Web of Secrets

by Susan Sleeman

  “And you didn’t want me to find out that way?”

  She nodded.

  “Thank you for that.” His gaze bored into her as he watched for countless moments. “Would you have told me if we hadn’t found this locker?”

  She wanted to lie. To tell him she’d have trusted him with her secret, but she shook her head and told the truth. “I doubt it.”

  “I didn’t think so.” The questions and horror on his face warred with pain, and the pain won out. “I totally understand that you would want to keep this to yourself, but I have to admit, I’m disappointed. I thought we had something developing between us.”

  “I know. Me, too. But I had to tell you the truth.” She wrung her hands. “Maybe in time I’d have told you. But just not yet.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, but the hurt lingered as he gave her hands a quick squeeze. “I’m really sorry this happened to you, Bex. Really sorry.”

  Tears pricked her eyes.

  “We should get to the files,” she said quickly before she started crying.

  Part of her wished he would push her to open up, but he gave a clipped nod and stepped deeper inside the unit. She followed him. He turned on the light. Boxes stood neatly stacked along one wall, the other held a murder board much like the one Becca had created in her apartment. This board contained greater detail than hers did and was arranged in chronological order.

  Connor started at the beginning of the timeline, while Becca moved to the far end just before Orman’s death. She forced herself to concentrate on details, starting from the point at which she’d last talked to Orman. He’d jotted down a few notes after that date. The very last one read, Molly time capsule-24b.

  A time capsule? What in the world was that? And the number 24b, did it refer to a log page in a diary or file box?

  She’d start with a worn three-ring binder sitting on top of the nearest stack. She flipped open to the first page. An index listed each box by number along with notes explaining the contents inside.

  She flipped to 24b and read a note dated the week before Orman died.

  Molly’s foster parents’ remodeled home. Found a time capsule hidden in the attic wall. Believe photos are retouched pictures of Van Gogh.

  Becca suspected Molly had a secret hiding place—most foster kids did. She could have put a picture in there and wouldn’t have come back to claim it, in case Van Gogh was watching the house.

  Becca quickly scanned the containers in search of the right box. There it was, near the back wall. She jerked three boxes onto the floor and pulled out number 24, wasting no time tearing into it.

  “You have something?” Connor asked as he joined her.

  She relayed the story while lifting out the blue folder labeled with a big B. Pressing it open on the file boxes, she withdrew three photographs that were printed from a computer on aged paper. She forced herself to look at the pictures.

  One caught and grabbed her attention.

  Van Gogh. Just as she’d seen him, but without the scars.

  “He retouched it,” she whispered as the sight of him after all these years stole her breath.

  Her knees gave out and she dropped the pictures to grab the box for support. They fluttered away and sank to the cold concrete floor.

  Connor retrieved the photos, staring at them for the amount of time it took for Becca to catch her breath and gain control of her emotions.

  “How would Molly have gotten a picture of Van Gogh?” he asked.

  “Likely from him,” Becca said, still not believing it herself.

  “How?” Connor sounded as shocked as she was.

  “Molly met him on the Internet. It was all my fault.” Becca’s voice fell off and she took another deep breath before continuing, “Back in those days, the Internet wasn’t a big deal. Most people didn’t have it, but our foster dad did. He worked in IT and encouraged my interest in computers. I loved going online and finding new things. That’s how I discovered chat rooms where Molly and I hung out all the time. She started chatting with this guy who said he was our age and they flirted. I thought it was harmless, but it was Van Gogh. Of course, we didn’t know that at the time. When I wasn’t around, she must have exchanged pictures with him.”

  Connor’s eyes narrowed. “But you were friends. Why hide it from you?”

  Memories of a ferocious argument with Molly flooded Becca’s mind. “He asked Molly out and I told her it wasn’t safe to meet him. She told me she wouldn’t go, and said she’d stopped talking to him. But she didn’t.” Becca stared at the photos in Connor’s hand. “I didn’t know she had a picture of Van Gogh. And I had no idea her hiding place was in the house.”

  “You make it sound as if having a hiding place like this is normal.”

  “It is. Foster kids steal from each other for all kinds of reasons. Parents take stuff too. So we all had secret hiding places, usually away from our current home. We never knew when we might be moved and wanted to have access.”

  “But Molly never told you where she hid things?”

  Becca shook her head. “As much as we trusted each other, even we didn’t share our hiding spots.”

  Connor stared at the photo. “I can see the resemblance to your drawings, minus the scars.”

  All she could do was nod.

  “This is good, then. We can scan the picture and run it through the DMV facial recognition database.”

  “But we might run in to the same problem we had with Danny’s picture.”

  “I’m sure Jae or one of the other geeks at your office will make it work.” Connor smiled. “With luck, we’ll finally get Van Gogh’s name and address.”

  She nodded again, but couldn’t move. Connor was right. They had a lead, the best lead they’d come up with so far. Odds were good that Van Gogh’s picture would be in the database.

  She should be celebrating, but she couldn’t get over seeing Van Gogh’s face again, even in a photograph. Right. A mere picture.

