The Second Lie (7 page)

And barely made it in time to see Maggie walk up the drive to a house across the street.

Sam had no idea where Maggie's friend was. She couldn't see the street.

Maggie stood on the front porch, speaking with someone behind a closed screen door. Either that or she was talking to herself.

Maybe the girls were picking up a third friend to go to the mall.

Before she could conjecture further, Maggie was back on the drive. Walking alone. Carrying nothing.

The girl looked straight ahead as she walked down the drive and was lost from Sam's view.

Feeling like a really bad rendition of a destitute private eye, Sam slunk back through the underbrush to her car.

As a general rule, Kyle tried to get errands away from the farm done in the early morning hours of Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, when the nurse he'd hired with the help of government assistance stopped by to check up on Grandpa. Twenty years older than Kyle, Clara could have held her own with his grandfather even in his prime. And she didn't mind staying an extra hour or so to allow Kyle time in town.

Today, the first Wednesday in September, he made it through the majority of their grocery shopping--buying mark-off brands of everything except the chocolate sandwich cookies that were Grandpa's favorites--in just under an hour. Now he was anxious to get back.

Clara had had to come early that morning to check Grandpa's blood pressure before he ate. Kyle would be monitoring it throughout the next twenty-four hours, something the doctor had recommended after Clara had called in the stats on Monday.

Kyle knew his grandfather's time was coming, and he liked to hang close.

Now that Chandler had a department store, where you could buy plumbing PVC, jeans, work boots and food all under one roof--and do banking, too--he could be a lot more efficient. Especially since the place was open twenty-four hours. Lucky for him, most Chandlerites weren't in a shopping mood at seven in the morning.

"Yo, Kyle, what's up?"

Just as he'd been enjoying having the place to himself... Kyle turned and felt a twinge of remorse as he recognized the owner of the voice.

"David. How are you, man?" The clean-cut, model-handsome man was already in the suit and tie that had been his trademark ever since he'd returned to Chandler with a brand-new law degree and bar certification ten years before.

He held up a bag of disposable diapers. "Rough night," he said with a half grimace. "Devon's been going at it from both ends for more than twenty-four hours now. I had to take the day off yesterday to help with him."

What did it say about Kyle that the attorney's plight made him envious? Not that he wanted any kid to be sick, but to be a father...

"And we just found out on Monday that Susan's pregnant again," David added, twisting an invisible knife. "Number five. I gotta tell you, man, it's mornings like these that show me what a smart guy you are. I gotta be in court at eight, and after missing yesterday, I still have briefs to review."

"Sounds like you need some beer and a good game of barn darts," Kyle offered.

"Now that's just what the doctor ordered." David grinned. "How about Friday night? Susan has the church ladies coming over for crafting."

Sam worked the late shift on Fridays. Not that it mattered. It wasn't like Kyle kept nights free for her.

"You got it," he told the man who'd helped him through his god-awful divorce. David had saved half the farm for him. If Kyle had confided in him about his first mistake, the one before his marriage, the lawyer would have told him he was a fool to fork out money to a woman without a conscience.

"What's this loser got?" Pierce Jones, Sam's older brother, elbowed David from behind.

"A drunken game of darts," Kyle told the man he'd once thought would be his brother-in-law. "You want to help me beat the crap out of him again?"

"Always. When?"

"Friday night."

The jeans and tightly fitting black T-shirt Pierce wore emphasized muscles that were mostly, in Kyle's opinion, wasted in that fancy kitchen of his. He looked more like a cop than chef. Maybe if Sam's older brother had followed in their father's and Pappy's footsteps, Sam wouldn't have felt compelled to do it herself. "I'll bring eats," Pierce added.

There were upsides to most things. If you looked hard enough.

"Why don't you bring that sister of yours?" David headed around Kyle's loaded basket toward the self-checkout stand that had just opened. "She distracts Kyle enough to give us half a chance."

