Private Lies Read online

  Private Lies is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2018 by T. E. Woods

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399182006

  Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

  Cover image: Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.3.2

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By T. E. Woods

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Billy Tremble stopped walking and considered the question that had just popped into his head. It was an important one and he didn’t want to shrug it off or give some bullshit off-the-cuff response. His dad used to hammer on him about that. Think before you speak, kid. This world’s got assholes enough in it. I’ll not have anyone thinking another one fell out of my tree. Billy wondered if his father thought about his own words all those times he called his only son worthless, or idiot, or worse. His mother would try to soothe the sting of his dad’s harangues. It’s just the drink in him, Billy. You know he wouldn’t talk like that if he was sober.

  Billy would have laid down good money that his mother’s pain wasn’t softened one bit by his father’s drunken state that afternoon all those years ago. It was two days before Billy’s ninth birthday. The old man had beaten her up good and proper. Left her crying in a blood-smeared heap in the kitchen. Screaming at her through spit and bile that she wasn’t woman enough to keep him chained. Then he turned to his only son and raised an accusatory finger toward Billy.

  “And you, you son of a whore. You’ll never amount to anything.”

  Now Billy gave a weary shake of his head and realized that bastard’s words still haunted him. Even though he was twenty-seven years old and, for the first time in his life, a man with money to burn. Still, he took the time to consider an answer to the query that had entered, unbidden, into his consciousness.

  Yes, he decided. Yes, I am happy. He took a deep breath. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. He smiled and continued walking down State Street. The warm July night seemed gentle and special, as if the world itself was providing the perfect atmosphere to help him celebrate his good fortune.

  He saw two men slumped on the covered bench of a bus stop. Their overstuffed duffel bags and filthy jackets signaled they weren’t waiting for the Number 32 to take them home to kith and kin. These men had nowhere to be. Nothing to do. They’d chosen to rest a bit before they continued the soul-draining work of living homeless. Billy reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of bills.

  Yes, sir. I’m happy, happy, happy. Funny what a bucket of cash can do for a man’s attitude.

  He approached the two men. “Here you go, buddy.” He handed the first man, the one with a beard more gray than brown, a bill. Then he nodded to the second man. This guy had smooth cheeks. Billy figured the good-deeds lady from Grace Episcopal must have been passing out shaving gear that morning. “I got one for you, too, man.”

  Each man nodded and shoved the bill into a pocket. Billy knew the protocol. Put the money away fast. Don’t speak to the person who just gave the handout. Don’t look ’em in the eye. Don’t give ’em any reason to acknowledge you’re an actual human being. Just let ’em do their feel-good for the day and be on their way. Everybody wins.

  Billy was four steps down the street when he heard one of the guys call out. “Hey! Hey! Thanks, Mister. God bless you.”

  Billy surmised he’d taken the time to examine his gift. Probably been years since the old man held a hundred-dollar bill in his hand.

  Billy kept walking. Kept feeling good. A strain of music started to play in his head, providing a tempo that demanded a strutted step. He stopped by a woman sitting cross-legged next to an ATM, her own bag of possessions beside her. A matted dog, looking to weigh twenty pounds where he ought to weigh thirty, let out a warning growl.

  “Don’t let Buster scare ya,” the woman said. “Ain’t got energy to bite anything, but he can still give it a good tease.”

  “Looks like Buster could use a meal. You, too, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  The woman looked up with rheumy eyes. Billy had a feeling she was at least a decade younger than she looked. “You got a burger in your pocket, do ya?”

  Billy grinned. “Let’s see.” He reached into his pocket and let his fingers pull off five bills from the wad he’d tucked in earlier that evening. He handed them to the woman. “How’s that?”

  The woman stared at the fortune in her fingers. Billy hoped she was dreaming about the couple of weeks’ safety it would buy her in the kind of hotel that didn’t demand a credit card at check-in. The bathtub would be stained, but it would have enough hot water to scrub the street off her. She’d have a bed. Buster could curl up beside her and wouldn’t have to growl at anyone.

  And the two of them could eat.

  “There’s five hundred dollars here,” the woman whispered. She looked up one side of State Street, then down the other. “I ain’t sellin’ what you’re lookin’ to buy.” She lifted her hand to return the money. “Now get on down the way before I sic my dog on you. You might be surprised what he’s capable of if I yell loud enough.”

