Last Lie (5 page)

6

W
hen I finally got to her after the van passed, I found Fiji's nose buried in the foyer of a prairie dog den. Her leash was completely tangled in the dry grasses nearby.

I picked her up, which wasn't her favorite thing. She wasn't a dog who liked to be restrained, no matter how affectionate the restrainer's intent. She wriggled to try to get out of my arms. I didn't care.

When I finally put the puppy down, I picked up a stick a couple of feet long and stuck it in the dirt where I'd tumbled to avoid the truck. My plan was to use the marker as a guidepost the next morning to begin the search for my damn cell phone. Then I clenched my hands together and blew between the bent knuckles of my thumbs. The sound I made with my hands cupped that way was a bass-horn-like bellow. It was my signal to Emily that her evening rounds were complete.

The first blow was an alert. With the second--it was a two-note, low-high melody--the big dog knew it was time to come running.

In seconds she was by my side. "Let's go home," I said to her more than to the puppy, whose English-as-a-second-language skills were still in development.

Emily knew the drill, but she was hesitating. She lifted her twitching nose into the wind from the north. She turned her ears due north, as well.

"It's some idiots in a van," I explained to her, but she wasn't mollified. I inhaled but by then I couldn't smell anything other than the distinctive perfumes of Greeley.

And maybe some smoke. I inhaled again. No, no smoke.

Emily finally took off down the lane. The puppy tried to chase after her. But I tightened my grip on the lead. Emily stopped once more on the way home, again sticking her nose into the north wind. Again tuning her ears to capture sounds from down the lane.

She mouthed one deep "woooo" bark. I translated that particular sound as one of general disfavor, not danger or alarm.

She and I were, I thought, on the same page. "Good girl," I said.

When we arrived back between the two houses, it appeared to me that almost all the guests had departed our new neighbor's party. A solitary car remained.

I'd kissed the sleeping kids good night before I went out with the dogs--Jonas in his room in our west-facing walk-out basement, Grace down the hall from the main floor master. I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed.

Lauren was restless, which was nothing new. I touched her shoulder with my dry Colorado lips. She said something about my lunch with Raoul, which reminded me about my other commitment.

I checked the alarm. Set it.

I sighed. I had to be up in time for dance class.

LAUREN'S PROMPT SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN NECESSARY. Raoul had already reminded me about our rendezvous when he and Diane had arrived at the housewarming.

"Well, this is awkward," was what Diane had said to me after she'd climbed out of the passenger side of Raoul's Range Rover. She was looking me over the way a skeptical father might appraise his young teenage daughter's outfit minutes before she departed on her first-ever date.

It was apparent that Diane didn't like what she was seeing. I was feeling as though I was displaying too much decolletage and was about to be directed back inside to pick something a tad more modest, even though the actual problem was that Diane was dressed for a night out while I was dressed to walk dogs.

Diane Estevez was my oldest friend in Boulder and my longtime partner in business. We were both clinical psychologists. I worked full-time at my craft, Diane a little less than that. Our business was, of course, mental health. We both had long considered it our good fortune that the success of our business endeavor was dependent on our abilities to boost the mental health of others, not ourselves or each other.

Diane's husband, Raoul, was a brilliant Catalonian with an electrical engineer's training, a hound's nose for business opportunity, and an unmatched two-decade-long resume of venture capital success in Boulder's fertile entrepreneurial soil. Raoul's well-placed bets on incubating businesses and his knack for stewardship while the companies were young had earned Diane and him significant wealth. How wealthy were they? I didn't really know, which was fine with me and was typical of the way accumulated wealth tended to work in Boulder.

Boulder had just turned one hundred and fifty years old. Originally born of humble mining and ranching roots, it had long since transformed itself into an academic and scientific powerhouse. Most would agree that it had managed to remain humble, despite its striking good looks, until the last few decades of the twentieth century.

