Web of Secrets

by Susan Sleeman

  She felt the weight of his question. “I send bad guys to jail, so of course I did. But not lately. And my password was related to Molly. Who else would have figured it out?”

  “Then it has to be Van Gogh. But why you? Why take Molly as an adult? Why the change in his MO?”

  Becca opened her mouth to tell him about her first abduction, to say she suspected Van Gogh was filling his empty jars and completing his collection, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  “Well, I’m not letting him get to you.” Connor pulled her to her feet. “C’mon. We’re going to pack you a bag, and you’re staying at my place until this is over.”

  Oh really? She stared at him, Mr. Neanderthal at his finest. His nostrils flared and his eyes grew dark and penetrating. She didn’t like this side of him. Not one bit. But she did like the thought of staying with him. Liked it too much, which was why she couldn’t let it happen. “I’m sure Sam and Kait will let me bunk at their place.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said no. This isn’t negotiable, Becca. You will be under my protection until this is resolved. You got that?”

  “Don’t let this costume fool you, Connor. I’m not some damsel in distress.”

  “No, you’re a very capable agent, but you also happen to be someone I care about.” He folded his muscled arms across his chest and eyed her. “Don’t test me on this. You won’t win.”

  She knew when to give in. “Okay, but it’ll be strictly professional.”

  He held up his hands. “Don’t worry, I got the message loud and clear—keep my big mitts off.”

  “Then I’ll pack a few things and be out in a minute.” She headed down the hall, realizing she’d just lost a battle that she honestly hadn’t wanted to engage in.

  Frustrated, she thought about simply tossing some outfits into a bag, but her sense of order wouldn’t let her. After changing out of the dress, she carefully folded several days’ worth of clothes and put a few suits for work into a garment bag before gathering her cosmetics and returning to the family room.

  “That was quick,” Connor said, sounding surprised.

  “This is only the first wave.”

  He eyed her. “You don’t travel light, I guess.”

  “You got that right.” She hung the garment bag on a doorframe. “I need to take all of my Van Gogh files, too.”

  “What?”

  “He could come back here at any time and destroy things. Plus, you never know when we might need something. It’ll be good to have the files handy.” She tipped her head at her clothing. “Why don’t you take that out while I file all of the items posted on the wall?”

  He opened his mouth as if to argue, then turned and picked up her stuff. While he went to the car, she made quick work of gathering the loose items into a folder and packing up her pens and Post-it Notes.

  They soon had everything loaded in his car and made the short drive in silence to his apartment. She’d expected a masculine place filled with black leather furniture, a big TV, and little décor. Instead, she was surprised to see a tastefully, yet sparsely decorated apartment.

  She picked up a picture of his family. Seeing the smiling faces on the big happy group, jealousy bit into her. This was her dream staring back at her in a picture. A dream that might be hers if she and Connor could get over their issues.

  And once Van Gogh was in prison.

  “Nice apartment,” she said to keep things light.

  “It’s comfortable.” He dropped three file boxes on the floor. “It’s my sister’s doing, though. She thought I’d have better luck finding a wife if my place didn’t scream ‘confirmed bachelor’.”

  “Guess she was wrong, then,” she joked, but it fell flat.

  He frowned. “I’ll go get the other files. Keep the door locked.”

  She twisted the deadbolt behind him and stared at the boxes. What should their next step be, other than for her to watch her back? Maybe get a good night’s sleep so she was alert in case Van Gogh came for her? Could she even get a good night’s sleep with Connor just down the hall? That was the question of the hour.

  He made a few more trips, then twisted the deadbolt behind him, double-checking it before stacking all of the boxes in the corner while she stood like a dolt and watched him.

  He ran a finger over the label on the top box that read “Detective Orman’s Files.” “You mentioned Orman’s daughter. I’d like to talk to her tomorrow to see if she had any files you didn’t have access to.”

  Files. Orman would have only had the personal ones that she hadn’t seen. They could contain pictures of her as Lauren. Could include the details of how she became Rebecca Lange. It might be a good idea to tell Connor about her past right now. She wanted to. But tonight? It wouldn’t change anything. And they’d both been through the emotional wringer. It could wait until the morning.

  She looked up to find him carefully watching her. “I’ll give Eva Waters a call first thing in the morning and set something up,” she said.

  He picked up her tote and garment bags. “It’s late. We should get some sleep. You can take my room. I’ll take the couch.”

  She looked at his sofa. There was no way he would fit on the apartment-sized piece of furniture comfortably. “I’m fine here.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I want you to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Another non-negotiable point.” He headed down the hallway, and she had no choice but to follow him.

  He hung the garment bag in the closet and dropped her other bag on the bed that was neatly made. He crossed to an oak dresser and pulled out a set of sheets. “Mind helping me change the bedding?”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Yes, you do.” He ripped the striped comforter and cream-colored blanket from the bed. “My stepmother raised me right. She’d shoot me on sight if she heard I didn’t give you clean bedding.”

