Tell No Lies Page 10

  The jog had been an exercise in paranoia, Daniel spinning around at the sound of any footfall behind him, his heart rate revving up with the engine of each passing car. It hadn’t helped that Dooley had traced the text message to a number assigned to a disposable phone. A masked killer and the faceless woman from the rain—unknown somewhere out in the city, biding their time.

  Sitting in his car now with the doors locked, he dialed Cristina. “You’re home safe?”

  “You called the house line. So that would be yes.”

  “Oh. Right. Anything weird at work?”

  “It is the projects. But nothing unusually unusual.”

  “Leo’s there?”

  “Indeed. I’m making him tamales.”

  “Jealous.”

  “He has a gun. He’s guarding our home. He gets tamales.”

  Daniel signed off, climbed out of the car, and hurried across the garage, braced for an ambush. Not until he’d reached the far side of the metal detector in the lobby did he fully exhale. The walk down the dark rear corridor proved to be another trial of sorts. The motion-sensor lights arranged at intervals clicked on only as he entered the edge of shadow, illuminating the next cube of hallway. So he progressed cautiously toward the mail room, tensed for a hideous revelation. An imagined horror waited in every block of darkness ahead. Marisol Vargas with bloody tears streaming down her cheeks. That smooth, featureless mask of the killer. A woman in an oversize yellow slicker, her face lost to blackness, her arm raised to point in silent condemnation.

  By the time he reached the mail room, his shirt clung to him. He approached his cubbyhole tentatively but found only a few flyers. The outgoing mail, empty. He released his breath, a hiss through his teeth. A glance at the clock curtailed any relief.

  Four hours and change until midnight, when the death threat issued for Lyle Kane of Bay Street would presumably be carried out.

  Remembering that he was on Candid Camera, he straightened his spine and stepped out of the mail room. The corridor still gleamed under the overheads, every inch as bright as midday, and he smirked a bit at his agonizing progress on the inbound walk. The janitor’s door stood slightly open now, and he tapped it with his knuckles.

  “Come in, please.”

  Angelberto sat on the bench, smearing wood putty onto a square of cardboard with a wide Popsicle stick. He glanced up and made a respectful nod. How ridiculous Daniel’s suspicions felt in the light of a new day.

  Daniel said, “I just want to apologize for barging in here Monday.”

  “It’s okay. This is not my space. I do not own it. I am only glad to be here to have work.” He slapped at the wood putty, softening it.

  “Still, you’re entitled to privacy.”

  “A lot of people suspect workers of stealing. I understand. You are just trying to protect the department.”

  “Not really,” Daniel said. “More like I was being an asshole.”

  Angelberto gave a faint grin, and Daniel realized that it was the first time he’d ever seen the man smile.

  “I didn’t introduce myself before, Angelberto.” He offered his hand. “Daniel Brasher.”

  As they shook, Daniel noticed a creased Polaroid of Angelberto with a woman and child taped on the open locker door. “That’s your family?”

  “Sí.”

  “Beautiful,” Daniel said.

  “They are in Mexico,” he said. “I will bring them here when I save enough for them.”

  “I hope it’s soon. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, my friend. But I don’t trust in luck. I have found that luck gets you nowhere. And so I trust in work.”

  Daniel said good-bye and withdrew. Hustling down the hall and up the stairs, he realized that the detours had put him a few minutes late for group. As he neared the room, he did his best to clear his head to get ready for the session. But a stomach-turning thought persisted.

  Lyle Kane, wherever he was, likely had less than four hours to live.

  Chapter 19

  “Get outta my fucking chair.” Xochitl stood over A-Dre, her arms crossed, as he lounged in the chair closest to the door.

  He pulled himself up slowly, grinning. “Didn’t want this seat anyways. Just wanted to see you get your G-string in a twist.”

  “You’re a douche.”

  “Not even a douchebag?”

  “No,” X said. “The douche itself. You are the Douche of Monte Cristo. Douchio Iglesias. The Crown Prince of the Kingdom of—”

  “Okay,” Daniel said. “Let’s get going.”

