Liar Liar Read online

  LIAR LIAR

  a Nicole Graves mystery

  nancy boyarsky

  Durham, NC

  Copyright © 2018, by Nancy Boyarksy

  Liar Liar

  Nancy Boyarsky

  www.nancyboyarsky.com

  [email protected]

  Published 2018, by Light Messages

  www.lightmessages.com

  Durham, NC 27713 USA

  SAN: 920-9298

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-61153-254-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61153-253-1

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  For Bill, always and forever,

  and for Jeff and Cathy, whose advice and counsel

  made this book possible.

  praise for nancy boyarsky’s nicole graves mysteries

  “full of page-by-page surprises”

  –Kirkus Reviews

  “…nail-biting adventure whose thralls are difficult to escape”

  –Foreword Reviews

  “a hold-onto-the-bar roller coaster of a mystery”

  –RT Book Reviews

  “a charming and straight-shooting heroine”

  –Foreword Reviews

  “Well written, non-stop, can’t-put-it-down suspense.”

  –Charles Rosenberg, bestselling author of “Death on a High Floor”

  “Taut, suspenseful, and fast-paced…”

  –Laura Levine, author of the Jaine Austen mystery series

  “Well developed characters in a rich English setting brings ample twists throughout and all the way to the final pages.”

  –Eric Hoffer Award Gold Winner 2018 for The Swap

  Table of Contents

  LIAR LIAR

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Nicole Graves

  Peter Savage

  One

  Later, Nicole would ponder the truth and its illusive nature. She’d realize how many lies people would tell to protect themselves from it. And, worst of all, how many she herself would tell to get at it. She’d always considered herself a truthful person. Yet she’d find herself lying to others, to her fiancé, and even to herself.

  She’d wonder if there was such a thing as the actual truth. Or was truth relative, the product of incomplete or faulty memories, or the limitations of the observer? How often was the truth tainted by what an individual wanted, or needed, to believe?

  On this bright day in mid-March, Nicole stepped into the United Terminal at LAX and encountered a situation she could hardly believe. It was as if she’d slipped back in time to the previous year when the media was stalking her. This morning, they were massed in a corner of baggage claim. After the initial shock of seeing them, she noticed they weren’t looking in her direction, hadn’t noticed her at all. They were waiting for someone else, someone they expected to come down the escalator from the arrival gates.

  The great hall was a hub of activity, unusually crowded even for a weekend afternoon. The noise was overwhelming. It wasn’t just the buzz of the luggage carousels and thud of suitcases dropping from the chute. The source of the commotion was the corner packed with people carrying microphone-equipped cameras.

  Nicole had an urge to walk out the door, find her car in the lot, and leave. But she had a job to do. She was here to pick up a passenger, and that passenger was no doubt the reason for the welcoming committee.

  Her charge, Mary Ellen Barnes, was suing a fellow student for rape as well as Oceanside University for failing to protect her after the authorities refused to take action. It was a classic he-said, she-said, rape scenario, and a national anti-rape organization was footing the bill for the trial in civil court. The case had captured national media attention, and the tabloids were featuring it along with movie stars’ affairs, marriages, and divorces. Little wonder that Mary Ellen’s arrival would stir up a mob.

  Nicole’s job was to look after the girl for a day or two and keep her away from the media. She could see it was a lost cause. The tabloids had already found Mary Ellen. They had an uncanny ability to track down those unlucky enough to attract readers, or clicks, as online news sites referred to them. Somehow, they’d discovered when Mary Ellen would be arriving and at which terminal. The tabloid XtraHotNews probably had an airline employee on its payroll. Or one of the paparazzi had hacked into Mary Ellen’s phone or her lawyer’s. She thought back to the year before when her own cellphone had been hacked by the tabloids. She’d suddenly become an heiress, murder suspect, and target of the media’s spotlight. What a nasty experience that had been.

  Nicole took a step back. The automatic door opened. Another step and she was outside again. A warm breeze ruffled her hair. The weather was a balmy eighty degrees, not unusual for L.A. at this time of year. She reached into her bag and scrabbled about, pushing aside the can of pepper spray she always carried. She found her sunglasses and sun hat. She put them on and tucked her hair into the hat. She hoped this would grant her a degree of anonymity. Even though the reporters and paparazzi weren’t looking for her, the fact that Nicole Graves was picking up Mary Ellen Barnes wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  She took a deep breath and reentered the terminal. She should have refused when Jerry, her boss, had called her at home that morning and asked—no, begged—her to take this assignment. “It’s just for a day or two,” Jerry had told her. “Joanne was going to do it, but she woke up feeling sick. She thinks she’ll be able to take over tomorrow, Monday at the latest.” Reluctantly, Nicole had agreed. When she hung up, Josh had said, “What was that about?”

  “Jerry needs me to pick up a witness at the airport and look after her for a day or two.”

  Josh had immediately picked up on the word “witness.” “Witness for what?”

  “Mary Ellen Barnes in the—”

  “The Oceanside U. rape case?” Josh had said. “For God’s sake, Nicole. Have you lost your mind? Call him back and tell him you can’t do it. The paparazzi will be all over you again.”

