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  Praise for Collision of Lies

  “Excellent pacing and surprising twists will keep readers guessing and engaged until the end. This is Threadgill’s most intricate, propulsive novel yet.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Threadgill plunges a detective from the San Antonio Property Crimes Division into a deep-laid plot involving murder, kidnapping, and myriad other crimes above her pay grade.”

  Kirkus Reviews

  “I didn’t want to put this book down . . . couldn’t put it down. I absolutely adore Amara Alvarez and her relationships with her coworkers, friends, and her iguana! Now I want one. She was a heroine who made me laugh and one I could really relate to. I can think of a few words to describe this book: amazing, incredible, intriguing, mesmerizing, unputdownable. . . . I could go on, but I need to stop so I can go buy up the entire backlist of my new favorite author.”

  Lynette Eason, award-winning, bestselling author of the Blue Justice Series

  “This book is a journey, drawing its readers and characters onto a path that is both curious and intelligent.”

  More Than a Review

  “The plot flows at breathtaking speed as the clues become more bizarre.”

  World Magazine

  ALSO BY TOM THREADGILL

  Collision of Lies

  © 2021 by Thomas D. Threadgill

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-2865-6

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published in association with the Hartline Literary Agency, LLC.

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Collision of Lies

  Half Title Page

  Also by Tom Threadgill

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

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  10

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  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  Epilogue

  Go Back to the Beginning . . .

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  How long could a human being scream?

  Three times through the video so far and Amara’s appreciation for the woman’s lung capacity grew with each viewing. No sound on the recording, but there was no mistaking the outburst. The wide eyes, gaping mouth, and panicked attempt to be anywhere else other than there. Not that the shrieking had any relevance whatsoever. The woman’s reaction was entirely normal. People tended to scream when dead bodies appeared beside them.

  On the monitor, an older teenage male, his chin against his chest and face hidden with a baseball cap, drifted on the water park’s lazy river. The deeply tanned boy floated on a huge yellow inner tube with each hand, palms up, tucked under one of the black handles. His knees were propped on top, allowing his feet to dangle in the water. During the seven-and-a-half-minute video clip, a series of rapids and a few collisions with other riders jostled him enough that his hands and feet moved, making it difficult to determine if the teen was dead or passed out. Either way, the other park visitors were too absorbed in their own day to notice. That would change.

  A short way ahead, the not-yet-screaming woman and her three kids—two boys and a younger girl, all under ten or eleven by the looks of them—linked their floats together in an ovalish circle. Each member of the family held the foot of their neighbor as they meandered through the twists and turns of the attraction. The distance between the teenager and family narrowed, and Amara leaned closer to the monitor as her heartbeat accelerated. This was like one of those nature videos where a lioness stalks her victim. Creeping up on the unsuspecting wildebeest until . . . now.

  The teen caught up to the family and his left leg bumped against the back of the young girl’s head. She jerked, turned to see who’d nudged her, mouthed something to him, and pushed his tube away. Barely a dozen clock-ticks later, he collided with her again, sending the mother into mom mode.

  She grabbed his inner tube, pulled it to herself, then heaved it away with all the strength she could muster. Doing so flipped the boy’s head toward her and his ball cap fell into the water. His open, unmoving eyes were all it took. The woman screamed. And kept screaming. She paddled furiously for several seconds in a futile attempt to flee the corpse’s gaze. The adrenaline kicked in and—still shrieking—she rolled off her inner tube and pushed her three children aside as the corpse continued its slow, rambling journey.

  “You can turn it off,” Amara said.

  Dr. Douglas Pritchard, the medical examiner for Bexar County, clicked his mouse and the recording paused. “I requested the footage from the Cannonball Water Park after doing the young man’s autopsy. I trust it will be useful in your investigation, Detective Alvarez?”

  Her investigation? Would Zachary Coleman be her first case? Not unless Dr. Pritchard could convince her there was something worth looking into. Truthfully, he wouldn’t have to show much. Her current routine, while interesting and necessary, wasn’t exactly stimulating.

  After the Feds took control of the ongoing probe into the Cotulla aftermath, she’d been granted a transfer from the San Antonio PD’s Property Crimes Division to Homicide. Her first month in the new position had consisted of reviewing old files, shadowing other detectives as they worked, and keeping her mouth shut as much as possible.

  When the LT had hollered her name an hour ago, she figured he had more files for her to review. She was wrong. Lieutenant Rico Segura was sitting behind his desk, an unlit cigar hanging from his mouth. Every morning the man pulled a new stogie from his drawer and planted it between his teeth. By the end of the day, most of the cigar would be gone, whether from absorption or chewing or swallowing or spitting or . . . She managed to restrain a shudder.

