Free The Lie by Michael Weaver

door and settled behind his desk. Paulie sat
     down facing him. He suddenly felt tired and edgy. Chafing, he began without a preamble.
    “Do you have any idea who might have shot my mother and father, Dr. Pinto?”
    Pinto’s eyebrows rose. “Why would you ask me a question like that?”
    Paulie took out the two pictures of the Falangas’ final moments and handed them across the desk. “Because I found these in
     my father’s safe after he and my mother were killed.”
    Pinto studied the pictures. “What do these have to do with me?”
    “Do you really want to do this the hard way?”
    The doctor remained silent.
    “All right,” said Paulie. “Eighteen years ago you were working undercover for my father. During this time, you set up Angelo
     and Patty Falanga for a CIA operation that ended with my father shooting them both just seconds after these pictures were
     snapped.”
    He paused. “Now do you want to waste more time, or do we move ahead?”
    Pinto looked away from Paulie and out a window.
    “Whom did you tell that my father shot the Falangas?”
    “I never told anyone.”
    “You’re lying,” said Paulie. “You did tell someone. Whoever you told killed my parents.”
    Paulie waited for some reaction to his bluff.
    “Unless,” he added, “I’m wrong and you did the shooting yourself.
    “I want a name from you, Dr. Pinto,” Paulie continued. “If I don’t get it before I leave this office, I’m going to tell those
     who still revere the memory of Patty and Angelo Falanga that you were the Judas who sold them out to the CIA.”
    Pinto’s lips worked dryly. “You wouldn’t do that.”
    “Why wouldn’t I?”
    “Because you know I’d be dead in two days.”
    “So?”
    “For God’s sake! You’re an artist, not an assassin.”
    “That was before my parents were murdered.”
    “I swear I wasn’t to blame.”
    “Then who was?”
    “There’s no way I can know for sure. I wasn’t there. But I did tell one man that your father shot the Falangas.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “When I knew him he called himself Klaus Logefeld. I don’t know what name he’s using now.”
    “German?”
    Pinto nodded tiredly. He seemed to have aged a decade in minutes.
    “What was he?”
    “Everything from a terrorist to a savior of the world. You name it.”
    “Is he here in Rome?”
    “He said he was.”
    “What did he ask you for?”
    “The shooter who took out the Falangas.”
    “How did he know you knew that?”
    “He never told me. But he’s always had all sorts of lines out.
    “Did he know you sold out the Falangas?”
    “Christ, no! I wouldn’t be here if he knew that. He idolized them.”
    “What made you hand him my father as their killer?”
    “Klaus knows enough about my early student years to end my career tomorrow.” The surgeon brought the fingers of both hands
     together. They were shaking. “I couldn’t stand up to that. I’ve worked too hard to throw it all away.”
    “So you threw away my mother and father instead?”
    “It wasn’t like that. I was sick over it. I never expected them :o be shot. Certainly not your mother. Please understand.
     I had no choice.”
    “There’s always a choice.”
    “None that I could live with.”
    Paulie could think of no argument against that.
    “Where does this Klaus Logefeld live?” he asked.
    “About a twenty-minute drive from here. Not far off the Via della Lungara.” Pinto hesitated. “At least that was the address
     he gave me.”
    “Then you’re going to drive me there right now.”
    The parking lot was directly in back of the hospital.
    Paulie watched Pinto get behind the wheel of his car, then he slid into the seat beside him.
    The doctor’s nervousness had increased. His movements were hesitant, shaky, and the keys jangled in his hand as he sought
     the ignition. Then the keys slipped from his fingers entirely, and he bent and groped for them on the floor under his seat.
    “Easy,” said Paulie. “Just do as I