The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 34

Robert’s home was annoyingly perfect. Clean contemporary lines, rich dark walls, and sleek gleaming surfaces, with just enough leather and fabric to warm everything up. He had two bottles of wine breathing and a fire crackling in an outdoor hearth. I took it all in with a raised brow. “Why do I feel like you do this often?”

“I don’t.” He brought a beer bottle to his lips, then nodded at the wine. “Pick your poison.”

I chose the chardonnay over the pinot and poured a glass, then took in the view. His home was in the Hollywood Hills, perched high enough to show off the city, and a rainbow of lights was beginning to glow out of the dusk. A half hour earlier and I’d have caught the sunset. Still, it was impressive. I turned back and caught a tendril of hair before it whipped across my face. “I miss the smell of a fire.”

He smiled. “My contractor wanted to put in propane, but I like the smell of the wood, even if it does stick to your clothes.”

“Same here.”

In front of the fire was a half-circle sectional with dark-blue cushions and big white pillows. I took a spot on one side and slipped my sandals off, then tucked my feet underneath me.

He sat in the middle, six feet between us. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Quiet.” I had gone straight home and filled up my bathtub with lavender-scented bubbles. Soaked in the hot water and thought through every piece of the case and how Randall Thompson fit into it.

I still—even with a thousand pages of case files and a personal interview with the accused—didn’t have enough to go on. I didn’t know what Randall had done to Luke. I didn’t know if he exhibited characteristics of secondary identities. He certainly hadn’t in my time with him. If I had interviewed Randall Thompson as part of a lineup of potential suspects, I would have put him in the “unlikely” category. He wasn’t precise. Emphatic and unwavering in his innocence. Psychologically, he was wrong for this crime.

But then there was the evidence side of things. He had been identified by Scott Harden. There was the box of keepsakes from all six victims in his house. And there was something inherently dark in his soul. I recognized it, I just couldn’t take a pulse on how deep the depravity went.

Robert rolled the beer bottle between his palms. “Before I ask you your impressions of Randall, there’s something you should know about Scott Harden.”

Oh no. My fingers tightened on the stem of the wineglass. Scott was so young. Surely he hadn’t—

“He changed his story.”

The alarm whooshed out of me in a single breath. “In what way?”

“Originally, he said he escaped. Now he’s saying that he was let go and dropped off a few miles from his house.”

“Let go?” That was strange, and my heart beat faster. That lent itself to DID, which I was starting to lean toward over paranoid schizophrenia. “When did you find that out?” This was huge.

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

I set my glass on the arm of the couch, needing my full wits. “Wow. That’s interesting.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah. It surprised me, too. If only Gabe could have been so lucky.”

I turned the new information over in my mind. “Do you believe him?”

He tilted his head to one side. “That’s an interesting question. What are you getting at?”

“There are two things at play here. First, why would Scott Harden have lied initially, then told the truth? I have to work through that in my head. How does it affect the validity of his identification? What motivations prompted the first action, then the reversal of fact?”

“And the second thing?”

“Well, that’s about the killer. If Scott is telling the truth, why let him go? What made Scott different? What happened during those seven weeks?” I sighed. “If he really did let him go, then it lends credence to your theory that Scott is lying about Randall’s involvement. He could be protecting the real killer. He could have developed a loyalty or almost a love for the man.”

“Like Stockholm syndrome.”

“Yes.” The syndrome wasn’t an official diagnosis but a mental coping strategy, one exploited by Hollywood and novelists but still very real. I had dismissed Robert’s initial scenario as unrealistic, but now . . . with my opinion of Randall Thompson already shaky and Scott’s validity as a witness in question . . . it was starting to look like a valid possibility.

I tucked the end of my dark-purple maxi dress under my knees. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He looked at me, and the firelight flicked over his features. “Remind me of it.”

“Do you believe Scott’s new story?”

“I think he’s proven that he’s unreliable. Whether I believe him or not, he’s given me the ammunition I need to make sure that the jury doesn’t believe a word he says.”

He was right. Hell, I was waffling all over the place on Randall’s guilt. If you took away the box of souvenirs, I’d be certain of his innocence. He was a square peg that didn’t fit into my profile, and Scott Harden was officially untrustworthy. All Robert needed was one juror to have reasonable doubt. He’d get that, and Randall Thompson would be free.

I let out a breath and considered the sobering thought that the Bloody Heart Killer was still out there. Watching us. I glanced at the view, the dark drop-off before the scenery of faraway lights, and suddenly didn’t feel so cozy and protected.

