Page 46 of Dirty Liars

“Like the Illuminati,” Doug said.

“Does that mean you found the tattoo in the SMT database?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said. “There’s nothing anything even remotely like it that I can find.”

The doorbell rang and I looked at the time. “Shoot,” I said. “Put everything on Theo Vasilios away for now. That’s going to be Cole and Martinez.”

“They won’t care if we’re digging deep into the victim,” Doug said.

“Yeah, but sometimes it’s better to not put people in the position of lying for you if they’re ever subpoenaed to testify. Don’t worry. Jack will get the State Department to release those records.”

* * *

I’d opened the door expecting Cole and Martinez, but I was surprised to see Dickie on our doorstep again.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

He laughed but there was no humor in it. “No,” he said. “I just decided to pick today for whatever reason to quit drinking.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I was just about to make some coffee.”

“God, no,” he said. “You make terrible coffee. At least let me do it.” And he led the way into the kitchen, making himself right at home.

“Jack had to run down a lead on a case,” I said carefully, not mentioning Chloe’s name. “He should be back soon.”

“I didn’t come here to see Jack,” he said. “I came to talk to you.”

My brows rose in surprise at that bit of information. “Me?” I asked, watching as Dickie moved around our kitchen with practiced ease. His expensive clothes were wrinkled, and his normally perfect hair was disheveled. His hands were steady though, methodically measuring coffee grounds. I studied his profile, trying to see the boy I’d known hidden in the man he’d become.

“You’ve always told me the truth,” he said quietly. “Even when I didn’t want to hear it. I need that right now.”

I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. “Okay.”

Dickie turned to face me, his eyes red rimmed and haunted. “How messed up am I? On a scale of one to ten?”

“Is this some weird intervention in reverse?” I asked.

The coffee maker started to burble and hiss behind him, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of the good beans Jack kept in the freezer.

“I sat in my car for three hours before I drove here,” Dickie said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I had a bottle of Macallan 25 on the passenger seat. I kept picking it up and putting it back down. It would have been so easy to just…” He rubbed his face, and for a moment he looked impossibly old.

“Dickie—”

“Do you know what my father said to me when my divorce was finalized?” he asked. “He didn’t even look up from his newspaper. He just said, ‘Harlowes make terrible husbands. Sign a prenup for your next one.’”

I winced. I’d met Dickie’s father enough times to know the ruthless banker behind the polished façade.

“My grandfather drank himself to death,” Dickie continued. “My father is working on it. And here I am, following the same path like it’s the only one I know how to walk.”

I moved to the cabinet and pulled down two mugs. “Did you ever talk to anyone after your divorce?”

“What, like a shrink?” He laughed that hollow laugh again. “Harlowes don’t do therapy. We buy bigger houses, faster cars, and younger women.”

“How’s that working out for you?” I asked, pouring the coffee.

“About as well as you’d expect,” he said, accepting the mug I handed him. “I thought Chloe was different. I thought I was different with her.” His voice cracked. “Now she’s gone and it was all a lie, and I’m just…here. Still the same screwed-up rich kid who can’t figure out how to be a man.”

I guided him to the kitchen table, and we sat. The fading sun made shadows dance across the wood floor.

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