Liar Liar Page 8

  “I gather you were assigned to look after Barnes by that outfit you work for,” he said. “How’d you lose track of her? What happened?”

  “I can’t comment,” she said. “Sorry.”

  She thought of Mary Ellen’s plan to recant her accusation of rape and clear Doshan. This revelation would have been in the news by now if Mary Ellen hadn’t disappeared.

  “Nicole?” Albee said. “You there?”

  “Listen, Greg, I have to go. If something comes up that I can tell you, I’ll call. Okay?”

  “My deadline is 6:00,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Bye, Greg,” she said.

  She rang off and stood there with the phone in hand, debating what to do. Almost without thinking, she tapped in Sue’s number.

  “Any news?” Nicole said.

  “Nothing, I’m afraid,” said Sue. “This long silence is extremely worrisome.”

  “What she told me?” Nicole said. “You know, that thing I can’t mention on the phone? Do you think I should tell anyone else—like Doshan’s lawyer?”

  “That isn’t a good idea,” Sue said. “What if she turns up and decides to change her story again? It’s possible Geneva was right, and Mary Ellen just made up an excuse to avoid going back to court.”

  “I’m sure she was telling the truth,” Nicole said. “She was genuinely sorry for the trouble she’s caused Doshan.”

  “But keep it to yourself until we find Mary Ellen and see what she has to say.”

  “You’re right,” Nicole said. “Absolutely. When she turns up, she’ll speak for herself.” But she had the feeling that something had happened to Mary Ellen, and she’d never have the chance to tell her story.

  That night, Nicole was wide awake, reading the New Yorker on her iPad long after Josh had dropped off to sleep. She’d figured out how to stop the incessant buzzing of her smart phone, setting it to allow calls only from Sue, Josh, her sister, and Detective Martinez. Once in a while, she checked the tabloids, but there were no new developments.

  It wasn’t until dawn was starting to light the sky that she dropped off to sleep. When she awoke, it was 9:30, and Josh had already left for work. She immediately called her office. Her boss answered.

  “I overslept,” Nicole said. “I’m going to be late.”

  “Have they located the Barnes girl?” Jerry said

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “I’ve been trying to call, but your phone goes right to voicemail,” he said. “I want you to take a few days R&R. You’ve earned it.”

  “I’m still pretty upset, and I couldn’t sleep,” Nicole said. “I’ll take the day and see how I feel tomorrow. Thanks.”

  “It’s the least I can do after all you’ve been through,” he said. “What a mess.”

  Nicole stayed in bed, half dozing until almost 11:00. When she finally got up, she checked her phone for messages. There were dozens, none from anyone she knew. As she got busy deleting them, she looked out the bedroom window to see if any paparazzi were hanging around. To her relief, the street was empty. After getting dressed, she went out to get the paper and then made herself breakfast. While she ate, she looked at the news. The top story on the front page of the L.A. Times bore Greg’s byline. It went into detail about Mary Ellen’s disappearance but was mainly a recap of what she already knew. The same was true of the tabloids, except that XHN was now running a list of places where Mary Ellen Barnes allegedly had been seen, which pretty much covered all western states plus Georgia, New York, and New Jersey.

  Just then her phone rang. It was Sue. “Terrible news, I’m afraid,” she said. “I just got a call from Detective Martinez. They found Mary Ellen this morning: She’s dead. They’ve already taken her to the morgue.”

  “She’s dead,” Nicole repeated dully, as a wave of shock went through her. “Was it suicide?”

  “They don’t think so. Her neck was broken. They know that much. Someone buried her in the sand under the pier, and the tide had partially uncovered her. They’ll have to do an autopsy to get a full picture of what happened.”

  For a moment, Nicole thought she was going to be sick.

  “Nicole?” Sue said. “Are you okay?”

  “She was murdered?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “It’s just so hard to take in,” Nicole said. “How do they know it’s Mary Ellen?”

