No More Lies

By Alan Brenham

Dani Mueller accompanying her husband, Jason Scarsdale, to Washington, DC, in a long-shot effort to save her marriage. When he fails to return from a job interview, a series of events lead to Dani being accused of his murder. All evidence points to her as the prime suspect, and the last person to see him alive. Now Dani must plunge into her own investigation with the added possibility of having been framed. The situation is worsened by DC Metro Detective Floyd Hatchett who reduces her case to a personal vendetta.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Brenham
• Release date: Sep 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215020197

Alan Brenham

Alan Brenham is the pseudonym for Alan Behr, an author and attorney. He served as a law enforcement officer before earning a law degree and working as a prosecutor and a criminal defense attorney. He has traveled to several countries in Europe, the Middle East, Alaska, and almost every island in the Caribbean. While working with the US Military Forces, he lived in Berlin, Germany. Behr and his wife, Lillian, currently live in the Austin, Texas area.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The dominoes began falling when the homicide detective held up my husband’s blood-stained white undershirt.

Care to explain this? he asked me.

I told the detective Jason cut himself shaving prior to going to a job interview for a deputy US marshal position in Washington, DC The trouble was I believed it but the detective didn’t.

According to the Marshal Service, he said, reading from a report. There was no interview.

I knew where this was headed. For the first time in my adult life, I was at a loss for words. Unheard of for a lawyer. Then there was the dead body the investigator told me about before he found the shirt.

Okay, he said. Let’s start from the beginning.

***

One Year Earlier in Austin, Texas

My forty-three-year-old husband, Jason Scarsdale’s thirteen-year-old daughter had been killed in a freak diving accident during a swim meet at school. From that day forward, it was as if a switch had been turned off inside him.

Investigating criminal cases for the Austin PD suddenly swallowed up his time. He seldom called anymore to let me know he’d be late or that he’d be out of town, and those trips became more frequent. He’d even come home drunk a few times. When he was at home, I couldn’t get him to engage in any conversation beyond Yeah and Sure and "Whatever you want, Dani."

He rarely made love to me anymore, other than last Valentine’s Day. I did everything I could think of to rekindle his interest. Strip shows at bedtime. Climbing into bed naked. I even considered buying a couple porn movies for us to watch in the bedroom. I didn’t but it was a thought. In hindsight, maybe I should’ve. Despite his growing distance, I still wanted to make this marriage work. I didn’t want a divorce if I could avoid it. I’d been down that road once.

Four Days Ago

Out of the blue, Jason announced he was leaving for Washington, DC for an interview with the US Marshal’s Service interview. I saw it as a golden opportunity.

How about the two of us go and make it a weekend getaway from the rat race here in Austin? I suggested. We can take a tour of the White House and the Smithsonian. The cherry blossoms will be blooming.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and gazed into his eyes. In the evening, we can enjoy a nice dinner at one of Washington’s classy restaurants. Just the two of us. I kissed him. A quick one. Back at the hotel, I said, reaching my hand down to his crotch. We can snuggle up in bed and enjoy each other.

Yeah. Sure, Dani. Whatever floats your boat.

C’mon, Jason. I couldn’t help myself at that point. The tears started. I’m trying. Please. Help me out here.

What are you crying about? Jason asked. I said OKAY. We’ll go together.

Taking the initiative, I booked us a room with a king-size bed and a Washington Monument view at the JW Marriott on Pennsylvania Avenue, a few blocks from the National Mall. I went all-out with first-class airfare. Despite Jason seeming to have his head elsewhere most of the time, we spent the weekend sightseeing and eating romantic dinners at four-star restaurants. Except for Jason almost becoming roadkill crossing Pennsylvania Avenue on our way to the White House tour, it was like a second honeymoon. We even made love Sunday night. Passionate love. Everything seemed as if we were beginning to reconnect.

***

Monday morning was when my romantic efforts got flushed down the drain. We finished breakfast and, holding his hand, I walked with him to the taxi out front of the hotel. Jason wiggled his hand free. He gave me a brief peck on the cheek then walked away. As he neared the taxi, I told him, Don’t forget. We have a lunch date at noon at the Avenue Grill.

Jason didn’t look back. He gave me an over-the-shoulder wave as he climbed into the car. And just like that, he was gone.

