Web of Lies

by Brandilyn Collins

  “I’m not sure. But as Annie mentioned, in case it does, we think you should know.”

  Blanche eyed her with a piercing look. “You’re not sure?”

  Chelsea nodded.

  He leaned back, folded his arms. “Go ahead.”

  Chelsea told him, with articulation and calmness. She explained all she’d seen and heard . . . and what she had not seen. What she knew and what she didn’t know. When she was done, I slid the composite out of its folder and handed it to Blanche. This was my original. I’d made a copy and filed it in my office. “Here’s the face.”

  Tim accepted the drawing, eyes scanning over it. He looked up at me and shrugged. Tossed the composite down on his desk. “Never seen him before.”

  The phone rang. He held up a finger, then answered it. Chelsea and I waited while he listened, posed terse questions, and took a few notes. “All right, thanks. Let me know what you find out.” He rattled down the receiver. “Sorry.” He shifted in his seat, aimed a frowning stare at the pen in his hand. Then pushed back his chair. “I need to take care of something. Be right back.”

  Chelsea and I exchanged doleful looks as he bustled out of the office. A few minutes passed before he returned.

  “Okay.” He thumped into his chair, pulled up to the desk. “Where were we? Oh yeah, this drawing.” He smacked his hand upon it and looked to me.

  Okay, Annie, no backing out now. I leaned forward. “What struck me is that the girl Chelsea saw in the vision had brown hair, like Amy Flyte. And she was with another person in that little room. A person who could be male or female. But then Chelsea saw this face. It’s possible this is the young man who’s missing.”

  Tim’s lips bunched. He cocked his head, then shook it, as if he hardly knew where to start. “Okay. Let’s say I believed in this kind of thing in the first place, which I don’t. How many women have brown hair, including you?” He raised his brows at me, then focused on Chelsea. “Besides, you said you didn’t see the girl’s face. If you had, and if you’d described a face to Annie that proved to be Amy Flyte, you might have convinced even this skeptical soul. But under the circumstances, what’s here to tie to my case?”

  God told her to come to me; that’s the tie. Words I wanted to say, but what was the point? Blanche would never accept that.

  “I agree there’s not much.” Chelsea raised her chin. “We only have one thing. I am absolutely certain that God told me to tell this vision to Annie. I’d never spoken to her before. I had to drive almost four hours to get here. But for some reason I was supposed to come.”

  Wow, this woman had more courage than I. Blanche sat in nonplussed silence. I could almost hear his brain thrash about for some logical answer to this lunacy.

  He sniffed. Threw Chelsea the impatient look of an officer facing an imbecile witness. “I’m not going to debate the veracity of your religious beliefs, Ms. Adams. And I certainly can appreciate the fact that you’ve driven a long way to do what you thought was right. But I just don’t see that this has anything to do with me. Or this case.”

  He hammered the last three words like nails in a coffin. But it was his dark, determined expression that gave him away. Blanche’s desire for the glory of solving this case left no room for the likes of me or Chelsea Adams. Imagine the sensational headlines if her vision was proved right! Seeing the hardness on Blanche’s face, I almost wondered which scenario he’d consider worse — our composite leading him to a dead end, or leading him to Orwin Neese and two captives.

  Chelsea remained still, but I could feel the vibrations emanating from her. She saw through Blanche as well as I. “You may be right,” she said. “We felt we should tell you what happened. But of course the decisions are up to you.”

  Tim’s eyebrows twitched. He seared her with a look, as though seeking hidden threats in her words. Then turned to me. “Look, Annie, I’m busy. What exactly do you expect me to do with this?” He gestured toward the drawing.

  I forced myself to look him in the eye as I stated the obvious. “Run it in the paper, see what leads it turns up. Nobody knows what young man we’re looking for, or if he even exists. This might give you some answers.”

  “Uh-huh. And what am I supposed to say to the media when I ask them to run it? This guy appeared in some woman’s dream, and we thought it was worth a try?”

  Some woman’s dream? I fought to keep my voice even. “Tim, right now you have nothing on this young man. If he exists. I don’t see what harm it’ll do to use this. Tell the media the drawing’s a lead, and that’s it. You follow leads all the time. Some work out, some don’t.”

  Blanche threw out his hands. “Fine. And how do I explain this composite to my superiors? Because you know they’re going to ask.”