“I’ve been rereading your BH profile.”

“And?” I brushed a lock of hair away from my mouth.

“It has holes.”

An accurate statement. One that a DID or PS diagnosis would help to fill. I took a sip of wine and didn’t respond.

“How certain are you that the BH Killer is gay?”

He was referring to the section of the profile where I dissected the anal rapes and penile amputation of the boys. The highly personal and sexual nature of the abuse, paired with the victim selection, lent itself to that likelihood.

“I’m not certain that he’s gay. I believe he has violently strong emotions about homosexuality and would repress those inclinations if he experienced them in his everyday life.”

“Well, Randall Thompson is not gay. One hundred thousand percent not gay.” He rose as if the discussion was final. I watched as he walked over to a bronze can and dropped the bottle inside.

“How do you know?” I challenged. “Have you spoken to his prior students?”

“No, but I emailed you his discovery file an hour ago. You can review it yourself. Every accusation made against him was made by a female student, not a male. Is Randall a little creepy?” He paused. “Yes. Would I trust him to babysit my fourteen-year-old niece? Hell no. But he’s not gay, and he’s in horrific shape, so he’s not moving bodies in and out of trunks unless he has an inhaler handy and some help.”

It was a valid point and underlined the fact that Randall was too old for my psychological profile. He was pushing retirement, and the BH Killer was much more likely to be in his early forties, physically fit, and not in an environment where he was surrounded by students every day.

“Look,” I yielded, “I didn’t come here to convince you that he matches the profile. But there’s something off with him.”

“Sure, he’s a sexual predator.” He shrugged as if the information was unimportant. “Three students have filed complaints about him in the last twenty years.”

“Wait, what?” I paused. “Why didn’t you mention that before? When I asked you, what . . . ?” I tried to think about how long it had been. “A week ago? I asked you if any students had complained about him.”

He pulled a fresh bottle from the ice bucket and twisted off the cap. “I didn’t want your initial impression of him to be tainted. You’re the one who preached the need for a clean mental slate when creating your profile.”

Fair point. Still . . . “If he’s a sexual predator, that only puts more validity—”

“They were all females. Thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls. It’s a completely different MO.”

I fell silent and processed the information. He was right, it was a different MO. Was that the vibe I had gotten from Randall? Molester versus killer?

Maybe I had been wrong.

He studied me, then turned toward the house. “Enough talk about death. Let’s head inside. I want to show you something.”

“What do you think?”

I stared at the wall of items, letting my eyes drift over each of them. There were too many to absorb, and I drifted closer, then moved slowly down the line. Each was housed in a clear box and lit with a spotlight that protruded from the wall. “What is this?”

“It’s my collection of oddities. Each birthday and Christmas, I buy something unique to add to it.”

I appraised the collection. At least thirty items, ranging from figurines to photos. “How long have you been doing this?”

“My wife began the tradition. She always selected items of significance, ones that carried a personal story from our life. After she died, Gabe and I continued it on our own.”

The importance of what I was looking at sank in. Not just a wall of expensive knickknacks. This was an intimate look behind his veil. While the kitchen was devoid of life, this room was heavy with it. It could have felt dark and mournful, but there was a peace in the reverence. Robert seemed more relaxed in here, more at home. Stopping before a pair of short swords, I bent to read the gold plaque. “‘Splitting the eyebrows.’ What does that mean?”

“Those are samurai swords from the 1800s. They tested the sharpness of them by cutting a human skull in half. After they passed the test, the owner engraved the saying on the underside of them.”

He ran a finger over the glistening surface of the blade. “Gabe picked these out. The Last Samurai was his favorite movie. This summer, we had plans to spend two weeks in Japan and visit the Kakunodate district and Hagi castle town.” He swallowed, his eyes wet, and pulled his hand back.

The reality of his life hit me. Past the expensive suits, the confidence, the courtroom record, was a man living alone with ghosts. Everyone he loved had been taken from him. Was it any wonder he had shown up at my home with flowers and stayed long enough to put together a puzzle? Pushed for dinner, then almost begged me for this evening of drinks? Approached a stranger in a bar and gone home with her?

I may have only had my cat and a DVR playlist of romantic comedies, but my life was absent of grief, and that additional force took loneliness and drenched it in agony.

I cleared my throat and moved down the wall, examining a baseball that looked like it had been put through a garbage disposal. He followed, his arm brushing mine, and I struggled not to reach out and touch him, to comfort him.