Later that morning, I went for a run around the National Mall. Back in the room, I showered and dressed in that new outfit I’d bought for this trip from Nieman-Marcus. I got us a table for two against the wall and waited. Noon came and went at the Avenue Grill, and no Jason. No call. Not even a text.

At exactly one o’clock, I tapped in his number on my cell. Ten rings. No answer. I didn’t think that much of him not answering—he’d done it a lot back in Austin—so I left a voice message.

Honey—I used tender language so I wouldn’t come across as a bitchy wife—I hope all is going well with your interview. You must’ve forgotten about our lunch date. That’s okay. Call me please.

As soon as I hung up, one of those premonitory warnings popped into my mind, like the sinking feeling I’d get in a jury trial when my client’s so-called best witness waffled on the stand.

I finished my Caesar salad then wandered around the hotel lobby, browsing the clothes, books, and sundries in the boutiques, stopping every so often to check the front lobby to see if Jason had returned. At a bit after two, with no word from Jason, I decided to walk down Fourteenth Street to the Washington Monument. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe because it was the only attraction we hadn’t visited and through some misgiven notion, I hoped he’d be there. 

It was sunny and cool, so I wore that red pullover he’d bought me for Christmas four years before. During the visit, I kept checking my cell in case I missed hearing it. For an hour afterward, I sat on a concrete bench by the Monument, chewing on a fingernail. I scrutinized the crowd for any sighting of Jason. The only ones passing by were couples holding hands and families stopping to take pictures of their children with the Monument in the background.

My watch showed 2:25. No calls or texts. Worry lines formed. I walked back to the hotel and went straight to the front desk.

May I help you?

Yes. I wanted to see if I had any messages. Here’s my room card.

He gave me a look then asked if I was German or Danish.

German by birth.

He did two slow nods then stepped over to another desk, pivoted, still smiling but with empty hands. No, I’m sorry you don’t.

I unclipped my cell, opened the camera app and flipped to a photograph I’d taken of Jason at the Lincoln Memorial Sunday. Have you seen him this afternoon?

No, I’m sorry.

Sighing, I clipped the phone back on my belt. Where was he? Jason better not think this is some kind of humorous game. Maybe he slipped by without the clerk noticing. I took the elevator up to our room. No Jason and no note saying he’d gone to look for me. His suit wasn’t hanging in the closet, nor were his dress shoes by the table. I sat on the edge of the bed and dialed him for the umpteenth time.

After ten rings, his voice mail played. I had memorized it so I spoke the words right along with it. This is Jason. I’m unavailable to take your call. Please leave a name and number, and I’ll call you back.

I texted asking him where he was, if he was okay, and when he would be back, then asked him to call me. I grabbed a half-full water bottle off the table and gulped down three mouthfuls while seconds ticked off. A quick check of my phone showed no response. Something had to have happened. I googled the number for the US Marshals Service headquarters in Arlington, Virginia.

Unites States Marshals Service, Doris Brubaker.

Ms. Brubaker, my name is Dani Mueller Scarsdale. My husband, Jason, had a job interview at your office today. Has he left, or is he still there?

Let me check.

I paced the room. The ticking of the bedside clock sounded like a solitary drumbeat as I waited on hold.

Ms. Scarsdale, are you sure he had an interview here? The security sign-in doesn’t show anyone by that name. Do you know who he interviewed with?

Adrian Hart.

There’s no Adrian Hart at this office.

Could you check again? His interview was scheduled for nine thirty.

What position did he interview for?

Deputy marshal.

Hmm. Are you sure he was to come here? All deputy positions are filled through each US Marshal’s office.

I’m sure. We flew in from Austin for the interview. A taxi picked him up this morning to drive him to Arlington. Could you check again, please?

She got huffy. Ms. Scarsdale, there’s nothing else I can check.

Is there an Adrian Hart employed anywhere with the Marshals?

I can’t answer that question for security reasons.

I’m trying to find my husband. He was to interview with Adrian Hart and you can’t tell me if you have a person by that name employed there?

I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. Perhaps your husband mistook the name of the interviewing agency.

No, ma’am, he didn’t.

I suggest if he fails to return by this evening, that you contact the Metropolitan Police Department. Would you like that number?