That's when Boulder began an evolution, dubious or not, and became cool. Then seriously cool. Followed in short order by something suspiciously resembling trendy. Despite the evolution, Boulderites took some pride in the fact that their burg had never become the kind of commercial oasis that was Aspen or Vail, which were both nearby safe cradles for the ostentatiously rich, either native born or merely visiting.

Although Boulder was, by almost all standards, a town of much-greater-than-average affluence, the town's wealthiest citizens tended to keep the evidence of their fortunes on the down low. People drove themselves around Boulder. Although very nice cars were commonplace, exceptional cars were rare. The determined, at times even overdetermined, egalitarian ethos in Boulder limited exclusive clubbing--either the country kind or the night kind. Restaurants that catered only to the I-don't-care-what-it-costs set weren't part of the town's fabric. The fabulously wealthy ate at the same few fine restaurants--Pain Perdu, Frasca, L'Atelier--as the merely well-to-do. If their tabs reached from oh my to the stratosphere it was only because of the wine they'd chosen to sup.

To drop serious money on a designer-label gown or an outrageously bejeweled necklace, or to pick up something for the house that was exceedingly precious, required that Boulderites make the hop down 36 to Cherry Creek in Denver, endure a flight to one of the coasts, or at the very least carve out a shopping detour during a ski weekend in one of the mountain resorts.

Boulder is a community where social mores dictate that the very rich limit their public displays of consumption to a stunning home on an exceptional piece of land; a nice set of wheels, or maybe two; and perhaps a solitary piece of oh
-
really bling. At least at a time. The second and third houses, the private aircraft, the daring Rothko or the da Vinci drawing, just weren't mentioned in general conversation in town.

It's not that it was considered bad form. It just wasn't considered.

In Boulder, if one boasted in public to raise someone's eyebrows in a good way, one talked not about one's money but about one's hand-crafted bicycle, or hot new skis, or even better, one's new personal best in the previous month's 10k, or the completion of that summer's Triple Bypass, or a successful training regimen for the upcoming Leadville Trail 100.

Knowing all that, I still assumed that our new neighbors were counted among Boulder's wealthy. Somewhere, I guessed, in the same neighborhood of rich as Diane and Raoul. On the day that the sale was finalized, Jonas's uncle had informed me that the buyers of his sister's home had brought cash to the closing table. To afford to buy Adrienne and Peter's prized digs and its many surrounding half hectares, especially with cash, required some significant financial resources.

By the time Diane and Raoul arrived at the housewarming, there were a couple of dozen vehicles lining the lane--a typical high-end Boulder mix, which meant primarily SUVs and hybrids. The big Mercedes and the little BMW coupe that were parked near the house beside Raoul's shiny Range Rover announced to me that for Diane and Raoul, this was a night for socializing with at least a few of their wealthy friends.

A vintage Camaro, pristine but for the thin layer of dust deposited from the jaunt down our unpaved road, was fifty feet farther away, near a caterers' van at the southern end of the property. The Camaro told me that a classic car aficionado--an acceptable local affectation--was among the guests, too. Between the Camaro and the Euro collection was a small SUV--a Hyundai, or a Kia, or something. I can't keep track of all the small SUVs that dot Boulder's roads. In my head, I assigned the pedestrian ride to catering staff.

Raoul had one bottle of wine cradled in the crook of his left arm. He gripped a duplicate by the neck in his left hand. The label confirmed for me that the housewarming gift was most generous. The wine selections were from a prized case that Raoul had purchased at a recent online auction. He had shown me a solitary bottle the last time I was at their house. I hadn't recognized the label. I'm not a wine expert, but I can tell a Burgundy bottle from that of a Bordeaux. His prize was the former. I did remember that even though he was trying to convince me he had gotten a bargain on the case, the price revealed that each bottle had cost half as much as my bike.

And, even though I was far from wealthy, I didn't ride a cheap bike. That wasn't an anomaly in Boulder, where having a bicycle, or two, much grander and more expensive than one's car is not an unusual occurrence.