  A-Dre settled into another chair in the circle. “Why’s she get to pick her seat anyhow? It ain’t fair.”

  Big Mac said, “I pack on a thousand calories a minute eating and burn nine-point-one a minute on the treadmill. Life ain’t fair. Whoever fed you that line of crap, ask for yer money back.”

  “I’m so cold,” Lil said. “That open window makes it so cold in here.”

  “Is there something you want to ask?” Daniel prompted.

  Her gaze fell to her lap. “Maybe we could … Does anyone else want the window closed?”

  Walter Fang, who cranked open the window every night upon entering the room, said, “This building, it smells like shit. We need … ah, ah, fresh air.”

  Lil shrunk further into herself. “I guess it’s okay.”

  “Don’t guess,” Daniel said.

  Nothing.

  He felt a pang of frustration. “Lil, if you don’t ask for what you want, no one can help you.”

  “Really.” Lil picked at her stringy brown hair. “It’s not important.”

  “Why can’t she bring a jacket?” Fang said. “Every week she says she’s cold. But she never brings a … ah, ah, jacket.”

  “Because she’d rather fucking complain,” X said. “I mean, about being cold, about being lonely, about her husband dumping her—”

  “How would you feel?” Lil said softly. “I did everything for him. I did everything he asked, and he still left me.”

  “Shit,” X said. “That’s why he left you.”

  “You don’t know,” Lil said. “You’ve never been married.”

  “Right, ’cuz a divorce makes you an authority.”

  “At least I try. I may not look like much, but at least I got hurt. At least I don’t just … hide like some people.”

  Daniel nodded at Lil, encouraging her.

  “Yeah, getting hurt’s great,” X said. “Real step in the right direction.”

  A-Dre’s laugh hid a nasty edge.

  Daniel hoped Lil would keep sticking up for herself, but instead she mumbled, “You’re right. I’m being stupid.”

  Showing her throat as she always did when pushed.

  The other men watched the altercation, staying out of it. Daniel let the room flow, observing, waiting for the right opening.

  “You are one weak bitch,” X said. “Anyone can walk over you. You play this shit and hope someone rescues you.” The man’s zip-up hoodie she wore drooped to midthigh, her body swimming in it. For how wiry and small-boned she was, it was amazing how much intensity she could convey. Easy to forget she was a teenager who sketched unicorns on her binder. “Tell me I’m wrong,” she said to Lil. “Go on, tell me I’m fucking wrong.”

  Lil’s lips parted, but no words came out. She tipped her head, pulled at her bangs, hiding behind a curtain of hair.

  “Epic fail,” X said.

  “Back off her,” Martin said.

  “There it is,” X said, clapping. “She got you to take the bait.”

  Martin folded his hands. “I’m serious. You should apologize for that shit.”

  “Okay.” X’s head swiveled to Lil. “I’m sorry you’re such a pathetic bitch.”

  “We can just drop it.” Lil’s sandals tapped a skittish beat on the tile. “No big whoop.”

  X threw her hands up. “See what I mean?”

  Daniel finally cut in. “Xochitl, how do you feel when Lil reacts that way?”

  �
��I feel like she’s a complaining bitch.”

  Walked into that one.

  He tried again. “When Lil complains, what do you do?”

  “Call her out.”

  “Okay,” Daniel said. “And what’s that do for you?”

  The trickle of wind from the window barely cut the stagnant air of the room.

  “What are you talking about?” X said. “Like what?”

  “Like maybe you’re glad everyone … ah, pays attention to her,” Fang said. “Instead of to you.”

  “Oh, ah-ah-ah-ah,” X said. “You think ah-ah-ah that’s what I’m doing?”

  “Yeah,” Big Mac said. “So no one calls out your angry ass.”

  “I’m not saying Lil’s perfect,” Daniel said. “But you keep the focus on her as much as you can.”

  X snickered. “Bitches, puh-leez.”

  “So we’re all wrong,” Martin said.

  “Fuck yes. Look at yourselves.”

  “You always look out for number one, don’t you?” Big Mac said. “Always take care of yourself.”

