Threads of Suspicion

by Dee Henderson

  “I’d agree with you on that,” David said. “Thank you, Lynne. What you told us helps.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged. “But I don’t see how.”

  “If you see him again, would you call me?” David handed her one of his cards.

  “Sure.” She looked at David, then Evie. “He must have done something.”

  “He maybe did. We need to talk to him. And you should consider him someone you don’t want to be alone with.”

  “If I see him, I’ll call.” She carefully tucked David’s card into her pocket. “I took your other advice. I sent my song notebook to Mr. Thomas with the cover letter you suggested. I copied all the pages first and then sent it registered mail because I didn’t want it to get lost. I hope he won’t think that too much trouble, that he has to sign for it.”

  “You did fine. It’s a valuable notebook.”

  “It would be a really big break to have the same teacher as Maggie helping me fine-tune my lyrics.”

  “You’ve got a solid chance. He only takes on a few new songwriters a year, so if you hear back from him even with just a comment, consider that a real break. Submit again in six months to see if he selects you for the next opening.”

  “I’ll persist,” Lynne promised. “Maggie’s voice coach was in Barrington. I asked if the woman could be my coach too, but she’d decided to retire. Maggie was her last.”

  David nodded. “Keep singing, Lynne. Your break is going to come—talent always wins with time and dedication.”

  “Thanks.”

  David looked to Jim. “Do me a favor and walk Lynne home tonight.”

  “Sure . . .”

  Evie caught Jim’s worried look and shook her head. They weren’t about to explain further, even if Lynne hadn’t been standing there.

  Evie was feeling an urgency about what should come next. “We need to check out Maggie’s hairdresser, makeup people, any support around Maggie at the event. Basically anyone who would know where she lives or have a way to find out.”

  “I’m on it,” David replied, sending multiple texts as they returned to his car. “Maggie’s band members left for New York this morning, but her hair and makeup people have hired new assistants for the Chicago area when Maggie is back here. We’ll track down those names, make sure no one opens the door to an unfamiliar face tonight. I’ve already assigned security to cover the grounds at Maggie’s home while she’s in residence, just in case.” He read replies coming in and nodded. “John is moving on getting that list of names, buttoning people up.”

  “Back to the office?” Evie asked, sliding the key into the ignition.

  “Yes.”

  “As soon as we’re there, I’ll get the task force on a conference call, get them up to speed. We may need their help before tonight plays out. Sharon’s assistance with the press is a given.”

  “Thanks.” David dialed from the passenger seat. “I’m back, guys, talk to me. Tell me you’ve found something useful.”

  Evie used the wipers to brush off a fresh dusting of snow as she listened to David’s side of the conversation. Road and traffic noise made putting the phone on speaker impractical.

  “Nice!” David turned her way, relaying key points. “They located where Andrew Timmets stayed last night, have his background, just pulled up his social-media page under ‘Tim Mets’—a play on his surname. But it’s our guy.”

  Evie smiled. “That suggests he’s posted something that could be worrisome to him if it was under his real name.”

  “I agree.” David reached around for his briefcase. “Give me the rest of it, guys.” He listened in while he opened the case and retrieved his electronic tablet, clicked it on.

  “He grew up in Chicago,” he relayed to Evie. “His parents are divorced, the father still here in Chicago, the mother now in Indiana. They’ve got a cop at the father’s Chicago home, but the man hasn’t seen his son in six years. The mother in Indiana isn’t home.”

  “Where was Andrew last night?”

  “Staying with college friends—a married couple, Judy and Jeffery Oakland. Andrew left at ten a.m., said he was heading back to Indiana.”

  “If he left at ten to go home, he would’ve been there by now with hours to spare,” Evie said. “Either he’s on the Interstate on his way home or he’s still in the Chicago area.”

