White Lies (28 page)

“How many vehicles were at the cabin?”

“Only two. Everyone came in the school bus. Jack and I drove.”

“In Mr. Reeves's car?”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell me the make and model?”

“You know, Officer, I think I've been rather patient with these questions. But I'm not sure I like the direction you're taking this conversation. Why would you need to know a description of Jack's car?”

“Process of elimination, ma'am. I assure you, it is nothing more than that.”

“It's a Porsche. Black. I wouldn't know the model. I'm not familiar with cars.”

Murray wrote that down. “Is it possible, Ms. Burton, that Mr. Reeves may have left without your knowledge?”

Process of elimination, my ass
. “To follow Charlie? Why in heaven's name would he do that?” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, Officer Murray, but this is absurd. I think I'm done here.”

“Did Mr. Stanley and Mr. Reeves have an argument?”

“Absolutely not.”

He nodded. The notebook went back in his belt. Katrina thought she might faint with relief. “That's all I need for now then. Again, I'm sorry to have bothered you, Ms. Burton. I'm just tying up some unanswered questions. Probably turn out Mr. Stanley fell asleep at the wheel.”

“I can't imagine what else it could be.”

“If I have any more questions, I'll be in touch.” He turned to leave. “By the way,” he said, as if in afterthought, “Mr. Reeves isn't from Leavenworth, is he?”

“No. How did you know that?”

“I don't recognize the name. I know most people around these parts. Is he staying in town, do you know?”

“I … I don't know. I've only known him a few days.”

“I see. Thank you again, Ms. Burton. Have a good day.”

He left. Katrina watched as he jogged through the rain to the cruiser. She closed the door and went immediately to the bathroom, where she thought she might be sick. She wasn't. Still, the strength seemed to have left her body, and she had to hold onto the sink for support. She glanced in the mirror and was relieved to find she appeared calmer than she felt. Then she realized she
had to call Jack. Because if Officer Murray discovered where he was staying, which wouldn't be too difficult, she needed to explain everything to Jack first, so they would be on the same page with their stories.

She went to the bedroom, grabbed her phone that was next to the futon, and punched in Jack's number. It rang and rang.

Jack didn't pick up.

Jack was in his room at the Blackbird Lodge, dressed in black track pants and a black T-shirt, absorbed in his daily martial-arts training. His heart was beating steadily, his breathing deep and even. He had entered a familiar state in which his mind had become a blank slate, detached from the clutter of everyday life. “Don't think about the kick or the punch, Jack-san,” his karate teacher had instructed him years ago. “Thought leads only to contemplation, hesitation, and ultimately error. Instead feel what is right, act and react, tap into instinct.” After one particular class, while an eight-year-old Jack had been waiting outside the dojo for his old man, who'd been late to pick him up as usual, his sensei had gone into much more detail on this philosophy, telling him when early man developed the faculty of reason, this rendered all but the most basic of instincts obsolete. It lent man the ability to self-consciously change beliefs and attitudes, leading to the capacity for freedom and self-determination, to form complex social structures and civilizations, and to dominate the world. But this same faculty also made men and women individually weak, transforming them into the most inefficient, accident-prone species on the planet. To demonstrate this point, he asked Jack if he'd ever seen a monkey fall from a tree, or a tiger sprain an ankle while in pursuit of a gazelle, a crocodile drown, or a spider slip off the wall. It was a lesson that had stuck with Jack over the years, defining him, and from that day forth he knew if he ever wanted to be the best and strongest at what he did, he would have to become that tiger, that crocodile—ruthless, an unthinking machine.

Someone, Jack realized abruptly, was knocking at the room's
door. He took the buds from his ears halfway through a Johannes Brahms piano concerto and stuck them in the waistband of his pants, next to where the tiny MP3 player was clipped. He went to the door and peered through the peephole. A cop, small and odd-looking. He frowned but nevertheless opened up.

