Page 30 of Dirty Liars

“You want to pay fifty thousand a year to play pickleball?” he asked, eyebrow raised as we were finally waved through the ornate iron gates.

“Not when you put it that way,” I said. “Maybe there’s a place closer to home. I’ve seen a couple of reels of people playing. It looks like fun.”

Jack shook his head and said, “I can see through you a mile away. You watched videos of all the old people playing and figured it’s a sport you might actually be able to win at.”

“Hey, I take offense to that,” I said, eyes narrowed. “I’m a good athlete. Don’t you remember how you got that scar on your eyebrow?”

“Not really,” he said. “I remember you tripping over your own feet coming into home plate and then it was lights out.”

“That was the most beautiful slide you’ve ever seen in your life,” I contested. “You’re just mad because I was called safe and we won the game.”

“I’ve heard there’s memory loss with pregnancy,” Jack said. “I’m just going to chalk this up as one of those moments. Read the map and tell me where the Madison House is located.”

I took the postcard-sized map that the gate guard had given us, and looked at the winding road and the different buildings around the grounds. It was a large property with a dozen or so cabins where members or dignitaries could stay. Ambassador and Mrs. Vasilios had been assigned to Madison House, tucked away on the opposite side of the lake away from the busiest areas of the country club. Privacy for the grieving parents, or isolation to keep them from prying ears—I wondered which it was.

We’d taken Jack’s Tahoe to Arlington since it was an official visit, and Jack pulled into a circle drive in front of a two-story stone house that was made of the same stone as the main lodge. The lawn was well manicured and flowers bloomed riotously in the gardens, a stark contrast to the darkness we’d come to discuss.

“It looks so European,” I said, eyeing the two men in black suits who were heading toward our car with purposeful strides. The first had a military bearing that screamed American Special Forces, while the second moved with the fluid grace of a trained killer. “And it comes with its own welcome party.”

We got out of the car and Jack flashed his badge quickly because the men looked like they’d be more than happy to tackle us to the ground. Their hands hovered near concealed weapons, and I didn’t miss the communication earpieces they both wore. This wasn’t standard diplomatic security—this was the kind of protection you hired when your life was in danger.

“The ambassador and his wife spoke to the police yesterday,” said the larger of the two men. His voice was flat, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings even as he addressed us. Former military for sure, probably Special Forces based on the faded tattoo partially visible at his wrist when he moved.

“That was our chaplain and an officer coming to break the news of their son’s death,” Jack said easily, though I could feel the tension radiating from him. “Dr. Graves and I are conducting the investigation into their son’s and daughter-in-law’s murders. We need to ask them a few questions. They were told we’d be arriving this morning.”

The guard grunted and turned to head toward the house, and the other one took over. This man was smaller, skimming just under six feet, and his hair was dark and pulled back into a stubby ponytail at his neck. His eyes were cold, calculating, like he was sizing us up as potential threats rather than law enforcement.

“You have twenty minutes,” he said in an accent I couldn’t quite place, but it seemed Slavic in nature. The accent was mild but unmistakable, like he’d spent years training it away. “The ambassador is very busy today.”

“We won’t take up much of their time,” Jack assured him, and we followed the man into the house. I noticed how his jacket shifted as he walked—he was carrying at least two weapons that I could spot, probably more that I couldn’t.

“The ambassador is in the library,” the guard said, leading us down a long hallway.

The house was beautiful—if unoriginal in design—and it looked like the kind of stately home a wealthy grandmother would decorate, with ornately carved wood furniture and floral patterns on the rugs.

The door to the library was open and we were ushered inside to see Ambassador Vasilios seated behind his desk and his wife on a pale yellow settee in front of the window. The guard stationed himself just inside the door, his eyes never leaving us.

“Ambassador,” Jack said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

“Call me Nicholas,” he said cordially, though his smile never reached his eyes. “This is my wife, Cecilia. Please, come in and have a seat.”

Nicholas was a handsome man somewhere in his mid-seventies, but he looked to be in good health. He had strong shoulders and a straight posture, and he looked very much like his son. His hair was fully silver and his eyes almost black—the kind of eyes that could hide thoughts and intentions behind a mask of diplomatic courtesy. He was dressed in gray golf pants and an expensive-looking polo, but his casual attire couldn’t disguise the power he wielded.

I moved over to greet Cecilia and saw her eyes were swollen from crying, but she’d done her best to conceal it with makeup. She seemed frail next to the rigidity of her husband—a petite woman only an inch or so over five feet. Her hair was black as coal with not a trace of silver, pulled back harshly from her face and coiled at her nape. And her face had the unlined grace of a habitual Botox user. She was also dressed casually in beige linen pants and a matching top. When she looked up at me, the vacancy in her gaze was alarming—pupils constricted to pinpoints.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told her.

She nodded thanks mechanically, but didn’t say anything. There was a vacantness in her eyes that told me she’d medicated herself heavily before our meeting.

“Please,” Nicholas said. “Have a seat.”

He gestured to the two leather chairs in front of the desk he stood behind, and Jack and I both sat. I noticed that Nicholas had positioned us with our backs to the security guard—a subtle psychological tactic to put us at a disadvantage.

“Have you found out who did this to our son?” he asked, his fingers drumming softly on the polished desktop. The rhythm seemed casual, but there was tension in his movements.

“My team is combing through all of the surveillance and the logs, and we’re running down leads,” Jack said. His voice was neutral but I could hear the careful calculation in each word.

“So, no,” Nicholas said with a sigh. “You haven’t discovered who is responsible. I hope you don’t take offense, but I don’t have a lot of confidence in local law enforcement to see my son brought to justice.”

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