  “There won’t be any paparazzi,” she’d said. “Besides, they’ve forgotten all about me. My job is to keep the girl away from the press. It’s not going to be a problem.”

  “If some stray mutt with a camera spots you,” Josh had said, “there will be a problem.” He’d paused a moment, looking at her. “Please don’t do this.”

  “I have to. Joanne’s sick, and there’s nobody else. I’ll be fine; you’ll see.”

  But she wasn’t fine—not caught in this mob of reporters and photographers. She shivered, then pulled herself together and began to push her way toward the front. She was petite and slender with sharp elbows, distinct advantages in a crowd like this. Even so, her progress was impeded by those going in the opposite direction—ordinary travelers, tired and cross, fighting their way through to claim their bags. A woman dressed in gray sweats rammed Nicole’s knee with her suitcase. Moments late
r, a young man on his cell phone ran his bag over her foot. A few steps forward, and a heavy metal case collided with her thigh.

  Nicole shoved steadily forward until she reached the front. Here she found herself next to drivers holding up signs with the names of the VIPs they’d come to pick up. Instead of bringing a sign, she’d told Mary Ellen what she’d be wearing: jeans, a red top, red sneakers. Behind her, the throng of reporters, photographers, and cameramen seemed to be growing. She could feel them pressing against her. The place grew hotter, and sweat began to trickle from under her hat.

  She kept an eye on the electronic arrivals board overhead. At last, the board blinked, and the status of Mary Ellen’s flight changed from “on time” to “arrived.” Nicole pulled out her phone and alerted her driver to stop circling the airport and pull up to the terminal. She was glad Joanne had thought of hiring the limo. It would spare her and Mary Ellen from being chased to the parking structure by paparazzi.

  She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Greg Albee, a reporter from the L.A. Times. He’d helped her when she was in the media’s crosshairs, and they’d become friends.

  “Hey, Nicole,” he said, pulling her into a hug. “Small world! What are you doing here?” Greg Albee was short, with freckles, thinning brown hair, and an enigmatic smile. His easy, laid-back manner hid a relentless drive to beat the competition to the next big story.

  Nicole gave him a smile. “I’m meeting a friend. Guess she chose a bad time to arrive.”

  He regarded her with a knowing look, as if he’d just administered a lie detector test and she’d failed. She liked Greg well enough, but the last thing she wanted right now was to be talking to a reporter.

  “Hear you’ve gone to work for a private investigation company,” he said.

  “Right. Colbert and Smith Investigations—mostly corporate stuff. I’m putting in hours so I can qualify for a private investigator’s license. Oh, I have news: Josh and I are engaged.”

  Greg was congratulating her when her phone rang. It was Mary Ellen. “I’m off the plane and on my way down to you.” Mary Ellen spoke with a soft Southern accent. She had a little-girl voice and ended the sentence on a high note, as if it were a question.

  “Great,” Nicole said. “See you in a minute.”

  She knew what Mary Ellen looked like. The girl’s picture had been in the paper and online tabloids. Mary Ellen had gone home to Georgia for a few days at the start of spring break. She was returning early to prepare for her court appearance.

  Mary Ellen and Doshan Williams, the quarterback, had been freshmen together the year before. Both were scholarship students, but they had little else in common. She was a deeply religious Baptist from a small town in Georgia. Her scholarship had been sponsored by her minister, and she was majoring in religion.

  Doshan was African American and a jock. Mary Ellen’s parents would be considered working poor, but Doshan’s family was much more prosperous. They lived in middle-class Leimert Park, a predominantly African American and Latino area of L.A. Doshan’s father owned a successful auto repair business, and his mother was a public school teacher.

  Doshan himself was known for his leadership qualities. In high school, he’d organized his fellow classmates into a group that helped the homeless in South Central L.A. Articles about him in the sports pages focused on his charisma, good looks, and sunny nature. These qualities, along with his performance on his high school’s football field, had raised him to the status of local hero. His athletic talent had gotten him a free ride to Oceanside. There, he’d continued to stand out as a student leader and gifted athlete. More importantly, he was a big draw at Oceanside alumni events that raised money for the school.

  At the start of their second quarter, Mary Ellen filed a complaint with the university, stating that Doshan had raped her. The school appeared to investigate the case but nothing came of it. At first, they’d refused to explain. Outrage from feminist groups on and off campus, as well as news coverage and editorials, had forced the school to issue a statement. They said there simply wasn’t enough evidence to act on Mary Ellen’s complaint. Then someone leaked the investigation report online, and it went viral. The report said that Mary Ellen Barnes hadn’t reported the assault until two months after it happened, which made it all but impossible to gather evidence.

  An even stickier point was this: There was no dispute the two had sex—both admitted that. The issue rested on whether the girl had given her consent. In the end, the report concluded, it boiled down to “she said, he said,” without substantive proof on either side.

  While this was going on, Doshan had become a football superstar, earning a national reputation. He was golden, expected to be drafted in the first round by a National Football League team. Now, his future was in doubt, depending on the outcome of this trial. NFL teams were unlikely to accept a man found guilty of rape.