Yes, please. I snatched the hotel’s pen and writing pad off the bedside table and scribbled the number as she recited it. Okay. Thank you.

CHAPTER TWO

I sat there, considering Brubaker’s answer. None of it made a bit of sense. Jason had said the interview was with the Marshals Service in Arlington—positively, no mistake, a deputy marshal position. And I saw him climb into that taxi and watched it drive away. Of that I was absolutely positive.

I left another voice message on his cell. My tone wasn’t so tender this time. Jason, I’m really worried. Will you please call me back? After a while, unable to watch TV game shows, I went to the window, gazing blankly at the Washington skyline. Where is he?

I phoned his parents. It was a long shot but all I had left.

His father answered.

This is Dani. Have you heard from Jason today?

No. We haven’t spoken to Jason in over two weeks. Why?

I ended the call after telling him about Jason’s interview and him being a no-show for lunch. I started hyperventilating. I couldn’t breathe. My chest heaved. My hands felt clammy. I paced then stumbled. I inhaled and tasted sweat. Somebody has to know something. Jason wouldn’t up and vanish just like that.

I checked my phone. No reply from Jason. I started hyperventilating. I couldn’t breathe. My chest heaved. My hands felt clammy. I paced then stumbled. I inhaled and tasted sweat. I pulled at my hair and cried. Somebody please help me. That’s when I called the police.

Metropolitan Police.

I want to report my husband missing.

The woman asked a few preliminary questions. What is his name?

Jason Scarsdale.

"When did you last see him?

This morning. He left in a taxi that was supposed to take him straight to the US Marshal headquarters in Virginia for a job interview. I phoned them, and the lady who answered said he never arrived.

Have you attempted to phone him?

Yes. Of course I did. Several times.

Ma’am, I’m just trying to make a record for the investigator.

I’m sorry.

What is your name?

Dani Mueller Scarsdale.

What is your address?

I’m… we’re staying at the JW Marriott on Pennsylvania Avenue. We live in Austin, Texas. My husband’s a detective with the police department. Cops are like a brotherhood so I hoped that tidbit of information would fast-track them.

A detective will contact you in a few days. If your husband returns, let us know.

I went downstairs and got a cup of coffee from the Avenue Grill. I parked myself in an armchair next to a marble column twenty feet from the hotel’s front door, watching anyone and everyone who entered. One man similar in height and hairstyle to Jason and wearing a dark suit walked through the door in a group of men. I moved closer to get a better look. Nope. Not Jason.

I returned to the cushy leather armchair, keeping a perfect view of the front door for when the officer or Jason came into the lobby. A haunting thought crossed my mind. What if Jason never comes back? That brought back memories of my first marriage, when that husband disappeared. I’d found out later he dumped me for another woman. What if Jason found someone else? What if this was déjà vu? I chewed on my nail wondering if it’s me. I should’ve been more of a wife to him than spending my time being a lawyer. Been sexier. I should’ve worn my clothes shorter and tighter. Maybe I wasn’t there for him as much as he needed me to be after Shannon died. I fished my compact from my purse and studied my reflection. The lines at the corners of my eyes made me look old. Did I look like that when we got married? And that damn mole on my chin. I should’ve had that removed.

I opened the picture file on my phone and looked at our wedding photograph. A glance at my compact and decided there was nothing wrong with me. If he left me for another woman, it was because he was a jerk. But what if it wasn’t about another woman? What if he was hurt and couldn’t text me back? What if he’d been kidnapped?

I checked with local hospitals but nobody by the name of Scarsdale had been to the ER or registered as a patient.

I ordered a beer from the bar for something to drink while wondering about the taxi. Did it take Jason to the Marshals’ headquarters and that Brubaker woman must’ve missed his name on the security check-in list? Only one way to find out.

That night, I lay in bed, rolling one way then the other. Unable to sleep, I went and stood at the window, twirling a tendril of hair, and replaying the last time I’d seen Jason. I began to question my own recollection of my last moments with him. Did he say he had to go somewhere else after the interview? Wracking my brain, I couldn’t recall him saying anything of the kind. He could have, though. Another check of the missed-calls screen on my cell revealed nothing. Same for texts.

