All the Deadly Lies Read online

  “Anything else? Any other information about Chelsea you might have that would help us catch whoever did this to her, Angelo?” Jake used his first name, hoping for some personal input on Chelsea, but got none.

  “No, Chelsea didn’t date anyone from the department. She did her job. I wish I had more workers like her. My life would be easier.”

  “Okay, thanks. We’re going to need to interview her coworkers. Is there a place we can do the interviews in private? Here in your office or in a conference room?”

  “Why don’t I show you to the break room? I’ll get you a list of employees who worked with Chelsea,” Angelo said.

  * * * *

  He and Louie interviewed ten coworkers. All were shocked or sickened over Chelsea’s death, but couldn’t offer a reason why someone would hurt her. Her friends—the ones she went out to dinner with on April sixteenth—weren’t at work. They left after being notified of her death, finding it too difficult to deal with their grief and their clients. Angelo gave Jake and Louie their home addresses and phone numbers. They started with the one closest to work. Jake wanted them interviewed as soon as possible.

  First on the list was Sara Hurdle. She lived in the west end of town. Jake knocked on Hurdle’s door. It opened only a couple of inches. A swollen green eye surrounded by red peered out at them through heavy security chains. “Ms. Hurdle, can we come in?” Jake asked as they identified themselves and offered their badges.

  She pushed the door closed. He heard the rattle of chains as the door reopened. Though it was eighty something degrees outside, Sara stood there in a ratty, terry cloth bathrobe, bathed in grief. A grief he understood too well. The woman also looked scared.

  “Some of my questions will be difficult but your answers will help Chelsea. May I call you Sara?” Beforehand, he and Louie had agreed he’d start the questioning.

  “Yes, Sara’s fine.” She wiped at her eyes with a crumpled up tissue.

  “We need to ask you about Friday night,” Jake said still standing by the door.

  “I’ve racked my brains for the last two hours trying to find answers. Nothing. I don’t have any.” Sara sobbed. “If we thought Chelsea was in any kind of trouble or someone was bothering her, we wouldn’t have let her leave by herself.” She wiped her tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no reason for you to be sorry, Sara. Chelsea’s death is a tragedy. Are those new locks on your door?” Jake asked, as they walked into the living room. Sara sat on the couch, Louie sat beside Sara on the burgundy sofa. Jake took a well-worn easy chair with a zig-zag print that dated back to the fifties.

  “Yes, I changed them out last week when Chelsea went missing. It doesn’t make any sense, but her disappearance scared me. I thought the new locks would help put me at ease.”

  “Why are you frightened, Sara?” Louie took over the questioning.

  “This is something you read about in the newspapers, not something you expect to happen to you or anyone close to you. Deep down I knew something bad happened to her. Chelsea disappearing is out of character. When I say it out loud, it sounds stupid…”

  “No, it doesn’t. What we need to do is go through the whole night piece by piece. Are up to it?” Louie gentled his voice.

  “I’ll do anything I can to help. Chelsea was the best person in the whole world. We were friends as well as coworkers. I can’t believe she’s gone.” Sara started sobbing again. Louie took her hand and patted it gently.

  Jake’s gaze roamed the room. Homey, but outdated. He wondered if she had continued living in the place where she was raised.

  “Sara, I need you to pull yourself together. This is important. It will help Chelsea.” Louie’s voice held a firm gentleness, which seemed to bring the grieving woman around.

  “I called her kids today. It was a difficult conversation. What can you say at a time like this? Everything seems trivial.”

  “I’m sure they appreciated the call. What time did you both leave work on Friday?” Louie asked.

  “We left at four-thirty.”

  “What did you do when you left the office?” Jake listened, content to let Louie run the entire interview. Sara seemed more at ease with him.

  “We went over to the Four Seasons for drinks before dinner. We’d decided last week to dine there.” She stopped, gathered her thoughts. “We were seated around six o’clock. Chelsea’s girlfriend joined us a little after six.”

