White Lies Page 9

  "Yes," Asher swallowed, hoping his voice wouldn't sound shaky. "I know." He met Denny's eyes. "Someone is trying to kill me." He pushed Denny's hands away. "Why are you here? Are you gloating? Happy to see what a mess my life is?" The flicker of anger in his friend's eyes was a relief. He retrieved the photo Denny had dropped and handed the paper back to him.

  Denny threw the paper to the water logged floor. "Do they know how the fire started?"

  "Does it matter?" Immobilized by the onslaught of grief, regret and uncertainty, Asher watched as the bloom of moisture spread across the newspaper,

  "How did the fire start, Asher?" Denny was red in the face. Asher could feel the anger in him. He took a step back, needing a little more space between them.

  "Are you going to blame that on me? Wow, Denny, you're relentless." He put the photo with the other on the desk and went back to get the next one off the wall. His voice sounded flat. He hoped that made him seem calm and not psychotic. "No, I didn't start the fire. Nobody has said anything to me about how it did start. But you might like to know that the police don't think I did it." He began stacking the damaged pictures into his arms. "You should go. I've got a lot of work to do." He could feel Denny glaring at him.

  "You need help." As dramatic last words, they left something to be desired, but they cut deeply, all the same.

  Asher heard Denny's footsteps squelch through the living room. He dumped the photos on the desk and surveyed the destruction again. He was going to need a lot of trash bags.

  * * *

  Asher stepped out the back door to get some fresh air. The stench of wet ashes had his head pounding and his throat raw. The lawn was littered with burned bits. Behind the garage a flood from the fire hoses had deposited a band of mud, as if high tide had brought it in. The cat food bowls were full of mucky water. The mud didn't have any small paw prints. He wondered if the cats had jumped ship, and if so, should he take that as a warning?

  He was in the kitchen, wiping grit off the sink, when Sharon's car screeched into the driveway.

  "Whoa!" She tromped in the door, eyes wide and toured the room, carefully avoiding sooty surfaces. "It smells like a brushfire in here."

  "I called one of those disaster clean-up companies."

  "That’s my job."

  "You weren’t here."

  She smiled and wiggled her butt. "Yeah, had a hot time last night."

  Asher's mouth crooked in a lopsided smile. "Me, too."

  "What did you do?"

  Asher looked at her, waiting for the pun to hit. "The fire?"

  Sharon blinked at him.

  "So you had a good time?" he asked.

  "Ex-cel-lante!"

  "Glad to hear it."

  She gave him a once-over. "Cool shirt."

  He stared at her, unsure if she was making fun of him.

  "So I guess you need to move to a new place now."

  Asher shook out another trash bag. "I've got a builder coming tomorrow to give me a quote on repairs."

  "No!" Sharon stamped her foot, splashing sooty muck on her ankle. "Don't you get it? This is a sign. You need to move back into Beverly Hills now. Or Malibu. Yeah, that would be better. On the beach."

  He met her eyes and saw something he hadn't expected. "I can't afford to live there," he said quietly.

  "I bet you can." The spark of greed he'd found kindled into aggression. "I've been checking around, and I think you've got more money than you're letting on."

  "Can you take me to the store? I'm going to need more trash bags."

  "Y'know they say you need to spend money to make money." She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

  "Sharon, this isn't the time for that, OK?"

  She looked away and saw the stack of photos on the kitchen table. "Oh no. All your pictures got ruined!"

  "Yeah. And they're the old kind. I don't know where the negatives are."

  She sorted through the pictures. "Hey, here's that guy."

  Asher dried his hands on a dish towel. "What guy?"

  "Remember, I told you there was this really creepy guy at the car place?" She held up a photo. "This is him."

  "Must have just looked like him, sweetie. That's Scottie, and he's dead."

  "No. I'm sure it's him. You can't remember a lot of stuff, maybe you're wrong."

  He took the photo from her. A shiver skipped up his spine. Could he be wrong?

