Tell Me No Lies (2 page)

He swallowed forced the runaway train inside his chest to slow down. He was there to do his job. Gather information. Find out what he could about Luka Kole.

Concentrate on the dead man, he'd be fine.

When the house came into view it was easier to remember the drill. He braked, paused to gape. The place was a sculpture of glass, stone, and wood, but nearly overwhelmed by the natural forest overlooking the Hudson. Undergrowth tangled around it, thick as the briars surrounding Sleeping Beauty's castle in the book he read to his niece. A lair or a hideout, even a retreat. Hank sympathized. He understood the wish to submerge, to bury yourself. Did Mr. Baker? Or was he just too cheap to hire a crew to cut back the growth?

He pulled up to the house and noticed the tail end of a green van parked around the side. Out of the car, he walked around to investigate. Edie's Flowers, the van said. In front of it were two more vans. Caterers. A flurry of people swarmed in and out of the house.

Someone was throwing a party tonight. By the looks of it, a big one.

And then Hank remembered what day it was.

***

Alex Baker's reflection stared back at her from the large, gilt-framed mirror that hung above her dresser. She was all angles tonight, cheekbones like razor blades. Once, she might have cringed at the sharp edge in her eyes, but she was glad of it now. She felt well honed, a killing blade.

And if her stomach fluttered, she ignored it. If that queasy awareness that she was alone, and always would be, haunted her thoughts, she pushed it away.

Stuffed it deep down where it couldn't rise up and make her weak. Defenseless.

She concentrated on the way her silvery slip dress clung to her body, the way the barely there straps blended with and exposed her skin. Her body was a tool, a smoke screen. It would compel and distract, and slowly, slowly open the door of the trap she was setting.

And it all began tonight.

She checked her watch. Nearly seven. She had a good hour or more before guests arrived; plenty of time to get ready. And yet, here she was, dressed and perfumed, hair perfect, makeup perfect. Only one small detail to add. She caressed the blue velvet case on her dresser. Inside was the necklace her father had given her,on her sixteenth birthday. She would wear it tonight, in honor of him.

She smiled at herself, a tight, deadly smile, and opened the case.

A knock sounded.

Her head swiveled in the direction of the sound. "Yes?"

The door opened to reveal Sonya, the shapeless brown dress over her short fat legs making her appear like a wrinkled mushroom. A worried mushroom, if her expression was any indication. Immediately, Alex crossed to the old woman and drew her into the room. She'd been fretful all day, not used to strangers in the house.

"Why aren't you in your room?" Alex spoke softly. "Let me bring you a plate of goodies. We're having blimis tonight With caviar and sour cream. You love that. It's been a long time since you had real blinis."

Sonya shook her head. "Too much... noise," she said. "And now " Her hands twisted together and a word burst out from her. A word in Russian. Police.

Alex stilled. "What are you talking about?"

Sonya emitted another torrent of Russian and instinctively Alex put a hand over the older woman's mouth, looking around as though the room held spies. "English, dear one. English. Slow down. Tell me."

The old woman bit her lip. Tears formed in her eyes. "Sorry, so very sorry." But the words came out in Russian. "He frightened me so."

"All right," Alex soothed. 'Take a breath. Here." She went into her bathroom and filled a cup with water. "Drink this."

Sonya drank and handed back the cup with trembling hands.

"Now tell me, what is this about the police?'

"They are here-"

"Where at the house?" Alex smiled. "Of course they are. We have a security detail."

Sonya shook her head.
"Nyet.
Not... party. To talk. Questions. He said, questions."

A small alarm went off inside Alex, but she quickly silenced it. Sonya's English had never been very good; she often got things mixed up. "It's all right, darling. I'm sure it's nothing." She settled the woman into a large upholstered armchair. "Stay here and rest. I'll be right back. And don't worry."

Swiftly, Alex closed the door and made her way toward the front of the house. Preparations for the party were rapidly coming to a close. The house sparkled with tights and flowers. Silver trays and goblets, crystal bowls for candies and tidbits. As the sun set, fairy lights outside would turn the woods and garden into a magic kingdom seen through glass. A kingdom aglow with the rich, silky flush of oil. Russian oil.