"Right," Pierce said, his expression sobering. "More like she'd beat us all." He looked at Kyle. "Why the hell that woman can't see what's right in front of her..." Shaking his head, Pierce walked off toward the fresh vegetables--obviously buying ingredients for the day's fare, whatever that might be.

Kyle directed his buggy toward the bin of five-dollar movies to see if there was anything really old that might spark Grandpa's interest. Was it just a guy's lot in life, he wondered, to want what he didn't have?

6

H
e drove by her place. Just to make certain she was okay. Then drove by again, alternately wanting a glimpse of her and hoping to hell she stayed locked inside.

If nothing else, he had to get her out of that hellhole. She deserved far better than the trash-ridden rusted heap of garbage her mother called home.

School was going to be starting again in a matter of days. Later than most Ohio schools, which went back before Labor Day. Once she was in class, she wasn't going to be able to do as much work for him. She'd have to concentrate on her studies. He'd insist on it.

As he did with all of his crew.

But maybe he could get her a couple of more jobs this week. Slide her some extra pay. He'd tell her it was tips.

That way, he could keep his eye on her. Just to make certain she was okay. To put his mind at ease so he could get on with the business of living.

For now, she was all he thought about. In the middle of the night. In the middle of the day. Sometimes the feel of her cheek against his palm intruded when he was having sex.

He kept replaying those few seconds of contact over and over. The softness of her skin. That touch had done things to him.

Remarkable, unbelievable things.

In all of his thirty-four years, he'd never felt like this.

But he wasn't going to be stupid about it. Emotional and physical attraction brought men down. Powerful men. Again and again.

He had his code. And wouldn't break it.

So he'd watch out for her. Pass her a little bounty when he could.

In the privacy of his own mind he'd entertain thoughts about the silky touch of her skin. Of her sweet innocent smile. Those eyes that saw so much. And sometimes peered up at him with a hunger, a longing, that was far beyond her years.

He'd keep his thoughts private. And he'd be very, very careful.

Sam didn't like being kept up nights by questions that wouldn't go away.

And so on Thursday she was at work before the lights were even turned on, looking for answers.

Answers about the upswing in drug use. Answers about Maggie. Hell, she'd be happy to find answers to questions she hadn't yet asked.

She had to know. Knowledge was control. Protection. For her family and her town. Maybe her father or Pappy was sending her messages. Maybe the Fates were. Maybe it was just her instincts. Whatever. But Pierce was right about one thing.

She couldn't let the drug thing go. She'd been talking with a man when he blew his brains out. A man who'd just killed his wife. A man who, by all accounts, had been an upstanding successful citizen, a good husband and father with a happy family.

Chuck Sewell was at the station already. Putting in extra hours just like she was. Like her, he lived alone. And, like her, he wasn't letting the Holmes case just go away.

"You know, if it had been an isolated event, maybe I could get beyond it," Sam told her colleague as they went over a list of all the local and state drug dealers they knew.

"A more than one hundred percent increase in drug-related cases this year is a little hard to ignore," Chuck said. "We're going to have to get dogs out to the schools more often even if it means we have to come in off shift. And give harsher first-time sentences when we catch someone. We have to get the word out or we're never going to be able to put up a fight."

"Have you talked to the sheriff about this?"

"I plan to this morning. I'm on my way to meet him for breakfast. You want to come?"

Samantha declined, but only because she had more work to do before her actual shift started.

"Tell him I totally agree with you and will work whatever extra hours he needs. On my dollar."

Who else, if not those sworn to protect, could find answers and put a stop to the escalating rate of crime?

"Got it," Chuck said. "We'll get these guys, Sam, I promise you."

Sam believed him.

And then there was the challenge of Maggie.

At least Sam had a place to look for answers. She knew the address that the teenager had visited the day before. All she had to do was look it up.

She typed in the number on Mechanic Street.

David Abrams. A good guy.

She'd heard he and his family had just moved to a bigger house.

Relieved, Sam grabbed her phone. Dialed. It was a sure bet that Maggie's visit to the home two days before had nothing to do with either an older man or drugs.