***

Tuesday morning, after a light breakfast of a slice of toast and a cup of coffee, I took a taxi to Arlington. It drove past the Jefferson Memorial and crossed the Fourteenth Street Bridge. Fifteen minutes later, it stopped in front of the Marshal Headquarters building in Crystal City. Inside, after clearing security, I asked to speak to Ms. Brubaker.

She had a blonde pageboy hairstyle and wore black-striped pant with a black jacket. Ms. Mueller, she said, sticking her hand out. I’m Penny Brubaker. What can I do for you?

We spoke on the phone yesterday about my husband coming here for an interview. Jason Scarsdale? I came here to find out if, perhaps, he might have interviewed with staff that you weren’t aware of.

Her mouth tightened into a thin line as she sucked in a very slow breath through flared nostrils, and her eyes went to full glare mode. Get pissed. I don’t care.

Like I told you yesterday, your husband never came here, and like I told you then, deputy marshal job interviews take place at the district offices. Not here.

I understand that, but I heard Jason reaffirm on the phone with the interviewer, a man named Adrian Hart, that the interview would happen here. This is the US Marshal headquarters in Crystal City, right?

She let out a sigh of dish gust and walked over to a computer terminal. She typed in Hart’s name. A minute later, she faced me, giving me one of those looks that said, Do you want this in small words so you’ll understand me this time? We don’t have anyone by that name employed with the Marshals Service. Obviously, you misunderstood the man’s name and the location of the interview. Her tone and patronizing attitude pissed me off.

He had it on speaker, so I heard it perfectly, I snapped. Is there somebody else I can speak with? Your supervisor, perhaps?

She wheeled around and jerked a phone off the guard’s desk. When she finished talking to someone, she set the phone on the desk. Wait here. Somebody will be with you shortly. She walked to the elevator and pressed the button then flashed me one final go-to-hell look before stepping onto the elevator.

The elevator doors closed before I had the chance to signal my opinion of her.

A half hour passed. Nobody came down. Irked, I decided not to leave until I did a little investigating of my own. I opened the phone to that same photograph I had showed the hotel clerk and displayed it to the guard.

Were you on duty here yesterday morning?

Yes. It’s my duty station.

This man came here yesterday morning. Did you see who he came in with?

The guard studied the picture then shook his head. I don’t recall seeing him, ma’am.

Is there a back entrance where employees enter? I pointed toward the rear of the lobby. One whereby somebody could come in and you wouldn’t see them?

Not a rear entrance, no, ma’am. All employees park in the garage and use the elevator. In answer to your question, most of the time, they do come in without me seeing them.

So, I said, holding up the picture, it’s possible he could’ve come in using the elevator?

If he came with an employee who had a security badge, yes, that’s possible, but he’d still have to sign in and get a visitor’s badge here.

Does an Adrian Hart work here?

Nobody by that name works here. His phone rang. Excuse me.

I stood there, unsure of what to do next. Two men wearing marshal badges dangling from their necks passed by.

Excuse me. Does an Adrian Hart work here?

The marshals looked at each other. One shrugged and shook his head. Don’t know. Could be. They walked away, leaving me to wonder who was telling the truth.

CHAPTER THREE

Upon returning to the hotel, I checked the front desk for any messages, hoping that Jason had left one. Instead, the clerk handed me a business card from Detective Edwin Winstrom of the Missing Person Section of the DC Metropolitan Police Department. With Jason being a fellow cop, I correctly assumed they’d jump on the report immediately. Maybe Winstrom had good news. My breathing hitched and my hands shook as I punched in his number.

This is Detective Winstrom.

This is Dani Mueller… Scarsdale. You left a business card at my hotel.

Yes, ma’am. I’ve been assigned to investigate the missing person report you filed. His tone sounded upbeat.

My pulse quickened, anticipating good news.

Has your husband returned?

No. I deflated.

When would be a good time to meet with you?

How about right now? Can you come to the hotel?

Yes, ma’am.

"I’ll meet you in the lobby. I’m wearing a black sweater and jeans."

Sounds good. I’ll be there in approximately fifteen minutes.

Knowing approximately fifteen minutes was nebulous, I bought a magazine at Travel Traders. Parking myself in my favorite lobby chair, I flipped through the magazine. Halfway through, I set it aside and phoned the four hospital ERs. They all said the same thing. Nobody named Jason Scarsdale had been treated there. I even phoned the Walter Reed military hospital since Jason had been in the military. Disappointed yet pleased that he hadn’t been admitted to any hospital, I finished flipping through the magazine.

