Liar Read Online Free PDF Page A

social call.
    “Yes, Detective McCain,” she said to her caller. “… No, no, this isn’t too late! Not at all! As I told you, I don’t usually go to sleep until just before dawn. But I promise you, you don’t need to bring a wooden stake or garlic when you visit. I’m not a vampire.”
    She listened, then suddenly looked over at us, frowning. “Yes, I know Irene Kelly,” she said into the phone. “She’s my grandniece. She’s sitting here right now, with her husband-did I tell you he’s a homicide detective, too? Oh, I did. Yes, he’s the one. Well, let me ask them.”
    She covered the mouthpiece. “Detective McCain is a homicide detective with the LAPD. He wants to know if he can come over to talk with you.”

4
    People who got their ideas about detectives from television probably would have been disappointed in Detective Jim McCain. He was gray-haired, plain-faced, a little thick in the waist, but-we quickly realized- not between the ears. He was of medium height and stood up straight, his posture neither ramrod nor slouched. He didn’t smoke, didn’t wear a fedora or a crumpled raincoat. His shoes had seen better days, but had leather soles, and while his suit wasn’t an Armani, it was still neat and clean. He didn’t look as if he had punched or shot anyone lately. He smiled warmly when Mary opened her door, thanked her politely when she let him in. I decided his voice, soft and low, was one of his assets. It was a voice that invited confidences.
    He was still smiling when his dark blue eyes rested on Frank and me, but they widened slightly when Mary introduced Frank.
    “Harriman?” he said, with a note of recognition.
    “Yes,” Frank answered. I could see him tensing, waiting for the inevitable questions:
Were you the hostage? Just how did that go down? How did they manage to get the drop on you?
Questions he had been asked just about a billion times.
    But instead, McCain extended a hand and said, “An honor to meet you. Glad you came out of that okay.”
    “Thanks,” Frank said, obviously relieved.
    McCain turned to me and shook hands as we were introduced-smiling, polite and sizing me up. What the verdict was, I’m not sure.
    Once he was seated and had resisted all of Mary’s offers of food and beverage, he took out a little notebook, turned to me and said, “Ms. Kelly, I assume your aunt Mary has told you that I’m investigating the death of Briana Maguire?”
    “Yes.”
    “She was your mother’s sister?”
    I nodded.
    “And when was the last time you saw her?”
    “Over twenty years ago. At my mother’s funeral, when I was twelve.”
    “Not since then?”
    “No.”
    “Any other type of contact with your aunt since then?”
    “No.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Frank sit forward.
    “No phone calls?” McCain asked.
    “No. No phone calls, no letters, no contact at all.”
    He said nothing, just watched me. I didn’t try to fill the silence, but Mary did. “I explained all that to you,” she said.
    He smiled. “Is there a room where I could talk to Ms. Kelly alone?”
    “Perhaps she should talk to you another time,” Frank said. “In the presence of an attorney.”
    McCain’s smile didn’t waver. “She is, of course, absolutely free to do so, but right now, I’m just asking questions. You know how this goes, Harriman. Lawyers cause unnecessary complications, just to make their clients think they’ve earned their fee. I don’t need that kind of grief, and neither do you. Better this way. None of us would ever get a thing done in this line of work without a little cooperation.”
    I knew this last didn’t necessarily refer only to my cooperation with him; I could see from Frank’s face that he got the hint as well-McCain was saying,
You want cooperation from LAPD on any of your cases, don’t screw with our cases.
    “I’ll talk to him, Frank,” I said.
    “What brings my wife into this?” Frank asked, ignoring me.
    “I’ll be happy to tell you in a