  “That’s the thing,” Sue said. “They don’t have positive identification. They recovered her purse, but there was no wallet, no photo ID, no phone. She doesn’t have fingerprints on file. Apparently she’d never applied for a driver’s license. Detective Martinez wants someone who knew Mary Ellen to go to the morgue and officially identify her. I’d do it, but I have to go back to court with Geneva to hash out what we’re going to do with the civil suit.”

  “You mean WAR still wants to pursue it?”

  “More than ever. This makes their case a real headline grabber,” Sue said. “I hate to ask. I know how you must be feeling right now. But could you possibly meet Detective Martinez at the morgue and see if it really is Mary Ellen?”

  Nicole swallowed, remembering a visit she’d made to the morgue when she was in high school. Her advanced-placement government class had done a unit on the criminal justice system. For her class paper, she’d chosen to write about the coroner’s office. What had she been thinking? That it would be a lark? That it would earn her some kind of bragging rights? That it would prove how tough she was?

  Instead, the experience had traumatized her in a way she’d never forgotten. The deputy coroner had taken her on a tour of the morgue, and the rank odor of decay stayed with her for weeks. She still had a clear memory of disorganized rows of gurneys holding sheet-covered bodies. One had his hand raised, as if hailing a cab. While the deputy coroner was talking to her, he’d suddenly pointed behind her and said, “Don’t look.” Instinctively, she’d turned in the direction he was pointing. Through a doorway she could see an autopsy underway. The subject’s intestines were being pulled out, an unbelievably copious heap of grayish entrails tinged with blood. She’d almost fainted.

  Nicole shivered. “Of course I will,” she said.

  Next, Nicole called Detective Martinez. They agreed to meet at the morgue in an hour. Nicole brushed her teeth, washed her face, and dabbed on some lipstick. Once she was in the car, she headed for the Hollywood Freeway, which would take her to East L.A. and Boyle Heights, where the morgue was located. She prayed that it was a mistake, that this body wasn’t Mary Ellen.

  The coroner’s office had moved since Nicole’s visit years before. It was now housed in a grim, three-story building that loomed over several smaller wooden structures in the same complex. Nicole had read somewhere that the main building had once been Los Angeles General Hospital. With its brick façade, dingy gingerbread trim, and cupola-topped entry, it looked like a nineteenth-century madhouse.

  She got out of the car and climbed the stairs to the entrance. She told a man at the front desk that she was meeting Detective Martinez, and he asked her to take a seat. The lobby was enormous, dimly lit, and filled with rows of wooden benches. They reminded her of the seating in a church, and she wondered if services had once been held here. More likely, it served as the old hospital’s waiting room. She perched on one of the benches; it was hard and cold. A notice on the wall said that the use of mobile devices was prohibited, and she dutifully turned off her phone.

  The building was cool, and, to Nicole’s relief, the only discernable smell was a mixture of disinfectant and floor wax. It made her wonder where they kept the bodies—perhaps in one of the out buildings. The huge, gloomy room gave her a sense of unreality. This couldn’t have happened. Mary Ellen couldn’t possibly be lying in cold storage somewhere nearby.

  A few minutes later, the detective arrived, had a brief conversation with reception, and joined Nicole on the wooden bench. They greeted one another, their voices creating an eerie echo in the vast lobby. After that, t
he two sat in silence until a rosy cheeked young man in a dark suit and tie appeared and introduced himself as Deputy Coroner John Ortega. He ushered them into an elevator and took them up to the second floor. Nicole felt herself trembling as Ortega led them to a small interview room.

  Nicole looked around. “Aren’t we going to view the body?”

  “That only happens on TV,” Ortega said. “In real life, we use photographs.” He placed a manila folder on the table and sat down across from them. “Okay,” he said. “If you’re ready, I’ll take the photos out so you can see them. She doesn’t look too bad. I’d warn you if she did.”

  Nicole’s stomach lurched as he laid out the photos in front of them. There were only three, all of a girl’s head, the front view and each side. Nicole gave them a quick look, covered her face with her hands, and started to cry. “Oh, God,” she said. “It is her. It’s Mary Ellen.”

