3 Lies by Helen Hanson

Every time you do it, we know you might've saved an officer’s life.”
    Clint read appreciation in the man’s eyes.
    “I’m a cop, but I also invest in high-tech. I’ve made a small fortune thanks to CatSat. So, maybe I’m biased, but I’m inclined to believe you.” He spoke in near whispers. “The call came from the commissioner himself. I thought you deserved to know.”
    “Thanks.”
    They arrived at the security door. Todd Westerfield waited on the other side.
    The officer shook his head. “Wow. Clint Masters and Todd Westerfield. The Brain and Mr. Flash.”
    The monikers had graced more than one headline.
    “This is better than an All-Star game.” He whispered behind Clint as he let him through the door. “You be careful, man.”
    Todd adorned the near wall in a navy-blue silk suit—custom made on Savile Row. He opened their London office just so he could get fitted. At six foot nothing, he was almost as tall as Clint, but his expense account kept him on the attractive side of husky.
    “What are you doing here?”
    Todd pushed off the wall with a shoulder. “You look like hell.”
    “Look around.”
    “I rescheduled a Korean Vice-Admiral to come down here in your hour of need. A little gratitude is in order.”
    “Sorry, man. I expected one of your flunkies. I didn’t need bail after all. The police dropped the charges.”
    Todd was inclined to think he was the center of the universe, but he tended those in his orbit with fanatical care. Loyal with faults. He was the kind of guy who bailed with you until your boat sank but insisted on having the bigger bucket.
    “They dropped the charges only after the impassioned plea of the finest attorney at Jared, Bryant & Lambert.”
    “You bastard. You told Paige?”
    His red silk tie jiggled with laughter. “Mustn’t keep secrets from the missus. It’s bad form. She did get them to punch your ticket.”
    Clint brushed past him toward the lobby. “I will kill you in your sleep.”
    “Quit crying, Nancy. You’ve been living on the island too long. What do you think the media leeches are going to do if they get a hold of this story? I can see the headline now.” Todd ran a hand across an imaginary newspaper. “‘CatSat Laboratories Founder Arrested for Judicial Harassment.’ You’ll do wonders for our stock price.”
    Clint had forgotten about the media. The jackals had lost his scent in the last couple of months, but he couldn’t jeopardize the reputation of CatSat with his personal matters. While always suspect in the minds of some, most considered the CatSat system highly reliable.
    “All right. I won’t kill you in your sleep. But you’ve got to help me get Louie.”
    “Your carriage awaits, princess.”
    A slender young man opened the door. “Mr. Westerfield. Brenda called. The board wants to meet next Tuesday to review—”
    “Later. I’m unavailable for the next few hours.”
    A driver smoked a cigarette curbside next to the idling black Mercedes limo, stretched, but not to the extent that caused others to gawk. He stubbed out his butt and put it in a plastic sandwich bag, which he pocketed. On Boston’s municipal infraction scale, littering ranked somewhere below murder but above petty theft.
    “Send someone to get Mr. Master’s dog, Louie, and take us to Pongos,” Todd said.
    “Yes, sir.”
    The driver slipped into the front seat, and Todd’s assistant closed the rear door.
    Privacy glass separated their compartment from the staff.
    Todd tossed a Bardon’s department store bag to Clint. Clint found a new set of clothes inside.
    “You read minds?”
    “I can’t take you anywhere I want to eat dressed like that.”
    “Always the humanitarian.”
    Clint peeled off his clothes and traded them for the comfortable slacks and dress shirt.
    “So what the hell happened? Too much time on your hands, or what?” Todd sprawled in the corner.
    “It’s a bit more complicated than that.” Clint stuffed his old clothes in the sack.