Tell No Lies Read online

  He stared down at the body, unblinking.

  From the beginning, Patterson had insisted on his innocence. Only now it seemed the man might be telling the truth. But if Patterson didn’t kill Pamela Baker . . . who did? That was what Jack had to figure out before the case against Patterson collapsed.

  Before Cody Simmons turned up dead, as well.

  Talk about shitty Mondays. He glanced at his watch. It was 2:20 A.M. He wondered how Rose Simmons was doing. The kid’s grandma had been rushed to the emergency room after the news of his disappearance—heart attack. He knew the old lady personally and hoped she would make it.

  The medical examiner gave him a glance over her shoulder. “Well, Jack,” she said. “It’s official. This makes number three. Now you’ve got yourself a serial case.”

  With the discovery of the first body, a college student, Jack’s gut had told him they were dealing with a serial killer, and he had nearly lost his job trying to get the higher-ups to listen. Now it was the last thing he wanted to hear. “You sure?”

  She peeled off her gloves as she faced him, grimacing. “As sure as I am that Baker is dead.”

  They both turned to look at the body that had been hauled out of the grave. Sliced from pelvis to breastbone with the blade of a sharp instrument, she lay sprawled under the trees, her body tinted blue-green under the moonlight that sliced through the canopy of green. Her hands were posed prayerfully and taped together. Her mouth also was taped shut, her eyes bulging and sightless.

  “Obviously, we’ll want to be certain of her identity before we release the news,” she added. “I’ll be able to tell you for sure once we get her into the lab.”

  After a month of looking at her picture day in and day out, Jack didn’t need a lab report to know who it was. Unfortunately, Baker’s time had run out.

  Cody’s clock was ticking now, and if Ian Patterson wasn’t guilty, then they didn’t have a clue where to begin. “Thanks,” he said, and walked away.

  Tuesday, August 17, 2:15 A.M.

  Augusta pressed her eyes shut, trying to block out the images taunting her.

  After two weeks, a good night’s sleep still eluded her. She took pride in the fact that she didn’t have any hang-ups, and wasn’t the type to sleep around, but something about Ian Patterson had made her throw all caution to the wind—not that she could add that particular virtue to her list, mind you. She was stubborn, impetuous and nonconforming, but caution was not really a strong point. This time she might have really screwed up.

  The night they’d discovered Kelly Banks’s body, she had, in fact, been with Ian at the Windjammer, a beachside bar on the Isle of Palms. By now she had fully expected to be brought in for questioning, but so far Ian had remained silent about their time together. Why, she couldn’t fathom, but she guessed everything would come out once they proceeded with a trial.

  She could see the papers now: Aldridge Heir Steps Forward with Alibi for Murder.

  Her sister Caroline was going to flip.

  As publisher of the Tribune, Caroline would take heat over it and Channel 11 would seize the opportunity to excoriate her.

  But Augusta had gone over it again and again in her head.

  Alibi or not, it wasn’t as though Ian couldn’t have committed that particular murder. Still, he hadn’t seemed like a killer. Augusta had been so certain he was being persecuted by her sister and by the media that she had jumped to his defense.

  “You’re pushing all my buttons,” he’d warned with that slow smile and Southern drawl that somehow managed to confuse her. “You don’t want to go there.”

  “You’re not a priest any longer,” she’d countered, pressing the cold, damp bottle of beer to her lips. She could almost taste the sweat from his body as she stared at him across the table and crossed her legs, gasping softly at the physical sensations that rushed through her.

  “No,” he said, his expression dark.

  A warning maybe? Augusta ignored it.

  “I’m not.”

  She was baiting him. “So then you’ve sworn off women?”

  “No.”

  His pale blue eyes glinted like ice in the dim light of the bar, and the single word made Augusta’s heart jump a little. “Only those related to the ones hell-bent on putting me behind bars.”