But maybe David could shed a little more light on the girl herself.

Maybe.

She had David on the line before she'd even brought up the next computer screen.

"Is it too early?" she asked the attorney she'd hand-picked for Kyle when he was about to lose his beloved farm to his witch ex-wife. David was straight up. Smart as a whip.

One of Chandler's shining stars.

And he loved his wife, Susan, who happened to be Chuck's sister.

"Of course not--what's up?" David said in spite of the fact that it wasn't yet seven. He liked to prepare before 8:30 a.m. court. Or maybe he left home early to avoid the morning chaos of four young children. He hadn't seemed as eager as Susan to pop out babies one after the other.

Of course, that could just be Sam's take on it. She couldn't imagine a woman wanting to do that to herself.

"How's Susan feeling?" Pierce had told Sam the news of the Abrams' impending fifth child the day before at lunch.

"Good. No morning sickness so far this time."

"And how about you? You ready to do it all again?"

"Susan does most of the work," he reminded her. "And if she's happy, I'm happy."

Not quite a glowing testimony to fatherhood.

"I'm just being nosy here, but I was wondering what you know about Maggie Winston."

"Maggie Winston? I don't know the name. Who is she?"

"A fourteen-year-old kid. She was apparently at your house the other morning." She told him when.

"Oh. That was probably Glenna's friend. She's the only person I know of who stopped by. Susan never mentioned the girl's name."

"Glenna?"

"Glenna Reynolds. She's been helping Susan out all summer and wanted to bring a friend of hers who's willing to pinch-hit whenever Glenna can't make it. It's her senior year and her mom's sick so she'll have a lot on her plate. But she doesn't want us to find another nanny. She needs the money so she's trying to find a backup instead."

Babysitting. A normal teenage activity.

Sam had been wriggling around on her belly like a worm doing surveillance on a potential babysitter. Not the victim of a pedophile.

"Did the meeting go well?"

"It was brief. Susan had already done some checking and didn't like the girl's background. She started to tell me about her, but Devon's been sick all week and we just never got back to it. Why, is the girl in trouble? I can ask Susan for more details if you need them."

"No. No. Don't do that. There's no problem. She's a good kid. A friend of mine just mentioned something...."

"Well, now that I know she's just fourteen, she wouldn't have worked for us, anyway. Susan and I need a sitter with a driver's license. That way we can leave our van behind when we go out and know that all the kids would have a safe means of transportation in case of emergency."

Leave it to David to think of everything.

Chandler, Ohio
Thursday, September 2, 2010

I was facing a full day. Starting in about ten minutes. Back-to-back clients all morning, the soup kitchen at lunch, followed by the forty-minute drive to the airport and a flight to Denver, where I'd be assessing a young woman believed by the defense attorney who'd hired me to have inflicted physical abuse on herself and then blamed his client--her husband. Not the best domestic-abuse defense, but possibly the truth. I suspected the young woman could be suffering from a form of Munchausen syndrome.

People with Munchausen--named in 1951 after a German cavalry officer in 1700 who was a teller of tall tales--had a severe need for attention and invented illnesses or injuries to get it. To them, doctors and hospitals were like a bar to an alcoholic.

It was a tough one. You had a young woman with severe bruising over sixty percent of her body, a swollen face and a broken arm--which would certainly elicit jury sympathy. And a young man who stood to have his life irrevocably changed for the worse when he'd possibly done nothing more than fall in love with a sick woman.

Or...you had a moneyed and privileged young man who could afford an imaginative defense attorney--and could afford to fly in an expert witness from Ohio--who'd come up with a way to beat his wife and get away with it.

I could be morally responsible if my testimony set a wife beater free and he eventually killed the woman.

But the thing that got me was that the woman didn't have a single injury on her back--a place she couldn't reach. If she were being attacked, wouldn't she have turned her back on her assailant? Just to deflect the blows?

"Boss?" My ancient intercom system buzzed.