Tell Her No Lies Read online

  He didn’t bother to ask why she needed the camera. Nina took at least one everywhere she went. The workhorse Pentax from her high school years or the Mamiya RZ67 that shot both digital and film. They had a calming effect on her. Gave her a sense of control. Through photography, she kept the panic attacks at bay. He understood that. Besides, photographers never knew when something would catch their eye and need to be memorialized. He hated missing that shot and so did she. “Sort of.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Aaron nodded.

  He pounded down the stairs, out to his car, and shot from the circle drive onto the street. Nina hung on to the door handle but didn’t ask him to slow down.

  In fact, she didn’t say a word.

  16

  Idiot. Aaron took his gaze from the road for a split second to take a peek at Nina. She stared straight ahead. She hadn’t spoken in the six miles between the house and the restaurant. She was vulnerable. She’d just lost her father in a horrible, violent crime. She was the subject of a murder investigation. She had unresolved issues with Rick Zavala. She didn’t trust God with any of this. All reasons he should give her room to process. Be a friend. Don’t take advantage.

  God, help me walk that fine line. Don’t let me blow this now.

  Yet she didn’t look offended or upset. She hadn’t tossed her cookies on his shoes. She’d responded to his touch, to his overture. Not like a friend. More like someone who’d wondered about it. Who was curious. She’d kissed him back. An exploration. The kisses had been an exploration.

  No more exploring. Not until this was over.

  “Why are you shaking your head?” Finally. Now she decided to speak with a decided note of laughter in her voice. What was so funny? “I can almost hear the rocks rattling.”

  “Ha. Ha. Just thinking.” He drove through the parking lot, running his gaze over the cars. “I don’t see Melanie’s Charger.”

  “Maybe she texted you.”

  Aaron parked close to the street and checked his messages. “Nada.” He punched her name under favorites. No answer. He glanced at the time on his phone. “We’re two minutes early.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time.” Her camera hanging from a strap around her neck, Nina shoved her door open and looked back at Aaron. “Unless King has trouble getting the warrants.”

  The guy needed to be taken down a peg or two. His attitude toward the media was ridiculous. “That would be nice, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Together they pushed the restaurant’s double glass doors. A middle-aged black woman with a middle-age spread dressed in a neat two-piece green pantsuit sat alone in a booth meant for five. “That’s Serena.” Nina waved.

  The woman waved back. A toothy, wide smile turned into a sudden frown. “Nina Simone? What happened to your face, pumpkin?”

  “It’s a long story. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine. No offense, honey, but I never agreed to talk to you. I can’t talk about your daddy in front of you. He may be dead, but he’s still my judge.” Her double chin trembled, and her pudgy cheeks wrinkled when she talked. Her gaze raked Aaron. “You must be the photographer. I told Melanie. No video. Background only. Off the record.”

  “We’re not doing this for a story.” At least Aaron wasn’t. He jumped in before Nina could. “I want to help Nina. We only want to figure out why this happened to the judge. We only want to talk.”

  “I hate talking ill of the dead. I hate talking about my judge at all. He was a good man. A good judge.” Serena’s trembling hands smoothed her perfectly straight cornrows. Her blunt-cut nails were painted silver with green rims. “I loved your dad. I know you did too. You used to come into his chambers when you were little and sit in that big leather chair and write in your diary like such a big girl. You always had that Pentax camera around your neck. The one your mom gave you for your tenth birthday.”

  “I remember that too. It was so frustrating. No point and shoot for me. Manual all the way.” Nina slid onto the Naugahyde seat and laid her hand on top of Serena’s. “That’s why I know you want to help us. You know me. You know Daddy better than anyone, besides family. Maybe better than family. What happened? Any ideas?”

  No one commented on her use of present tense.

  “I can’t.” Serena started to rise. “I have to go.”

  “Okay. If you can’t tell me, please, please tell Aaron. The police think I may have done this.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Exactly.” Aaron squeezed in next to Nina. Even though the restaurant smelled of bacon and sausage frying, all he could smell was the older woman’s perfume. She smelled like his mom’s lilac bushes. “Which is why we need your help.”