  He was talking about her sister, of course. Caroline had worked tirelessly to keep Ian’s sins in the public eye. She’d dug up every last offense Ian had ever been accused of and had published it without mercy, putting questions out there for everyone, including the police, to consider. Thanks to Caroline, they all knew he’d had sex for the first time at the age of eleven and spent a summer in juvy.

  Augusta didn’t believe any of those stories were relevant—not a single one—especially since they had been tainted by her sister’s efforts to pull their family’s legacy—an ailing newspaper—out of the gutter. Augusta truly believed Ian was the victim of a witch hunt, not a criminal, and the only danger she faced seemed quite carnal in nature.

  Her gaze never left his eyes. They were like deep, clear blue pools beckoning her into his soul. Somewhere in those depths she saw his vulnerability, and it spoke to her in a seductive whisper. “Guilt by association?”

  He shrugged noncommittally. Augusta took a long pull of her beer, tearing her gaze away from his face with some effort, concealing the shudder of her breath behind a long exhale.

  Every nerve in her body was taut and alive.

  He arched a dark blond brow. “Why are you here, Augusta?”

  Despite the fact that the Windjammer was full of sweating bodies and buzzing with chatter, all Augusta could hear was the sound of his voice and her own heartbeat ticking at her temples. Her palms felt sweaty, and she wrapped the bottle in her left hand and brushed the cool dampness of it with her right, wondering if the taste of him was as intoxicating as the brew in her hand. She shrugged. “Maybe I’m here because I don’t believe you’re guilty?”

  The arch of his brow deepened. “Are you asking . . . or telling?”

  Augusta was much more adamant this time. “No, I don’t believe you’re guilty!”

  He sat back and assessed her a moment. “That would make you the only person in this city who doesn’t,” he suggested.

  Augusta eyed the girl on stage, inclining her head. She smiled knowingly. “Apparently, not the only one.”

  In her early twenties, the dark-haired girl was obviously smitten with Ian. Absently strumming her guitar, she hadn’t taken her eyes off them all night, but Ian didn’t seem to notice. His attention was focused on Augusta, and she knew he was feeling exactly the way she was feeling at the moment. The air between them felt as tightly wound as the strings of his “girlfriend’s” guitar. Augusta tipped her chin toward the girl on stage. “She believes in you enough to give you an alibi.”

  “She told the truth,” he said. “I was here that night, watching her play—right here at this table, in fact—waiting for her brother to join me.” He tapped the table.

  “So I hear.” Augusta tilted her head, eyeing him coyly, and then she asked, “She your girlfriend?”

  “Friend.”

  Her heart leapt a little over the way he emphasized the single word, making it clear there was nothing more between them.

  “With benefits?”

  “Without.”

  Augusta tilted him another questioning look. “Her choice or yours?”

  He lifted a brow. “Does it really matter, Augusta?”

  Augusta shrugged, feigning indifference though she felt anything but.

  “Alright . . . so you don’t believe I’m guilty,” he conceded. “But why are you really here, Miz Aldridge?”

  Augusta blinked at him. The truth was that she didn’t know.

  She sat forward in her chair, uncertain how to answer. “I . . . I want to help . . . if I can,” she said and met his gaze directly, willing him to see her sincerity. “I suppose I feel guilty about the way my sister is harassing you.”


  He brought his glass of water to his lips. No beer—straight up H2O. “I’m a big boy,” he said. “I can take care of myself. What you need to worry about,” he added darkly, “is your sister . . . and yourself. You’re in over your head,” he told her.

  Augusta’s face flushed. It was the truth. Whether or not he was innocent or guilty, she was a danger to herself right now. She suddenly felt crowded and stifled and stood abruptly, not really certain if she meant to go.

  He peered up at her with a look of concern. “You alright?”

  “Yeah. I just need some air.”

  That moment sealed her fate.

  They shared a long look, one that said nothing and everything at once.

  “I’ll walk with you,” he offered. “We could both use a little breathing room.”