  Chapter 23

  Sharon made it very clear that cleaning was not in her job description. Not long after she left, a policeman arrived and chased Asher out. He had already filled a bag with a few essential items. Wallet in pocket, he made a quick trip to the mall for clothes and underwear. Then he took a cab back to the hotel and showered. Clean and dressed, he realized he didn't have anything left to do. He was stuck in a hotel room with time on his hands and nothing planned. Lunch would only take up an hour, if he found a place with slow service. The day stretched out before him like a two-lane through the desert. He should be trying to figure out if the fire was connected to the rest of the craziness going on, but first he needed to know if it was an accident. The detectives said they would let him know if the verdict was arson.

  With an intrepid rush of optimism, Asher decided to start inspecting his burnt bridges. There would never be a good time. It was always going to be scary, with the distinct possibility of a very hurtful encounter as the outcome. Denny had already proved that point, in spades. But the anticipation was worse. Besides, the police were already speaking to most of his friends. He needed to start with his oldest friend, George. Of all his friends, Asher felt George could help him sort things out.

  He took a cab to Beverly Hills and got out a block from George's house. The street had high security walls and electronic entries. He walked down the hill and stood at the gate. Staring across the lawn to the house brought back memories. He'd known George a long time. They'd done a few movies together that had been very well received. His hands were shaking as he pressed the buzzer. There was a good chance they wouldn't let him in. George hadn't spoken to him for a long time. Although he couldn't put a finger on any defining event, he was sure he'd done something very wrong.

  All the doors magically opened allowing him access. He waited in the sparkling foyer of a full blown movie director's mansion: Italian marble floor, crystal chandelier, soaring vases flanking the doorway with flower arrangements almost as tall as Asher. The fragrance of the lilies was a distinct improvement over the stench of singed carpet that he'd been smelling all morning. He heard the footsteps long before his friend appeared.

  "Asher."

  He looked up. His friend hadn't changed over the years, still thin, maybe a head shorter than Asher. His brown hair had a few wisps of gray, but his green eyes were sharp as ever.

  "Hi, George. Thanks for seeing me."

  "I couldn't believe it was really you." Arms folded tightly, his eyes narrowed with anger, George stood in a hallway a few steps up from the foyer. "I can’t believe that you have the balls to step foot in this house."

  "Oh." Asher glanced away. Here it came, the thing he dreaded.

  "You do remember what you did?"

  He didn't look up, giving George a half-hearted shrug.

  "You slept with my wife!"

  Asher shot him a puzzled look. "Laurie?"

  George growled and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Jeanine!"

  "I’m sorry." Asher lowered his eyes, staring at the marble tiles. "Should I go?"

  "Yes."

  Asher's hopes fell hard. He walked to the door, but paused optimistically, with his hand on the doorknob. After a moment, he knew there'd be no call to come back. He shut the door quietly behind himself.

  Head bowed, hands deep in pockets, Asher walked slowly down the winding driveway. He had hoped for at least the chance for a conversation. He gave himself a shake, ruffled his hair, squared his shoulders. Jeanine? He couldn't find a face to fit with the name. When had George remarried? For that matter, he couldn'
t remember when he'd divorced Laurie.

  * * *

  George watched from the door. He was surprised Asher had left as asked. There was no wheedling, no cajoling. He'd looked so sad when he left, real emotion. He hadn't seen Asher react from the heart in a very long time. George cut across the lawn.

  "Ash."

  Asher turned, his eyes flickered away from George's stern regard.

  "Where’s your car?"

  Asher gave him a hesitant smile. "They took my license years ago, you know that."

  "It never stopped you from crashing them before."

  "Yeah, well things are different when you’re sober all the time."

  George perked up. "All the time?"

  "Yeah. Caffeine and sugar are my drugs now. They’re a lot cheaper and a whole lot easier to acquire."

  George started to smile but it turned into a frown. "What do you want?"

  "I need your help."

  George looked away. "I can’t get you any work."

  "I’m not asking for that. It has nothing to do with that."

  George came a little closer, looked him over. "You’re too skinny."