  “You poor baby. I’m so sorry for your loss. Your dad asked me to do one thing. One thing. But I don’t trust your mama. I don’t know who to trust anymore.” Serena twisted an emerald ring round and round her plump finger until the skin underneath turned red and puffy. “Can we wait for Melanie? I’d feel more comfortable.”

  “Sure, sure.” Nina exchanged glances with Aaron. He shrugged. They didn’t have time for this. “Melanie promised you breakfast. We’ll get breakfast. I’m sure she’ll be right here.”

  He checked his texts. Nothing.

  They perused the menu. Aaron ordered a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll. Serena ordered a full-blown American breakfast. Nina asked for a glass of water. They made conversation about the weather, the bad traffic, and the latest bad decision by the city council. Nina snapped a few photos. Serena didn’t seem to mind. When she pointed the camera, Aaron crossed his eyes and held up both hands in the hook ’em horns sign all UT graduates recognized.

  Five minutes later, his coffee came along with a large, warm cinnamon roll. Still no Melanie.

  Five minutes later Serena’s breakfast arrived. By that time they’d exhausted all topics of mutual or nonmutual agreement. Serena was a widow with three children, all of whom lived elsewhere, none of whom had produced the requisite grandchildren. She was a Republican, a Baptist, and she loved Dancing with the Stars. Still no Melanie.

  “Hey, fancy seeing ya’ll here.”

  Serena’s fork dropped to her plate with a bang. Aaron swiveled. Jerome Solomon approached. The lean African-American had a smile plastered across his face. He’d never given Aaron the time of day at the courthouse. Nor had he been actively hostile. Aaron stood and extended his hand. Solomon shook it and nodded at Nina. “Sorry for your loss, Miss Nina.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  His gaze roved from Nina to Serena and back. “Y’all just run into each other?”

  “Serena just wanted to let me know what a great joy it was to work for my dad.” Nina jumped in when Serena didn’t answer. “We’re just sitting here remembering all the good things about him.”

  “He was a good man.” Jerome tugged on his Texas Rangers ball cap. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone. Are you doing some kind of follow-up story? I would’ve thought you’d be on to the next crime of the day.”

  Aaron shrugged. “We’re hoping to have more details from the police today. Maybe the autopsy results. We like to balance that with more comments from the people who worked with him.”

  “Balance is not a word I associate with the media.” Jerome made a show of glancing around the restaurant. He scratched his chin. “Where’s your camera? And that skinny little reporter who was always bugging us during the helicopter trial?”

  “She’s running late.” Aaron cocked his head toward the door. “As soon as she gets here, I’ll get my camera.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Well, I’d be happy to give you a sound bite, too, if you want. Just let me know.”

  He tugged on his hat a second time. “If you need anything or need someone to talk to, you can always call me, Serena.” The emphasis on me was unmistakable. “You know Judge Fischer was a private man. He would’ve hated all this publicity.”

  Her double chin wobbling, Serena nodded hard. “I know,
I know. But this is something special to remember him by.” Her voice trembled. “It seemed like it would be okay.”

  “Sure, sure. I have to get home to the missus. Good seeing y’all.” Hands in his pockets jingling keys and coins, the man ambled away.

  None of them spoke until the double doors eased shut behind him.

  “He’ll tell everyone at the courthouse I was consorting with the media.” Tears brightened Serena’s eyes. “You know what, I don’t care. I really don’t care. I’m retiring. I’ve put in my time and I could never work for anyone else after Judge Geoffrey.”

  Nina tucked her arm around the woman and squeezed her in a hug. “He loved you so much. That’s why he trusted you with his secrets. You can tell us whatever he told you.”

  “It wasn’t much. He just sat down in the chair next to my desk one Friday afternoon. He looked tired and in a funk. He got that way sometimes. He said to me, ‘Serena, I’m not who people think I am.’” She shook her head. “I had no idea what he was talking about. My phone rang and he got up and walked away.”