  Augusta set her beer down on the table, glad that she hadn’t ordered a second, pretending to herself that she still had her wits about her and her sensibilities intact.

  It was the second lie she’d told herself tonight. The first was that she didn’t know why she was here, because deep down, she knew exactly what she was doing.

  He followed her out back, where, even in the thick heat of summer, there was a serious crowd—some spillover from the performance inside, others who simply wanted an excuse to drink a bottled beer out on the beach and still others whose youths had been spent loitering around the volleyball nets that were strung outside the Windjammer and who couldn’t see their way through a summer without reliving a moment from their past. Although the façade had changed somewhat, the Windjammer was an Isle of Palms institution. She made her way toward the beach, wholly aware of the man who silently followed. She could barely hear his footfalls along the boardwalk.

  Augusta tried to clear her head.

  What made her so certain Ian wasn’t the killer everyone was trying to make him out to be? And why was she leading him onto a dark beach on a nearly moonless night? Her sisters would be out of their minds with worry if they had an inkling where she was and whom she was with. “You don’t have to come with me,” she offered belatedly, though she hoped he wouldn’t stop.

  “And miss the chance to find out what makes Augusta Aldridge tick? Fat chance,” he said, and chuckled low.

  They walked down the boardwalk, through the shifting dunes and down onto the beach, which stretched nearly to mid-pier with the tide at its lowest point. A slash of moonlight reflected on the wet sand. There was just enough light to see that there was no one else on the beach, despite the sounds of revelry that filtered over the dunes. Her heart beating fiercely, Augusta made a left toward the pier, where it was darker and a little more private. She wasn’t in control right now. Some primeval part of her brain took over. All she could think about was kissing Ian . . . for starters.

  He didn’t fail to note the direction she led him and laughed huskily. “You’re a real puzzle, Augusta.”

  Augusta reached down, plucking off her sandals as they reached the pier, flashing him a mischievous grin. She threw the shoes up toward the dunes on a drier stretch of beach and leaned back against one of the piles, lifting her chin.

  He stood a few feet away, reluctant to come to her, studying her, his gaze traveling the length of her despite his resolve not to flirt with her. “Feeling better, I take it?”

  Augusta nodded, her smile as flirty as she knew how.

  His blue eyes were pale, glittering dangerously under the moonlight. “You really enjoy playing with fire, don’t you?” he whispered hoarsely.

  Augusta’s gaze fell to the bulge in his jeans. He was aroused . . . and she had never in her life been more turned on by a man. Her body craved him. Her nipples ached. She shrugged, her breath hitching on a sigh. “Looks to me like you’re the one who’s scared,” she taunted.

  He ventured closer, seeming to wage a war with whatever thoughts were going through his head, and Augusta felt the moisture between her thighs. She dug her toes into the cool water and sand beneath her feet and beckoned him nearer. She’d worn a white V-neck T-shirt over an ankle-length skirt the color of ripe berries. Her breasts strained at the material, aching for his long fingers. Somewhere in the fog of her brain she realized how reckless this was, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She shuddered as he stared, hunger in his eyes.

  He didn’t say anything as he approached and less when he reached her. There was no need to pretend coyness. It wasn’t Augusta’s style. She wanted him to kiss her—needed him to touch her—and she slid her arm around his neck as he bent to her mouth, welcoming the feel of his soft, warm lips over hers. He didn’t hold back. He gave her his tongue, sliding the fevered warmth of it into her mouth, tasting every corner greedily, nipping her tongue, kissing her hungrily, and they locked into a carnal embrace right there on the beach, under the cover of darkness.

  Augusta met every exploration of his hands with her own hungry inspection of his body. She had lived thirty-four years and never experienced this aching need to be filled so deeply by a man’s body.

  “Is this why you came to see me, Augusta?” he whispered, his voice raw against her cheek. He pressed his groin against her so she could feel the full evidence of his arousal, and her breath caught. She tasted the sweat from his upper lip and lapped it greedily from her lips. She was vaguely aware that one breast had escaped the confines of her T-shirt and her bare flesh was being caressed by cool night air. She wanted his mouth to warm her skin.