  “Indiana issued a locate warrant, but that search is coming up blank. Could be he’s got his phone turned off, or he’s not in their geographic area yet. They’re having a hard time convincing a judge on the Illinois side to issue one. Cops are looking for other friends. They’re trying to get his past phone records to help with their search.”

  “A long shot, but worth a try,” Evie said.

  “What’s on his crime sheet?” David took notes as he listened on the phone. “Thanks, I appreciate the update. I’ll be back in touch in about twenty minutes.” He ended the call, pocketed his phone. “Andrew’s got a pled-down B&E from when he was fifteen, which was sealed or he wouldn’t have that locksmith license. Guys from that juvenile-hall era are suspected of running a robbery ring. Cops think Andrew is hopping over here and unlocking doors for them. He’s been questioned by both Chicago and Indiana cops over the years, but no charges have been filed.”

  “He got into trouble young and never got out of it,” Evie guessed.

  David nodded. “Chicago cops are trying to track down those friends, but they aren’t getting much cooperation from any wives or girlfriends at home. They’re being warned not to tip Andrew off that cops are looking for him, yet as soon as the door closes, someone’s going for the phone. He’ll soon figure out he’s got a welcome waiting for him in Indianapolis.”

  Evie glanced over as he brought up Tim Mets’s social-media page. “I doubt he’s heading home,” she said. “Remember Lynne’s quote? ‘It will be worth the long drive to see her.’ It’s future. That bothers me. I don’t think Lynne misquoted him, David. He drives from Indiana to see Maggie, misses her arriving at the event, misses her departure—maybe he’s not leaving town until he does see her.”

  “Right,” David said, his voice grim. “We can cut off the avenues to Maggie. She’s not scheduled to make any public appearances, and we can lock down anybody with information about her home. But if we don’t get traction on him in the coming hours, maybe Maggie spends tonight somewhere else. For now, a security guy is on the grounds—and it’s a secure property. An address would get him only so far.”

  David scrolled through the photos and postings on Mets’s page. “There’s nothing particularly recent; a photo from a soccer match last weekend is the latest. He’s a Maggie fan, all right—he’s got quite a collection of concert photos under a Triple M tab. But he’s also an ardent fan of what looks to be another half-dozen bands. He plays guitar, likes soccer . . . and is apparently rather vain given all the photos here of just him.”

  Evie smiled at his light assessment. She sincerely hoped they weren’t still chasing this guy in a day or two. “It’s going to be hard to live with if we ID him, then lose him, all within twenty-four hours.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t have that much cash on him,” David said. “Nothing here looks to me like a smoking gun. There’s no photo of one of the missing women, a group of postings that turn dark. Wait . . . hold on. I spoke too fast. This isn’t good.”

  Evie glanced over. David turned the tablet toward her. “That’s Maggie, there’s her old Chicago home, and that’s the sweatshirt I gave her for her twentieth birthday, which these days looks pretty faded.”

  Evie’s interest spiked. “So he’s met her that early on?”

  He nodded, pulling back the tablet.

  “We’ll find him, David. There’s really only three possibilities. He returns to Indiana and into the arms of the cops looking for him there, he keeps his head down and hides because he’s heard we’re looking for him, or he stays around Chicago because he wants to see Maggie.”

  “Play those out,” said David. “If he’s innoce
nt, he pulls in the driveway of his house and says to the waiting cops, ‘What’s going on?’ If he’s guilty, but thinks he can get away with it, he pulls into the driveway and asks the cops, ‘What’s going on? Search my house? Sure, I’ve got nothing to hide.’ It’s that last option I’m worried about right now.”

  As Evie turned into the office park, the car suddenly filled with sharp electronic sounds. The phone in his pocket, the second phone in his briefcase, the tablet—notifications went off on all of them. Surprised, Evie nearly put the car into a snowplow drift.

  “That’s the perimeter alarm at Maggie’s place!”

  She hit the police lights, swung back into traffic, recalling the route they’d taken the last two trips, and added a siren to the noise.