  “That was all he said? But—”

  Nina’s smartphone vibrated. She scooted back from Serena and touched the screen. “Jan says King is at the door. He’s spitting nails, he’s so angry. He says I better get my behind back there now before he puts out a warrant for my arrest.”

  “You better go, honey.” Serena tossed her napkin on her plate. “I’ll get this.”

  “I’ll get it.” Aaron dug a crumpled twenty from his pocket. “We need to find out what happened to Melanie. I’ll pick her up after I drop Nina off at her house. We’ll come see you at the courthouse. Is that all right?”

  “Whatever you say, Nina.” Serena struggled to hoist her amply padded frame from the booth. Nina turned and accepted a hug from the woman, who made two of her. “Take this.” Serena shoved a small brown envelope at Nina.

  Nina turned it over. Both sides were blank. “What is it?”

  “Just take it. You have to run. Be careful, baby.”

  “I will. We will.”

  “Thank you, Serena.” Aaron stifled the urge to pat a grown woman’s shoulder. She looked so sad. Heartbroken. Lost. “You’re doing the right thing. Nina will do right by her dad. We all will.”

  “I know. Whatever Jerome says, not all media are bad. I always knew you were one of the good ones. Just take care of her.”

  That was the plan.

  Together they raced to the 4Runner. Nina stayed close. He opened her door for her. “What did she give you?”

  “An envelope. What happened to Melanie?”

  “I don’t know.” He careened around to the driver’s side and slid in. Nina opened the clasp on the envelope. A small silver key slid out, along with a Frost Bank card.

  Nina peered into the envelope. “That’s it. Just a key. Looks like a safe-deposit key.”

  Aaron shook his head and started the car. “One thing at a time. Buckle up.”

  Nina did as she was told. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” He could only worry about one thing at a time. Melanie was never late to a story. Dinner, yes. For station meetings, yes. But not a story.

  On the other hand, she was no shrinking violet. She had a gun and she knew how to use it.

  She could handle herself.

  17

  Melanie hated running behind. A late reporter missed the story. She never did that. But somehow, she’d managed to oversleep. Probably because she’d stayed up past midnight partying on North St. Mary’s—breaking her cardinal rule never to drink on a work night. For a reason.

  She unlocked her front door and padded down the hallway, peeling off her tank top as she walked into her bedroom. She threw it on the floor and glanced in the mirror. Yep. Dark circles and bags under her eyes. TV reporters couldn’t afford that stuff. They also couldn’t afford to gain an ounce. Which was why she refused to miss her morning run followed by a hot shower to sweat out all the toxic stuff. She’d cut it short, but at least she got some sweat time in. Aaron would keep Serena Cochrane busy until Melanie could swoop down and capture the mystery key.

  Key to what? Key to solving the mystery of who killed District Court Judge Geoffrey Fischer? Key to the biggest story of Melanie’s career?

  Key to a slot in a top TV market like LA, New York, Boston, or DC. Houston and Dallas–Fort Worth were closer, but she was done with Texas. She wanted a station on either coast—back to civilization.

  She belonged in a top-ten market. She had the voice, the look, the hair, and she had all the moves and the savvy to go with them. She’d given up a fiancé for her career.

  Nothing meant more to her.

  The thought propelled her to the closet. Her go-to Liz Claiborne red slacks and matching jacket. Power color. White silk blouse. Makeup she could do in the car. Five minutes and she’d be out the door. She would make up for lost time with her Charger. Rush-hour traffic would have cleared by now.

  A creak, loud in her three-bedroom, two-bath, too-big-for-one historic house brought Melanie to a halt. She tilted her head and listened.

  Creak.

  Like someone walking on the new faux wood floor in the living room. She didn’t even have a dog or a cat.

  Have no fear. That was her motto. She tugged on a tank top. She didn’t plan to meet an intruder in her underwear. Far too intimate. She tugged open the dresser drawer next to her unmade queen-size bed and grabbed the baby Glock.

  Anybody who messed with her was in for a surprise. One of the best things about Texas—open carry. A reporter who made enemies—and overzealous fans—couldn’t afford to be without one. She cradled her little friend in her hand. Nobody messed with Melanie Martinez. She came from a long line of hunters. She didn’t just own a gun; she knew how to use it.

