Liar, Liar (2 page)

***

Finishing off my salad, I pop one of my chips into my mouth.  I sip my wine and then look across the table to Mitchell.

“I noticed a few things when I was going through the files,” I begin.

Mitchell finishes chewing his last bite of steak before he nods.  “Me, too.”

“Did you realize that for two years of their engagement, funds were not deposited into Benny’s account?  They mysteriously restarted immediately after their wedding.”

“Yes.  Very interesting.  I also noticed their engagement lasted four years.”

“Me too!” I gasp.  “Something is definitely going on there,” I muse.

“Our job isn’t to investigate the situation, Makenna.”

“I know, it’s just… interesting.”

“It may be, but it’s not our job,” he scolds.

“I realize that, Mitchell,” I fire back, suddenly angry. 

Why on earth do I feel like I want to know everything about this man?  Is it because I think his wife is a bitch who is going to take advantage of him?  Probably.  Why should that matter, though?  People take advantage of others all the time.  This is nothing new.  Why does Benny Duncan have such a profound effect on me?  I have never met him before, never spoken to him, and never even seen him aside from the two photographs in his file.  So why this case?  Why him?

“Kenna?” Mitchell murmurs quietly.  I snap out of my thoughts and look over at him.  His brows are knitted in confusion.

“Sorry, what?”

“Is everything okay?  You snapped at me and then you zoned out.”

“I’m fine.  Sorry for snapping, I just feel like I want to get to the bottom of this case.  I don’t know why, but something deep inside of me is hoping Regina’s plans are foiled.  She doesn’t deserve what she’s going after.”

“Makenna Banks, the new Queen of Conscience.”

“Shut up,” I grumble.

He smiles.  “Listen, we don’t know the circumstances surrounding their relationship.  He might be an abusive bastard, or maybe he promised her something important and then reneged.  Maybe she deserves the extra.”  He shrugs. 

“It just doesn’t feel that way, though, Mitch.  I can’t explain it.”

“We don’t have to take the case, Makenna. If you don’t think you can push your thoughts aside and see this through, I’ll call Regina and make something up,” he offers.

“No!  No, don’t do that.  I want this case.  I want to do it.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.  I’ve never seen you this emotionally involved in a case, Makenna, and we haven’t even begun yet.”

“I’m not emotionally involved,” I defend.  “I’m just… interested in finding the truth, okay?”  Even as I say the words, I don’t believe them, and I am not sure Mitchell does either.

Given the only place Benny frequents outside of work are the gym and the country club, I decide to get myself a membership.  To the gym, not the country club – golf is
not
my thing. 

I walk through the doors of
Fire Fitness
and fill out an application form before paying the fee to the attractive brunette behind the counter.  After she has given me a tour of the premises and handed me some leaflets with the classes available, I make my way into the dressing rooms and change into my brand new workout gear.

I find a vacant treadmill and step on.  Popping my earbuds in, I crank my music and start off at a slow walk and wait for Benny to appear.

Twenty-five minutes later, he is still a no-show, so I move to the bikes.  My legs are burning already, the muscles I didn’t know I had are screaming out in confusion.  In case you didn’t know, I’m not a workout person. 

Panting, sweating, and utterly exhausted, thirty minutes later, I climb off the bike and walk toward the dressing room. 
Benny obviously isn’t making an appearance today.

I make my way down each of the seven stairs with considered precision.  Given that my legs feel like jelly and are a risk of giving out on me at any moment, I concentrate hard. 

That’s when I slam into a hard body.

Mortified, I swing my head up and almost die of shame.

This moment was supposed to be amazing.  I was going to be sweating lightly and maybe jogging on the treadmill when he caught my gaze from across the room.  I’d flash him a smile and look away, playing a little hard to get.  He’d approach me and I’d throw him some sass, just enough to keep him interested.  And the affair would go from there.

Here I stand, dripping with sweat, red-faced and messy-haired, panting like a hyena in heat, and just about dead from physical overexertion.  I couldn’t be more unattractive if I tried.

“Oh, my gosh, I am so sorry,” I rush out.  He is wearing a pair of loose basketball shorts and tank top that shows off his considerably muscular arms.

He gives me an easy smile and those dimples make an appearance. 
Holy crap.
  I thought they were deadly in a photograph.  I was wrong.  They are lethal in person.

“No problem.”

Then he moves to one side and walks around me, completely dismissing me.

Well, shit.
  That went well. 
Not.