  “I thought you always ate at the Hills?” Jake interrupted.

  “Most times we did, but that night we decided to change it up.”

  “Who was the fourth woman who went to dinner with you?” Louie questioned.

  “Jora Stein. She works with us.”

  “How long were you at the Four Seasons?”

  “Dinner took about an hour. We sat in the restaurant another hour and talked to kill time. We didn’t want to head out to the club too early. We were feeling no pain and enjoying each other’s company. We had cocktails before we ate and then switched to wine with dinner. I had a nice buzz on.”

  “Was Chelsea also…flying?” Louie asked.

  “No, she always paced herself. One drink lasted her the whole night. Our perpetual designated driver, we called her.”

  “What time did you leave the restaurant and head over to the club?” Louie prodded.

  “Around eight-thirty because we got to the golf course about eight forty-five and the band hadn’t started yet.”

  “What did you do when you got there?” Louie asked.

  “Well, we sat at the bar and ordered some drinks. I could tell we were losing Chelsea.”

  “How do you mean, ‘losing her’?” Louie questioned.

  “Well, she was bored. Chelsea wasn’t a clubber. She used to go out to dinner with us once a month when she was married but always headed right home afterward. After her divorce, she started to go out with us after we ate because Julie pushed her. Chelsea’s a real homebody.” Sara looked up, devastated. “I mean was a real homebody. Her bastard of an ex left her for a twenty-something bimbo.”

  “What time did Chelsea leave the bar?” Jake took over.

  “She left around ten o’clock. She didn’t even give the band a chance. Said she had a headache. We tried to talk her into staying. She wouldn’t hear of it.” Sara’s tears started again. “It was the last time we saw her.” Guilt washed over her face. Jake sympathized. You couldn’t change the past though he wished and prayed like a little kid when Eva had died that he could. “We should have walked her to her car,” Sara sobbed.

  “Did you usually walk each other to your cars?” Jake asked.

  “No, we didn’t unless the bar was in a crappy neighborhood.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Sara. Monday morning quarterbacking never accomplished anything. Did she mention whether she planned on meeting anyone after she left there?” Jake continued the questioning.

  “No, not Chelsea. If she said she was going home, she went home.”

  “Was she talking or flirting with anyone at the bar who she blew off when she left?”

  “No, Julie hooked up with some loser from high school. I don’t know his name, Julie would. Chelsea would never ever hook up with someone.”

  “Here’s my card if you remember anything else. We’re sorry for your loss,” Louie said.

  Once outside of Sara’s apartment, Jake said, “The woman appears to have floated through life without a blemish.”

  “Yeah, a quiet woman, one who’s admired, and now she’s dead. It’s pointing to someone she knew. Somewhere on her way home, she met her death—a practical woman doesn’t stop for a stranger.”

  “Agreed, let’s reach out to the Neptune Police in Florida. We need to pin down her ex’s whereabouts last Friday night.”

  “Next up is Jora Stein,” Louie said, making notes next to Sara’s name.


  Stein’s phone continued to ring until an answering machine picked up. Louie left a message and stressed the importance of a return call. They got the same response, and left a similar message when they tried to call the victim’s friend, Julie Cahns.

  * * * *

  Jake returned to the station and placed a call to Neptune, Florida. A receptionist with a thick southern accent that was too southern for the area answered. He figured her for a transplant.

  “This is Lieutenant Carrington, from the Wilkesbury, Connecticut, Police Department. May I speak with one of your detectives?”

  “Hi, Lieutenant.” She stretched out the second part of lieutenant, adding a few n’s along the way.

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Because I didn’t throw it—it’s Samantha, but most people call me Sammy.” Sammy’s infectious laugh lifted his spirits.

  “Sammy, who would I speak with to get a follow-up on someone’s whereabouts last Friday?”

  “I’ll give you to the chief. He can direct you to the right person.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Beau Taylor. Hold please while I get him.” Sammy put him on hold.