  Twenty-Three

  Margaret May McDonald

  Maggie used a glue stick to carefully re-secure a photo in an early concert album. She looked so young! There was Benjamin on drums, Paul still playing his original guitar. The memories flooded back from those early Triple M days. She turned to the last photos she had of David before he’d been hurt. She’d forgotten how much he had changed too. His entire presence was more solid now—he even stood differently, and his hair definitely included some gray strands. She smiled as she imagined his reaction if she said that to him. The man wasn’t vain, but he was aware of the years passing.

  She could make out faces to about eight rows back. The girl Evie was searching for might be in these photos. Maggie marked the page and carefully closed the album, placed it back in the box. David would take them to Evie when he came by later this evening.

  She retrieved her songwriting box from the bedroom bookshelf. Filled with pastel paper, colored pens, and cutout pictures that had captured her imagination, it was her preferred way of working on new songs. A thick clip of pages rested atop the materials—lists of keywords, working titles, themes, lyrics half-formed to draw upon for further inspiration.

  Maggie spread out the materials and stretched out on the carpet, started to develop the topic of moving to a new city, a new home, hopefully to capture her mix of emotions during the last month. She didn’t want to lose this opportunity. She lived her life in many ways through her music, resolving what she felt, thought about, and wished for in lyrics she might one day share with others. The only straightforward part of a move was the packing and boxing, while the rest was about emotions. She wrote Leaving on one page, Arriving on another, and finally, Settling In. She started noting down everything that came to mind for each theme.

  As she worked, she let her thoughts drift to the reasons that had brought her back to Chicago. She’d returned to be around those who knew her best, to spend time with Bryce and Charlotte, to have more hours in her schedule to be with David, to explore further the big question she still had to resolve for herself—David’s faith. Or do I mean my faith? she mused.

  She’d called a hiatus from David twice since this limbo began, when the pain rippled too strong to carry it, only to feel her heart shred even more. She was sure she didn’t want to lose him. And so the subject of faith she was so tired of wrestling with rose again to the top. She hoped some talks with Bryce and Charlotte would spark something to break the impasse.

  She could understand Christianity with her head. On the surface it wasn’t hard to grasp, but the actual truth of it was like a rock she couldn’t break open. She’d long since accepted the historical record—Jesus was no figment of someone’s imagination. Jesus had lived over two thousand years ago in the area that was now Israel and Palestine. He’d been a carpenter, born in the city of Bethlehem, raised in Nazareth, and about age thirty he had become a prominent religious teacher in his Jewish society. He was crucified by Roman authorities with the agreement of Jewish religious leaders in AD 33.

  People who had known Jesus had penned letters about him, recording what he said and did. When added to the letters written by his followers in the early church, and to the books written by the Jews about their God, it all comprised the Bible David read regularly.

  Over the years, she had read portions of the Bible and mostly understood it. Christians believed Jesus to be the Son of God, that Jesus could forgive anyone for anything they’d ever done wrong because he had taken on himself the punishment for their sins. They believed in a loving God, who cared about people, helped them live a righteous life, and promised them a great future after they died. She had no problem with what Christians believed.

  But their God had to be alive for their beliefs to be true. What she couldn’t wrap her mind around was their faith’s central tenant, that Jesus had walked out of a tomb three days after being crucified, and that two thousand years later he was still alive.

  No matter how many times Maggie circled the question, it came down to the fact it couldn’t be real—it was simply science fiction, wishful hoping. But her David, the sanest and most rational man she’d ever known, a cop with a cop’s instinct to question and challenge everything to see how much was a lie and how much was truth, had come to believe Christianity—Jesus—was literally true.

  She couldn’t understand how her David had arrived at yes, and he seemed honestly puzzled by her inability to see that the answer was yes. Believing Christianity was true hadn’t come together for her as it had for him, and she honestly thought she was right. How can David believe something that can’t be true?