When I have showered and changed, I walk out of the gym and catch a cab home.  I could walk, but I don’t have the energy and I definitely don’t need any more exercise today.

My apartment is my haven.  It is decorated in calming neutral tones with splashes of color and thought-provoking, simplistic artwork.  It is the place I always dreamed of having, but never had when I was growing up.  It is stable and clean, warm and inviting, and above all else, it is mine.

Taking the bottle of pink wine from the fridge, I pour myself a glass and flop down on my sofa.  I need a new game plan when it comes to Benny Duncan.  The first one failed so miserably, I consider cancelling my gym membership.

Filling my glass again, I let my thoughts wander from Benny Duncan to an issue that tends to plague me when alcohol filters through my system, relaxing the guard I usually have firmly in place.

I have always been the quiet, conscientious, loyal type.  Luckily my personality boded well for my home life, well the quiet part, anyway.  For a short while during my childhood, my mother was single, and she was a devoted, loving, fun parent.  Then she met Tim.  He is an asshole of gargantuan proportions, and believed children should not be seen
or
heard.  This meant when I wasn’t at school, I was in my room hidden away from the world and the constant stream of friends my mother and Tim would have over at our house.  By the time I hit high school and had outgrown the imaginary games that got me through the lonely days in my bedroom during my younger years, I spent my time studying.  I topped all my classes and was a straight-A student.  This made me an easy target for the girls in my class. I didn’t fight back.  They could pick on me however they wished with no chance of repercussions. 

Boys were another story.  They never took the time to get to know me and experience the extent of my smarts and wit.  They only ever saw a slim body, round butt, and perky boobs.  Pair that with my blond hair and blue eyes, and boys only ever thought of one thing when my name was mentioned: sex.  This meant not only was I bullied by girls for being a good student, but I was also the victim of vicious rumors from both boys
and
girls.  When boys hit on me, and I rejected them, they just told everyone they had slept with me.  There was no reprieve. 

Actually, that’s a lie.  Mitchell was my salvation.  He became my only friend, and as sad as it sounds, he remains the only friend I have ever had.

I don’t trust easily, and not only because I was treated so unfairly by my peers. 

When a child is banished, cast out from the family’s inner circle, they develop an attuned nature of listening.  I was not allowed to speak in our home, so I listened intently to every conversation that took place within my earshot.  That’s how I came to realize my mother was a doormat.  I acutely remember the first time she found out Tim had cheated on her.  They had a raging fight and she threw the television remote at his head.  Unfortunately she missed her target and the remote smashed into pieces on the floor.  He apologized and she forgave him.

The next time it happened was just a few weeks later.  That time she threw a coffee mug at him.  It connected with his back and he turned the entire situation around to make her feel like shit until
she
was the one apologizing and promising it would never happen again.

The next time he cheated, he just came right out and told her he was screwing someone else.  They were fighting over something trivial when Tim lashed out, saying he was fucking another woman.  My mother began screaming at him, threatening to kill him.  That’s when he offered for her to join in. 

Now, if she were a woman with even a sliver of self-respect, she would have taken that moment to kick his ass out the door.  But no, not my mother.  Determined to keep Tim (because, you know, he was
such
a great catch) she agreed to bring to life his greatest fantasy.

And so began their weekend threesome (and sometimes four and fivesome) rituals.  Each Saturday afternoon different women would enter our house, then on Sunday morning they would leave looking disheveled.  Every other night of the week, I would hear my mother crying in the bathroom when Tim had fallen asleep on the couch in front of the television.  Rather than stand up to him, she let him walk all over her.

Growing up like that, seeing that, is why I decided to do the job I do.  I wanted to feel powerful and go to work everyday to do a job that meant something to me.  Mitchell’s home life was much the same as mine, except his mom had a constant stream of boyfriends who used and abused her.

When we decided to pursue our dreams of opening an investigation agency, it wasn’t easy.  We had to fight to achieve our dreams, more so than most people, because we had no one backing us.  No one but each other.  With determination rooted in our souls, we never gave up.  We scraped together every cent we could working dead end jobs until the day we moved across the country to start afresh, leaving behind the people who would only drag us down if we stayed.  Then came the day when it all paid off, and the doors of
Catturati
opened for business.