  Get to the ME’s office ASAP, he said. Find out what Pritchard’s got. Suspicious death. See if it’s worth investigating.

  After a quick yessir, she’d hurried over and caught the doctor between autopsies and meetings. Douglas Pritchard worked with her on C
otulla, and at the time he’d been dating Sara Colby, a Texas Ranger who’d also been involved in the inquiry. The two were no longer together, a fact Amara knew from her increasingly infrequent conversations with the woman.

  The ME cleared his throat. “Detective?”

  “Sorry.” She shifted in the red leather armchair. “Yes, the security video will be helpful if we move forward with an investigation. But there’s nothing on there that even hints at a crime. When the tox screenings come back, the department may take another look if warranted.”

  He scanned his desktop. “How’s Sara? Do you two speak often?”

  “Um, last I heard she was doing well.”

  He shuffled through a stack of file folders. “So that’s a no?”

  “We talk on occasion. She’s fine.”

  “Give her my best, would you?” He looked up and stroked his goatee. “Now that’s an interesting saying, isn’t it? My best. My best what? Intentions? Makes no sense. Wishes? I suppose that might work under the right circumstances, but I—”

  “You have more evidence to support your suspicions regarding the death?”

  He nodded. “Zachary Bryce Coleman, seventeen-year-old Caucasian male. I have his file ready to, um, it’s right, well . . .” He moved his hand over his desk twice, then pounced on a folder. “Here we go. The young man expired in rather peculiar circumstances.”

  “Yeah, it was on the news too.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m afraid I don’t spend much time watching television.” He dragged his finger down a sheet of paper. “The death happened two days ago. Exceptionally hot, if you’ll recall. The decedent and a group of friends planned to escape the heat at the water park. Have you ever been there, Detective?”

  “Uh, no. Not that I recall.”

  He tilted his head. “Is that something you’d forget? Of course, if you visited before the age of three, it’s unlikely you’d remember, and recent studies regarding Freud’s childhood amnesia theory indicate that most events occurring before a child reaches seven or eight fade as—”

  “No,” she said. “I’ve never been there. You were saying the victim and his friends wanted to spend the day at the water park?”

  “Yes, along with thousands of others. He had a blood-alcohol content of point-zero-eight. The final toxicology report may show a variance from that number, but he definitely consumed alcohol. Our initial theory was the combination of excessive temperatures and alcohol consumption led to heatstroke. The autopsy, however, showed no signs of petechial hemorrhages or—”

  “English, please.”

  “There was no indication of bleeding in the membranes surrounding some of the body’s organs. No congestion in the lungs or swelling in the brain. None of the symptoms we’d typically identify in a heatstroke victim. And before you ask, alcohol poisoning would exhibit many of these same indications, as well as others which also were not detected during the autopsy.”

  She planted her elbows on the chair’s armrests and inched forward. “How did he die, then?”

  “We don’t know. It will be four to six weeks before the toxicology tests are completed, so as of now, the cause of death is undetermined.”

  “You told Lieutenant Segura it was suspicious. Just because you don’t know how he died doesn’t mean it’s a potential homicide.”

  His eyebrows scrunched together. “What in the world?” He leaned back in his chair, pulled off his left shoe, and removed a tea bag from it before tossing the thing in the trash.

  Don’t ask. Don’t do it. No wonder Sara broke things off. “I was asking why you think this might be a homicide?”

  He slid a large photograph toward her. “Take a look at this. That’s from the water park’s security cameras. First image of Coleman on that ride. I requested video of him from the time he entered the water until he was pulled out. This is all they had. Something about camera malfunctions, but they estimated he’d been on the attraction for somewhere around two minutes at that time, based on the distance between the last working camera and this one.”

  The cropped photo focused on the teen, though numerous people were visible in the water around him.

  Amara glanced at the doctor. “Is he alive or dead here?”

  “Hard to tell, isn’t it?”

  “No video of him getting in the water?”

  “What you saw is everything I received, but my request was extremely limited in scope. Beyond that, you’d have to ask the park.”

  She scooted back in her chair and crossed her legs. “I get why you think this could be suspicious. Trust me, I’d love to look into this, but so far you haven’t said anything that makes me believe it might be a homicide.”

  “I thought not.” He pulled another photo from the folder and passed it over. “Tell me what you see.”

  She held the picture higher. “Bottoms of his feet? Nothing unusual as far as I can tell.”

  “No? Think about it.”

