Hearing the lies

   He was lying. The quality of the lie had nothing to do with the belief of the lie. The way he delivered it, his smooth southern drawl falling from his perfect mouth in a cadence of refined, well-bred rhythms, had other detectives believing him. But not her. Her own speech, spoken only when necessary and as little as possible, would often startle a person who hadn't met her; if his voice was smooth whiskey in a glass, hers was coarse salt ground by mortar and pestle.

   "I've told this to four other investigators darlin'" Southern charm oozed off his tongue like fine mist.

The way he said darling, with the long 'a' and the missing 'g' made her stomach clench. Daniella scratched her throat; the marks from her drunken father's belt, although barely visible, had left her with more than just visual scars. Her voice was one of many permanent reminders of a past she'd fought hard to overcome; the pet name ‘darling’ was another, it made her skin crawl. Her partner and friend, Detective Noah Grandmason, held up his hand, "If you'll humor us sir, we need to hear it again, from the beginning."

    Daniella waited. Her ability to remain nearly motionless often made the people she interviewed twitch nervously in their seats. Parker Brooks was no different. He shifted his weight, crossed his right leg over his left, doing his best to feign tolerance to the questioning of his whereabouts on the night of the death of the woman he'd had a brief, albeit enjoyable affair with. He looked at the female detective sitting across from him. She was pixie-faced, subtly pretty, and had intriguing eyes so light blue they appeared translucent. He moved his right arm to his pant pocket, inside he found his Cartier lighter. He rubbed the smooth metal, pressed his index finger to the initials carved into the gold. He was working hard to stay calm, to tell this story correctly.

    "I went to the Cigar bar, enjoyed an Opus X with a cognac….maybe one too many…" He pulled the gold lighter from his pants pocket and flicked it open. Even without seeing it Daniella could tell it was expensive, the soft 'shing' of its top opening was a bright spark in a quiet room. He opened and closed it several times. The lighters noise cut through the silence she left hanging. Shing, open. Clack close. As he played with the lighter he told his story.

   She sat silently. Listening. Waiting for the moment when she could tell the truth from the lie. The rise and fall of his voice sounded bored, irritated, but with something else. The barest of vibrations when he said, "I got home just past eleven."

    There was the lie!

She scratched a note on her pad, Noah looked over her shoulder. "What time did you say?" He asked.

Beyond the door, someone coughed, and a chair scraped against the floor, but inside the room, the ceiling fan whirred on, indifferent to the outcome of the most important conversation of his life. And yet the female detective sat there, still as a statue, eyes never leaving his. He felt her devouring all his lies.

    "Eleven." He replied again with a sigh. Still lying. Daniella looked at her watch. She looked back at him. His cologne wafted across the table, subtly stronger than it had been. "I walked up the stairs to the landing, and she was there. It startled me. I didn't realize it was her until I had pushed her. Fight or flight, the other detective said. She fell over the rail and…" His face tightened at the memory of her body; head bent oddly to the back, left arm crooked, the smell of hot urine burning his nose. They don't show that on TV, the fluids other than blood that leave the human body upon traumatic injury. Or the way they smell. Oddly organic. Feral. "I can't get the picture of her lying there dead out of my mind."

Odd, but in that, she heard the truth and the misery.

    When she spoke, he jumped. They'd been in the room together for thirty minutes, and she hadn't said boo, hadn't even introduced herself, her partner had done that. "Sir," she said, but her voice sounded like chain scraping through a vice, "did you put on cologne today?" His face registered surprise at her question, and he had the oddest urge to clear his throat; her voice made his throat hurt.

"Yes."

Truth

"What kind of cognac did you have?" Her voice sounded painful. It hurt his ears. He wondered how anyone had a conversation with the woman. When he didn't immediately answer she supplied, "A Hennesy?"

He wracked his brain to think of a brand, but nothing came. "Ahem," He cleared his throat of the imaginary itch. "Yes, a Hennesy."

Lie.

The slight warble at the end, the nearly imperceptible tenor change, the way it made her own throat ache. "Why did you murder her?"

His response was immediate. He jumped to his feet, "I didn't murder her!"

Truth.

"I didn’t mean to, it was an accident." He sat again. Dejected.

Lie.

Odd. This. Recalling the surveillance videos they'd watched, Daniella tried to tie the lies into the truths. Parker Brooks had been at the bar; he'd ordered an Opus cigar, grandiosely expensive, with a Kirkland cognac. Neither was in her budget. But a person would know which cognac they prefer, and they'd undoubtedly know the difference between a Hennesy and a Kirkland.