Are you Ms. Scarsdale?

I looked up into the face of a heavy-set man in a brown suit and chocolate-colored tie.

Yes, I am. Setting the magazine aside, I stood.

Ms. Scarsdale, I’m Detective Winstrom, he said, pulling his coat back to expose a badge clipped to his belt and a black holster. Is there a place where we can talk?

Over there. I pointed at the same table where the two uniformed cops had interviewed me.

To be sure I’m speaking with the right party, may I see some ID?

I presented him my driver’s license and watched him record everything shown on it.

The report says you’re a lawyer. What kind of law do you practice?

I knew where that was going. Defense attorneys are anathema to cops, like sharks are to seals. Criminal defense.

So’s my brother, he said, still writing. Describe what your husband was wearing when he left here.

He wore a navy-blue suit with a red-and-black plaid tie, a white long-sleeved shirt, and black patent leather shoes. He had a Seiko watch with a brown leather strap.

Do you have a recent photograph of him? I’ll need it for the file.

I fished one from my wallet and handed it over.

Winstrom wrote some notes. Other than the Marshals Service HQ, do you have any idea where he may have gone? he asked, laying his notepad open on the table.

I wish I did.

His tone went flat. Did he have any plans after the interview? Any other appointments or anyone he was to meet with later?

No to all three questions. If he had, he would’ve mentioned it to me.

Would there be any reason he returned to Austin without you?

Oh, sure, I mused to myself. He’d hop on a plane to go home without telling me. What kind of dumb question is that? Of course he wouldn’t, I replied. Neither of us go out of town without telling each other.

I didn’t mean to suggest he left you. What I meant was maybe he got a call and had to leave right away. After all, he is a homicide detective in Austin.

I understand, but no, he wouldn’t have left without telling me. What did happen was that he went on a job interview at the Marshals Service headquarters.

Winstrom wiped his tongue across his teeth. There’s no record of him ever arriving for any purpose at the Marshals’ headquarters. Nor is there any record of him at their Maryland or Virginia district offices.

My frustration level rose. Look, all I know is that he left in a taxi. I pointed at the main entrance. It was supposed to deliver him to their Crystal City headquarters. That’s what Jason told me. I don’t know what’s going on at their headquarters, but somebody over there knows exactly where he is, and they’re denying everything.

Did you get a look at the taxi company name?

I didn’t think to do that because I had no idea it would come to this. Had I known we’d be talking, I would’ve.

Did you two have a fight?

No.

Have you ever suspected him of having an affair?

I had to laugh at that. Jason was the straightest arrow I’d ever met, other than my father. Never.

Has he done anything like this before… disappeared for a day or two?

Not disappeared. He’s been gone overnight for cases he worked.

"Is there any reason you know of that your husband wouldn’t come back here?

Only if he was badly injured or . . . dead.

Have you tried calling him?

I’ve lost count of the number of times. I left messages and texted him.

Does he have any relatives in the area he might be visiting?

No.

Friends?

Not that I’m aware of.

Getting back to the taxi, did anyone else witness him getting in that you’re aware of?

Maybe the concierge. Other than him, nobody that I’m aware of.

Have you and your husband been having any marital difficulties?

Nope, nor have we had any financial problems either. There’s no discord in our marriage. Very little romance either.

Winstrom’s finger traced a sentence in the offense report. Is there any reason he might harm himself? Suicide among officers is a growing problem.

No. I rethought my response. Well, about a year ago, his daughter died in a scholastic swim meet. He’s had a rough time with his grief, drinking heavily sometimes, but I really don’t believe he’d take his life. He loves his job.

Is it possible he may have abandoned you… that all of this interview situation was a fabrication… a subterfuge because of his grief?

A flashback to my first marriage. That husband, an Air Force officer, had abandoned me while I was pregnant with Katarina. I’d found out later he’d secretly resigned his commission and taken a job somewhere overseas with his new love. I doubt it, but anything’s possible, Detective. Like I said, Jason loves his job. If only he loved me as much.

Look, Ms. Mueller, He gave me a long look as if thinking of how to phrase his next comment. "Your husband may have met an