  The trial had taken almost a year to make its way into court. It was big news and not just from the sports angle. Oceanside was a Christian-affiliated university in Malibu; its reputation as a safe and wholesome environment for young people was also on the line.

  The proceeding was to begin in Los Angeles County Superior Court in Santa Monica on Monday, the day after tomorrow.

  The moment Mary Ellen stepped off the escalator, cameras began flashing, and people were shouting her name, trying to get her to turn in their direction. Nicole waved, then started pushing her way toward the roped-off area where the girl would emerge. Albee followed along with his hand on Nicole’s shoulder. “I’ll help you get her out of here,” he said. Nicole started to refuse, then reconsidered. She’d never manage to get Mary Ellen through this horde. The girl herself appeared on the verge of collapse.

  As Mary Ellen walked along the rope divider, reporters shouted at her and poked camera-mounted microphones in her face. The unwanted attention made her turn a deep shade of pink, and she looked as if she were about to cry. As soon as she spotted Nicole, she headed in her direction.

  Nicole and Albee positioned themselves on either side of Mary Ellen, each with an arm around the girl’s shoulder. They started shoving their way toward the exit. When they reached the door, it occurred to Nicole that she should have directed reporters’ questions to Mary Ellen’s lawyer. But it was too late. All they could do now was make a quick exit.

  The doors slid open, and they dashed for the black limo waiting at the curb. Albee opened the back door, so the women could pile inside. He put his hand up, fingers pointing to his mouth and an ear, signaling that he and Nicole should talk by phone. She nodded, and he closed the door. The women were still fastening their seatbelts when the car started up with a lurch. A squad of paparazzi on motorcycles—apparently circling the airport in hope of catching the girl on her way out—were not far behind. Reporters and paparazzi were running for their vehicles. They were parked in a marked-off area two terminals down and didn’t stand much chance of catching up.

  The limo sped to where the airport’s inner ring forked. Two left-hand lanes led back around to the terminals, while the one on the right led onto city streets. At the last minute, the limo darted across the left lanes—soliciting a chorus of honking—to exit the airport. The maneuver lost the paparazzi, who were stuck recircling the inner road. Mary Ellen’s face was shiny with sweat, and she looked terrified. Clearly, when she’d signed up for this, she had no idea what she was in for.

  Nicole’s heart went out to her. “You OK?” she asked.

  “I guess.” Mary Ellen leaned her head against the backrest and closed her eyes. Her bangs, damp with sweat, stuck to her forehead.

  As they reached the junction of the San Diego and Santa Monica freeways, Nicole’s phone rang.

  It was Greg Albee. “Where you headed?” he said.

  “Sorry, Greg. I can’t you tell that.” She paused, then added, “I don’t know what you’re planning to write, but I’d consider it a huge favor if you wouldn’t mention my name.”

  “I thoug
ht of it,” he said. “But sure. It’s not germane to the story.”

  “Great,” she said. “I promise I’ll share anything I can with you. By the way, how did you know what flight she was on?”

  “I heard it from a shooter we sometimes buy photos from. He occasionally gives me tips. I don’t know where he got it. But you know how it works. The tabloids pay for information, and the paparazzi somehow get wind of it.”

  By the time she hung up, they were in Santa Monica, exiting the freeway. The limo driver turned into an alley and parked behind the Windward, one of the city’s boutique hotels. He pulled Mary Ellen’s roller bag and Nicole’s overnight case out of the back seat while Nicole called the desk. A few minutes later, a uniformed attendant opened a door to admit them. Nicole, who’d checked out the hotel’s logistics a few hours before, led Mary Ellen to the service elevator and, once inside, punched the button for the tenth floor.

  As they were riding up, she had her first chance to study Mary Ellen. The girl was about five-seven—at least half a foot taller than Nicole—with long, straight, fair hair. She had a lovely figure, slender and willowy. At the airport, surrounded by shouting reporters, she’d been flushed, her face pinched in distress. Now that things were calmer, Nicole could see what the girl really looked like. She wore no makeup, but her skin was a glowing ivory set off by the natural pink of her cheeks and full lips. Mary Ellen might have been beautiful but for the way she held herself with her shoulders slumped and her head thrust forward. She exuded a sense of haplessness, vulnerability, and defeat.

  Part of it was what she was wearing: a pink, flowered dress with puffed sleeves that appeared to be an old Laura Ashley. It was so out of fashion, it might have been regarded as trendily vintage. But it showed signs of wear, and Nicole had a hunch it was a hand-me-down. The girl wore it awkwardly, occasionally pulling at the skirt and smoothing it out as if she wasn’t used to wearing dresses. Across her chest, bandolier-style, she wore a white plastic purse. A small gold cross hung on a chain around her neck.

  No doubt Mary Ellen’s virginal, fundamentalist appearance was what Women Against Rape needed for a case like this. She looked like someone a jury would want to protect against a big, hulking athlete. Nicole wondered how much race would weigh in this trial since Doshan was African American and Mary Ellen was white. Even in this post-millennium age—in the bluest of blue states—race prejudice was very much alive. And the Santa Monica jury pool was overwhelmingly white.