  He wasn’t kept waiting long. “Well hello, Connecticut, what can I do for you?”

  “Chief, I have a homicide here. If it’s possible I need you to check on the whereabouts of the ex-husband,” Jake asked.

  “It’s Beau, please, we’re not formal here. I’d be happy to. Give me the pertinent info on him and the times and dates you want checked out. I’ll do that today.”

  Jake supplied the information.

  “Do you also want to know the whereabouts of the new wife?” Chief Taylor asked.

  “Yes, I hear she wasn’t happy with the alimony settlement.”

  Jake’s radio crackled to life. “Any units in the vicinity of Highland Avenue and Chase Parkway respond to a two-one-one. Shots have been reported, along with hostages.” The next code put the fear of God into every cop. It was a ten-one-o-eight.

  “Chief, I have to go. I’ll get you back later.” Jake ended the call without waiting for an answer.

  He grabbed his jacket. Louie was already up and running as he slipped into his jacket. Jake caught up to him. The bullpen also emptied as every available officer rushed to the scene. A ten-one-o-eight or one-o-eight meant officer down. No matter what department they belonged to, the wall of blue would be there to protect their own.

  The drive to the bank located on Highland Avenue took Jake a little over ten minutes with traffic. Not everyone bothered to pull over at the sound of his sirens. Louie checked his gun while Jake navigated traffic. Armed bank robberies had increased across the nation along with the violence used by the suspects in desperate attempts to secure the cash.

  “When was the last time you checked your gun, Jake?”

  He appreciated Louie’s concern though sometimes it baffled him when Louie asked an obvious question. He shrugged his shoulders. No matter what, Louie had his back. “This morning.”

  “Loaded?”

  “Yes.” Jake turned to Louie. “I load it every day. You?”

  “Loaded.”

  They both knew some cops who didn’t bother. Utter stupidity. Jake and Louie drove the rest of the way in silence, each putting his mind where it needed to be as they listened to the radio for updates.

  * * * *

  Chase Park, situated on five acres along the interstate, offered basketball courts, a sprinkler for kids in the summer, and a clubhouse for neighborhood meetings and gatherings. The lot looked as if it could accommodate up to fifty cars. Jake parked, and then he and Louie shrugged into their Kevlar vests. “Ready?” Jake asked.

  “Ready.”

  Jake checked in with Lieutenant Nick Longo from Robbery who was in charge of the scene. Longo had blocked off Highland Avenue from both directions. He’d set up his control post behind a parked cruiser at the edge of the intersection. It looked like the whole force had turned out.

  “Hey, Longo, what’ve you got?” Jake asked.

  “Our intel tells us there are two gunmen, three tellers, one manager, and several customers, including a police officer. It’s Tommy Sullivan,” Longo replied.

  “Oh shit! Tommy? Didn’t his wife recently have a baby?” Louie said.

  “Yep, two days ago. There were shots fired but we don’t know if anyone’s been hit. The ambulance is here and waiting. We’ve tried to contact the suspects, but they’re not responding or giving any demands yet. I’m going to try again.” Longo placed another call to the bank—it went unanswered.

  Worse, Jake thought, when they don’t respond. You couldn’t get a bead on them.

  Longo’s division, tension etched in each officer’s face, was equipped with long-range rifles. They were spread out around the building. The negotiator arrived.

  Jake nodded to Jim Noones, an experienced negotiator, as he watched Noones slip on his vest. They both turned toward the bank to assess the situation. At five-nine, Noones had the stereotypical appearance of a jolly Irishman: a rounded belly, red nose, ruddy complexion, wheat-colored hair, and sky-blue eyes in a round, wide face. Always a joke on his lips, he went from casual to serious in less than a second when a situation called for it. Anyone who failed to take him seriously paid a dear price. Noones handled all his negotiations with a calm manner, trusting face, and a storyteller’s smooth voice and timing.

  “Hey, Jake, I hear congratulations are in order,” Noones said as he tugged on the bottom of his vest.