  Billy shook his head. “I’m not
buying anything. Had a run of luck, is all. Truth told, a couple of weeks ago I might have staked out this stoop myself.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. Billy put a hand over his heart.

  “True as can be. Took my showers at the Y every other day. Stood in line at Bethel for them hot lunches. My situation has changed. Makes me feel good to share a bit of it. Nothing more than that.” He cupped his hands around the woman’s and gently pushed back. “That money’s yours.” He scratched the top of Buster’s head. “You two take care, now.”

  Damn! This feels good! Maybe them preachers been right all along. Maybe it is better to give than get.

  He was nearing the Capitol Square when he felt a tug on his arm. Here it is, he thought. He knew how rapidly word spread on the street. If there was a mark to be had or a soft touch to be milked, everybody with no place to be would know within minutes. He shoved his hand back in his pocket. What the hell. I’ll give it all away tonight. Plenty more where this came from. He put on his best smile to greet whoever was hoping to get a bit of the sugar Billy had been passing around.

  His smile disappeared when he turned and saw who stood there.

  “Hello, Billy. Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

  Billy looked to his left and right. For what, he wasn’t sure.

  “Get in the car.”

  Billy glanced to the street. A dark sedan sat idling. Its back door was open.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Billy said.

  A hand tightened around his arm. In an instant Billy found himself facedown on the car’s leather backseat. His legs were shoved in behind him. The door slammed shut and he heard the locks engage. He struggled to pull himself into a seated position as his kidnapper swung into the front passenger seat.

  “It wasn’t an invitation, Billy.”

  Billy didn’t feel happy anymore. His gut burned with fear.

  “Your fingers have gotten quite sticky, Billy. Now, what do you suppose I’m going to do about that?”

  The car pulled away from the curb fast enough to throw Billy back against the seat. He closed his eyes. A vision of his father’s face appeared.

  And you, you son of a whore. You’ll never amount to anything.

  Chapter 2

  A bead of sweat snaked down Rick Sheffield’s forehead to the corner of his left eye. He blinked it away and kept his vision focused on the two men who hopped out of the beat-up SUV, following them as they walked down the alley behind a ramshackle storefront selling liquor, cigarettes, T-shirts, and flip-flops. He knew who they were. The tall and skinny piece of punk wearing jeans and a Bruno Mars sweatshirt was Frank Vistole. Hailed from Beloit. Fashioned himself some kind of Chicago gangster. But while his rap sheet was nearing the stage where only a judge with the bleedingest heart would offer the lad deferred sentencing, there was no indication Vistole ever had any part whatsoever in Windy City crime. The shorter one, lugging the blue duffel bag, was Ossie MacDonald. Ossie walked with a limp, a permanent reminder of the time he accepted a dare from one of his posse to jump off a highway overpass onto the roof of an approaching school bus.

  You boys have your own special brand of stupid working, don’t you? Rick watched them strut toward the store’s back door. His job was to monitor their approach. The Narcotics team had gotten a tip from a junkie, busted for stealing a woman’s purse while she made her deli selection at a local PickNSave, that Vistole and MacDonald were getting ready to make some kind of special delivery.

  “I don’t have me no idea what’s getting brought up,” she’d told the arresting officer. “But they said the payday was gonna be big. And knowing these players like I do, as I know you do, too, we can all put two and two together, right?”

  She had offered up date, place, and time in return for a trip to rehab instead of jail. Rick knew four plainclothes were already in the store. Squad cars waited out of sight, close enough to race into action should something go wrong. He looked right and left, making note of civilian locations. There were too many people. That meant the possibility of collateral damage.

  Hot summer evening brings ’em out, I guess.

  The two thugs opened the screen door and entered the building.

  “They’re inside,” Rick said into the small mic clipped to the collar of his shirt. “You kids have fun, now.” He heard the sound of casual chatter over the radio receiver connected to his earbud. He jogged down the alley. The plan was for him to take point on the back door, monitor the radio, and enter once the arrests were made.

  If I’m lucky I’ll be home in time to catch the first pitch. The Brewers were in first place and playing the Cubs under the lights.