“Mr. Reeves?” the cop said, looking up, apparently startled to see such a large man towering over him.

Jack smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“Officer Murray. May I have a minute of your time?”

“Come on in.” He stepped back to let the cop enter. “So what brings you here?” he asked, closing the door again.

“There's been an accident. I'm doing the legwork.”

“Accident? Hope no one was hurt?”

“Afraid so. A Mr. Charles Stanley. He was killed last night.”

“Charles—” Jack pondered for an appropriate amount of time. He widened his eyes. “You mean old Charlie?”

“I believe you were at his cabin last night?”

“Nice little place. What the hell happened?”

“He was in a car accident. He went off the road. Hit a tree. Whole truck went up in flames.”

“Poor soul. Christ. He was a character, all right.”

Jack's cell phone began ringing. He frowned to himself. Not many people had his number. Those few who did rarely, if ever, called him.

Katrina?

He did the math, making connections. The cop must have spoken with her first. That was the only way he could have found out about Jack's involvement last night. And if that was the case, he needed to find out what she'd told the cop.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Be right back.”

At the desk he picked up his phone. His invisible frown deepened when he saw seven missed calls on the display.

What the hell had gone wrong
?

“Hello?” he said, turning his back to the cop and walking to the far corner of the room.

“Jack!” Katrina exclaimed. “God, Jack. Where have you been?”

“Exercising.”

“A policeman just came by my place about thirty minutes ago,” she said, speaking fast. “I think he wants to talk to you. I said you weren't from around here, so he'll probably be checking all the motels and hotels. We have to get our stories straight.”

“Yes, that would be good.”

“Jack? Is something wrong?”

“No, that's fine.”

“What? He's there, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“I told him Charlie came by,” she said, lowering her voice. “He knew anyway. I said Charlie came because he wanted us to turn down the music. I didn't say anything about him wanting to shut down the party. I said we showed him the place and he was satisfied. But the cop talked to the neighbors and learned two cars left. He thinks someone followed Charlie. I told him I didn't know who it was, but then he asked how many cars were there, and I told him only the bus and yours, so he thinks you followed him. God! I'm so sorry. I didn't know what else to say. Maybe you can tell him you were just going to the store to get some more liquor or—”

“That's fine. I'll take care of everything for you.”

“I'm sorry, Jack.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, that's all, I think.”

“Thanks for calling. I'll get back to you later.” He hung up.

Officer Murray was waiting patiently where Jack had left him, turning away from the window when Jack approached, as if he'd been doing nothing more than watching the rain, which was bullshit. He'd been listening to every word.

“Sorry about that,” Jack said, not offering to explain who it was on the phone. He'd performed numerous interrogations over the years and knew only guilty people thought they needed to give excuses. “Where were we?”

“I have a few questions for you, Mr. Reeves.”

“Just Jack,” he said, sticking out a hand.

“Er—Michael,” the cop said, shaking awkwardly.

“Fire away then, Mike.”

He took a notebook and pen from his belt. “You were with Ms. Katrina Burton when she spoke with Mr. Stanley?”

“I was.”

“What did Mr. Stanley say?”

“Said he wanted us to turn down the music. Can you believe that? Crazy bastard drives all the way from Skykomish just to tell us to turn down the music.”

“Actually, he didn't come from his home in Skykomish.”

Jack shook his head. “I don't understand.”

The cop studied Jack for a moment, seeming to size him up, the way you do when considering whether to tell someone something important or not. “Here it is,” he said finally, apparently swayed by Jack's easygoing nature. “I get a call from Lucky late last night—he's the sheriff in Skykomish. Says there was a suspicious accident on the road.”

“Suspicious?”

“Well, yes and no. Automobile fires are pretty common. About thirty every hour on the highways across the country. But those that happen when there's no one around to see them, well, they're more likely to be under suspicion for arson.”

“I don't think Charlie's looking to collect on the insurance, Mike.”