  She enjoyed using it.

  It was loaded. No need to check. Why have a gun in the house if it wasn’t loaded and ready to be used?

  Breathe. It could be Josh, here to surprise her. The photog from Channel 4 had become something of a fixture lately. No, he would call first. He would knock. He knew about the baby Glock.

  Confront the intruder? Maybe it was a burglar who didn’t bother to check the garage and see her silver Charger tucked inside. Maybe he’d steal her TV and her computer and call it a day. Neither were worth dying over. Electronics could be replaced. Idiot probably wouldn’t recognize the value of the paintings. The Jesse Treviño. The Amado Peña. Or the quality of Robert Lebsack’s emerging art. She loved Perils of Indifference.

  She hoped not.

  She considered praying. It had been a long time. It seemed rude to check in with the Big Guy only in emergencies, but wasn’t that what He was there for? God, sorry about this, but I’d rather not kill anyone today. If You could get this one, I’d appreciate it. If not, forgive me for what I’m about to do.

  The gun heavy in her hand, she fought her way through the overstuffed clothes in her walk-in closet and pushed aside boxes of shoes to make a spot where she could collapse, cross-legged, and pull the slatted French doors shut.

  She touched Aaron’s name in her phone’s list of favorites.

  “It’s about time. Where are you?” Aaron’s East Coast accent was hard to understand when he got agitated. His voice sounded far too loud in the eerie silence. “She wants to tell her story to you—”

  “Someone’s in my house.” No squeak in her whisper. No quiver. Just reporter excitement, not fear. Good. Melanie had a reputation as the best reporter in this market. It had to be upheld. “I think he’s going through stuff in my living room.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the closet in my bedroom. I’ve got my baby Glock.”

  “Call 911.”

  “I will. Get here. I want you to shoot this. Think of the story. Reporter catches burglar in the act. Holds him at gunpoint until police arrive.”

  “Are you nuts? You’ll get shot. Call the police.”

  “I’ll make him clean up the mess, and if
he decides to do something stupid, I’ll shoot him. Just get here.”

  She hung up. Her breathing was loud in her ears. Easy, easy. She inhaled, exhaled through her nose. Who was it and why her house? Had to be a burglar.

  A random burglary. She wouldn’t cower in the closet while a two-bit, penny-ante thug took her stuff. Stuff she’d worked hard for. Not worth dying over, but still. The idea was irritating.

  Melanie peered through the slats. No sign of the thug. With the gentlest of touches, she nudged the door open. Squeak. She cringed. What she wouldn’t give for a can of WD-40. She tucked the gun in the back of her pants and crawled out. Crawled to the door and peered down the hallway.

  She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear him. He was tearing up her study. Creep. He wasn’t stealing anything. He was searching for something. What? She rose to her feet and inched along the hall.

  A tall, lean man dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt stepped into the hallway. He wore a matching ski mask.

  Frozen, they stared at each other. Cussed in unison.

  How could they be so in sync?

  He backed away, one step, two steps. No way. She darted forward.

  The intruder whirled. She couldn’t shoot him in the back. She needed him to talk. She wanted her story. Then she would shoot him.

  Melanie launched herself at his back. Her arms curled around his neck. Her legs wrapped around his waist. “No way, you thug. You’re not getting away from me.”

  His fingers wrapped around her hands. He was strong.

  Too strong.

  He reared up and down and peeled her fingers from his neck. Gutter Spanish poured from his mouth. His voice sounded so familiar. She grabbed at the ski mask. It slid off.

  “Rick?”

  That did it. She might be three generations away from her Mexican ancestors, but she understood the cuss words. Rick didn’t just run—he worked out with weights to stave off the fat from all the fund-raiser meals and alcohol he consumed. He had four inches and sixty pounds on her. He bucked her off. She fell backward on the tile. All air whooshed out of her. With a grunt of pain, she rolled over. Her cell phone. It was gone. Bedroom floor?