“Now, that ring”—he pointed to an antique emerald solitaire, one in a gold setting and surrounded by diamonds—“has an interesting story.”

I waited, afraid to ask if it had belonged to his wife.

He lifted the open ring box off its stand, removing it from the spotlight. “It’s over four hundred years old and has been lost to the sea twice. The first time was in 1622, when a Spanish treasure ship sank off the coast of Florida in a hurricane.”

“The Atocha,” I remarked, familiar with the history.

He raised an eyebrow, impressed. “That’s right. When hunters found the treasure in 1985, this ring was recovered, polished up, and gifted to the wife of a prominent investor, Debbie Stickelber, who wore it on her finger every day for ten years. Every single day, except for one.” He paused and I grinned up at him, enjoying the theatrics of the story. It was no wonder he was good in the courtroom. As a juror, I’d listen to him all day.

“The morning of October 4, 1995, Debbie was woken up by her husband, who screamed at her to get dressed and grab anything of value. A hurricane was coming. The umbrellas and patio furniture on the porch of their beachfront home had already smashed against the railings. Storm surge was beginning to creep up their sand.” His voice took on the dark tones of a ghost story. “She grabbed the small safe from his office and a Van Gogh that hung just outside their bedroom and ran for their car, leaving behind her wedding ring, watch, and this ring, still lying on the bedside table, where she took them off each night.”

“Why hadn’t they gotten out earlier? Don’t you know days in advance about a hurricane?”

“The Stickelbers were known for their parties and had decided to ride out the storm with a few dozen bottles of liquor and champagne. It wasn’t until that morning, when the husband woke up and realized the size of the storm, that he decided they needed to leave—and it was a good thing they did. Hurricane Opal destroyed their house, wiping it completely off the sand. When they returned one week later, the only thing left was the concrete pilings that their home had been tethered to. Along with their belongings, the hurricane took over five hundred Atocha coins, six silver bars, and her jewelry. A search party, complete with backhoes and divers, searched the shore and ocean for weeks, looking for the re-lost treasure.”

I looked down at the ring. “And they found this?”

“Yep. Four houses down, a hundred yards out, under two feet of sand. They eventually found two of the bars, and around half the coins. The rest was never recovered, or”—he gave me a wry grin—“I suspect some was pocketed by members of the search crew.”

“How did you end up with it?”

He chuckled. “Debbie Stickelber ended up leaving her vast estate—including the ring—to her dogs, a decision that infuriated her children and led to quite a legal battle.”

“I wasn’t aware you did estate litigation.”

His grin widened. “I don’t. But when one son tried to kill his sister over ownership of the teacup poodle with the net worth of some countries . . . that’s when I was hired. The assets were frozen by the court, but the sister slipped me this ring, and we called it a day.”

“I love that story.” I held the ring box out to him.

“You should keep it. Consider it my payment for the profile.”

I choked out a laugh. “Wha—what? No.” I pushed it toward him. The stone was two carats, if not three. The value of it . . . with the history . . . I couldn’t even fathom. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I don’t have anyone to give things to, Gwen.” His voice dropped. “Just take it. Please. I don’t want to be that guy who leaves everything to his goldfish.”

I met his eyes, and another protective layer was gone, his emotions exposed, the haunted look in his eyes almost unbearable. Impulsively, I reached forward and hugged him. His back was stiff, his body language tense, but I still wrapped my arms around him and squeezed. After a moment, he responded, softening into the embrace. “Thank you,” I said quietly. “It’s the nicest thing I’ll ever own. And there is no way that goldfish lives past the month.”

He laughed and kissed my forehead, a surprisingly sweet gesture that affected me more than it should. When he stepped away, my body ached to follow. “Just promise me you won’t lose it in a storm.”

“I won’t.” I closed the lid and glanced back at the empty space. “I’m going to get you something to replace it. It won’t be a priceless emerald, but I’ll find something. Something cool.”

“Cool,” he repeated, walking down the row, his attention already off the vacant spot. “I think I’m too old for cool.”

“Which is your favorite?” I shivered as I passed in front of the air vent, my thin dress not enough for the chilly room.

“It’s too hard to choose.” He glanced at me and moved closer, reaching out to rub his palms along my upper arms. “Do you want to go outside where it’s warmer?”

I couldn’t think of a response, because his attention had fallen to my mouth, his hands tightening on my arms, and when he tugged me forward, I sank into his chest, like one of those mindless heroines in a romance novel. Right into the arms of the vulnerable and lonely beast.