  They worked in silence and soon, fresh white sheets waited for her. The crazy events of the day hit her hard, and she was suddenly overwhelmed. Tears pricked her eyes again. She was going to have to get a handle on this.

  Connor grabbed some things from his closet and went to the door. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

  “I still feel bad about kicking you out of your room.”

  “Don’t.” He stepped into the hallway.

  “Connor,” she called out suddenly, not wanting to be alone.

  He stood waiting, his gaze intense and questioning.

  “Thank you. For this, for your help, for everything,” she said. “I’m sorry for earlier. I know I change like the weather. Hot, then cold. I wish things between us could be different, but they can’t right now. Still, I want you to know how much I appreciate your care and concern. I’ve never felt so cherished before.”

  “Not even with your foster parents?”

  “Yes, and no. I mean, I knew they were there for me, but I also knew it was only temporary. With you, it feels . . . it feels . . . different somehow.”

  He watched her for a few moments, then lifted his hand and reached toward her face, before letting it fall. “You should go to bed before I forget why I shouldn’t kiss you again.”

  “I wish things . . .”

  “Just go to bed, Becca. Now!” He slung his clothes over his shoulder and spun. His footsteps pounded on the wooden floor as he strode quickly away.

  She wasn’t hurt by his frustration. She was just put-out. The difference—the big difference—was that he was better at keeping his emotions under control. It was something she apparently still needed to learn before she got seriously hurt.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE NEXT MORNING, Connor sat across from Becca at his small dining table.
She was wearing an old college sweatshirt and those stretchy yoga pants that women liked these days. Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair messed up. They’d both gotten up early and had been on the phone or checking email for a good hour now.

  She was focused on her phone and wasn’t paying him any attention, and yet, he was glad she was here. Liked it, actually. It felt right, normal even. He wouldn’t mind doing it on a regular basis. Of course, if that were the case, he might be holding her free hand, or pressing his knee against hers. Just so he knew she was here for him, not for what he could do for her, as he was beginning to think.

  “I got a text from Eva Waters,” she said without looking up from her phone. “She’ll see us at nine.”

  He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got an hour. You want to shower first or should I go?”

  Her head popped up, and she actually blushed.

  “I’ll go first, then.” He left the room before he could ask what she’d been thinking that had given her the red-hot face. He showered, shaved, and was ready in fifteen minutes. He made sure to hang up his towel and wash any lingering whiskers from the sink, then put out clean towels for her. When he got back to the living room, he found her digging through files.

  “You looking for something in particular?” he asked.

  “Just checking to see if there’s anything missing, but so far it’s all here.”

  He jerked a thumb at the hallway. “I put out towels for you. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  She nodded and took off down the hall. If her desire not to be in the same room with him didn’t hurt so much, it’d be comical.

  His phone rang. The caller ID confirmed it was Dr. Williams.

  “Please tell me you’ve got something for me,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Hello to you, too,” Dr. Williams replied.

  “Sorry. This investigation is going nowhere fast, and I could use some good news. Has the DNA come back?”

  “Not yet, but I did call in a favor with one of my associates to perform the hair analysis for free and rush the results.”

  “And?”

  “And it was unremarkable except for Jane Doe One. She’s recently been living in California, so you might want to expand your search to that state.” She cleared her throat. “You’ll also be interested to know that all three girls had broken hyoid bones.”

  “Meaning they were likely strangled.”

  “Yes.” She didn’t need to add that strangling was Van Gogh’s preferred method of killing. It was a given. “I also had them check the hair for drugs. Three’s showed meth, which would explain her dental issues. Two was positive for oxy and One and Four were clean.”

  “So we have a teenage meth user, a girl from California and, as we suspected from our talk with Two’s mother, a girl addicted to pain meds.”

  “Exactly.” She sighed. “That’s all I have for now, but I’ll keep you updated.”

  Connor thanked her and paced the room, pondering the news. Becca returned, her hair wet and in a ponytail, wearing a hint of mascara and eye shadow. She wore a plain business suit with a tailored white blouse, as usual.

  “Dr. Williams called.” Connor relayed the news.

  Becca nibbled on her lip for a moment, obviously lost in thought. “If One is from California, she could fit the profile of a girl brought up the I-5 corridor for sex trafficking.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “I’ll check with our agent on the Innocence Lost Task Force to see if she knows anything about missing girls.”

  “It’s a shot in the dark, but worth the call.”

  Becca dialed the agent while he cleaned up from breakfast.

  Becca talked for several minutes then hung up. “Blair knows of two girls who have disappeared recently. She has fingerprints on file, but no DNA, which is a bust for us. She does have some pictures, though. If Dr. Williams can arrange the forensic drawings, we might find something there. Blair’s emailing the info to me. ”

  “You’ll need to loop Sam in on this. He’ll add the girls to his current list.” Happy they were managing to be professional, Connor looked at his watch. “We should get going.”

