Lies She Told(16)

The woman’s narrowed eyes open. “Oh. I know that book. My mom read it. It’s about the kid whose dad—”

“Yup. That’s it,” I deliberately interrupt.

“Wasn’t it turned into a movie or something?”

“They still play it on Lifetime.”

Now convinced I’m not insane, the woman repeats what I’ve said to the sergeant and tells me he’ll be right down. I thank her and step away from the booth to lean against the glass wall. The last thing I want is to discuss my first novel and—to date—my only bestseller. That plot is not the stuff of polite discourse.

Sergeant Perez emerges from an elevator moments later. He looks exactly the same as he did a year ago: a fade haircut and a Tom Selleck mustache, along with an easy smile that must have short-listed him for a teaching position.

“Liza Cole,” he says. “Working on a new murder mystery?”

“Something like that.” I extend my hand. “It’s actually a real case.”

His chin pulls back into his neck as he shakes. “I can’t talk about cases on the record without approval.”

“I’m not writing about it. It’s a personal matter.” His look becomes even more skeptical. “I don’t know if you’ve read any of the articles about a missing lawyer? Nick Landau.”

The sergeant’s thick black eyebrows rise into Vs. “The guy that won that big judgment against the city?”

I hesitate before nodding yes. Police are paid out of municipal coffers. It’s possible that David and Nick’s lawsuit didn’t win them any friends on the force. “Nick was—” I clear my throat. There’s no evidence that Nick deserves the past tense—at least, not yet. “Nick is a partner in my husband’s law firm, and he was the best man at our wedding. My husband is pretty distraught. He doesn’t know what to tell clients. He’s also afraid that Nick may have been targeted because of the lawsuit and that he could be in danger himself.”

“Do you think your husband is in danger?”

My mouth opens, but no sound emerges. I realize that I’ve never seriously considered the answer. I’d always assumed that Nick’s disappearance/death had been related to his party lifestyle or the rough neighborhood in Brooklyn where he insisted upon living. But I didn’t know about the hate mail until last night. Maybe some nut job had done something horrible to Nick. Or someone who’d lost their job over the suit—a teacher at the kid’s school, maybe—decided to seek revenge. Such things happen in thrillers because they first make headlines.

“If Nick’s disappearance is related to the lawsuit in any way, I guess it’s possible,” I say. “I also think it’s plausible that he was the victim of a mugging or a drug deal gone wrong.”

Sergeant Perez scratches the side of his mustache. I may have made a mistake bringing drugs into the mix. Now he’s wondering whether I do coke on the weekends.

“Nick wasn’t really settled down like me and my husband. He hung with a young crowd and liked to party, and he lived in a higher-crime neighborhood in Brooklyn.”

The sergeant puffs his cheeks and exhales. Drugs and bad neighborhoods are deadly combinations. “I’ll look into it. Give me your number and I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

Relieved tears suddenly blur my vision. David will be so pleased and impressed when I tell him that I have a sergeant looking into Nick’s disappearance. He’ll apologize for calling me selfish and want to make up for his distant, cold attitude. I might not lose out on my chance to get pregnant this month after all.

“Thank you,” I manage. “It means a lot to my family.”

Sergeant Perez pats my arm like a friend. “Hey, don’t mention it.” He winks. “And if I were David, I wouldn’t be so nervous with you around. Your aim has really improved since class.”

I struggle to understand the joke. My aim? Did my last book have a detail about shooting that made it seem like I’d learned how to properly point a handgun?

The sergeant picks up on my confusion. “I saw you at the academy range the other day. Maybe a month ago.”

He must have seen someone who resembled me. I have long dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. Pretty much any thin, medium-height Latina, Mediterranean, or Middle Eastern woman could pass for me from a distance.

“You hit the target straight in the heart.”

His chest swells as he smiles at me. It makes him proud to think that his one-week course turned a wordsmith that had never held a gun before into a marksman. He may even have agreed to help with Nick’s case because he believes I was a good student.

I thank him again, my face growing hot with my lie of omission. The truth is, I haven’t been to the range in a year.





Chapter 4

Her first name is Colleen. I mentally repeat it as I watch her exit a Chinatown dumpling shop and return to her unmarked police car. What you having for lunch, Officer Colleen? Not going to chase that speeder, Officer Colleen? Trying to make sure you get off early to see your boyfriend, Officer?

She is parked on the corner of Mulberry and Mosco, close to one of five massive basketball courts. To some of the five-hundred-dollar-sneaker-sporting players, the woman with a baby carriage pacing the narrow lawn between the blacktops must seem odd. But it’s Manhattan, so no one pays me any attention. This town encourages natives to leave eccentrics alone. Pay little mind to the woman shunning the relative quiet of the pedestrian path who, apparently, prefers that her baby nap to the sweet sounds of squeaking rubber soles, male grunting, and dropped f-bombs.