  He was fewer than fifteen yards from the back door when he heard the first gunshot. Then he heard screaming. He broke into a full run while pulling out his service revolver. Three more shots rang from inside the store. More screaming. The door flew open. Rick swerved to his left as Vistole and MacDonald barreled into the alley.

  “Madison Police!” he shouted. “Freeze! Freeze! Freeze!”

  Both men turned. MacDonald stumbled and fell. The gun in Vistole’s hand glittered in the rays of the setting sun.

  “Drop your weapon!” Rick yelled. “Now!”

  Vistole snorted. A raging bull sizing its prey. He raised his gun toward Rick.

  “Drop your weapon!” Rick leveled his own gun. He saw the flash from Vistole’s barrel before he heard the shot. He felt an invisible punch to his gut. Then a searing pain. He saw Vistole grin as he aimed again.

  Rick fired. Twice.

  Then he hit the ground.

  He stared up at the darkening sky. Footsteps ran toward him. The wailing screech of sirens pierced the air. Hands grabbed. People shouted.

  Three birds soared above him. Rick struggled to keep his eyes focused as he watched them climb higher in the sky. Light drained from the dusk.

  He closed his eyes. An image came to him. A beautiful woman. Black hair. Blue eyes. Skin as smooth as vanilla ice cream. He whispered to her.

  “Sydney.”

  Chapter 3

  Clay Hawthorne raised his date’s hand to his lips. “This is getting serious, isn’t it?”

  Sydney Richardson traced a finger across his chin before bringing her hand back to her lap. “You mean this double date?” She shook her head and the diamonds dangling from her ears twinkled in the candlelight. “Leslie’s a wonderful woman. I’m eager to meet her husband, and I thought this would be an easy way for all of us to get together.”

  “I don’t know,” Clay teased. “Forming friendships with other couples. Seems to me the start down a road less traveled…”

  “Dear lord! Could a mortgage and a minivan in the burbs be far behind?” She nodded toward the restaurant door. “Time to stop teasing.”

  An elegant couple approached their table. Clay stood, giving Sydney another opportunity to admire how great he looked in a suit.

  “Forgive us for being late. I blame it all on my husband! This new job is getting the best of his time management. I suppose it’s something I’ll have to get used to.”

  “Sit here, Leslie.” Sydney patted the chair next to her own. “By me.”

  Leslie Arbeit laid her hand on Sydney’s shoulder. “My God, Syd. You look like you just stepped off the cover of Vogue. Stand up, will you? I want to see every inch of that gown.”

  “Prepare to be dazzled,” Clay said. “I just about fell to my knees when I picked her up.”

  “Which would have put you right where you need to be,” Leslie asserted. “Any woman as gorgeous as Sydney must always have men littering her path.”

  Sydney waved her hand to indicate the column of ivory lace hugging Leslie’s toned five-foot-eleven-inch body. “I’m going to return the compliment. You look magnificent.”

  “It’s fun to dress up, isn’t it?” Leslie asked, sm
iling.

  “Speak for yourself,” her escort huffed. He turned toward Clay. “I don’t know about you, but I’d take sweats and a Packers jersey over this suit any day.” He held out his hand. “I’m Charles. The guy this lovely lady puts up with on a regular basis.”

  Sydney liked the polished humility of the man’s needless introduction. While she and Clay had never met him, they, like everyone else in the room, knew Charles Arbeit was Madison’s chief of police. He was three inches taller than his wife, with gray eyes and a two-shades-darker buzz cut, and shoulders wide enough to carry the responsibility recently bestowed upon him by the mayor.

  “Charles, this is Sydney,” Leslie said.

  Chief Arbeit offered her his hand. “You’ve got quite a fan in my wife. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

  “I’m surprised it’s taken this long,” Sydney replied. “It’s been…what, Leslie? Three months since we met?”

  “Four,” Leslie corrected. “I came into Hush Money with a new job candidate I was hoping we could convince to come work with us. Middle of March. Cold as all get out. You came over to our table just before dessert.”

  “And before I knew it you had me promising to meet you for coffee the next day.”

  “Which surprised the hell out of me.” Charles Arbeit smiled at his wife. “Leslie’s always so focused on her work, I was stunned when she came home and told me she’d made a new friend.”