  “Detective Blanche, just tell them the truth.” Chelsea gave a little smile and shrugged. “Tell them you think it’s bizarre, but you’re working so hard on the case, with leads not panning out, that you think anything is worth trying. They’ll see how much you want to solve this. Then if the lead is a dead end, well, Annie and I were just wrong. It’ll be our fault, not yours.”

  Go, Chelsea. I felt like slapping her a high five. How was Blanche supposed to say no to such logic without revealing his hidden agenda?

  He narrowed his eyes, as though deciphering her craftiness. Then abruptly pushed back his chair. “Maybe I’ll do that.” He stood, calling our meeting to a close. “Annie, Ms. Adams, thank you for coming down.” The words were flat, almost antiseptic. He held out a hand to Chelsea. “Have a safe drive back to the Bay Area.”

  In other words, good riddance. We’d been dismissed.

  Chapter 22

  Déjà vu, Chelsea thought as she and Annie walked away from Blanche’s office. This was so similar to the first time she’d visited a policeman with information from a vision. She’d been slapped down then too. She should have known this man wouldn’t listen.

  In the hall Chelsea caught the odd stares of two young officers. Annie met their eyes, then looked away, frowning. “Do you know them?” Chelsea whispered when they were out of earshot.

  “Yes.” Annie’s voice sounded tight. “Rex Whitley and Charlie Tranks. You get the feeling they knew what our meeting with Blanche was about?”

  Chelsea’s heart sank. This too she’d experienced in the Trent Park case — the strange looks when she entered the Haverlon Police Department, rumors flying about her vision. It was one thing to place herself in the midst of such controversy. But now she’d dragged Annie into it. Maybe they’d been wrong to come here. What if God hadn’t wanted them to tell the detective at all?

  They said no more until they hit the parking lot. Annie’s shoulders slumped. “My, that went so well.”

  “I know.” Chelsea sighed. “It’s just that we had so little to give him.”

  Annie pulled to a halt. “Then why did we come?”

  The frustration in her tone cut through Chelsea. No doubt Annie felt like she’d gotten the short end of the stick. Which was true. Chelsea could return to the Bay Area, never to face these people again. But Annie didn’t just live here; she had to work with these men. Chelsea touched her hand. “You’re mad at me.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. Because I’m leaving and you’re staying. Because I pulled you into this.”

  Annie eyed her with a mixture of wonder and pique, as if surprised at her insight. Chelsea winced. “I’m sorry. Really. I wouldn’t have wanted this for you. In fact, I talked to God about it more than once before I ever tried tracking you down.” She tipped her head toward the heavens. “You don’t know how many times I wished I didn’t have this gift. I know that sounds terribly selfish, because God has used it to save people from harm and bring criminals to justice. But most of the time it just makes people think I’m crazy.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

  “I know.” She tossed Annie a grateful look. “Anyway, I shouldn’t lay this on you. Because I do understand what you’re feeling
. If I were you, I’d feel it too.”

  Annie shook her head. “Don’t apologize. Besides, I . . . think we did what God wanted us to do. So if things don’t go right, we can just blame Him.”

  They exchanged weary smiles.

  Chelsea turned and gazed toward her car. She needed to get home. If only she and Annie could have ended this day on a better note. She blinked at the sunlight reflecting off the passenger door of her blue Lexus. Her eyes dropped to the dull safety of a tire. “Annie, I feel bad about leaving with everything so up in the air.”

  Wait. Was the bottom side of that tire puddling against the pavement? Chelsea frowned at it. Turned comparing eyes toward its rear mate. Hey, that one also looked . . .

  “That’s okay, I know you — ”

  “My tires are flat.”

  Annie’s words cut short. “Huh?”

  “The two I see are flat, front and back.” Chelsea couldn’t believe it. Both tires? Not here, not now!

  Annie turned to look. “Oh no.”

  They hurried across the lot. At the Lexus, Chelsea bent down to look at the front tire, as if a closer view would somehow change the truth. It was totally flat. The rear one too. Her mouth hung open. “How could they both — ”

  “Uh-oh. Look at this.” Annie set her purse on the pavement and squatted down. She reached to the front part of the rubber — and pointed to a small slice. “Looks to me like it’s been cut.”

  Chelsea sucked in a breath. She moved to the rear tire, peered at it. Ran gingerly hands over the surface. Another cut. What in the world? “Both of them have been slashed.” Her voice held disbelief. Two vandalized tires — in the police station parking lot? What kind of person had the nerve? She straightened. “I’m going to check the other side.”

