman, instead of serving a prison sentence.”

Jo didn’t open her eyes. She couldn’t.

“It’s a shame his daughter will probably hear all of this for the first time while he’s preparing to deploy. Of course, it’s still possible that the military, or the California court system, could be in possession of further documents that find their way into the public eye. Or not.”

Jo clenched her teeth. She wanted to speak, but knew if she moved her lips she’d simply scream, into the phone, the air, at God.

Lewicki’s voice returned to its sprightly initial tone. “But as I said to begin with, there’s no need to further embroil yourself in any of these issues. And since you can put your report to bed, the media attention should abate as well.”

Tightly, with the scene pulsing before her eyes, she said, “Got it. Loud and clear.”

“Excellent. It’s been illuminating to speak with you. Good evening, Doctor.”

He hung up, leaving her to stare at traffic and gulls hovering overhead like scavengers, waiting to pick her bones.

 

 

V
IENNA LEANED FORWARD. “That high-handed son of a bitch.”

“An hour ago I had decided to fold my tent. Crawl home and shut up, to keep from making things worse. Then Lewicki phoned,” Jo said.

“That pissant ball- licker. I danced with him at Rob and Tasia’s wedding. I drank tequila shots with him until we saw double. I really
like
the little cocksucker. Puke-ass weenie.” Vienna crossed her arms. “If you can’t find out the truth, I will. I’ll hire a private investigator. I’ll hire my own forensic psychiatrist. You have colleagues, right? There’s a professional organization, bowling league, something?”

“You’d take it all the way?”

“We’re talking about my sister. Hell yes, I would.”

“It won’t be pleasant.”

“Do I look like unpleasant scares me?”

“Good. Because I’m in.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If I run away, Lewicki won’t relent. He’ll try to finish me off. Am I right?”

Vienna nodded slowly. “You are. He doesn’t let up—he doubles down. Kel wants you to quit before you uncover information that could damage the president. That’s all that matters. He’s a steamroller in support of the public good. It’s not personal, it’s instinctual. It’s his mission.” She frowned. “Retreat, and he’d see you as wounded prey. He might try to discredit you professionally. Something long-term. So that later, if you found more evidence, you’d have no credibility.”

“The only way to protect myself and my loved ones from getting hammered like that is to beat Lewicki to the punch. To find evidence that definitively explains your sister’s death. I have to fight back.” She stood up. “Game on.”

Vienna inhaled. It was an impressive sight. “If Noel Petty didn’t kill Tasia, did somebody else?”

“If so, it was an audacious and desperate murder. It would mean she was killed by somebody who took a huge risk, perhaps because there were huge stakes.”

“You’re worried about a conspiracy. You goddamned are.”

“I’m worried that if the White House crushes the investigation, we may overlook a serious threat. I’m worried that something’s brewing, and it’s dangerous.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Air Force One is flying in around noon tomorrow. Can you persuade Lewicki to stop by here and see you before the memorial service?”

 

 

P
AINE ROCKED BACK and forth in the desk chair, thinking. The message from Keyes was blinking on his computer screen.
Isn’t it kind of scary that one man could wreak this kind of hell?
But that wasn’t what interested him at the moment. He focused on the news clip from Edie Wilson’s latest report. Hit
Replay
.

Her overheated, shouty take on the story didn’t excite him. She was a carnival sideshow, the two-headed Pekinese dog who’d made it to the big top and could only stay in the center ring by barking ever louder. Innuendo, gossip, anonymous sources—and who was this outrageous hippie playing he-said, she-said about her ex? Save it for
I’m an Attention Junkie, Look at Me!

The video clip played. He muted Edie Wilson’s mad seal voice. Hit
Pause
.

He leaned toward the screen. “Interesting.”

The screen shot showed Dr. Jo Beckett driving away from Wilson and her press colleagues. Beckett was in a vehicle owned by the object of the hippie woman’s scorn and Wilson’s current hysteria, this man, Gabriel Quintana. Paine zoomed in. Saved the screen shot, fiddled with the photo and enhanced the picture for clarity.

He smiled.

Edie Wilson’s sideshow was nothing but distraction, a disco-ball refraction of the real truth. But sideshows provided cover, and cover provided insurance. Misdirection and disinformation could be allies on the battlefield. Beckett and Quintana were shiny tiles on the twirling ball. Paine could use that. Rumor, fear, hints of violence in the heart of the Tasia McFarland investigation—those things could turn his enemies against each other.

He saved the screen shot and printed it.

Then he wrote to Keyes.
You understand, I know, that what is wrong with the world is the continuation of the jackal’s life. Anything is justified to stop Robert McFarland. And we are uniquely able and willing to do that.

The screen shot printed. When Paine examined it again, he felt reassured. The license number for Gabriel Quintana’s SUV was plainly visible.

N
OE VALLEY LAY IN DUSK. LIGHTS WERE COMING ON IN HOUSES along the block. In the street, kids practiced skateboard tricks, laughing as night came toward them. Jo knocked.