  She wiped her eyes and forced herself to take another look. The girl’s appearance, as the deputy had said, wasn’t that bad, but she looked decidedly dead. Her wide-eyed stare and blank expression were deeply disturbing. She had red blotches beneath her eyes and on her neck. Her face was slightly bloated, possibly from the time she’d spent under wet sand when the tide was in.

  As Ortega picked up the photos and slipped them back into the folder, Nicole felt chilled. It was impossible to believe this was the girl she’d been with less than two days before, the girl she was supposed to keep safe.

  They were making their way down in the elevator when Martinez said, “The police want to notify next of kin before they release news of Ms. Barnes’ death. So, I have to ask you not to tell anyone.”

  “Of course.” Nicole’s voice was thick with emotion.

  They passed through the big reception hall without speaking, their footsteps echoing against the high ceiling. They left the building and headed for the parking lot. As Nicole started to turn down the row where she’d left her car, Martinez put a hand out to stop her. “You seem a little shaky,” the detective said. “Are you sure you’re up to driving? We can get you a ride, or maybe you have someone who can pick you up.”

  “No, I’m okay. Really.”

  Nicole retrieved her car from the lot and started home. She’d only gone a few blocks when she remembered the tabloids and their relentless pursuit of the next scoop. They’d have the news of Mary Ellen’s death soon, if they didn’t already. She wouldn’t be surprised if they had informants in the coroner’s office. The tabloids, she knew, wouldn’t have any scruples about waiting for Mary Ellen’s family to hear the news before going public.

  Here was something she could do for Albee. He’d helped her in the past, and she owed him. She pulled over to the curb and made the call.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “I wanted to let you know—” she said, “Oh, this is off the record. You can’t use my name.”

  “Understood.”

  “We were asked to keep this under wraps until the next of kin is notified, but with the tabloids involved, that’s not going to happen. Mary Ellen Barnes is dead.” The words came out in a rush, and her voice broke. It took a moment before she could go on. “She had a broken neck, and they don’t know what happened. Her body may have been buried in the sand under the Santa Monica Pier, but that hasn’t been verified. That’s all I know.”

  “Thanks so much, Nicole,” Albee said. “I owe you big time.”

  After they hung up, she pulled a tissue out of her purse to wipe away her tears. She blew her nose, then started the engine; a long line of cars had to pass before she could pull into the flow of traffic. Her emotions were in turmoil, making it hard to focus on driving. She kept replaying the night Mary Ellen disappeared. If only she could go back in time and come up with a different outcome. But how? Staying up all night or sleeping across the threshold of the suite? Even then, Mary Ellen still could have run off. The outcome would have been the same. But there were things Nicole still could do: make sure that Doshan’s name was cleared, as Mary Ellen had wished, and that whoever killed her was caught and punished.

  Nicole was at the signal on Mulholland, at the crest of the hill between L.A. and the valley, when the cars behind her started honking. Only then did she notice the light had turned green.

  Josh met her at the door and pulled her into his arms. “Thank God you’re all right. When you didn’t answer your phone, I called your office, your sister, everybody I could think of. No one had heard from you. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

  “Oh, Josh,” she said. “I have the most awful news.” Her voice broke again. “Mary Ellen is dead. She may have been murdered. I was just at the morgue to identify her.”

  “That’s terrible,” he said. “Why didn’t you call and ask me to come with you?”

  “I had to turn my phone off inside the building, and I was just focused on getting through it,” she said. “I’m sorry. I should have let you know.”

  “I’m with you in this,” he said. “You know that, right?”

  “Of course.” But she remembered how he’d chided her for accompanying Mary Ellen to court, how he’d said he was afraid she was an excitement junkie.

  “So let me in,” he was saying. “I know how traumatic this must be, but you don’t have to deal with it by yourself. I’m here for you.”

