Tell No Lies Page 34
Finally he let out his breath, part sigh, part growl. “One group, Kendra. My last. Really my last.”
“Of course, baby.” She folded up his termination agreement, made it vanish somewhere inside her caftan as she turned for her office. “Why don’t I just hold on to this for now?”
Daniel watched her go, and then he stood a moment alone before turning to walk to the last room in the hall.
The group members started when he banged through the door. He gave a quick scan around the ring. A rawboned lady wearing wraparound shades, even in the shitty lighting. Hefty girl with a large-gauge septum pierce and a labret stud in her lip. A rangy kid with cornrows and a fringe of low-hanging braids in the back. Two wispy-chinned gangbangers, Norteños by their colors.
“We’re gonna set some new ground rules,” Daniel said. “There will be no violence or threats of violence. We meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for two hours. You need to show up on time and sober. You’re here for six months, and you cannot miss a single session without a doctor’s note. If you’re late, it counts as a missed session. If you get asked to or choose to leave two times, it counts as a missed session. Under no circumstances can you share the IDs of the other members of this group. If you’re not a threat to yourself or others, nothing leaves this room. No racial slurs. No standing when you’re pissed off. No meeting outside group. That includes having sex with anyone from group.”
At that, the girl with the labret stud pulled a face.
“The more honest you are,” he said, “and the more accountable you are, the more progress you’ll make. That’s what we shoot for in here—progress, not perfection. It’ll be hard, and there will be setbacks and missteps. Change isn’t gonna come overnight. It’s a process.”
The kid with cornrows blew out a breath of annoyance, and the gangbangers slumped in unison.
“Now,” Daniel said. “Are there any questions?”
“Yeah,” said the lady with the wraparounds. “When can I fucking leave?”
He smiled inwardly.
Right on schedule.
He stepped back to the door, yanked it open. “Anytime you want.”
She held his stare for an aggressively long time, the others rapt. The rusty heating vent sighed stale air, and the crappy wall-mount clock clicked once and then again.
Finally she folded her arms and looked away.
He closed the door and took his place in the circle of chairs.
“Welcome to group,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Acknowledgments
While San Francisco is the city of my birth, it was a new canvas for me creatively, which therefore required me to enlist a fresh crew of experts. I would like to thank Officer Rosalyn Rouede of SFPD, a native daughter if ever there was one, for showing me the restricted halls, dark alleys, and hidden secrets of a place both familiar and foreign to me. Vincent Pan was another tour guide to the city, literally and figuratively. With irrepressible enthusiasm, Darra Messing helped fill in the geographic gaps. I should also like to acknowledge Rob Holsen of the St. Francis Hotel, who acquainted me with a wonderful age-old tradition.
I relied on Philip Eisner, Melissa Hurwitz, M.D., David St. Peter, and Maureen Sugden to bring their various sensibilities to bear. This story was fortunate to have you in its orbit—as am I to have you in mine.
Keith Kahla, my editor, was there in all the right ways for this one, as were the rest of my team at St. Martin’s Press, including Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Matthew Baldacci, Kym Giacoppe, Loren Jaggers, Jeff Capshew, Martin Quinn, Christine Jaeger, Hannah Braaten, and Kevin Sweeney.
Additional thanks are due to Lisa Erbach Vance of the Aaron Priest Agency, Stephen F. Breimer, Marc H. Glick, Rich Green at CAA, Dana Kaye, and last, but certainly not least, Rowland White of Michael Joseph/Penguin Group UK.
I would be remiss not to mention Simba the Destroyer, for the brainstorming hikes and loyal hours by the desk; R. and N., capable of making me laugh at any moment, particularly when I least want to; and Delinah, who pulls the proverbial big picture into alignment for me, year after year, with indescribable grace.
Also by Gregg Hurwitz
The Tower
Minutes to Burn
Do No Harm
The Kill Clause
The Program
Troubleshooter
Last Shot
The Crime Writer
Trust No One
They’re Watching
You’re Next
The Survivor
About the Author
Gregg Hurwitz is the author of thirteen novels, most recently The Survivor. He is also a producer and writer for television. He has written for both Marvel and DC comics, including Batman: The Dark Knight, and lives in Los Angeles.
Visit the author on his Web site, at www.gregghurwitz.net, or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/gregghurwitzreaders, or on Twitter at @gregghurwitz.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TELL NO LIES. Copyright © 2013 by Gregg Hurwitz. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Hurwitz, Gregg Andrew.
Tell no lies / by Gregg Hurwitz. — First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-312-62552-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-02610-1 (e-book)
1. Executives—Fiction. 2. Serial murder investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.U695T46 2013
813'.54—dc23
2013009881
e-ISBN 9781250026101
First Edition: August 2013