  “Hell yeah,” X said. For the first time, genuine emotion flickered in her face. “Who’s gonna take care of me if not me? Nobody cares about m—” She caught herself. Arms crossed, staring at the wall five feet above Daniel’s head.

  Daniel completed her thought. “Nobody cares about you.”

  “I didn’t say that. That shit sounds like her complaining ass.”

  “If you don’t say it, if you don’t admit it, do you feel it any less?”

  “I don’t feel shit.” She dropped her glare, doodled on her binder.

  Daniel grabbed an empty chair from the room’s periphery and slid it across, opening up the circle into a horseshoe. Steady gaze at X until she met his eyes. “Will you take first shift getting feedback?”

  “Fine.” The word, an arrow aimed at his head.

  She got up and flopped into the chair facing the others, glowering out at them.

  Daniel sat back down. “Did you work on your letter?”

  “What letter?” X said.

  “The letter to your victim.”

  “Oh. That shit. Yeah.” She dug a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and read in monotone, “‘Dear Raped Girl. Sorry I raped you with a stick. I won’t do it again. Sincerely, X.’”

  Big Mac shook his head, gave a little snort. “Epic fail.”

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “That pretty much sucked.”

  “If that’s what you came up with,” Daniel said, “I can see why you’d want to keep the room focused on Lil.”

  “Ever been in a gang, Counselor?” X said. “Didn’t think so. I did what I had to do. And I don’t regret it. I could write a bunch of flowery, remorseful shit if it makes you feel better, but I’m just being honest.”

  “Amen,” A-Dre said.

  “Honest, huh?” Daniel said. “The girl have a name?”

  “Who?” X said.

  “Raped Girl.”

  X blinked twice, quickly. Shifted her jaw. “Sophie.”

  “I want you to write a letter for next session, but write it from Sophie’s perspective.”

  “Fine.” X stood up, made a show of flicking dust off either shoulder. “You say I avoid shit. But at least I talk. You know who avoids everything up in here is Fang.”

  Daniel put it to the room. “Do you think that’s true?”

  As the others made various noises of agreement, Daniel glanced at the clock, gauging the time to midnight. It struck him that it had been a full twenty minutes since he’d thought about Lyle Kane, Marisol Vargas, or the masked man from the foyer, and he felt a surge of appreciation for a job that demanded every ounce of his concentration.

  Returning his focus to the room, he gestured at the empty chair, and after a delay, Fang walked over to it and sat. His shiny sneakers looked spit-polished, every strand of his gelled hair in place. He wore a form-fitting lime green Polo with the extra-large horse at the breast. He pursed his lips and said nothing. It was always hard drawing out a quiet group member, and Walter Fang was one of the most restrained that Daniel had encountered.

  “Anything you want to talk about?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re squirming in your chair. Is something bothering you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. What’s the best question we could ask you today?”

  Fang glanced at his watch, the door, his watch again. “I didn’t get the … ah, ah, ah, job at Home Depot.”

  This was bad news. For weeks they’d been working at helping him find employment, running practice interviews in group with everyone providing feedback, and the Tools and Hardware opening at Home Depot was his holy grail.

  The others mumbled various condolences, but Fang stared blankly at them.

  “Any idea what happened?” Daniel asked.

  “Maybe they hate Chinese people,” X offered brightly.

  Fang ignored her. “They just didn’t like me.”

  “But we worked on the interview so hard,” Lil said. “You were doing great—”

  “The interview went fine.”

  “What went wrong, then?” Daniel asked.

  “You have to fill out a form.”

  “Okay…”

  “I didn’t hand it in.”

  “Why?”

  Fang tapped his feet, agitated. Wiped his mouth. “I got … ah, ah, trouble writing.”

  “Learning disability?” Martin said.

  “My father, he says there are no learning disabilities.” He affected a flawless Cantonese accent. “‘You know what we call that when I growing up, Waltah? We call that stupid.’” The minor animation was, for him, an outburst, and he looked momentarily embarrassed that he’d captured the full attention of the group. “When I was young…” He trailed off, moistened his lips.