In the beginning, business was slow.  We didn’t have a lot of clients, and we had even less money to spend on advertising.  Still, we persisted.  We both worked other jobs to save our pennies until the day came when we landed a major investigative contract.  That contract and the word of mouth publicity that followed built momentum.  Soon after, Mitchell and I both quit our day jobs to focus solely on
Catturati.
  That was three and a half years ago, and work has been steady ever since.

At work, I am tenacious, fierce, and damn good at my job.  It is a stark contrast to the shy, reserved girl I am by nature.  I like to think of myself as a good actress, or maybe I’m just
that
good of a liar.  I wish I could be the way I am at work in my private life.  I’m not complaining or anything, but it would be nice to share a bottle of wine with a girlfriend once in a while instead of always drinking alone.

With a sigh, I stand and take the empty bottle of wine to the trash.  After I shower and change into my pajamas, I slide into bed and close my eyes, drifting off with an alcoholic buzz filtering through my veins.

***

“I ran into Benny Duncan last night,” I tell Mitchell at our morning meeting.

His eyebrows climb in question.

“Literally,” I add, and he grins and sighs.

“I take it you didn’t get his number or have a chance to work your charms?”

“Nope.  I need a new plan of action.”

“Any ideas yet?”

“I tried thinking of some over a bottle of wine last night, but for some reason, my brain got fuzzy,” I deadpan.

He shakes his head and leans back in his chair.  Mitchell’s office has a layout much the same as mine.  A large wood desk in the center with a comfortable black office chair behind, and two black leather chairs in front for clients.  A computer on the desk, an indoor plant by the window, and a filing cabinet to the side. 

“He has a fundraiser coming up.  You could get a ticket,” Mitchell suggests.

“I thought of that, but I’m not sure how successful I would be.  I doubt he’s going to take the bait among his work colleagues.”

“True.”

“But I could show up, have a chat with him, and then maybe keep showing up at places he frequents.  The gym, the coffee shop by his work…”

“Worth a shot,” Mitchell agrees.

“What are you working on?” I ask, gesturing to the stack of paperwork in front of him that he was browsing before I entered.

“Just some finalizations of a couple of previous cases.”

“Okay, well I’ll leave you to it.”

I walk out and close his door softly behind me.  As I pass by Josephine’s desk, I collect a bunch of memos she hands me and then I walk into my office.  After quickly flicking through the memos, I return some phone calls and then begin planning Operation Benny Duncan.

“Ms. Banks, you have a phone call on line one.”  Josephine’s voice interrupts my online stalking of Benny Duncan.

I lift the handset and bring it to my ear. “Makenna Banks speaking.”

“Hi, Makenna,” the girl replies, as if she is a long, lost friend.  I try to recognize her voice, but I draw a blank.

“Who’s calling?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s Juliette.  Juliette Maas,” she chirps.

With an internal groan, I bite back the sharp reprimand begging to escape my lips.

“How can I help you, Juliette?”

“I just wanted to call and see if you were free tonight?  Maybe we could grab a few drinks and some food.”

Does she think we are friends?

“Uh, sorry, Juliette, I’m really busy tonight.” 
And every night.

“Oh, okay.  Well how about tomorrow?  I’m pretty much free any night, or day, actually.  So give me a call or text, or look me up on Facebook.  I added you as a friend, but you haven’t confirmed me yet,” she says, a slight hint of accusation lacing the last part.

“I don’t often access my profile,” I tell her. 

“Fair enough.  Here’s my cell number,” she rattles of a number that I don’t write down.  “Text me when you’re free.  Bye, girlfriend,” she chirps, ending the call before my mind stops spinning.

What the hell just happened?

I place the phone back in the cradle before lifting it again and dialing reception.

“Josephine speaking.”

“Come into my office, please.”

Thirty seconds later there is a light knock on my door. 

“Come in.”

Josephine is twenty-eight and very efficient at her job, except when it comes to
Juliette
, obviously.  She is also very pretty and extremely professional.

“Is everything okay, Ms. Banks?”

“Take a seat please.”

She sits down, running her hands over her black knee-length skirt.

“The phone call you put through a few minutes ago,” I begin.

“Yes.” She nods.

“Juliette Maas.  Is there a reason you didn’t take a message from her?”

“Uh, well, she called a few days ago and said she was a client of yours, and that you had told her to ask to be directed through to you.  Just now when she called, she reiterated that.”

“That’s not the case,” I tell her.  “I told her when she first called that she would need to speak with you to arrange an appointment.  I take it that didn’t happen?”

“No.”

“Right, well, just now when she called, she seemed to think we were old friends.”