Tell Me No Lies

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

WARNER BOOKS EDITION

Copyright © 2004 by Wylann Solomon

Excerpt from
Blind Curve
© 2004 by Wylann Solomon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover design and art by Tom Tafuri

Hand lettering by David Gatti

Book design by Giorgetta Bell McRee

Warner Books

Time Warner Book Group

1271 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Visit our Web site at www.twbookmark.com.

Printed in the United States of America

First Paperback Printing: April 2004

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Mom, who taught me to love books, and to Dad, who couldn't be prouder that I do.

Thanks to Nadya Geneizer for all her help with my many bizarre requests for Russian phrases and cultural hints. The book would have been far less rich without her.

For information on apple growing in the Hudson Valley, I'm indebted to David Fraleigh of Rose Hill Farm, who took time out of his busy schedule to talk with me, and to Erin Millus of Hardeman Orchards, who patiently answered all my questions.

I also owe a debt to Detective/Lieutenant William Siegnst, head of the Detective Division of the Pough-keepsie Police Department for giving me insight into homicide investigations in a small city. And to Special Agent Jason Locke of the Tennessee Bureau of Inves-tigations for answering all the questions I put before him; and to Detective Patricia Hamblin of the Wilson County Sheriff's Department, whose encouragement and support not to mention her willingness to share information is once again greatly appreciated.

For points of legal process, I received help from Professor Susan Bandes, Professor Joshua Dressier, and attorney Austin Campriello.

To my editor Beth de Guzman and my agent Pam Ahearn, for helping to make all my books as good as possible.

Finally, I must once again say thanks to my wonderful writer pals Jo Boehm, GayNelle Doll, Linda Kearney, Trish Milburn, and Beth Pattillo who stuck with me and my words no matter how cranky I got. And to everyone at Music City Romance Writers. You guys are the best.

1

The eyes of the dead held secrets. Detective Hank Bonner knew that just as he knew his job was to uncover them. He looked down at the body of Luka Kole.

What secrets did your eyes hold, old man?

Hank didn't want to find out. He had a little over a week left as a cop, and he wanted to spend the time writing reports, cleaning up old cases, and shutting down what had been a major part of his thirty-six years.

But two hours ago, Paraell, head of the Sokanan Police Department's detective division, had other ideas. "Dead body on Rossvelt." He'd handed Hank a scrawled address, the expression in his face daring Hank to object.

Hank knew what Pamell was doing. He could have given that DB to anyone. But he was using it to hook Hank, paying out the line, trying to reel him back with one last case.

Hank buried himself in a box of assorted memorabilia a cracked coffee cup that had been a Christmas present years ago, a faded picture of himself just out of the academy, papers he still needed to sort through. "Let Klimet handle it."

"Klimet couldn't handle a cat stuck in a tree. Not yet anyway. I got your butt 'til the end of the month, Bonner. Get going."

So here Hank was, haunted by another pair of dead eyes.

He scanned the crime scene inside the Gas-Up on Rossvelt Avenue, the latest in a string of convenience store robberies that had plagued the Hudson Valley for the last month. Luka Kole, who owned the place, lay behind the counter, a squat, gray-haired man with a hole in his barrel chest. The open cash drawer stood empty, the overturned candy bin lay on its side. Lindt truffles wrapped in shiny blue, green, and red paper were strewn on the counter and floor, along with Slim Jims, cigarette lighters, and Van Dekker County souvenir pens.

The mess was a sure sign of struggle. Whoever he was, Luka Kole hadn't gone down easy.

The only thing detracting from the obvious was the bank bag. Hidden beneath the cash drawer, it contained over a thousand dollars, fat and ready for deposit. Why would the robber leave it behind?

"Because he's a mope, not a rocket scientist." Joe Klimet stared down at Luka Kole's sightless brown eyes as though he expected them to confirm his conclusion.

Hank studied the younger man. He wore a sharp black suit, silver-gray shirt, and patterned tie in yellow and gray. Slick and flashy with a grin to match. But Hank forgave him. Or tried to. He remembered what it was like to be cocky.

"So he leaves the money because he's stupid," Hank said.

Joe shrugged: why not?

Hank bent to get a closer look at the body. He'd already scouted the scene, starting with a careful walk around the outside perimeter and gradually moving closer to the victim, who was always the last thing he examined.

"Seems to me a guy who's managed to get away with four of these jobs right under our noses is no dummy."