  "I prefer wiry."Asher laughed and struck a pose. "Can I get a few minutes of your time?"

  He looked in George's eyes, another thing he hadn't done in a long time. There was a lot of baggage between them. Still hesitant, George moved back a step. He didn't want to get his hopes up that his old friend was back. "What’s it about?"

  "You may have noticed that I've been in the news lately."

  George shook his head. "I've been out of town."

  "You didn't hear about Pam?"

  "Oh, of course." He nodded. "You're upset." There was a gentle warmth to his response.

  As if that gave him permission, Asher's emotions spilled forth. "Oh, God, that's not the least of it. George, the police arrested me for her murder, Alanna got mugged and someone tried to burn down my house! I've got to get ahead of this. Something really bad is coming down on me soon."

  George's eyebrows had risen sharply and his mouth opened twice before he spoke. "You sure you’re not high?"

  "Denny thinks I’ve lost it permanently. He even asked me if I set the fire."

  George heard the tremor in his voice and took a mental inventory – no shakes, no fidgeting, clear eyes, lucid speech. "All right, come in the house. We'll talk."

  * * *

  They settled in the solarium, a lush but cozy room with over-stuffed furniture. Sunshine poured in the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the wood floor glow honey-brown. Asher sank down on the butter yellow leather sofa, relieved to be with someone he could speak to candidly.

  George stood at the fieldstone fireplace that filled the wall facing the windows. "Could this all be a terrible coincidence? A perfect storm of bad luck?"

  "I think that would almost be worse." Asher stretched out his long legs, eyed the coffee table and decided it was too pricey to play footstool. "I'm the only thing in common in every single, bloody...crime."

  "OK." George huffed out a long sigh. "What about the hospital?"

  Asher squinted a question at him.

  "You make any enemies in the loony bin?"

  "I'm not going to quibble with the 'enemies' part because whoever is doing this has got to hate me, but not at the hospital. There was one guy who was crazy enough to kill, but they'd never let him out."

  "Who would they let out?"

  "Robby's out. But this is totally out of his league. He'd never hurt anybody. Not like this."

  George folded his arms and scowled at a spot on the far wall. "Run it down for me."

  "Pam was killed with the gun from Joey Amsterdam."

  "That was a Beretta 92FS INOX, if I remember correctly."

  Asher nodded. George was a weapons aficionado

  "Prop guns can't fire real bullets. The barrels are altered."

  "She was killed with real bullets. Believe me, I saw the pictures." Asher's throat tightened as he remembered the blood.

  George's head jerked back to Asher, eyes wide. "The cops showed you the crime scene photos?"

  "Cops arrested me because my fingerprints were on the gun, but...," he held up his damaged thumb, "no scar. So I had proof that the fingerprints were from when it was a prop and they let me go." He stared at the scar, grateful for everything it had triggered.

  "And you don't have the know-how to replace a barrel, anyway. Did you tell them that?"

  "Didn't need to once my fingerprints didn't match. But George, where's it been that only my fingerprints were on it?"

  "You don't remember that thing they made for Barry?"

  "Barry? Big-Bucks Barry produced that one?"

  George nodded. "They put the Beretta, some of the passports and the keys to the Lamborghini into this presentation case for him. Kind of a sloppy, last minute thing, I didn't think it looked very nice. He put the damn thing in his living room. Showed it off every time I was over there." George wrinkled his nose.

  "But Barry wouldn't kill Pam."

  "Huh. You are out of the loop, my friend. Barry's been dead four years at least."

  "Oh. Well, I doubt his wife... was it Lorraine?"

  "Nah, he divorced Lorraine and married Number Five at least a year before he died. She sold everything she could get her hands on and moved to Bermuda."

  Asher groaned. "So anyone could have bought it."

  George paced the thick white throw rug in the sitting area. "Someone got a hold of the gun, refitted i...wait, how did it still have your prints if it was refitted?"

  "Prints were on the grip."

  "Right, of course. Any prints on the barrel?

  "No."

  "That would be too easy. And the cops would have tracked that down by now. But why kill Pam? Could it have been a robbery gone bad?"