Raoul took one look at my old polo shirt, glanced at my even older jeans, and offered a grin at the pair of running shoes I'd bought on sale at Gart Brothers when Bill Clinton was still president, and when Monica was still an acceptable name for a female infant. Then Raoul chanced a restrained smile at his lovely wife--Diane looked gorgeous in the kind of dress rarely seen in Spanish Hills; she cleaned up good, always had--and said, "I thought you told me that Alan and Lauren would be invited to this party."

He said it with a warm tease in his tone.

Diane shrugged the shrug of someone who expects to be right even when she clearly isn't. She lifted an airy shawl from the upper reaches of her bare arms to the rise of her shoulders.

Raoul said, "Alain, non? You are not part of the festivities?" Raoul blended languages like a talented bartender mixes spirits in a cocktail. The result was almost always interesting.

"No, not this time," I said. "I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities in the future."

Diane shrugged again. "Maybe it's the theme," she said.

"I thought housewarming was the theme?" Raoul said.

"Mimi's parties always have themes. You never read invitations, Raoul. This event is called Two Cents. She wants all of her friends to give our opinions about how we think they should renovate the house."

Raoul said, "I just assumed that Mimi would take this opportunity to meet the--"

"No, no. It's fine," I said, trying to short-circuit any discomfort. "I think it's better that we skip this one. I'm actually yet to meet Mimi, Diane. I've only spoken to Mattin, Matt, once. He seems to be out of town a lot," I said, offering an easy rationale for why our new neighbors excluded us. "Absolutely no hard feelings. We're probably not the best people to participate in a group activity about remodeling Adrienne's home, anyway."

Raoul said, "Mattin's his TV name. His friends call him Hake. I don't think anyone calls him Matt."

Raoul pronounced
Hake
like
rake
. Not
Hak-e,
like
Rock-ay
.

During our brief conversation about rogue dogs, my new neighbor did not once suggest I should call him Hake. On television, he was Mattin Snow. But, when discussing my wayward dog, I really thought he said he was Matt.

I said, "Come on, it makes perfect sense. I'm sure they're eager for their old friends to get a chance to see the new . . . place, without the neighbors looking over their shoulders." Lauren and I had heard from the real estate agent who had listed the house--he lived at the other end of the lane--that both of our new neighbors had referred to Peter and Adrienne's place not as a home, not as a house, but as a "wonderful opportunity." We knew change was coming.

Diane took her husband's arm. Over his shoulder, Raoul said, "We're still on for tomorrow, right? To discuss the Walnut thing?"

Diane shook her head. At the thing, or at her husband's mixing of business with pleasure, I did not know.

"I will be there, Raoul."

"
A bientot.
"

7

I
woke first on the morning after the damn housewarming. The wind had stopped blowing but had left in its wake an unwelcome gray sky and a blanket of cold, damp air. Just before six forty-five, when I took the dogs out for their morning stroll, I could see my exhaled breath. I wasn't ready for a regular diet of visible exhalations. Within ten steps of the front door, I had already begun awaiting the next interlude of Indian summer--the Front Range usually gets a few before the determined chill of the dark season takes over.

November is way late for Indian summer, but Colorado is home, almost exclusively, to weather optimists.

Across the lane, only one car remained from the party the night before. It was that little SUV, or crossover, parked near the very end of the lane.

Japan, Korea. Honda, Toyota, Kia, Hyundai. Gray, brown. Few cars made an impression on me. It was one of the many that didn't. Since it wasn't a classic Camaro, or a Mercedes or BMW or Land Rover, and since the caterers were long gone, I considered that it might have belonged to a housekeeper who had stayed over to straighten up after the previous night's festivities.

The dogs and I ambled down the lane to search for the mobile phone I had launched while dodging the caterer's truck. I had Lauren's cell with me. I hoped that dialing my own number from her phone would cause mine to ring, ending my treasure hunt. That is, if a prairie dog hadn't filched it.