KJimet frowned. The detective division's newest addition, he didn't like being challenged. "Something scared him off before he could check below the drawer."

Hank looked at him calmly, ignoring the irritatioa is the younger man's eyes. "What?"

"How the hell should I know? A customer, a car pulling in. Something."

"Maybe he wasn't after the money."

Klimet rolled his eyes. "You know, you're nuts, Bonner. The scene is clear the cash drawer's empty. If the scumbag wasn't after money, what was he after?"

"Who knows? Revenge maybe. The clerk said Kole argued with someone earlier in the day." Hank flipped through a small notebook. "Adulous McTeer, also known as Big Mac. Maybe this Big Mac wanted the last word."

"Then why take anything?"

'To make it look like a robbery."

"It was a robbery." Klimet crossed his arms, not hiding his annoyance. "Just like all the others."

Hank was silent. "Looks like. But I want to talk to Mr. Big. We got someone rounding him up?"

"Already on it." Klimet ducked under the yellow crime scene tape to confer with the patrolman who'd been the first to arrive.

Hank caltea to Greenlaw, one of an elite cadre of patrol officers trained as crime scene technicians. "Still no brass?"

"No, sir," Greenlaw said.

No shell casings could mean a revolver. Or a smarter than average creep. "Keep looking."

Someone handed Hank the victim's wallet. Hands gloved, he examined it, hoping for something that would give him insight into Luka Kole. The clerk who'd found the body after returning from his dinner break hadn't been very helpful; Kole owned the store, but the clerk had worked there only a few weeks and didn't know much about his boss. The wallet didn't give away much either, except that Kole was no spendthrift. The case was old and thin, the outline of credit cards imprinted on the worn leather in front. The guy must have been sitting on the thing for years.

Inside, Hank found the usual: credit cards, driver's license, plus fifty dollars in cash the robber had been good enough to leave behind. Behind the bills he found a newspaper clipping, the headline half-torn but still readable:

JOINT US RUSSIA ECONOMIC VENTURE BRINGS JOBS TO VAN DEKKER COUNTY.

Quickly, Hank scanned the print. Normal press release stuff. Quotes from Mikail "Miki" Petrov, the businessman who was bankrolling the Russian end of the deal, and from A. J. Baker, the American consultant who'd set the whole tiling up. Mr. Petrov was a big shot in Manhattan and Washington, and not easily accessible. A. J. Baker, on the other hand, apparently lived right here in the Hudson Valley.

Hank replaced the clipping and slipped the wallet into an evidence bag. So, like everyone else in town, Luka Kole was looking forward to the deal with Renaissance Oil. But how many people carried around articles about it?

Hank ducked under the yellow tape. "Klimet." He handed the younger detective the bagged wallet. "Subpoena the phone records. Here and at the vic's apartment. Take Finelli with you to canvass the area. Maybe we'll get lucky and someone heard or saw something. And see if you can track down a home address. We got keys, but the driver's license is pegged to the store address. I'll see you back at the station."

"Where are you going?"

But Hank had already walked off and pretended he hadn't heard.

Outside, he ignored the small crowd milling around in uneasy formation at the edge of the parking lot. He understood their fascination and their horror. When murder hit close to home the two things melded together. It could have been me. Thank God it wasn't

He got in his car, backed out, and called in to the station, waiting for the dispatcher to hunt down an address on Baker.

Then he turned down Route 9, Klimet's question circling inside his head. What had the shooter been after?

Dead man's secrets.

Ten minutes later, he turned off the highway and slowed down to peer into the wooded roadside for addresses. The house was somewhere along this road.

At least Luka Kole was dead. And dead men were a lot more predictable than live ones. They didn't turn crazy, eyes wild and maniacal. They didn't come at you with guns or knives or... A chill shivered through Hank. Or screwdrivers. Instinctively, he pressed a fist to his chest. Still there. Still beating.

As if he'd never felt that death blow and then, somehow, lived.

"That's one strong breastbone," the emergency room doctor had said. "Deflected the blade. A little to the left or right and we'd be saying prayers over you. Count yourself lucky."

Oh, he did. Damn lucky.

But the problem with luck was sooner or later it ran out.

A wave of sick certainty rippled over his skin. It welled up inside him as he found the address and turned the car into a long, gravel drive. Woods lined the road, thick, green, and impenetrable. His heart started that upward chase, his hands gripped the steering wheel. This was crazy. No one was hiding back there. No one waited for him with murderous intent