The girl had been murdered. She was sure of it. The fall hadn't been an accident. That hadn't been immediately apparent, but the autopsy revealed two odd bruises, rectangular in shape, an inch or so wide, and an inch and a half inch long, both on her left breast. One of the marks had left the impression of a small 'e' on her skin. The medical examiner was confident that the bruises happened just before her death and weren't caused by the fall. The girl also had an old faded scar, six inches long, wrapping the base of her neck. Daniella felt kinship for the poor deceased girl the moment she saw that scar. She hoped it wasn't clouding her judgment here.

    There were certain truths to his story. Surveillance video of him at the bar, outside the bar, pulling into his driveway at eleven o' one… but something was missing. One thread. One piece. It whispered in front of her. It was there, a soft zephyr playing in her mind. She knew it was there. She just had to listen. What caused those bruises?

    He flicked open his lighter again. The crisp shing biting the air. The flat clack of it closing made her toes curl. “Parker?" her voice crackled into the room, disturbing the air around him. Making him jump. "May I see that?" He looked at his lighter and wondered what she would want with it. She flipped it first to one side, then the other. She ran her fingers over the warm metal. PSB etched into gold. "Lovely." She said, handing it back to him.

    "Thank you." He said, fighting the urge to clear his throat again. Every time she spoke, it was as if nails were being dragged over his esophagus.

    "Do you always carry it in your pant pocket?" She asked while flipping through notes.

    He frowned in concentration. "Yes."

Truth.

    "Did you have it the night of her death?"

    "Yes."

Truth

    Daniella slid the lighter back to him, when he took it from her hand, his fingers brushed against her skin. He couldn't help but notice how soft it was. Soft silk against his warm fingers. He blushed at the electric rush he felt. If it weren't for her voice she’d be a woman he’d want to get to know. Parker slid the lighter back into his pant pocket. She was looking at him again. He had the horrible feeling she could see into his soul. He had no idea why she asked about the lighter, but it made him nervous. No one had asked him about the lighter. She sat motionless for several heartbeats.

    Without warning, she slid her chair back; the frame rattled, and the hard plastic wheels groaned a warning. Parker heard himself suck in his breath, and he was suddenly terrified. Could she know the truth? he wondered as she fled the room. Noah smiled at Parker. He knew that look of hers. He knew that little act she had just put on. She'd figured it out.

    Several minutes later, a fresh-shaven patrol officer opened the door, "Detective," he said, "she said she needs you. I'll stay with him."

    "Excuse me, Mr. Parker, we'll be right back." Parker didn't like the tone the detective used. It sounded more like a threat than a warning.

    When Noah opened the door of Daniella's office, she was pacing. She pointed at her computer and the video that was playing. Parker Brooks sat at the bar of the Onyx Cigar bar, took his lighter from his right breast pocket, crossed his left leg over his right, and downed three cognacs in thirty minutes. When he left the bar, he put a twenty-dollar tip in the tumbler that held his tab and headed toward the door. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, but neither the bouncer nor the bartender stopped him. "There, see?" she hissed out. The excitement in her voice made it rasp even more; she puffed out a breath at the end, making it evident how much effort even two words cost.

    "Not yet kid, but let me look again." He watched again.

    Daniella flicked her hand at the screen when Parker reached for his lighter. "There." She huffed out. Her voice scratching at the obvious. "Pocket."

    "So maybe he had it in his suit pocket that night."

    She shook her head vehemently. "No, he didn't lie about that." In their four years together, he'd learned to believe her when she said she could hear the truth from a lie. She was rarely wrong. But he didn't see it here. A pocket is a pocket. He wondered if the scars on the dead girl's neck were messing with her, some kind of misplaced sympathy.

   "Do you want me to tell you, or do you want to watch and see?" She asked with more breath than she had; the 'watch and see' came out as torn ribbon.

    "I feel like a surprise today." he said grinning. "Do you need me to ask any of the questions?" She'd nearly ripped his head off the first time he'd asked her that. For a girl with permanent larynx damage, she could make her whisper scratch of a voice sound like gunfire. Nowadays, she didn't take offense. She scribbled some cryptic notes for him, sent off a quick email, then gathered her papers. Daniella smiled at him and waggled her eyebrows. "Es,go" she eeked out in the shorthand speech she used with him. “Wach hans.” She hissed. Watch his hands.

    "Lead the way." He said, waving his hand with a flourish toward the door.

    Daniella opened the door to the interrogation room with a hard smack. It clattered against the wall making Parker jump. "Sorry." She said without sounding sorry at all.

    Detective Grandmason handed Parker a cup of water, he drank it gratefully, hoping it would soothe his aching throat. Just the thought of hearing her voice grate against his brain was making him feel hoarse. “Ahem, thank you.”