She stopped just short of the entrance, where two workers from the florists were putting the finishing touches on the man-sized centerpiece a wire structure in the shape of an oil rig and entirely covered in thick golden mums.

"Quite an eye-catcher," said a deep male voice. The owner of the voice stepped from behind the structure and gave her a crooked smile. A big man with wide shoulders under a rumpled sport coat, he had fair hair and sun-kissed skin. A surfer stranded on land. A man out of place somehow. She met his eyes. Nothing out of place here. They were green. Sharp. Evaluating. Was this what had frightened Sonya?

His greeting replayed itself in her mind; had he been referring to something other than the decorations? To her?

She stiffened, a wall of ice rising like a protective shell around her. "May I help you?"

He flashed a badge. "Detective Bonner from Sokanan PD. I'm looking for A. J. Baker."

"I'm A. J. Baker."

His eyes widened, giving her a moment of satisfaction. She liked surprising people.

"You're..." A jolt shook Hank. The shimmer of femininity in front of him looked no more capable of putting together an international business deal than he was. But perception wasn't always reality, as he knew only too well.

Quickly, he reassessed. Her ice blond hair glistened and fell to her shoulders in a straight, silky waterfall, a perfect foil to the silvery dress, which swirled around her curves like mercury. Not beautiful in the classic sense, but in an outrageously exotic way, with high, angled cheekbones, and eyes the color of sky before it rained. A pulse quickened inside him, and he saw the look of recognition come over her. The look that said, I know what you're thinking pal, and forget it.

Yeah, he'd bet she did know. He'd bet A. J. Baker was used to men drooling over her. And he wasn't going to get in line. Ignoring his purely chemical reaction, he let out a breath to cover his initial surprise. "So what does the A. J. stand for?"

"Alexandra Jane. Alex."

He noted the drawn-out
a.
Alexaaandra. Some kind of British thing. Or New England. Boston maybe.

"As you can see," she said, "we're preparing for a big event tonight. Is this about the security detail? I hope there's no problem." She gave him an impersonal smile, and he saw hardness congeal behind those cloudy eyes. Not a streetwise toughness, but the cool confidence that only money and years of private schools could instill.

"Security detail? You mean for the big wingding half the department will be at? No, it's not about the security."

"Detective, I'm busy. How can I help you?"

Polite but impatient. Eager to get rid of him. Because he was a cop, or something else? He glanced at the team of floral workers. On ladders and on the ground they hovered over the huge structure that probably cost more than his car. "Is there some place we can talk privately?"

"What is this about?"

Again, he glanced at the workers, and she let out a small sigh of irritation. "This way."

She led him through the glass terrace doors and into a garden courtyard. The forest was even thicker here. Trees huddled over the house, enclosing it in a suffocating embrace as though hiding it from me rest of the world.

He nodded toward them. "I can recommend a gardener."

She looked in the direction he'd pointed, eyes narrowed in puzzlement. Then, as though she saw what he'd seen, "I like a lot of foliage."

Short, crisp, and by the aloofness in her voice, all the explanation he was going to get.

"I don't mean to be rude, but I'm expecting a lot of people. What can I do for you?"

He leaned against the edge of the garden wall, a low brick structure that framed the patio. The air smelled earthy and green and reminded him of the orchards of Apple House, the Bonner farm. But that memory brought up others, leading always to two orphaned children and his own part in their fate. A bleakness descended, and he had to force himself to focus on the woman in front of him.

"I'm looking for information about a guy called Luka Kole. Ever heard of him?"

Her expression shifted, but quickly as the change came, her features composed themselves into disinterested lines. "Lu Luka who?"

"Kole. Luka Kole. Know him?"

Did her shoulders tense? She frowned, looked down and then over at the woods beyond the garden as though trying to remember. "The name isn't familiar. Why? Who is he? Has he done something?"

Hank watched her closely. "Got himself killed today."

Her head snapped around. "Killed? You mean in an accident? Look, Detective, tonight is a very important "

"Definitely not an accident. He was shot."

"I see." She sank into one of the wrought-iron chairs. Her silver dress shivered against the black metal, and the neckline drooped to reveal a dip of cleavage. "And what does that have to do with me?"

