Page 38 of The Liar

WEST

I was out behind Henry’s, chatting with one of the delivery drivers, when my phone rang. I excused myself and returned inside, checking the screen as I did. My heart lifted. It was Joanna. I accepted the call.

“Hey.” I sounded as breathless as I felt.

“Hi. Are you alone?” Her tone was brisk and businesslike.

I looked around. “Yeah. I just popped into the bar to help with a couple of things, but I was about to leave.”

“Good.” She hesitated for a moment. “Can you meet me at Grant Park?”

My eyebrows flew up. I couldn’t imagine why she might ask me to meet her there rather than at our apartment or even Henry’s.

“Sure.” I checked that the back door was locked and headed out through the fire exit, which automatically locked behind me. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

My car—a small sedan with several hidden compartments, which actually belonged to the bureau rather than me—was parked to the rear of the building. I unlocked itmanually, checked that the trunk was empty, because in my line of work it paid to be suspicious, and dropped into the driver’s seat. I cranked up the heater and drove toward Grant Park.

When I arrived, I walked to meet Joanna, who was standing near the entrance. The park was almost deserted, no doubt thanks to the chilly temperatures and gray skies. My wife—I refused to think of her as anything else—stood silhouetted against the clouds, beautiful, but something about her seemed terribly distant too.

Sad. Alone.

My heart ached for her. I wished I could take her into my arms and comfort her. But I couldn’t do that. There was every chance I’d spend the rest of my life desperate for Joanna’s affection but never able to have it. I’d just have to hope that, one day, she’d be able to forgive me. Or at the very least, let me make it up to her.

I didn’t speak until I drew closer to her. “I was surprised you called.”

Although “surprised” didn’t really cover it. “Shocked” would be more accurate.

She raised her chin, unsmiling. “I need to ask you something.”

“Okay.” I stopped moving and slid my hands inside my pockets. “Hit me with it.”

She took her phone out and tapped on the screen, then turned it toward me. I leaned close, barely managing not to flinch at the sight that greeted me. It was so far from anything I might have expected that I was caught off guard. Not that I’d really known what to expect at all.

Sasha Sloane’s blank eyes gazed out at me. Based on the splash of crimson on her chin and the position of her head, I’d hazard a guess this photograph had been taken at the crime scene.

“Do you know her?” Joanna asked, her voice deceptively even.

She was anxious. Perhaps most people wouldn’t be able to tell, but I could. It was in the way her pointer finger tapped against the side of the phone and the subtle shifting of her weight from one foot to the other while she waited for a response. She already suspected the answer. But how had she connected Sasha to me?

Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. I’d always been told that Joanna was a hell of an investigator.

“Her name is Sasha Sloane,” I said, knowing that if I denied an acquaintance, I’d only be digging a deeper hole in which to bury the remains of our marriage.

Joanna nodded. “That’s right. She’s the subject of the murder investigation I’m currently working on. What I want to know is what she has to do with you.”

I rolled my head from side to side, debating how much to tell her. On the one hand, she’d clearly already put some of the pieces together, but I didn’t have direct approval from Adam to share any of the details of our operation with her—except for a blanket permission to discuss my father, and this wasn’t the time for that.

I sighed. I should have had a drink before leaving the bar. “She was Carlos Ortez’s mistress.”

A quick intake of breath. ‘We knew she had a boyfriend, and that he might be in the mob, but the boss himself?”

I inclined my head, confirming it.

“Is that why you were seen talking to her at the Red Letter strip club?” She folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes.

I winced, feeling both sheepish and guilty. It was one thing for her to know I was undercover, but I hated her being aware that I visited places like the Red Letter. Itcheapened our relationship, even if I’d never gone there for pleasure.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I cultivated a relationship with Sasha’s best friend, another dancer, and eventually, she introduced us.”

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