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  He turned to Longo. “How do you want to handle this?”

  “Whichever way ends this fast and with no injuries, if possible,” Longo said.

  Noones grabbed the bullhorn and flipped the switch and started speaking to the suspects.

  “This is Captain Noones of the Wilkesbury Police Department. I’d like to open communications with you. Please use the number on the display from your last call. It will come to my phone.”

  Jake waited beside Noones and Longo. The rest of the department scattered around the block, circling the bank. Taking in the whole scene without moving an inch, Jake tensed for action. He nodded to Louie to protect his flank. He spotted the reporters from Channels Eight, Three, and Sixty-One with their live cams. Helicopters hovered overhead, and would be offering a dramatic televised view of the incident. If the suspects were watching, they had the whole view as well, including law enforcement’s tactical positions and the number of responding officers. The information age made these events even more difficult to manage, endangering countless lives.

  “Have the schools been locked down?” Noones asked Longo.

  “Yes, first thing.”

  “Good. My kid’s at Kennedy,” Noones said.

  “Mine too,” Longo responded.

  “Mine are at Resurrection and Lord of the Cross, thank God,” Louie said.

  Jake caught movement at the door to the bank. “Here we go.”

  Noones lifted his bullhorn and waited.

  The man used the bank manager as a shield as he brandished a gun and shouted. “Send over one unarmed officer. One. I’ll give him a letter I’ve written with what we want. We don’t need any heroes today. If our demands are met, everyone will go home healthy, understood?”

  The suspect appeared to stand about six feet tall. He wore his black hair spiked on top, a red streak running down the center. When he turned, Jake saw a long, braided tail touching his shoulder blades. So eighties. He was dressed in all black and his wallet, secured with a chain, stuck out from his back pocket. Despite the day being warm, he also wore black gloves. His gun hand quivered—not a comforting sign. The gunman looked to be in his thirties, a solid hundred-eighty. He wore mirrored sunglasses; his bicep had a tattoo of a cross and skull. Jake memorized every detail for his report.

  “
Noones, who do you want to send over there?” Lieutenant Longo asked.

  “I’ll go,” Jake spoke up.

  “Any objections, Nick?”

  “None,” Lieutenant Longo said.

  “No heroics,” Louie said, as he leaned in and whispered in Jake’s ear. “You got your ankle holster?” Most cops never used maximum force during their careers, though were trained to if a situation required it. Jake never needed to but Louie had.

  “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be back before you know it.” Jake tossed a smirk over his shoulder.

  “We’re sending over Detective Carrington. He’s unarmed. In good faith, you release one of the hostages,” Jim Noones said. By procedure Noones didn’t use Jake’s rank.

  “Send the detective over,” the gunman said, not agreeing to anything.

  “Is anyone hurt?” Noones asked.

  “We’ll talk after you read the letter.” The gunman never let loose his grip on the manager.

  “He’s coming over now,” Noones replied.

  The Kevlar vest created a furnace and had sweat pouring down Jake’s back as he got closer to the gunman. The gunman’s own sweat poured under his sunglasses. Jake wondered how the guy could see. The bank manager looked petrified. Jake held his hands up and away from his body as he approached. If things went wrong, his ankle holster—if he could get to it—would provide necessary protection.

  “Okay, that’s far enough. I’m going back into the bank with this woman here. When I reach the door, you can pick up the letter. But not before I reach the door. Understood?”

  Jake looked into the frightened eyes of the manager. “Yes.”

  “Good.” The suspect whispered something in the manager’s ear then started backing up with her.

  When gunman and hostage reached the door, Jake dropped to one knee to retrieve the note while keeping the bank robber in his line of sight. As he wrapped his fingers around it the gunman stepped inside and pushed the bank manager out onto the sidewalk. She fell to the ground. Jake ran forward to lift her up. He half carried, half dragged her back to the command post and safety.

  The woman burst into tears when they reached Longo. Jake hoped no one could hear how fast and hard his heart pounded.