Hank tore his eyes away from her breasts. "I don't know." He cleared his throat "Probably nothing. It was a long shot. We found an article about your Russian business. deal in his wallet. Thought I'd see if there was any connection."

She smiled, a dismissive, lady-of-the-manor curve of her lips, but something else lurked behind it. What? "As I don't know him, I can assure you there isn't." She rose. "I'm sorry I can't help you. And I am busy." She indicated the door back into the house and escorted him inside. "Will we see you tonight?"

He shook his head, dreading the evening ahead. "Got a previous engagement"

''Well, enjoy your evening."

Alex saw him out, closed the door behind her, then wilted against it, her legs suddenly gone.

Luka. My God.

One of the floral workers noticed her. "Are you all right, Miss Baker?" He started toward her, and she drew a steadying breath. She could not draw attention to herself. Not now. Not when she was on the brink of everything she'd worked so hard for.

She straightened, brushing her dress as if nothing had happened. "It's all right I'm fine. I haven't had much to eat today. Too much excitement."

The man nodded understanding, and Alex thanked him, then swept past, shoulders back, head high, though it cost her.

Get to the phone. She must get to the phone.

She was halfway to her room when she remembered Sonya. Oh, God, she couldn't face the old woman now. Not with this catastrophe. But she couldn't avoid all contact with her either. Sonya would only worry.

Retracing her steps, Alex forced her pace into a casual stroll and walked into the sunroom, where a white-coated bartender was setting up a portable bar.

Take a breath. Smile.

She introduced herself. "Opening night jitters," she confided. "I don't suppose you could spare a little vodka."

The bartender laughed. "We've got so much Stoli we could swim in it. There's plenty to spare." He found a bottle and upturned a glass. "Ice?"

She shook her head. "Never."

He handed her the drink and she thanked him, but didn't take a sip.
Luka, what happened?
She carried the glass into the kitchen, where the rich fragrance of Stroganoff nearly turned her stomach. A platoon of cooks and servers made the place look like a staging area for a major battle. They stirred pots, checked ovens, and plated canape's. Several were setting silver and glassware on huge trays to take to the buffet area. She filched a plate and spooned some of the thick beef-and-cream concoction on it, added blinis and Russian black caviar, herring salad, and mushrooms in sour cream. Two finger-shaped
saikas
with jam for dessert, then up the small flight of stairs at the back of the house.

Luka. Luka. The name echoed with every step.

Outside her bedroom door, she closed her eyes and breathed. In and out. Steady. Sure. She could do this. She'd been hiding her feelings for years.

With a smile on her face, she pushed the door open and strode into the room.

Sonya dozed in the chair, her chin sunk to her wide, fleshy chest. Alex laid the food and the vodka on the small table next to the chair, knelt, and shook Sonya gently. "Dear-est, look what I've brought you."

Sonya woke slowly, gasped when she saw Alex, and gripped her hand, the hold shaky with fright. "Everything is all right?"

"Yes, it's fine. Didn't I tell you it would be? The policeman was only here to double-check the security arrangement"

Sonya brought a hand to her chest. "Oh, so glad. I thought "

Alex stroked the old woman's white head. "I know, I know. But there is nothing to worry about."

Tears formed in the older woman's eyes and she stroked a gnarled hand down Alex's cheek. "Sashenka, you are such a good girl." She spoke in Russian. "God watch over you."

Alex squeezed Sonya's hand. She didn't have the heart to argue with her about speaking Russian again. And she didn't know about God, but if anyone was watching over them it would be Alex herself. "Do you want to stay here for a whiter

The old woman shook her head and rose with a grunt. "I go to my room."

Carrying the plate and the vodka, Alex followed the older woman down the spacious hall and settled her into an upholstered rocker. She handed her the food and the drink and kissed the top of her head. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Spokoynoy nochi, rodnaya moya."
Good night, dear girl.

For once, Alex replied in kind.
"Spokoynoy nochi."

Then she raced back to her room, closed the door, and scrambled in her purse for her cell phone. Glancing wildly around, she saw the broad windows that usually gave her such comfort with their view of the solid, protective tree line. Now, the windows seemed to unmask and expose her, and though it was irrational, she dashed into the bathroom, closed the door and the curtain over the window. Huddled on the toilet, she punched in a series of numbers with shaky fingers.