  What was going to happen when they found him? When she had to look into the depth of his hollow eyes? See him? Smell him?

  Would her heart stop? Would she stay strong to give Molly the revenge she deserved?

  Becca had no idea. Only time would tell.

  CONNOR STOOD NEXT to Becca as they peered over Jae’s shoulder. She used top-of-the-line scanning software that he knew his office didn’t possess. Soon, Van Gogh’s face filled her monitor.

  Becca gasped and grabbed the back of Jae’s chair. Connor wanted to steady her, but she’d been giving a “hands-off” vibe since they got back from the storage unit and he wanted to respect the way she wanted to handle this situation.

  Besides, Connor could barely wrap his mind around the fact that they were looking at an honest-to-goodness picture of Van Gogh instead of drawing. They’d made a huge discovery and yet, it was shadowed for both of them by Becca’s secret.

  “He’s not that freaky looking,” Jae said and looked up at Becca. “Maybe the eyes are kinda vacant, but other than that, he’s not that bad.”

  “These photos have been retouched. He has significant facial scarring,” Connor told Jae so Becca didn’t have to explain her shock and reveal her secret. “We’ve seen sketches and know what he really looks like.”

  “Gotcha,” Jae said. “Okay, shooting off the image to our contact at DMV.” She clicked “send” on her email.

  Once Connor had told his lieutenant about the photos, Vance had wasted no time in getting permission from the DMV supervisor for one of their tech people to run Van Gogh’s photo through their facial recognition program.

  “How long until we know anything?” Connor asked.

  “Our DMV contact’s standing by for my email. He promised to do the search then get right back to me.” Her computer soon dinged, and she jabbed one of her
ragged fingernails at the screen. “See, he’s acknowledged receipt of my email. Now we just wait.”

  Connor stood there, hearing the “Final Jeopardy” music ticking down in his head. He couldn’t stand still, so he started pacing, something he never did. He was normally far more calm during an investigation, but this thing with Becca had him all tied up in knots.

  He looked at her. She’d moved to a table and sat rigidly in a chair, her shoulders in an uncharacteristic slump. He doubted she even remembered he was in the room, when he was aware of her every breath. She’d hurt him when she’d admitted that she wouldn’t have told him her secret. In his head, he understood her reasons. She deserved her privacy. And she hadn’t let it impede their investigation in any way. But . . . man, he wished she’d wanted to tell him.

  “We got several matches,” Jae announced.

  Connor tore across the room, but Becca beat him to the computer.

  “Relax,” Jae said. “I’ll project them on the screen so you both can see them clearly.” She tapped a few keys, then sat back as the projector came to life and lit up a large wall screen. “If what you said about the scars is true, the last one’s our guy.”

  Five photos appeared on the screen, and Connor ran his gaze over them, zeroing in on number five.

  “It’s him,” Becca said in voice low. “It’s number five. Reginald Zwicky.”

  “Yeah, he matches the sketches all right,” Connor added, but right now, he was more concerned about Becca. She looked like she might drop again. Not that he blamed her. Zwicky’s scars, added to that empty look Jae had mentioned earlier and left him looking totally creepy.

  “What a dweeby name,” Jae said. “He doesn’t sound like a serial killer to me. I have to admit, though, he looks like one. That long hair and intense stare.” Jae tapped her forehead. “Looks like he’s not all there, if you know what I mean.”

  “What can you tell us about him from the DMV record?” Connor asked to keep them on task.

  “He drives a ’64 Volkswagen van. Blue. Lives in the Eastmoreland neighborhood.”

  “Pricey,” Connor said.

  “This record is seven years old, so the address might have changed. Let me check.”

  “Can you also run him for priors?” Connor asked.

  Jae responded by typing Zwicky’s name and date of birth into the computer. “He’s clean. No arrests. Not even any tickets. The address is the same, of course. And he’s up to date on his car insurance.”

  Becca shook her head. “How does a serial killer have the wherewithal to remember to do normal stuff like that? I mean, he strangles a girl, then goes online to pay his car insurance? Crazy. Just crazy.”

  “Zwicky’s lived at the current address since he applied for his learner’s permit in the nineties,” Jae noted. “Let me check property records to see if he owns the house.” Her fingers flew over the keys. “Looks like he inherited the house from a Rowena Zwicky about six months ago.”

  “His mother, I presume,” Connor said.

  Becca shivered. “He talked to his mother all the time. It was really creepy.”

  Jae shot a questioning look at Becca. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “If Zwicky is our guy,” Connor said, to draw Jae’s attention, “it looks like the date of his mother’s death might have set off his recent killing spree.”

  Becca nodded. “Go ahead, Jae, and email me the details we’ll need for a warrant. Then work your magic in the cyber world to find any leads on Zwicky, his mother, and the address while we plan his takedown.”

  Jae nodded and went back to her computer.

  Becca faced Connor. Her expression was once again all business. “Let’s get those warrants going.”

  She headed for the door, and Connor trailed after her down a maze of hallways leading back to her work station. She dropped into her chair. “I’ll gather the data you’re going to need to request the warrant.”

