The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 18

“Something’s different about you.” Meredith studied me over the Thai-restaurant menu.

“I cut my hair.” I flipped the giant laminated board over. “I don’t even know what half of this stuff is.”

“Just get the shrimp fried rice.” She sat back as a bowl of steamed pork dumplings was delivered, then rattled off her order to the waitress.

I followed suit, then watched as the waitress retreated. “I wanted to get bangs but chickened out and did something different with the layers.”

“It’s not your hair that’s different. It’s your aura.”

I swallowed the urge to tell her what I thought of her New Age bullshit. That might work on Calabasas housewives, but if I told any of my clients to rub a positivity rock, I’d get laughed out of practice in a week.

“I’m serious. What’s wrong?”

“I’m a little stressed,” I managed.

“Over your dead wife killer?” She tapped a trio of faux sweetener packets against her palm.

I glanced around the outdoor courtyard, making sure no one was in earshot. “Easy, Meredith.”

“No one’s listening.” She waved off my concern. “Talk to me. Are you still feeling guilt over the suicide?”

“Yes, but that’s not the main source of it.” I watched a couple rise from their seats. “I’m doing a psych profile for a new client.”

She plucked up a dumpling and dipped it into the sauce. “Prosecution or defense?”

“Defense.” I walked her through Robert’s initial request of my services, leaving out our drunken night of passion.

Meredith’s eyes widened as I moved through the story. “Hold up.” She quickly swallowed the full mouthful before speaking. “He hires you, gives you the file, and you haven’t talked to him since?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I left a message for him at his office, but he hasn’t called me back.”

“I saw a news story on this guy . . . ,” she said slowly. “His son was one of the BH Killer’s victims, right? Like, number five?”

“Six,” I confirmed.

Her eyes widened as she connected the pieces. “And he’s hot, right?”

“He is very good-looking,” I allowed.

“NO,” she argued. “He’s smoking hot. You need to push aside the doom and gloom and saddle him up like a prize stallion.”

I struggled to maintain a casual air. “Anyway, I’m—”

“Oh, this just gets better and better.” She pushed the dumplings away and hunched forward, her green eyes glowing with interest. “You already did, didn’t you?”

“I did not saddle him up and ride him like a prize stallion,” I said wryly. “It was more like an arthritic grandma on the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

She crowed with laughter and clapped her hands together. “Oh my word, you dirty slut.”

I blushed despite myself. This had been, after all, my crowning sexual achievement of the decade. I couldn’t believe I’d kept it to myself this long. Meredith normally sniffed out an indiscretion the minute someone’s panties hit the ground.

“So it’s not stress,” she said, picking her chopsticks back up. “It’s the glow of sexual satisfaction. Unless it was a disappointment?” She glanced at me for confirmation.

I colored, trying not to think of the sexual peaks the night had delivered. “Very satisfying,” I assured her. “But I think it’s still stress. I haven’t had a solid night’s sleep in weeks.”

Her response was cut off by her phone. As she answered the call, I lifted the teakettle and poured myself a small cup.

It was a little annoying that I hadn’t heard from Robert. Our sex history aside, I’d been hired for a job and was waiting on the rest of the victim files he had promised me. Granted, in the last five days, he had retained the most high-profile killer in California history. His office must be flooded with press calls, discovery requests, and prehearing prep. My voice mail was probably buried in a mountain of other messages.

“So, what’s in the file?” Meredith ended her call and moved on from my sexual exploits as easily as she did the dumplings. “Have you started the psychological profile yet?”

“I don’t have enough to go on. I need to see all the victims’ files, which I should be able to get.” No wonder he’d been so confident about getting them. He’d have a mountain of information if he’d secured Randall Thompson as a client.

“Girl, that’s like gold for you. The Bloody Heart files?”

“I know. Six murders.” I smiled.

“Try not to look so gleeful about it.”

I shrugged. It was exciting, especially since he was behind bars. I said as much, and she nodded slowly, something clearly on her mind.

“Why do you think he’s representing him? I mean, I watched the news bit. You believe what he says, that he thinks Randall is innocent?”

It was the question of the hour, and I sighed. “I don’t know. If someone killed my child, I couldn’t be in the same room without clawing their eyes out, so that part of me says that he must believe in Thompson’s innocence. But then again, how would he know?”

“Unless he’s the real killer,” she pointed out.

“He killed his own son?” I shook my head. A decade of studying habitual killers had taught me that they didn’t get around to their own children on the sixth victim, then continue on.

“Don’t look at me like that. First off, people kill their kids. And Robert could be the BH Killer and not kill his son. Maybe Gavin—”

“Gabe,” I corrected her.

“Gabe died some other way. And everyone assumed it was the BH Killer because the kid was a hot young stud, and his dad disposed of his body in the same way.”

I pulled my gaze off a couple who had entered the restaurant, the man’s hand clamped on his girlfriend’s shoulder. She was going to have a problem with him, if she didn’t already. I mused over Meredith’s hypothesis, which could have legs. “That’s a stretch.”

She shrugged. “Why? Because he was good in bed? Trust me, the better the motion, the more screwed up the ocean.”

I laughed. “Okay,” I mused, going down her path of reasoning. “So you’re saying that Gabe Kavin dies from some other cause. And Robert Kavin is the real BH Killer, but Scott Harden points the finger at Randall Thompson for some reason, and then Robert Kavin defends him because he may kill teenagers for a hobby, but he has a conscience and doesn’t want an innocent man to go down for his crimes.”

“Or, he killed his son, staged it to look like the BH Killer, though that would have required him to hold him prisoner for over a month . . .” She frowned. “Okay, so there are a few gaps in the logic,” she allowed.

“Lots of gaps in the logic. Pretty much no logic at all.” I moved my tea to the side as our entrées arrived.

For the next half hour, we ate, discussed bad TV and industry politics, and didn’t mention dead teenagers at all.

It was a nice reprieve—one that ended as soon as I stepped from the restaurant and glanced at my phone.

I had a missed call and a voice mail. Robert Kavin had finally called me back.