I called myself. I located the phone. The day began to look auspicious.

I heard the engine of the nondescript SUV come to life behind me as I was herding the dogs back in the front door. I turned to look at the occupant, but the car's glass was rendered opaque by a thin covering of frost.

Inside the house, Gracie was in bed reading, while Jonas was sleeping the sleep of preadolescence. Lauren had suffered through a difficult night but was finally asleep, so I tried to be as quiet as I could be as I urged Gracie to get ready for dance class.

She had just started taking tumbling and jazz/contemporary. This would be session number three. I'd watched the first two classes--they involved little girls alternating between being precious while they pretended to dance and then being tomboys as they did cartwheels and somersaults.

Grace was loving the experience. She'd always been a tough kid, but it was becoming clearer every day that she was also being influenced by tidal estrogen flows. I watched with parental wonder as she balanced on the developmental fence between tomboy land and the princess castle. Lauren thought she would fall to one side soon. I was thinking that she might keep her balance on the fence for a while longer.

A more immediate crisis loomed. She wanted to wear her purple tights to class. I could find only her pink tights. She wanted to wake her mommy to find the purple tights. I thought that was particularly unwise.

We worked it out. Grace almost always knew when to push and when to retreat. I envied the kid's radar.

I got toast, juice, and a banana in her and we hustled to the car. On our way out the lane, just beyond the spot on the S
-
curve where the caterer's van had almost taken a tumble, I pulled over to allow a black limousine to pass. I sighed. Traffic near my home had never before been much of a concern. Limos, in particular, were as rare as comets.

"Who's that for?" Gracie asked.

"Not us," I said.

"The new neighbors then," she said with a bit of a tone.

My attitude about the new neighbors, I sensed, was infectious, and not in a good way. I promised myself I would watch it, at least around the kids.

"I guess."

"Are they on a reality show?" Gracie asked.

God help us.
"I don't think so, honey. The car is just here to pick someone up."

"Cars like that come once you've been eliminated. Maybe they got voted off."

"Off what?"

Gracie gave my question some serious thought. She shrugged. "Our mountain, I guess. They got voted off our mountain."

I wish we could vote people off our mountain.
For the time being, we had them outnumbered. "People can't get voted off our mountain," I said. "Cars like that come for other reasons, too."

"Limos never came for Adrienne," my daughter pointed out.

The limo driver tipped an imaginary cap at me as he passed. The back of the vehicle was unoccupied. I gave the driver a thumbs-up in response. Life with our new neighbors promised to bring many changes to our corner of Spanish Hills.

Lauren's last thoughts when I climbed into bed late the night before had been, "Hear Raoul out, tomorrow. Please? We need to be open-minded."

Maybe Lauren was right. Maybe the environment was ripe for change.

She hadn't said it out loud yet, but every time that Lauren encouraged me to open myself to change, I was hearing her preparing the soil for a single crop: she wanted to discuss leaving Spanish Hills.

I knew the arguments.
We live too far from town. We're always schlepping the kids somewhere. Lauren and stairs no longer get along. Peter and Adrienne are gone. Jonas needs a clean break.

It might indeed be time,
is what I had started thinking.

I PLANNED TO SKIP DANCE CLASS NUMBER THREE. My cop friend Sam Purdy was going to meet me at the Village for breakfast while Grace danced and tumbled. Seconds after I pulled into the strip center parking lot on Folsom, my phone chirped with a text. I bet it was from Sam, but I had to wait to check while a guy the size of Paul Bunyan pulled his considerable mass into a Tahoe the size of an Abrams tank. The tires he'd mounted on his elevated rig were shaped like Krispy Kremes on steroids. The truck filled two spots in the tiny lot. It didn't have to, but the guy had parked so that it did.

I wondered if he could be voted out of the parking lot.