  “So you’re giving me the arrest, huh?” He tried to joke, but it came out flat.

  “It’s your case. I’m just consulting.”

  She responded in such a defeated tone, his heart creased with her pain. “I’ll update Sam while you do that. Just so you know, I have to tell him.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes haunted, and her expression broken.

  Aw, crap.

  With one look, she got beneath the resolve he’d set only moments ago. “Sam has to know how we came upon this information. Otherwise, he won’t be able to procure the resources we need to apprehend Zwicky and search his house.” Connor hated seeing the disappointment in her eyes. “Sam will keep the source to himself.”

  She shook her head. “No he won’t. He can’t. Your lieutenant will need to know. And Sam will tell Kait, and then she’ll tell Nina.”

  “Sam keeps professional things from Kait all the time. Your story will go no farther than Vance.”

  “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Tell whoever you think needs to know.” She turned back to her computer, effectively shutting him down.

  The urge to help her work through these emotions was strong, but she obviously didn’t want him around. So he went down the hallway to a breakroom he’d spotted earlier. He dialed Sam, keeping his eye on the door to prevent anyone from overhearing him.

  “Hey, man, glad you called,” Sam said. “One of the names on that list from Willow, a Karen Erickson, looks like a promising lead. She was fostered like the others, and her height is close to that of Jane Doe One. I’ll be talking to her foster parents in an hour or so.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? That all you got to say, man?”

  Connor should be excited about identifying another girl, but his mind was focused on Becca and Zwicky at the moment. “I’m kind of busy with a lead of my own.”

  Connor provided the details for Zwicky and explained what had happened to Becca.

  “Oh, man . . . dude . . . that’s rough,” Sam said. “She sure hid it well.”

  “She’s gathering all the electronic information we’ll need for the warrants,” Connor said, trying to keep the conversation on track so Sam didn’t figure out how deeply Becca’s pain was hitting him. “And I’ll request them as soon as she’s done. I was hoping you’d coordinate an arrest plan with SWAT. With any luck, we’ll finally have Van Gogh behind bars before the day is over.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  BECCA HAD BEEN tempted to race right over to Zwicky’s house. But if they wanted to successfully arrest him, it would require planning and strategy, so it was two hours later before they pulled up to his house. She stared at the cute craftsman painted white with blue trim. She had been blindfolded when Van Gogh had taken her captive and when she’d taken off that night. The last thing she’d thought to do was stand and look at the house. The place looked inviting and safe, much like similar houses lining the street. Safe. Right. If Van Gogh lurked inside, it was anything but safe.

  She swallowed hard and fought off her memories of the time in his basement. She started shaking and couldn’t stop.

  “Aw, honey, don’t.” Connor rested a warm hand on her icy one. “This is too difficult for you. Maybe you should wait in the car.”

  “There’s no way I’m hiding like a scared little girl.” She jerked her hand free and shoved the door open, glad for the chilly breeze rustling through the trees and cooling her face.

  She had to see Van Gogh—Zwicky—or whatever his name was, arrested. Personally. She had to be standing right there beside him and slap the cuffs on his wrists. She stood by Connor’s car and waited for the SWAT team to file out while a trio of officers scurried toward the back door. One of the officers glanced into the garage window and shook his head. So, there was no van in the garage and it wasn’t on the street. Maybe Van Gogh wasn’t home.

  No.
She refused to believe it. He had to be there. This had to end. Here. Now. It just had to.

  The SWAT team marched up to the front door painted a bright red. The team was dressed for battle in their drab green gear with helmets and tactical vests, their shields up, rifles drawn, and sidearms strapped to their legs.

  She and Connor wore vests, but they couldn’t withstand the same caliber of gun as SWAT, so they hung back. Connor kept looking at her, checking on her. She appreciated his concern, but wouldn’t give in to it.

  The team leader pounded on the door and announced their presence. They waited for a few beats longer, then the leader made a louder announcement. A few more beats later, he signaled for the team to use the battering ram to break open the door. They entered cautiously, spreading out and scattering like well-organized ants.

  Becca took off for the back of the house, where, if they were in the right place, she’d find the door to the cellar. Connor caught up to her and grabbed her elbow. “Slow down and be careful. You’ve survived too much to let him plug you with a bullet.”

  “Are you kidding? He’s not brave enough to shoot me. He has to torture and maim under the cover of darkness.” She shrugged off Connor’s hand and found the basement door right where she thought it would be, near a landing with another door leading to the backyard. She made her way down the steps. Despite her urge to charge ahead, she heeded Connor’s warning and moved cautiously. She crossed through a family room that she’d run through sixteen years ago.

  “This is it.” Terror washed over her, but she kept her cool. “I recognize the room and the basement layout. Even the furniture. We’re in the right house.” She gestured at a closed door. “He held us in the utility room behind that door.”

  She was suddenly aware of the smell of bleach.

  “You smell that?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, I do.”

  Her heart racing, she ripped the door open and peered around the corner. Then, checking the other direction, she stepped in.

  “Clear.” She felt faint as the familiar room sent memories flashing through her mind.