Genuine Lies

kind of horrible joke. But his gut had known differently. All through the long, frustrating drive he’d fought to ignore that empty, clutching feeling in the pit of his stomach, that dry burning in his throat. The minute he pulled up at the gate, he’d known it was hopeless.
    “I’m sorry, sir.” The cop moved over to speak through the window of Paul’s car. “No one’s allowed through.”
    “I’m Paul Winthrop,” he said flatly. “Eve Benedict’s stepson.”
    With a nod, the cop turned away and pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. After a brief conversation, he signaled the gate.
    “Please drive directly to the guest house.” He slid into the passenger’s seat. “I’ll have to go with you.”
    Paul said nothing, only started up the drive he’d cruised along countless times. He spotted more uniformed police walking over the estate slowly, fanned out like a search team. Searching for what? he wondered. For whom?
    There were more cars, still more police surrounding the guest house. The air buzzed with the squawking from the radios. It rang with weeping. Travers was slumped onto the grass, sobbing into the apron she held to her face. And Nina, her armsaround the housekeeper, her own face damp with tears, blank with shock.
    Paul got out of the car and took one step toward the house before the cop stopped him.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Winthrop, you can’t go in.” “I want to see her.”
    “Only official personnel allowed on the crime scene.”
    He knew the drill, goddammit, knew it every bit as well as this snot-nosed cop who’d barely begun to shave. Turning, he frosted the young officer with a single glance.
    “I want to see her.”
    “Look, I’ll, ah, check, but you’re going to have to wait until the coroner gives the okay.”
    Paul yanked out a cigar. He needed something to take the taste of grief and waste out of his mouth. “Who’s in charge here?”
    “Lieutenant Needlemeyer.” “Where is he?”
    “Around in back. Hey,” he said as Paul started around. “He’s conducting an investigation.” “He’ll see me.”
    They were on the terrace, seated at the cheerful table, surrounded by flowers. Paul’s gaze passed over Needlemeyer briefly, locked on Julia. Ice. Her face was so clear, so pale, so cold. She was gripping a glass in both hands, her fingers so tightly molded to it, they might have been glued.
    And there was blood. On her skirt, on her jacket. Terror ripped through his grief.
    “Julia.”
    Her nerves were stretched so tight, the sound of her name had her leaping up. The glass flew out of her hands to shatter on the tiles. For an instant she swayed as the air went thick and gray. Then she was racing toward him.
    “Paul. Oh, God, Paul.” The trembling started again the moment his arms came around her. “Eve” was all she could say. And again. “Eve.”
    “Are you hurt?” He wanted to yank her back, to see forhimself, but couldn’t force his arms to loosen their grip. “Tell me if you’re hurt.”
    She shook her head, gulping in air. Control. She had to take back some control now or she’d never find it again. “She was in the house when I got home. In the house, on the floor. I found her on the floor. Paul, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
    Paul looked over her shoulder. Needlemeyer hadn’t moved, but sat quietly, watching. “Do you have to do this now?” Paul demanded.
    “Always the best time.”
    They knew each other, had known each other for more than eight years, and had become friends through Paul’s research.
    Frank T. Needlemeyer had never wanted to be anything but a cop. He’d never looked like anything but a graduate student—one who majored in party. Paul knew he was nearly forty, but his baby face showed no sign of age. Professionally, he had seen just about all the ugliness humanity had to offer. Personally, he’d weathered two miserable marriages. He’d come through it without a line, without a gray hair, and with the stubborn confidence that things could be made right if you kept hacking away at wrong.
    And because they knew each other, Frank understood how much Eve Benedict had meant to Paul. “She was a hell of a woman, Paul. I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah.” He wasn’t ready for sympathy, not yet. “I need to see her.”
    Frank nodded. “I’ll arrange it.” Then let out a quiet breath. Obviously the woman Paul had told him about the last time they’d tossed back a few was Julia Summers. How had he described her? Frank flipped through