  His eyes impaled her, those clear blue eyes that made her want to say anything to keep him right here in her arms. “Yes,” she said with a shivery sigh, and reached up to nip his lip.

  “You sure?”

  Would a killer ask permission to make love to her?

  She didn’t think so.

  Augusta nodded.

  He was innocent, she decided, but right now she felt anything but. Her lips were bruised by their kiss. Her heart pounded against her ribs. He leaned to kiss her nipple, taking it into his mouth and suckling hard, seeming to read her thoughts.

  Augusta moaned deep in her throat.

  Her head fell back against the pile as he slid a hand beneath her skirt, into her panties . . . between her thighs. He dipped his finger inside her and his eyes met hers over the rise of her breast. His mouth left her nipple long enough for him to whisper with a devious smile, “Looks like I found your sweet spot.”

  Don’t stop, she begged silently.

  Don’t stop.

  Augusta spread her legs, and he slid his finger deeper inside her body. She adjusted to accommodate him, her head falling back, whatever will she might have summoned completely lost. He brought those fingers without shame to his lips to taste her as she watched.

  “Sweet as honey,” he said huskily.

  Augusta’s heart hammered. “I want you inside me,” she said desperately.

  It wasn’t like her. She was not that girl, but she felt completely carnal and open in his presence, unjudged, uninhibited.

  She didn’t have to ask again.

  He dragged her under the pier where it was darkest—where they would be shielded from prying eyes—passing her shoes in the sand. Somehow he unzipped his pants before he had her on the ground. And he covered her, shoving himself inside her.

  At the time it had felt so right.

  She had never experienced such an overwhelming desire in all her life—never. Her body was like a puppet dancing to his every look, his every touch. She could no more have walked away in that moment than she could have said no.

  Only right now it seemed so wrong.

  Ian Patterson was behind bars for the attempted murder of her sister. He was suspected of having murdered two more women and was possibly responsible for the disappearances of at least three others, including a young reporter who worked for her sister.

  Augusta struggled with her guilt.

  How could she have been so wrong?

  After his arrest and her initial shock, she had fully expected them to let him go, saying it was a mistake. Her soul
was dying a little with every day that passed without his release—not so much because she needed to see him, needed to confront him, or even because she had been so very, very wrong about him, but because she had been so willing to do battle with her own flesh and blood in defense of a stranger.

  And because she craved his tongue between her legs . . . even now.

  The memory of it made her yearn to slide her hand beneath the covers. Was it any wonder she couldn’t sleep? She felt like a traitor and a hussy.

  With a miserable groan, she tugged the covers over her head to block the blinking red numbers on her alarm clock. Hopefully, everything would look better in morning.

  6 am

  Morning sun glinted off the metallic roof in the distance.

  Feeling the strength of his surroundings, he anchored his small boat, glad for the day off and the quiet sunrise. Later, the marsh would be a steam bath, but right now it was serene and beautiful. Birds swooped around him, plucking insects and tiny shrimp from the surrounding waters. For all anyone knew, he was just an ordinary fisherman poling his boat along the flooded spartina flats in search of tailing redfish . . . and the blood at the bottom of his boat, beneath the blade of his knife, was from his last stringer of fish.

  There was time to do this right.

  He wasn’t in a hurry.

  Encroached upon by the sea, this place was just another castoff of humanity, abandoned, forgotten, picked away by the beaks of birds and visited by creatures whose only purposes included eating, sleeping and defecating.

  Like the Morris Island Lighthouse, you couldn’t reach it except by boat. Even then, access to the inside of the building was available only to the most agile and intrepid. The walls were high, the doors and windows long boarded up, and the trestle beside it was a huge steel skeleton, rusty and ready to come down if the winds blew just right.