Down to the Liar(25)

I ring the bell.

The intercom speaker above the doorbell crackles. “Hello?”

“Taco delivery!” I say brightly, smiling for the tiny camera that the mark had installed with the intercom.

I have to hand it to the guy. He’s not taking any chances with his potential six-figure insurance payout. I’d feel bad about calling out another con, but this guy’s just a dabbler. He’s not really my people. He is thorough, though. Installing the intercom was a nice touch. Most insurance scammers fake their injuries for their doctor’s visits and court appearances and then resume waterskiing the next weekend. This guy is maintaining character even when he thinks nobody’s looking, which makes him a tough nut to crack.

Or he could be legitimately injured, I suppose. The tacos will tell us for sure.

“I didn’t order anything,” he says.

“Really?” I pause, pretending to check an address on my phone. “The order says 675 North Hamlin Avenue.”

“Must have been a typo,” he says, sounding grumpy.

“Man, my boss is going to kill me,” I say, scrolling through my phone with my thumb. “This is the second time this week. And it’s a prepay.”

I pretend to fret, weighing my options. “I don’t suppose you want these tacos? I can’t take them back. Cemitas Puebla has a strict policy about taco delivery time.”

“Cemitas Puebla?” the mark says.

I can almost hear the pros-and-cons debate going on in his head. Risk detection. But tacos…I’ve got him interested. Time for the shutout.

“I’ve got to get back. Thanks anyway, mister.”

“Wait!” he says. “Is it the Orientales?”

“Yes, and the Gov. Precioso.”

A few seconds of silence follow, and then the door opens. The mark—a skinny man in his midforties with a receding hairline and an honest face—stands in the doorway, fully erect and lacking any mechanical aid. Bessie’s camera had better be getting this, or Murphy will be on paperwork duty for the next three months.

“Extra cheese?” he says.

“Salsa on the side,” I say, and hand him the bag.

I could have kept the tacos, I guess, but the man is about to lose a five-hundred-thousand-dollar insurance settlement. He deserves a consolation prize.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling, as he shuts the door.

“No sweat,” I say, more to myself than to him.

Five minutes later, I’m climbing into the van’s passenger seat. I toss the visor into the back for Bryn to pick up later and stow in the disguises compartment. She likes to feel useful.

“You couldn’t have kept the tacos?” Murphy asks when I fasten my seat belt.

“Home, Jeeves,” I say, taking off the glasses.

“That’s not as funny as you think it is.”

I smile around the pang in my chest. God, I miss Sam.

? ? ?

At 10:28 p.m., I stretch back in my office chair, yawning and rubbing my eyes. Murphy left Café Ballou with Bryn at eight, but I’d wanted to finish the report to the insurance company investigator before calling it a night.

The footage Murphy captured seems clear enough evidence to me, but I learned early on that if I don’t write out my own observations in agonizing detail for the lawyers, I’ll end up on the stand giving testimony. And I seriously never want to see the inside of a courtroom ever again.

Julep Dupree, you are under arrest….

I’d never seen the inside of the juvenile detention center, thanks to Mike Ramirez, the FBI agent who arrested me. Why he stuck his neck out for me I’ll never know, but he did. And because he and his wife, Angela, took me in, I’ve mostly evaded the travesty that is the foster care system. I have a social worker, Mrs. Fairchild, who I see on a semiregular basis as part of my punishment for getting Tyler killed. That’s not how the judge put it, of course, but that’s how it feels, since Mrs. Fairchild asks me about him all the time. She’s totally missing the point, though. I’m not supposed to forgive myself for what happened to him.

My phone buzzes and lights up. Mike.

Curfew. Crap.

I tap out my standard apology:

At work. Sorry.



There are few things worse than going from running the streets at will to a ten p.m. curfew. Ten p.m. On a weekend, even.

My phone buzzes again:

Grounded.



This is a game we play.