  Asher shook his head. "This is the really scary part. The killer walked right up to her and she didn't run. Her purse, phone and tablet were right there on the passenger seat. Since nothing was missing, cops don't think it was a robbery. She'd just put all her stuff in the car and...blam."

  George made a slow circuit of the room, hand on chin, as he thought. "She knew him. Which made sense to the cops when they got your fingerprints off the gun. OK. What's the other stuff?"

  "Alanna got mugged and last night someone set my garage on fire."

  "Is she OK?"

  "Bumps and bruises. She called me from the hospital, and I went. Denny came down on me hard for that. Ran into the press when I left. They cut up the interview, and it all came out wrong."

  "Gee, wish I hadn't missed that," George said with a roll of his eyes. "How bad was the fire damage?"

  "Bad. I'm in a hotel."

  George stopped pacing to stare out the window. "Ash, this could all be just coincidence. Pam pulled some shady deals in her life. Alanna's writing that self-help crap and that's sure to attract the loonies. And your garage could just be an accident."

  "Really?" It was very reassuring when George laid it out like that. Maybe he was just jumping at shadows.

  George settled in an armchair across from him and put his feet up on the matching ottoman. There was a long moment of silence. Asher tensed, sensing a change in George's demeanor.

  "Ash, I gotta ask. Why did you sleep with Jeanine?"

  Asher leaned back and stared at the ceiling. What could he say about something he had no memory of? He looked over, meeting his friend's eyes. "I've got a lot of holes, George. I don't remember Jeanine." He raised a hand to forestall any contradictions. "If you say I slept with her, I believe you. And I'm really sorry. But those memories are totally gone." He stared at his hands for a moment, then tried to shrug the regrets away. "So, when did you and Laurie divorce?"

  George gave him a blank stare. "Wow. How much have you lost?"

  He laughed nervously and thought of a couple of glib remarks, but this was George. They'd been very close, once. "I don't know." Looking at his friend, he realized that was the right answer.

 
; George nodded. "Laurie died about, geez, can it be six years ago? Cancer."

  "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. You guys were so in love."

  George gave him a sad smile. "I'm glad you remember that part."

  Asher glanced around the room looking for photos. "Are you and Jeanine..."

  "Divorced." George shook his head. "You weren't the first, or the last. She said you seduced her, and I really wanted to believe her."

  Asher fingered creases into the soft fabric of his pants. "It probably was my fault, George. I was high almost all the time by then."

  "Thanks for that." George gave him a warm smile. "But like I said, you weren't the last. And I think I really just couldn't hack being alone at that point."

  "Speaking of back then...." Asher hesitated until George gave him an acquiescing nod. "What can you tell me about Scott?"

  George made a face. "He knows better than to come anywhere near me, Ash. I haven't seen him in years."

  Asher sucked in a breath. His hands went ice cold. "He's alive?"

  "Shit. You didn't know?"

  Asher shook his head.

  "Damn. I knew Denny told everybody he was dead, but I didn't think that would fly for very long."

  "Do you think he could have killed Pam?"

  George stared at him. "Why? Scott's scum, but what does he get out of killing her?"

  Asher thought it through. She was in debt, so it didn't involve money. And the husband would inherit whatever property there might be. "Nothing."

  "Exactly. If it doesn't involve cold cash, he wouldn't lift a finger. In fact, if had been him, he'd have stolen her car and everything in it."

  Asher took a deep breath. "Right."

  George stood up. "Come on into the kitchen, I've got this new espresso maker. We'll get buzzed and brainstorm your comeback." He headed out of the room.

  Asher shot a nervous glance at him. Buzzed? Comeback? He wasn't sure which was more frightening "Buzzed on caffeine, right?"

  George turned and looked him in the eye. "Oh Ash, I would never do that to you. Caffeine and sugar is all you'll get here."

  He choked out a laugh that was too close to a sob. "I figured I'd be safe here, but you know people change."

  "Want me to lock the liquor cabinet?" George joked with a grin.