Good Girl, Bad Girl(63)

“So, did he do it?” I ask.

“What do you think?”

I consider this for a moment. “By the end, I think he would have confessed to bombing Pearl Harbor.”

“OK, but was he telling the truth?”

“I don’t know.”

Cyrus looks perplexed and starts again. “I thought maybe because of your . . . ability . . . you might have been able to tell. I don’t know how it works—this thing you do, whether it comes and goes, or if it’s triggered by something.”

I hesitate, not sure of what I want to say or if I want to say anything at all. I can’t explain what I see. It is something in the face: a false note, a flicker, an invisible light . . .

“I have to be up close,” I whisper.

“Pardon?”

“For me to tell if someone is lying—I have to be close to them—in the same room, looking at their face. I can’t do it otherwise.”

“So not from a DVD?”

“Not unless it’s up close. Not accurately. I get a sense, that’s all.”

“What was your sense about Farley?”

“He knows what he did was wrong, but I’m not sure if what he did is what you think he did.”

Cyrus has stopped eating and is leaning forward. Why is he looking at me like that?

He seems to recognize my anxiety and pulls back, dropping the subject.

I clear the table and start washing the dishes, remembering to rinse the glasses in clean water to stop them streaking.

Cyrus picks up a tea towel. “I know you hate questions, but can I ask you one?”

I don’t respond.

“How long have you had this . . . this . . . ?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it before you became Evie Cormac?”

I nod.

“I know why it frightens you,” he says. “It would frighten me.”

“I thought you’d like to know if someone was lying. It would make your job easier.”

“I wouldn’t have a job at all.”





35




* * *





CYRUS




* * *



Early morning. Lenny Parvel sends me a pager message. She wants to talk. I go to the library and open my laptop, waiting for her Skype call. Her image appears but only the top of her head. She curses and tilts the screen down, but it goes too far. I can see chin and the collar of her dressing gown. She adjusts it again, centering herself. Her husband, Nick, is in the background, making a cup of coffee. He’s wearing a T-shirt and boxers, showing off his hairy thighs. Nick is the hairiest man I’ve ever met, which is why Lenny calls him “Bear.”

“Hi, Cyrus,” he says, waving at the screen.

“Hi, Nick.”

“Will you put some clothes on,” says Lenny, covering the camera with her hand. I can hear them arguing, although not seriously. Nick sells medical equipment to doctors and clinics, but his hours are flexible. His two boys are at university or have graduated by now. They’re good lads. A credit.

Lenny removes her hand from the camera.

“I had a call from Ness last night. The toxicology results are in. Jodie Sheehan had no drugs or alcohol in her system.”

I sense there’s something more.

“Ness noticed that Jodie’s hormone levels were high and ran a test. She was pregnant—eleven weeks. Ness might be able to get DNA from the fetal material, but the lab work has to be done in America and could take a week or longer. Any fetal DNA will have half the father’s genes, which may be enough to identify someone.”

“Would Jodie have known she was pregnant?” I ask.

“Most girls are pretty good at keeping track—particularly in the age of smart phones.”

I pause, processing the information. It could have no bearing on Jodie’s murder. Then again, the degraded semen found on her thigh has added significance because it didn’t belong to Farley. It’s now more likely that Jodie had consensual sex earlier in the evening—with a boyfriend or a hookup. Five hours are still missing from her timeline.

I want to ask Lenny what she’s thinking, but there’s too much evidence against Farley for her to change her mind. And there’s now even less likelihood of an accomplice.

This isn’t about police ignoring new evidence. They are shoring up their case, ensuring the inconsistencies won’t jeopardize the prosecution. Lenny is thorough and diligent. More importantly, she’s honest. She doesn’t plant evidence or frame suspects, but neither does she chase rabbits down rabbit holes, wasting time and resources.

*

Knocking pipes signal that Evie is in the shower. She comes downstairs with her hair in a towel and her face set in a scowl.

“There’s no hot water?”

“Sorry. The pilot light went out. It’s a storage system—so it might take a while for the boiler to heat up.”

She utters a curse under her breath and notices that I’m dressed.

“Where are you going?”

“I have some people to see.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

“I won’t get in the way. I’ll wait in the car or downstairs or wherever . . .”