The driver spotted me waiting for him to depart, which is never a good thing. I waited while he checked his phone. Straightened his sunglasses. Played with his radio. Pulled on his seat belt. Looked in the mirror while he practiced chin thrusts?
What? Who does that?
Finally, he backed up slowly, as though he were practicing docking the space shuttle to the International Space Station and he didn't trust his instruments. I was not at all surprised to learn that the truck's exhaust was tuned to approximate the sound of repetitive sonic booms.

I pulled into one of the two spots the truck vacated. A Smart car immediately took the other. The line was out the door at the Village.

Sam's text read:
Luce needs me. Sorry. Off to 33rd.

"Luce" was Lucy Davenport, Sam's detective partner in the Boulder Police Department, and "33rd" was 33rd Street, home of the Public Safety Building.

Hope it's nothing
is what I texted back. But I knew that if it were nothing, Lucy wouldn't have called Sam in on a Saturday morning. A senior detective pair catching a routine call on a day off? Not a chance. Either something big had happened, or Sam and Lucy were being punished for something.

Although I couldn't rule out the latter hypothesis--neither cop was renowned for rule-following inclinations; Sam's recent history of transgressions was much worse than Lucy's--I was wondering if Boulder had suffered a rare homicide.

Ha
was Sam's texted retort to my good wishes.

Breakfast at the Village had been Sam's idea, not mine. I gave up my parking spot and headed up Canyon to 14th Street in the direction of Lucile's.

I knew that the line would be out the door at Lucile's, too. But my kid was doing interpretive dance and cartwheels, so I had time to waste. I lucked into an angled parking spot near my lawyer Cozy Maitlin's office across from the Colorado Building on the other side of the Mall. I hoofed it from there. What breeze was left from the night before was still from the north, so I could smell chicory and beignets wafting in my direction the moment I opened the car door.

I grabbed a seat at the communal table and ordered eggs and grits and toast and coffee. And a beignet. While I ate, I read an article in the
Daily Camera
's sports section about how the Buffs were about to rescue their disappointing season by surprising some ranked football foe. I was thinking I'd read an annual version of the same story every fall for at least a decade.

I STAYED IN TOWN ALL MORNING. Soccer practice followed dance class for Gracie. I had her back home, as I promised Lauren I would, in time to get her ready for a one thirty birthday party. Gracie had a full social calendar.

Jonas, on the other hand, was still looking for his social niche. Through no fault of his own, his path in life was a difficult one. He'd lost his father to a homicide when he was still too young to realize what had happened. Then, only the previous year, he had lost his mom to a bomb in a cowardly battle in a decades-old foreign war. Jonas had taken shrapnel in his leg from the same explosion that took his mother. His emotional wounds were more visible to me than were his permanent physical scars.

From the moment I flew to Israel to retrieve him after the terrorist bombing, I was determined to be a good card in his bad hand. I didn't know how I was going to do it, but I was determined to succeed as his parent.

He and I had plans to go to a movie later that afternoon. Jonas and I went to a lot of movies, often late on weekend afternoons. He tended to choose adolescent fare that I considered too lurid or too lusty for him, or childish flicks that seemed to provide some regressed comfort. I assumed he was working out something with his attraction to the violence. I usually went along with his choice. With the blood and guts, my consent was usually reluctant. On the lusty side? I didn't care if he saw an exposed breast or two.

I wasn't sure about many things as a parent, but I was completely certain that no child had ever been harmed by gazing at a boob.

On rare occasions, Jonas would ask me to pick the movie. Those times, I'd take him to a film at the university or to a theater playing classics I'd really liked--movies I wanted to share with him. He had loved
The Sting.
And the first
Indiana Jones. The Great Escape. The Godfather. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
He'd thought
Bridge on the River Kwai
was "weak." I defended it, but I couldn't bring him around to my way of thinking.

I had no idea what that afternoon's choice would bring.

But first I had that meeting with Raoul. He had an investment opportunity he wanted Lauren and me to consider. Something about Walnut.