  She didn’t actually have a problem with his beliefs. David was a more loving, kind, and generous man because of his religion. Christians were taught to be kind to the poor, orphans and widows, to be honest, to live at peace with each other. The contributions David gave to the church were distributed to causes Maggie appreciated and could get behind too. The Christians she’d encountered were normal and nice, despite the few odd beliefs they held. She liked their music, thought most sermons she heard were full of good advice and challenges about how to live.

  Accommodating David, living according to his religious views of the world, was an acceptable compromise as far as she was concerned. The weird stuff she could ignore. David talked to Jesus every day—she heard him pray, talking to someone invisible just as clearly as he talked with her. A bit more difficult to deal with, David believed God’s Spirit lived inside him, transforming his character to be like Jesus, which was tipping the credibility scale, in her opinion, but she could deal with it. If they could get married and simply believe different things, she was sure they would be okay.

  But—and this was a big problem—his Christianity taught that he should only marry another believer.

  She knew he held on to the hope that she would come to believe that Jesus was indeed alive. She could honestly say she wanted to believe that if only because she wanted their lives to move forward without this obstacle in their path. Her problem was deciding which world was reality. Either she did walk around among people who had God’s Spirit dwelling inside them, who were in fact talking with a living Jesus and he with them, or she didn’t. If they were right, if it was true, she was standing on the sidelines of one of the greatest unfolding miracles in human history, and she was missing out.

  She didn’t want to miss out. But she wanted whichever was true.

  And she honestly thought David was wrong.

  If only she could figure out how to know. David said it was as simple as saying, “Jesus, if you are real and alive, please make yourself real to me,” that God was very personal and would communicate back in ways she could understand. If God was real, he had a vibrantly believing spokesperson in David. But so far all she had were more questions.

  Even though she recognized David as a loyal, loving man, and she knew she was the person he valued the most on this earth, she also knew she was losing David to his religion in a way she couldn’t put into words. The heart of David was with his God and would never return as totally hers. This had become a one-way journey for him.

  David couldn’t step back toward her and say, “I was wrong, this isn’t true,” for he honestly believed it was true. And s
he couldn’t acknowledge it as true when she didn’t believe it was. That impasse was unbridgeable. They literally needed a miracle.

  As much as his decision had gotten them into this never-never land, it was her decision that was holding them there. This was the real reason she was back in Chicago—one last open and honest, heartfelt search for the truth. Either she came to believe or she let David go for his own good. She couldn’t be the one holding David back from a wife and family. Not that she would tell him that. He’d simply continue to wait for her to change her mind. She wiped tears from her cheeks. Even thinking about it was breaking her heart. She’d have to somehow figure out how to believe. It couldn’t be impossible if David had done so—

  A loud crash, followed by two more in rapid succession shattered the quiet. Maggie swung around toward the noise. Something had hit the stone wall surrounding the property. Icy downhill road, more than one car . . . Another impact rattled the glass in the window as if struck by a hard fist.

  Flashing strobe lights snapped on, and a piercing alarm rang out. She surged off the bedroom floor, scattering papers, Post-it notes, song fragments and lyrics in all directions. She knew security was in place—she’d said good-night to Bradley an hour before. A glance at the bedroom door told her the cameras had triggered on. A crash, probably on the hill outside the property, ice complicating the speed and making the collision into the wall worse, multiple vehicles. Bad, she told herself, but not that unexpected, living here rather than on the sixtieth floor of a high-rise.

  Then she heard a sharp snap, an avalanche of glass striking tile like a high note shattering a crystal glass. Patio door! She bolted for the safe room, hit the mechanism in the closet as David had taught her, moving so quickly the door had barely opened before she was through. She turned to her right, reached hands toward the panel, punched it, and counterweights shifted to slide the door back with a whoosh, locking deep into matching grooves. The bolt of the lock dropping into place echoed like a deep-toned bell in the small space.