Free Tell No Lies by Gregg Hurwitz Page A

space like this, looking out on the same majestic view until it had ceased being majestic. Just how much would he miss the grit and pressure of the group, the room, the broken souls in their combatants’ ring? All the guts and shame and ugliness of hard living, and yet all the grace and courage, too. Those moments when a ray of hope broke through, illuminating a hidden path.
    And yet the air up here was intoxicating.
    “This is a highly coveted space, as you can imagine. If you decide to jump on this opportunity, we can have the contract drawn up in—”
    “I’ll take it,” he said.
    Her brain seemed not to register this for a second or two of blissful silence. “Superb. You’ll have an excellent new start here.”
    Before leaving, he cast a final glance at the ghostly forms of the statues across from them, indistinct in their robes, featureless and yet looking on, like the Grim Reaper, like Marisol Vargas’s killer, like his conscience.

 
    Chapter 12
    After securing his future office space, Daniel intended to drive home but found himself steering the opposite way. It was Tuesday—no group—and yet some compulsion drew him, the impulse quickening until he descended into the dim parking lot of Metro South. He detoured, slowing as he passed the narrow spaces on the far wall, a vast array of motorcycles lined up—from Harleys to Japanese rockets, from gleaming chrome to rusted heaps. Dooley’s sneer came back to him: Felons with choppers. That should be a short list.
    After circling the level, he parked in his usual space and climbed out, inhaling the moist garage air. Fragments of the prior night pricked at his nerves, burrowed beneath his skin. He shook off the sensation and started for the elevator when the doors opened and a man stepped out, the shadowed figure slowly resolving.
    Daniel halted sharply there before his car, struck by A-Dre’s form and bearing. Not dissimilar to those of Marisol’s killer.
    Okay. The killer had been wearing loose-fitting black sweats. All Daniel could tell was that he’d been tall and well built. Like all the men in group. And like many of the men who rotated through the building.
    And yet Daniel’s flesh tingled from an adrenaline charge. A little stab of PTSD, nothing more.
    A-Dre spotted him and halted.
    “Why are you here today?” Daniel asked. He’d intended the question to come across as conversational, but there was too much pressure behind it. What did he expect the guy to say? Oh, just dropping off some more death threats in the mail room.
    A-Dre cocked his head, and Daniel flashed again on that motorcycle mask, tilting to take him in across the length of Marisol Vargas’s foyer.
    A-Dre approached slowly. “I’m not supposed to be here?”
    “That’s not what I said.”
    A-Dre turned away with disgust, taking a few steps toward the far wall against which the motorcycles were slotted. When he stopped to look back, Daniel realized that he had remained in place, pinned to the concrete in front of his car. Waiting to see if A-Dre climbed onto one of those motorcycles.
    “You gonna watch me?”
    “Is there some reason you don’t want to be watched?”
    A-Dre’s upper lip twitched in a literal snarl as he reversed course and came up on Daniel. “Make sure I don’t break into one of these nice foreign cars.” He flicked his head at the Audi behind Daniel.
    The Audi that he made sure never to drive on workdays. But today wasn’t a workday. Daniel wasn’t supposed to be here any more than A-Dre was.
    “Nice wheels,” A-Dre said. “The counselor biz must be paying well these days.”
    “It pays fine.”
    “Not S-series fine. No, you got some dollar. You dress down, don’t you, afore you slum your ass in here? The worn jeans. The faded T-shirts.” A-Dre came up on Daniel, breathed down on him.
    Daniel took a step to the side, and A-Dre shadowed his move, blocking him again. He was in no frame of mind to engage A-Dre properly right now; he just needed to