Page 2 of The Wrong Man

“No, you don’t understand.” His words tumble over each other in his desperation to be heard. “I’m Dylan O’Shea. Dylan, not Declan. I’m Declan’s twin brother. Nobody knows about me because I’ve been living quietly, running my bakery, staying out of trouble. You’ve got the wrong person.”

Twin brother. That’s a new one. I have to admire his creativity. Most people start with claims of mistaken identity, but they usually don’t have the imagination to invent an entire fictional sibling.

“Nice try,” I say, walking over to my table of tools. I select a small paring knife, the one with the bone handle that fits perfectly in my palm. “But Declan O’Shea doesn’t have a twin brother. Declan O’Shea doesn’t have any siblings at all. Only child, no close relatives.”

I turn back to him, twirling the knife between my fingers with practiced ease. His eyes lock onto the blade, and I watch all the color drain from his face.

“That’s not true!” he protests, his voice climbing higher with panic. “My parents couldn’t handle having a gay son, so they hid me away. Sent me to live with my aunt here in London when I was sixteen. I’ve been keeping my head down ever since, trying to build a normal life. I haven’t seen Declan in years. I don’t even know what he’s been up to.”

Gay? The flicker of interest that stirs within me is unprofessional and entirely inappropriate. I shake my head to clear it and focus on what really matters.

The details he just gave are impressive. Most people can’t maintain a complex lie under this kind of pressure, but he’s sticking to his story with admirable consistency. Either he’s a much better actor than I give him credit for, or he’s telling the truth.

But that’s impossible. The intelligence is solid. My boss would not have the wrong man delivered to me. This is Declan O’Shea, twenty-five years old, professional thief, currently in possession of something that belongs to my employer. That’s the man who is sitting in my chair right now.

Isn’t it?

I study his face more carefully, looking for signs of deception. His eyes are wide and honest, filled with terror but not guilt. His breathing is rapid but steady, not the erratic gasping of someone trying to maintain a lie. Everything about his body language screams genuine fear and confusion.

“What do you do for work?” I ask abruptly. I want to hear him run out of lies.

“I told you, I have a bakery. Knead Me Bakery in Borough Market. I make cakes and pastries and bread. I’ve been there for three years now.” The words pour out of him like water from a broken dam. “I know it sounds mad, but I can prove it. My hands, look at my hands. They’re not the hands of someone who does... whatever it is you think I do.”

Against my better judgment, I decide there is no harm in inspecting his claim. His hands are bound behind him, so I walk behind him and look down.

They’re soft, pale, with short, clean fingernails. There are small scars on his fingers, the kind you could get from years of working with knives and hot ovens. Burn marks that could come from baking.

Not the hands of a career criminal.

“Please,” he continues, and there’s something in his voice that makes my chest tighten again. “I don’t know what Declan has done, but it has nothing to do with me. I just want to go home. I have orders to fill tomorrow. Mrs. Murphy is expecting her anniversary cake, and if I don’t show up, she’ll be so disappointed. I’ve been working on it for weeks.”

Anniversary cake. Mrs. Murphy. Surely those are details that no one would think to invent under this kind of pressure.

I feel something cold settling in my stomach. Something that might be the first stirrings of true doubt.

But I push it aside. I’m a professional. I don’t make mistakes. The man in my chair is Declan O’Shea, and Declan O’Shea stole something very valuable from some very dangerous people. The fact that he’s prettier than expected and has an active imagination doesn’t change the facts.

I walk back to the table and set down the knife, selecting something larger. A cleaver, well-maintained and sharp enough to cut through bone. I want him to see it, want him to understand the gravity of his situation.

When I turn back, he’s staring at the cleaver with undisguised horror. His whole body is shaking now, and he looks like he might be sick.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” I say, my voice calm and professional. “The quality of your answers will determine how unpleasant this becomes. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” he whispers. “But I don’t know what you want to know. I really don’t.”

I walk over to the wall where I keep my sound system. Nothing soothes the soul like a little Puccini while you work. I select La Bohème and let the opening notes fill the studio. There’s something about opera that really unnerves people. Maybe it’s all those movies where the villain plays classical music while doing terrible things. Or maybe it’s just that opera is inherently dramatic, and drama amplifies fear.

The man in the chair makes a small sound of distress as the music begins. His breathing becomes more rapid, more shallow. Good. Fear makes them more cooperative.

“Where is it?” I ask, walking slowly around his chair like a shark circling prey.

“Where is what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice breaks on the last word.

“The tiara. The one you took from the shipment three days ago.”

He looks genuinely confused. “Tiara? Like a crown? I don’t... I don’t know anything about any tiara. I was in my bakery three days ago. I was making scones.”

Scones. Jesus Christ, he even talks like a baker.