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The Liar’s Lullaby
Meg Gardiner
When you have to take on the White House there's only one woman to call – Jo Beckett.When a rock singer is killed onstage during a concert, Jo Beckett is called in to perform a psychological autopsy. But Tasia McFarland's death causes Jo all kinds of problems, because Tasia is the ex-wife of the President of the United States.The White House pressures Jo to declare Tasia's death an accident rather than a homicide. The media and conspiracy nuts rant that Tasia was knocked off to silence her, for unknown reasons. Fringe extremists seethe about taking direct action to "save America" from the president and his administration.Jo learns that an obsessed fan was apparently stalking Tasia. The stalker may have killed her and escaped in the panic at the concert.As the media and conspiracy frenzy grows, the White House leans harder on Jo to close the case. When she won't, Gabe Quintana finds his military orders suddenly changed, and he's called up to active duty in Afghanistan… in 72 hours.Jo discovers the identity of the stalker. It’s someone who's obsessed with Tasia's new boyfriend, a famous country singer. Jo calls the police but she's too late. The stalker stabs the singer to death.The police kill the stalker. The case seems to have come to a spectacular conclusion. But Jo doesn't think the stalker in fact murdered Tasia; the facts don't add up. She fears that Tasia was killed for other reasons. And she's nervous, because the President is coming to San Francisco to attend Tasia's memorial service…
The Liar’s Lullaby
Meg Gardiner
For Eleanor
Table of Contents
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1 (#ulink_35735f93-58c4-59c3-9afd-820a8a5d82ce)
HACK SHIRAZI BRACED HIMSELF IN THE OPEN DOOR OF THE HELICOPTER and gazed across San Francisco Bay at the crowded ballpark. Wind and engine noise buffeted him. The evening sun bisected his field of vision. The check had cleared, so he was going to deliver the Rambo. But they were running late, which put the failing gold light square in his eyes.
He shoved the banana clip into the Kalashnikov. “On my mark.”
In the helicopter flying alongside them, the second team positioned themselves in the doorway. They swept over the bay toward the city. Whitecaps foamed on the surface of the water, five hundred feet below. In the pilot’s seat, Andreyev held tight to the controls.
The Giants’ ballpark was filled to capacity. People jammed the stands and covered the field from home plate to the centerfield stage. The two Bell 212 choppers would fly beyond it, circle back, and make their run at the target from out of the sun.
Andreyev radioed their man on the ground. “Rock and roll.”
IN THE STANDS BELOW, Rez Shirazi put a hand to his radio earpiece. “I hear you.”
Rock and roll was just about all he could hear. It echoed from the bleachers along the foul line, where beer-marinated rednecks whooped to the beat. From the teeming field, where sunburned college girls sang along with the saccharine lyrics. From the corporate hospitality suites on either side of him, where venture capitalists sipped mojitos and dipped five-dollar tortilla chips in mango chutney salsa.
Shirazi shook his head. Ersatz rock and roll—drowned in country-western cheese sauce. Tasteless, drippy American cheese.
Through his earpiece, he heard his brother Hack. “Four minutes. Mark.”
Rez clicked the timer on his watch. “Mark.”
On the stage, near towering speakers that amplified their cornpone accent, a choir of backup patriots was woo-wooing, while a singer in two-thousand-dollar cowboy boots wailed about the trials of the common man.
You can take my work, you can take my cash…but if you won’t shake my hand, I’ll light a fire up your—
“Ass,” Shirazi said.
The surrounding suites were jammed. People crowded the interiors and filled rows of seats on the balcony. But Rez’s suite was empty: no food, absolutely no drink, no loiterers. He stepped onto the balcony and checked their gear. The CO
canisters were in place. The zip line was secure. It was a stainless steel aircraft cable, clamped through a forged eyebolt and anchored to the girders that supported the upper deck of the stadium. He glanced at the video camera, then over the edge of the balcony. The drop was substantial.
Andreyev’s voice crackled through the radio. “I can’t see her on video. Is she there?”
ON CUE, the door to the suite opened. Noise flowed in from the hallway outside. Tasia McFarland stormed in.
“Rez, they’re following me. Get rid of them. I can’t do this with all these people harassing me.”
His nerves fired at the sight of her. “She’s here.” For a millisecond his skin itched and his ears thundered. “Oh, brother.”
In his ear, Hack sounded sharp. “What’s wrong?”
Tasia already had the climbing harness cinched around her hips. That was no mean feat. She was wearing a magenta corset, which trailed back into ruffles that dragged on the floor. Beneath it she wore ripped jeans and turquoise cowboy boots. The top half of her looked like Scarlett O’Hara halfway through a striptease. The bottom half looked like she’d escaped a cage fight with a rabid badger.
