Sliver Of Truth

“But you think he killed her.”

“I know he did.” He finally turned to look at me.

“How?” I asked him.

He remained stone-faced and silent.

“You can’t just throw out an inflammatory statement like that and then clam up. Who was she? How did she know Max? How did she die?” I asked. “Why do you think Max killed her?”

He released a long breath. “Her body was found in an alley behind a Paris hotel. She was beaten to death,” he said. The information chilled me. I thought about the things Nick Smiley had told me. But Dylan’s voice was flat, his face unreadable. He seemed to have checked out on an emotional level.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

No response. I didn’t understand this guy’s communication style. One minute you couldn’t shut him up, the next he was doing his best impression of a brick wall. I sighed, stood up, and walked a little back and forth to get my blood flowing through my freezing limbs. Something seemed off to me. I kept my eye on the time.

“Why do you think Max killed her?” I asked again. Without any details, the whole thing just seemed made up. It didn’t ring true.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then: “Let’s just say he had ample motive and opportunity.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to disrespect him or his tragedy, but that wasn’t exactly proof positive.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” I said. “Anyway, I don’t see what this has to do with me.

“I mean,” I went on when he didn’t answer, “if you’ve focused in on me because you think I know something about Max, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

“I don’t think I am,” he said. “I think you’re exactly the person I need to be talking to. I’ve told you before that I don’t think you’re telling me everything you know. I’m giving you the opportunity to do that now, just you and me. Right now you’re not a federal witness, I’m not an agent; we’re just two people who can help each other find what we need to survive. You need to find your father. I need to find the person who killed my mother. They’re the same person. We can help each other or we can hurt each other. It’s up to you.”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t we just leave each other alone? I watched someone die today. I want to go home and forget that any of this ever happened. How about you go back to work and I go back to my life and we forget we ever met? You can get some therapy. Maybe I will, too.”

At that, I started backing away from him.

Maybe we did have similar agendas: We both wanted Max Smiley to answer for things he might have done. But I didn’t believe for one minute that we were on the same side. For all I knew, this was just some ruse to gain my trust so that I’d ally myself with him, share what I know, possibly lead him to the arrest of his life-a real career-maker.

I felt confused and scared, angry, too. I felt battered by the events of the last few days and by this man who wanted me to think he was my friend and my ally. I did the only thing I thought I could do in that moment. I ran.

10

I am a pathetically bad runner. I’m not built for it. No speed, no endurance. But I still managed to elude Dylan Grace, though only, I suspected, because he didn’t get up and chase me with any real determination…and because I managed to hail a cab before he made it to the street.

“Ridley, don’t be stupid!” he yelled.

I waved to him as the cab sped off.

“You shouldn’t run away from your boyfriend,” the cabdriver admonished. I looked at the ID plate: Obi Umbabwai. He had a heavy African accent. “There aren’t that many good men around.”

I gave him a dark look in the rearview mirror.

“Where are we going?” he asked after he’d driven south a block or two.

“I don’t know yet,” I answered. “Just drive around a minute.”

“You must be rich,” he said.

“Just drive please, sir,” I said. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed the number I’d taken off of Grant’s website. I prayed not to get voice mail as the phone rang. It was one-thirty.

“Go,” he answered.

“I need to see you,” I said.

There was a pause. “Do I know you?”

“Yeah, are you kidding? We met last night at Yaffa. You said you wanted to see me again.”

He started to protest. Then he got it. Not too quick on the draw for a conspiracy theorist. He probably met his buddies on Thursday nights to play Dungeons & Dragons; that’s probably as close as he’d come to any real intrigue.

“Oh, yeah,” he said reverently. “Glad you called.”

“Can you meet me right now?”

“Now?” he said, sounding surprised and a little uncertain.

“Now or never. I’m not a person with a lot of time.”

Another pause. His breathing sounded heavy, excited. “Where?”

I told him where to meet me and hung up. I figured I was probably making his day or even his year. I repeated my destination to the cabdriver, who gave me a disapproving look in the mirror.

“Whatever you say, honey.”

My cell phone rang and I saw Dylan’s number on the screen. I pressed the button and put the phone to one ear but didn’t say anything.

“Ridley, you are making a major mistake,” he said. “Do you really want to be a fucking fugitive?”