  Guessing games. What fun. “Dr. Pritchard, I’m not a medical expert. If there’s something here that might—”

  “Do you ever shower? Take a bath?”

  How did Sara last so long with this guy? “Now and then.”

  He waved his hand in a circular motion for her to continue. “And your toes and fingers . . .”

  She knocked her fist against her forehead. “They wrinkle. Pucker up. And Zachary Coleman’s toes didn’t.”

  “Precisely. Our central nervous system triggers an involuntary reaction when we interact with water. Our capillaries shrink, causing the skin to furrow. As to why this happens, there are several theories. My favorite is—”

  “I’ll cede the point,” she said. “So why weren’t his toes wrinkled?”

  “It usually takes less than five minutes for the body to initiate the reaction to water. That didn’t happen with Mr. Coleman because his nervous system ceased functioning before the response could begin.”

  Amara licked her lips. “You think he was already dead when he went in the water.”

  “No, Detective. I’m certain of it.”

  2

  Amara kept her head down as she walked through the Homicide department. Her reception had been tepid at best. Starsky said not to worry about it. They treated all the new ones this way. Maybe. Sure seemed to be an edge to the looks from the other detectives, men and women alike. Unspoken, but not hidden, bitterness or resentment. Alvarez hadn’t paid her dues. Got all the publicity and attagirls because of Cotulla. The chief had no choice. Had to give her what she wanted. Plenty of others waiting to move over to the department but, well, better luck next time. Never mind that she was on the verge of a transfer even before Cotulla.

  Starsky said it was all in her head. That she was seeing things that weren’t there. Overreacting. Yeah? Then why didn’t she have a desk yet? The LT told her on three occasions that he’d find a permanent home for her soon, but his voice had a distinct “whenever you ask, I push it back a week” vibe to it. Every morning, she toted her belongings to any open place she could see and arranged her makeshift office. At first, she’d tried to share desks with detectives who were out, but quickly decided it’d be easier to settle into a spot no one wanted. Fewer not-so-subtle hints about choosing somewhere else to sit.

  Her latest semi-regular work location was a folding card table, clean when she’d left for the ME’s office but now covered with the remnants of pizza or nachos or pretzels or all of the above. She clenched her teeth and brushed the crumbs into the palm of her hand before realizing her garbage can was gone. Again.

  After a quick glance behind to make sure no one was watching, she flicked her wrist toward an open area off to the side and sent the food bits scattering through the air like a sprinkler. Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but God didn’t have someone constantly stealing his trash can.

  “I saw that.”

  The familiar voice came from across the room. Amara closed her eyes and shook her head, then spun her chair around. “You didn’t see anythin
g.”

  Detective Jeremiah Peckham, though everyone she knew called him Starsky, shrugged before ambling over. “I know what I saw. You threw crumbs on the floor. That’s how we get mice.”

  Amara crossed her arms and smiled. “Witnesses are notoriously unreliable and I’m living proof. Twice I’ve been chosen out of lineups. Shortish Hispanic female. That’s me.”

  “Well, so far no tall, thin, exceptionally good-looking redheaded males have committed a felony around San Antonio, so I’ve been spared lineup duty.”

  “Gingers don’t commit crimes, huh?”

  He grinned and nodded. “Nothing other than stealing the hearts of women.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Your CI is giving you bad information. And two dinners. That’s all it was.”

  “Hey, don’t trash my confidential informants. And it’s three if you include this coming Friday.”

  “Don’t count your chickens,” she said. “You know the only reason I go out with you, right? So people will whisper and wonder what she’s doing out with him.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Alvarez. Short. See what I did there?”

  “I’d rather see you bringing me a cup of coffee.”

  “No can do,” he said. “No favoritism at work. I wouldn’t bring anyone else coffee, so why should I—”

  “Because last time I brought it to you. And make sure it’s fresh,” she said. “Make a new pot if you have to.”

  He lowered his voice. “Back in a few.”

  She plugged in her laptop and waited for the device to finish booting. Lieutenant Segura had given the okay to proceed with the investigation for now but said he might bump her up in the rotation if she didn’t discover any evidence soon. And no overtime without his approval. Her plan was to spend the rest of the afternoon online digging into the deceased’s life and the Cannonball Water Park. Tomorrow, she’d visit the scene of the death to see what she could learn.

  Starsky returned with a steaming Styrofoam cup. “Here ya go,” he said. “Saw your name on the assignment board. Who’s Zachary Coleman?”

  “A teenager found dead at a water park. Dr. Pritchard thinks it’s suspicious.”

  He peeled the wrapper off a Twinkie and bit the snack in half. “Yeah? Saw that on the news. Good luck.”