Officer Murray laughed and stuffed his notebook and pen away. He hadn't written a thing. “No one thought twice about foul play until Lucky got ahold of Mr. Stanley's wife. She's in Wenatchee Hospital. Bad hip or something. Mr. Stanley was there with her when his neighbor called and complained about the noise. He told his wife—Luella, her name is—he tells her he needs to go to the cabin to shut down some wild party and he'd be back soon. Only he never comes back. Instead he's found way over by Skykomish, his truck on fire. Didn't really add up, you know what I mean?”

Jack's blood boiled. He could never have known.

“So they investigated the fire further,” Murray added.

“And?”

“It looks like the crash caused an oil leak that combusted.”

“Is that unusual?” Jack asked ingenuously.

“No, it happens.”

“Case closed then.”

“Should be,” Murray said, nodding, though the nod didn't mean he agreed. “But Lucky was an old friend of Charlie's. Grew up here in these parts with him. He wants to know exactly what happened. Wants to know why Mr. Stanley was going back to Skykomish when his wife was waiting for him at the hospital. Says it's not like Mr. Stanley to do something like that. He wasn't a spur-of-the-moment fella.”

“Maybe he had to pick up something? It could be any number of reasons.”

Officer Murray hitched up his belt and shrugged.

Jack said, “Let's cut to the chase then, shall we? What can I do to help you that Katrina couldn't?”

Murray eyed him. “I don't believe I mentioned I had spoken with Ms. Burton.”

“So you didn't speak with her?”

“No, I did. But how did you know that? Was that her on the phone—”

“Last I spoke to Katrina was early this morning.”

“Then how—”

“How else would you have known I was staying here? Katrina is the only person who knows. I'm just connecting the dots here, Mike.”

Murray took that notebook out again, flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “No,” he said, tapping the page with a bony finger, “Ms. Burton told me she didn't know where you were staying.”

“How did you find me then?”

“There are only a few hotels in Leavenworth. I called up each one.”

“Maybe I'm mistaken then. Maybe I didn't mention to her where I was staying.” Jack shrugged dismissively, but he was more
wary now. The funny-looking cop was sharper than he appeared. “Anyway, we're getting sidetracked here. What do you want from me?”

“Did Charlie mention to you where he was going?”

“No, I'm pretty sure he didn't.”

“But you left right after him, isn't that correct?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you see which way he went?”

“Now that you've mentioned it, you're right. He did turn west. Toward Skykomish.”

“Did you go west also?”

“No, I headed east, back to Leavenworth.”

“Do you mind me asking why?”

“Sure.” Jack could not, as Katrina had suggested, tell Officer Murray he'd gone to a convenience store to pick up booze. That could be easily checked out. Nor, for the same reason, could he tell Murray what he'd told everyone else at the party, that a friend had stopped by. It unnerved Jack to know there would be two stories going around, but hopefully, if he played it right, the investigation would end here and now. “You keep this between you and me, okay, Mike?”

“That depends.”

“I needed protection.”

“Sorry?”

“I'm banging that broad, Katrina,” he said, slanting the cop a buddy-buddy smile. “I forgot the condoms, and she's a bit of a prude. Won't go bareback.”

“So you went to where?” he asked, pen poised once more.

“Right back here. I have a stash in the suitcase. Just in case, right?”

“I see.” The pen and notebook disappeared in the belt, for good this time. “Thank you for your help in clearing that up, Mr. Reeves.”

“Jack.”

“Right.”

Jack walked Officer Murray to the door. Murray paused in the hallway, looked back, and said, “You take care of yourself. Those are some nasty bruises on your face.”

Jack raised a hand to his face self-consciously. His right cheekbone was sore to the touch, his nose swollen. Some of Katrina's coworkers had commented on the bruises this morning. That was the last time he paid them any attention. “Yeah,” he said. “Goddamn booze. Walked right into a tree while out taking a piss.”

“Good thing you didn't poke an eye out. You'd be explaining that story to everyone from now until your grave.”