  They walked to the car in silence. Connor’s mind was racing with unanswered questions, and he was frustrated at the lack of progress they were making. Becca seemed lost in thought, too. She could be pondering the same thing, or she could be wondering if Van Gogh was hiding in the bushes waiting to pounce. Connor wasn’t worried about that. He could handle Van Gogh if he attacked. The only way the guy would get to Becca on his watch would be if Van Gogh shot Connor dead first.

  Connor parked down the street from Eva Waters’s townhouse community in a pricey area of Portland. He looked at Becca. “Remember. No mention of Van Gogh’s new victims. You’re just continuing with your past research.”

  “And how do I explain you?”

  “I could be a boyfriend who’s humoring you by helping.” He grinned, but after the way they’d ended things last night, he knew it had to look forced.

  “I doubt Eva will buy that.”

  “It worked with Willow. Why not now?”

  “You mean besides the facts that everyone was drunk at the party, Willow’s sixteen, and Eva’s a sharp reporter?”

  “I get your point, but I won’t need to fake a thing. Not with this chemistry thing going on between us. We’ve both been fighting it for days. We might as well get some mileage out of it.”

  “I guess it’s worth a try.” She sighed.

  He shot her a look. “Don’t look so upset. There are worse things in the world than having me for a boyfriend.”

  “Right, like Van Gogh.”

  “So you’re putting me in the same class as Van Gogh, huh? I didn’t realize being with me was that close to slumming it.” Surprised to find himself frustrated by such an innocuous statement, he jerked open his door and got out.

  Becca met him on the sidewalk. “I wasn’t comparing you to Van Gogh.”

  “I know.” He shut her down with his tone and knocked on Eva’s door. He kept his gaze trained straight ahead until Eva answered.

  She was dressed in a business suit, and her blond, chin-length hair was sprayed into place. She had a reputation for being tenacious when on the air, so he knew they’d have their work cut out for them to keep from leaking any information that might put up her radar.

  “Hello, Ms. Waters,” Becca said. “Good to see you again. I’m so sorry about your father passing.”

  Eva turned her focus to Connor, and he wasn’t surprised by her failure to acknowledge Becca’s condolences. “And you are?”

  He introduced himself without mentioning that he was a homicide detective. He slung his arm around Becca’s shoulders. He felt her stiffen, but he continued. “Just tagging along to help Becca out.” He gave an obnoxious wink. “Not much I wouldn’t do to keep her happy.”

  Eva stepped back. “We should get to this. I don’t have much time.”

  They moved into a living room that connected to an open kitchen. The décor was sleek and modern, fitting the image she portrayed on TV. He led Becca to the sofa where she’d remain within reach in case he needed to further feign their relationship.

  “Take it easy,” he whispered. “You’re going to give this away.”

  He felt her shoulders relax.

  Eva perched on the edge of a club chair. “So, in your message, you mentioned something about wanting to see my father’s old files.”

  Becca nodded. “When I met with him last, he said he’d put a number of files in storage. Unfortunately, he never got around to sharing them with me.”

  “That surprises me.” Eva crossed long legs. “He knew he was dying for quite some time, and he had everything so organized, I didn’t really have to take care of anythi
ng. If he’d wanted you to see the files . . .” She shrugged.

  “Maybe at that point it just wasn’t that important to him,” Connor suggested.

  “Or,” Becca said, “he may not have thought the files contained anything that could help with my investigation.”

  Eva raised a perfectly plucked brow that was penciled in to appear darker. “Why are you so interested in Van Gogh, anyway? The guy quit killing a long time ago, and we haven’t heard a peep from him, since.” The question sounded innocent enough, but Connor heard a deeper interest.

  Becca must have picked up on it too, as she took a moment before answering. “Van Gogh abducted my foster sister. For years, I haven’t known what happened to Molly, and I still want to find closure.”

  She was being careful. Not lying, but not outright saying that Molly had been found, either. Or that Becca had gone from looking for her friend to seeking revenge for her murder.

  Eva watched Becca carefully. “And you think these files might help?”

  Becca shrugged, and Connor liked how well she was downplaying this.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you what I know.” Eva pressed her hands on her knees, the blood-red color of her nail polish standing out next to her gray slacks. “I think Dad might have had a storage unit somewhere. If he did, he didn’t want anyone to know about it. I found a padlock key hidden in the false bottom of a wooden box, but there isn’t a paper trail for a lease or payments so I just can’t be sure.”

  Becca sat forward, and Connor squeezed her hand, wordlessly telling her to relax.

  “Why suspect a storage unit, then?” Becca asked. “The padlock could be for any number of things.”

  “True, but there were no work files in his apartment, which was odd for Dad. I know the Van Gogh case haunted him, and he never let it go. I’d often stop by and catch him reviewing old paperwork. So, let’s just say the reporter in me has to wonder where those case files went.”

  “Maybe he disposed of them,” Connor said.

  Eva shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that. If there was even the slimmest opportunity to bring Van Gogh to justice, he’d take it. I can’t imagine him leaving this earth without giving the files to someone.” She seemed to get emotional and looked up at the ceiling. “He passed sooner than we expected, so maybe he never got a chance to do it. All I know is, he wouldn’t destroy them.”