    Noah started the conversation with the note she'd marked with a one. "What's your brother's name?"

    This question caught him off guard and made the sweat come back. He didn't want to talk about his brother. "Edgar."

 Daniella stepped closer to him; she wanted to feel every word he said, hear beyond the words, smell his cologne waft stronger with the heat of his body every time he lied.

"Can I see the lighter again?" She felt the razor blades in her throat and knew she was talking too much. But she only had a few questions left, and she'd find her answers in the truth or the lies.

He wondered what the hell it was with the lighter, but he took it from his pant pocket and handed it to her. When his fingers brushed the palm of her hand, he couldn't help the sensation of excitement that went through him, such soft hands.

    "Does your brother have one?" Noah asked for her.

   "Yes, they were wedding-party gifts for my sister's wedding."

Truth

    In her mind, Daniella shook her head. Those lighters cost more than she made in a single day. "Does he smoke?" Her voice was hot fire burning.

    "No." He wished she'd stop talking and let the other detective do the questioning. Her voice was making him hurt. He played with his water cup, moving it around the table with his right hand.

Lie.

   That was when Noah knew. He saw it. The bruise on the dead girls breast, the tiny E stamped into her skin. He took Parker's water cup from him, refilled it, and handed it back to him. Parker took it, and sipped. He was becoming more and more uncomfortable. He could feel the sweat forming in the small of his back, starting to run down his ass. He did not want to talk about his brother.

    "When was the last time you saw him?" Noah asked.

    "Yesterday."

Truth

    "Did you see him the night she died?" Daniella asked. Watching him rub his throat. She was used to the effect her voice caused. She felt no sympathy.

    "No."

Lie.

    Daniella breathed in, forcing her question to be as smooth as possible. "Is your brother left-handed?"

   "I don't know." Of course he knew, he'd bought him a set of PGM lefty clubs three years ago.

Lie.

    Daniella's phone buzzed. She held up one finger, pausing the line of questioning. Her brows furrowed as she watched her screen. Outside, a burst of laughter made Parker jump. Daniella turned her phone toward Noah, pointing to the screen.

  They both turned to face him. "What time did you get home?" Noah asked again.

  "Eleven for god's sake!" He nearly shouted.

LIE. LIE. LIE.

    "Whose car is this?" Noah asked, showing Parker the video.

   "MINE!” He shouted. That's me pulling into my damn driveway!" And that was when he knew they knew. Because there was already a car in the driveway. His goddamn brother's car was sitting in the driveway! The same exact make and model of his car (also wedding gifts for the groomsmen) was sitting in his driveway. The other detectives hadn't looked at the video past the time when he said he got home. Why would they? They’d assumed the car pulling it at eleven was him.

    Parker closed his eyes. letting the memory tear him apart. He'd pulled in just before midnight. When he'd opened his front door, the smell hit him first. Urine and shit and the low copper smell of blood. She was on the floor, broken and bloody, and his brother was sitting on the stairs. Scared sober, but still reeking of alcohol. His clothes were tattered, his face ashen. "Help me, Parker," he begged. "She thought I was you; I came here because I was drunk.” Edgar was near hysteria, he stood, pacing. “I came in and went upstairs. This girl slipped her arms around me. I didn’t think, I just…enjoyed it.”

    Parker admitted to himself he might have done the same, it wouldn’t have been the first time they’d shared a girl. “She was naked, and, and she purred! She fucking purred in my ear. I didn't think, I just…" Edgar sat down hard on the stairs, the smell of death, cognac, cigar and fear burning the air around them. "But then she must have realized it wasn't you, and she started fighting. We were on the landing up there, I was on top and tried to get off, but I fell on top of her. I was so drunk, and I think that scared her. I think she thought I was going to rape her. She started screaming. I got up and tried to help her, but then she tried to run around me. I tried to move, but I stumbled, and I hit her and and and...she fell."

    “How much coke did you do today?" Parker asked his brother. Edgar's eyes gave away the answer. Too much. Way too much.

   The family empire would rest on if the cops believed his story. Would they, when his toxicology report came back? Would they believe this story from a man who already had three sexual misconduct suits filed against him? Or would they believe Parker, the straight man in the family. Could they; the brothers who shared everything (even a woman now and then), share a story? Could they make one twin's truth, the others lie?

   Parker sighed. Daniella heard the truth in the way his breath left his body. Defeated.

    Daniella's voice scratched into the room like a record ripped from the turn table. "Parker?” She tried to sound sympathetic, but the gravel in her tone made it hard, “It was your brother, wasn't it?"

   "It was an accident..."

She couldn't tell if that was the truth or a lie, but she'd find out.