When Gabe opened the front door, she held still. His eyes were weary. His gaze shifted from her face to the driveway and the street beyond.

“I parked two blocks away. Nobody’s going to spot my truck,” she said.

He nodded her in and closed the door. The blinds were closed. A Hannah Montana album was playing on the stereo. In the living room Sophie sat cross-legged on the floor, coloring. She looked up. Her eyes were weary too.

Jo raised a hand. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey.”

Jo followed Gabe into the kitchen. He poured her a mug of coffee and headed out the door to the backyard. Jo followed and sat down at the patio table. The lawn was covered with fallen oak leaves, like a messy wind had blown through.

Gabe stood by the table and stared at the western horizon. It was soaked with crimson light. Overhead, where it hushed to blue, stars salted the sky.

“We’re on communications lockdown. No TV, no computer, I answer the phone. I don’t want Sophie to hear anything except from my lips.”

“I’m sorry,” Jo said.

He finally looked at her. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re doing your job. I jumped into the middle of it. I got splashed with mud.”

Except that it wasn’t that simple, and they both knew it. He had warned her that the job would get nasty. She’d taken it anyway, without fully considering what that nastiness might involve. His instincts to protect her, his altruism and righteous machismo, had led him to leap in with her. And now they were swimming in a fast-flowing stream, barely keeping their heads above water.

And that wasn’t the half of it. Her hurt and her anger were as great as her regret. She felt excluded. She felt blindsided.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” she said.

“Dawn found out about my deployment from her lawyer. She came tearing over here. Showed up as Edie Wilson was pulling out. Decided to go for broke.”

“Does she want custody?”

“She says yes. Which means she wants to play games in court, using Sophie as a bargaining chip. She couldn’t manage full-time custody and she knows it.” He turned. “You want the story?”

Her chest tightened. She wanted him to shrug and say,
nothing to tell
. But he didn’t.

“Please,” she said.

He nodded, and settled his stance, as if getting ready for battle. “Dawn was my sophomore year college girlfriend. She wasn’t always like she is now. She was sweet. She had a great laugh.”

“Everybody has people in their past. You don’t need to apologize for your relationship.”

“Summer after that year, I was miserable. Hated school. Couldn’t stand the thought of going back to San Francisco State in the fall. I enlisted. And that’s when Dawn told me she was pregnant.”

Under the endless arch of the twilight sky, Jo felt a weight descend on her.

“I offered to marry her. Told her we’d have an adventure, and with me in the air force we’d have housing, a support system, medical care. But she didn’t want to be a military wife,” he said. “She wanted me to get out of my commitment.”

“She wanted you—how?” Jo said.

“Tell the air force I’d changed my mind. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“She thought you could really . . .” Jo stopped. There was no point.

“I told her if I didn’t report, the military would throw me in jail. She got furious. She said she’d stay with me if I told the air force to screw off. It was her or the military. She didn’t—I couldn’t get her to believe that . . .” He spread his hands. “I said I had to go but I’d marry her and she could stay with her folks, I’d come home when I could. She didn’t want that. Wanted me to stay in San Francisco.”

“What happened?”

“The weekend before I was supposed to report for basic training, we met friends for a farewell night out. I was mixed up. No clue how to solve things. Feeling relieved, if I’m honest, that I had an out—the air force was going to take me away from the whole problem.” He made a face. “For nine months, anyway. I couldn’t picture being a dad. All I knew was that I’d screwed up, big-time. I was scared, and I was secretly glad that Dawn didn’t want to accept my noble Mexican Catholic idea of solving the problem with a ring and a priest.”

He put his hands in his back pockets. “The evening was a nightmare. Dawn spent it sulking and in tears. Until finally she ran outside to the car. When she didn’t come back, I went to find her. I got to the parking lot and heard her yelling my name.” He turned around and looked at Jo. “She screamed for help. I saw a guy dragging her around the back of the restaurant.”

“God.”

“Guy was hauling her toward the bushes. I went nuts. I charged him.”

“Oh, Gabe.”

“I tackled him and yelled at Dawn to run. Call the cops. That’s when the guy’s friends jumped me,” he said. “Three against one, I knew if they put me on the ground I wouldn’t get up. I chose the guy who looked like he most wanted to fight. Figured if I could hurt him, the other two might not want any of it, and they’d split.” He paused. “I kicked the shit out of him.”

Jo waited. Seconds passed. “Gabe?”

“I should have stopped sooner, but I thought if I let him up, Dawn was cooked. Thing is, I didn’t see one of the other guys grab a bottle out of the Dumpster. He smashed it and stabbed me. Twice.”

His calm seemed like the peace that comes when all the blood has poured from a body, when nothing is left to pump through the heart. Jo’s gaze sank from his face to his hip, where the jagged scars lived beneath his shirt and jeans.

“After that, the two guys split. Ran and left me on the ground bleeding beside their buddy.”