  “I know you are,” she said. She could see that he meant what he was saying, yet she’d never felt so alone. The chill that had come over her when she saw those photos had reached into her bones. She shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he said. He reached into the hall closet, pulled out one of his zippered sweatshirts, and held it up while she put it on. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get you a drink.”

  Nicole told Josh about what had happened at the morgue. After dinner, he lit a fire in the fireplace. Still cold, she wrapped a knit throw around herself, and the two of them curled up on the couch to watch TV. Still, she couldn’t rid herself of the deep chill she’d carried home with her.

  Once in bed, she lay awake again while Josh slept. He’d spooned himself against her, his arms wrapped around her. She gently pried herself loose and sat up; he didn’t move. His mouth was slightly open, his wavy hair flopped over his forehead.

  As if aware she was looking at him, he lifted his head and gave her a bleary look. “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Nothing. I’m just getting up for a drink of water.”

  He relaxed against the pillow and closed his eyes. She put on her robe and slippers, wondering if the room was really that cold or if the chill inside her had become a permanent condition.

  Nicole went into the study they shared and turned on her computer to find the latest news about Mary Ellen’s death. On the front page of the L.A. Times, the lead story described a press conference that the Santa Monica Police Department had held late the previous night. The police chief had announced that Mary Ellen Barnes was murdered, and detectives were now searching for the person or persons responsible.

  XHN was having a field day. “Rape Victim Murdered on Trial Day 2,” was the main headline. They’d done everything they could to sensationalize the story. It said that Mary Ellen (incorrectly described as five-feet tall and less than a hundred pounds) was brutally raped by a six-foot-five quarterback. They characterized her as a devout Christian and a straight-A student. XHN also pointed out that she was a divorced couple’s only child, the one great hope of an impoverished and broken family, the first to make it to college.

  At the same time, they’d begun to demolish Doshan’s character. One of the stories on XHN quoted a “close friend of the quarterback who asked that his name be withheld.” According to this source, Doshan, on first learning about the rape charge, had said: “I get all the pussy I want. Why would I rape anyone, especially an ugly cunt like her?” Nicole noticed the way XHN freely quoted vulgar language that would usually be prohibited in a daily newspaper.

  Nicole finally looked at the L.A. Times’ website. Here was a detailed descrip
tion of the body’s discovery, which Albee must have gotten from a source in the coroner’s office. The piece also had an item the tabloids had missed: Doshan Williams had been asked to appear at police headquarters for questioning first thing this morning.

  Questioning? She wondered if that was all they had in mind. Since Mary Ellen had charged him with rape, he’d be their prime suspect. If they arrested him, Nicole would have to come forward with Mary Ellen’s confession and appear as a witness. She could imagine Josh’s reaction to that. But what choice did she have? Mary Ellen’s last wish had been to clear Doshan of rape, and she had no one else to speak for her. Nicole was certain Doshan hadn’t killed Mary Ellen; it must have been whoever was blackmailing her. Once again, Nicole promised herself she’d see justice done.

  As for Doshan, she hoped that either the D.A. lacked enough evidence to charge him or that he had an airtight alibi.

  Seven

  Josh got up at his usual 5:45 a.m., surprised to find Nicole already at the breakfast table, drinking coffee. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “My job was to keep her safe, and now she’s dead.” She grew quiet, wondering once again how she could have saved Mary Ellen.

  Josh put his arms around her, and she leaned against him. “You did everything you could,” he murmured into her hair. “She chose to leave. There was nothing you could do.” He was silent for a bit, then added, “Why don’t we take a run? Maybe that will make you feel better.”

  “Maybe it would,” she said, “but I’m too wiped out.”

  Josh fixed breakfast, and they sat at the table without their usual morning banter. A toxic mix of emotions—guilt, grief, and regret—churned in Nicole’s stomach, making it impossible to eat. She kept seeing the photos of Mary Ellen: her dull, staring eyes, the blank expression death had left on her face.

  Josh seemed to understand. He cleared up the dishes while Nicole sipped her coffee and stared out the window. “Why don’t I stay home?” he said. “We could go for a drive and take your mind off what happened.”