  Martin’s hands had paused from polishing his eyeglasses on his flannel shirt. “What?”

  “They made me sleep on the couch in the living room. I was the second of five and the oldest son, but I was the … ah, ah, dumb one. So. I couldn’t go to bed until everyone was done watching TV. And I had to wake up with whoever got up earliest. Last one to sleep. First one up. I was like the furniture.”

  “Your parents never got you,” Lil said.

  “No, they got me. They just … ah, ah, ah, ah…” He cleared his throat, hard. “They just wanted someone else. Who did good in school. Who could write the right way. And I can’t. Which means I’ll never get a real job.”

  “No,” Daniel said. “Your talking about this is great. We know what the problem is now—you have trouble writing. Which means we can work at fixing it. There are occupational therapists who specialize in this.”

  Fang stared at him for a long time, his head drawn back, chin tilted slightly up. Haughty? Defensive? Daniel waited him out, though the silence was excruciating. Big Mac clanked his grip strengthener, then clanked it some more.

  Finally Fang said, “The application form’s in my car. If I get it after session, will you … ah, ah … Will you … will you … ah, ah, ah … Help me?”

  He seemed to overcrowd the chair, humming with vulnerability, stripped to the bare nerves. What must it have taken for him to muster the courage to pose the question?

  Daniel felt heat rising to his own cheeks, the glow of empathy. “Yes,” he said. “I’d be happy to.”

  When Fang returned to his place, Martin reached over and gave him a supportive smack on the knee.

  A-Dre took the center chair next, slouching, arms crossed. “Let’s get one thing straight first, Counselor. I ain’t gonna be talkin’ no shit ’bout my momz. That woman is a queen. And I got a question. You told me all them rules I got to follow. What’s your side of the deal?”

  “My side of the deal is I’ll be here,” Daniel said, “three nights a week, rain or shine. And I’ll help you navigate this. We can start wherever you want to start.”

  A-Dre scratched at the LaRonda tattoo on his neck. “You guys
choose.”

  “Who’s LaRonda?” Martin asked.

  A-Dre stiffened. “My sister.”

  “We allowed to make fun of sisters, Counselor?” X asked.

  A-Dre’s cold stare skewered her. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Can you uncross your arms, A-Dre?” Daniel asked.

  “Why?”

  “It looks aggressive. Angry. Closed off. Intimidating.”

  “Thanks.”

  Scattered laughs.

  “I mean with the scar and the ink, especially the neck tattoos, people see you and they know to be careful,” Daniel said.

  “Thass right.”

  “If I didn’t know you, I’d probably think you’re a dangerous guy.”

  “You’re some white guy with a degree who can’t dress for shit. Why should I care what you think?”

  “You want to get by in the world easier, right? In the world are a lot of white guys who dress just as shitty as I do.”

  “I don’t know ’bout that,” X said. Big Mac chuckled, and they bumped fists.

  “I’d like you to try being more open,” Daniel told A-Dre. “And it starts with how you hold your body.”

  A-Dre shrugged and finally uncrossed his arms, letting them dangle awkwardly. That circular scar on his biceps came visible.

  Big Mac gestured at the shiny patch of skin. “How’d you get that?”

  “When I was twelve, my stepdad burned me with his cigar.”

  “That’s bigger than a cigar,” Martin said.

  “I burned over the hole with a frying pan.”

  Lil looked shocked. “Why?”

  “Ain’t nuthin that nigga do I can’t do better.”

  Everyone took a moment with that one.

  A-Dre crossed his arms again. “This is stupid.”

  “You’re unhappy about being viewed as a criminal,” Daniel said. “You’re in trouble with the law. You want to control yourself better. But most of what we say seems to be useless to you. Why is that?”

  “I got a code. Men don’t walk away from a fight. Men don’t back down. And they sure as shit don’t share in some bullshit group.”

  “That code’s gonna wind your ass back up in the pen,” Martin said.

  “Or get you killed,” Big Mac added.

  A-Dre bobbed his head. “I ain’t afraid to die. I never been afraid to die.”