  They scuttled around the car. The third and fourth tires were just as bad.

  Chelsea hissed air between her teeth. “I can’t believe this.” She stared at the tires, questions crowding her mind. Who? Why? And how was she going to get home now?

  “I can’t believe it either. What a rotten prank.” Annie surveyed the car parked next to Chelsea’s. “Look, those tires are fine.” She walked around to its other side. “These are okay too.”

  Chelsea stared at her. “Something’s not right here.”

  “No kidding.” Annie’s face looked pinched. “I hate to say it, but we’d better check mine.”

  The SUV was a few spaces farther down. Chelsea noted the other cars’ front tires as they passed — one, two, three. All looked normal. They arrived at Annie’s car. The tires were fine. Chelsea turned to survey the line of vehicles in the opposite rows. None slashed there either.

  “Well.” Annie’s voice edged. “Terrific. Some idiot chose your Lexus; wasn’t that nice of him.”

  “Oh,” Chelsea groaned, “now what do I do?” God, why did You let this happen? Is this the thanks I get? And whatever would Paul say? He hadn’t wanted her to come in the first place. She swung back to Annie’s car, one hand to her cheek. Feeling absolutely sick. Her eyes fell on a piece of paper stuck beneath Annie’s windshield wipers.

  Wait, what’s that?

  Her heart tripped over itself. Standing there in the warm sun, in the police station parking lot, she stared at that bit of paper . . . and knew. “Annie, there’s — ”

  “I see it.”

  Drawing her top lip between her teeth, Chelsea stared at the paper. God, what is happening? Why do I feel so petrified? Slowly they approached. At the windshield Annie reached out with forefinger and thumb. Clasped the very corner of the note and pulled it out. She turned it over. Chelsea leaned in, pulse scudding.

  The letters were written in red felt-tip pen. All capitals.

  “I KILLED MIKE WINGER. YOU’RE NEXT.”

  Chapter 23

  The next hour sped by, voices, phone calls, and footsteps pelting us like molten drops of lead. Chelsea and I had run into the station, my fingers still clutching the note. A stunned Tim Blanche and two other officers heard our story, gawking at the flaming piece of evidence I dropped on Blanche’s desk. One of the officers hurried away to fetch materials for handling it. He returned, pulling on gloves, then picked up the note and dropped it into a small bag. “I only touched the corner,” I repeated three times, as if the mantra itself would raise black swirls of useable prints from the paper. Three other men checked outside, making sure Orwin Neese did not lurk in the parking lot or anywhere nearby. When they felt sure of our safety, the rest of us trooped out, the officers examining Chelsea’s tires, my windshield.

  Blanche looked fit to be tied. One hand found his hip and dug into it. His eyes drilled holes in my car as if it were to blame. “How could he be right here? Right here!” His anger was a live and sizzling thing. He’d been spit at, taunted, and he wasn’t going to take it lying down.

  Ten feet away Chelsea watched in shocked silence, palms pressed together, fingertips at her mouth. Her wide-eyed gaze cruised the scene, seeking a safe place to land.

  “How do we know it’s him?” My voice shook. I didn’t even try to steady it. My brain lay somewhere on hold, my body moving, mouth speaking on some different plane. How could this be happening to me again?

  Blanche spun toward me, face hard. “Who else would it be? It’s practically got his signature on it!”

  “I know, but . . .” Fragments of past terrors collided in my head. Accepting that someone like Orwin Neese wanted to kill me, had been so close to me, was more than I could handle. What if my car hadn’t been in the police station parking lot? What if he’d had time to stick a bomb in it? I stared at the SUV, air rattling down my throat. How did I know a bomb hadn’t been hidden under its hood?

  I struggled to plan logically. Think, Annie, think. I had to call Jenna. And Dave. And where were the kids? Panic surged through me. Was Stephen still at work, Kelly with Erin? I had to talk to them, had to account for everyone. I looked to my purse to pull out my cell phone. Oh no. My purse was gone. I whipped my head around, one hand raking through my hair, searching for the bag.

  “Chelsea, my purse is gone! What did I do with it?”

  She turned to me, her eyes overbright. “You put it down. When you checked the tire.” She pointed toward her Lexus. “There.”

  Before I could reply, she moved to retrieve it for me.

  “Thanks.” I opened it, jerked out my phone. Blanche was ordering one of the officers to call a technician as I hit the auto-dial button for home. Kelly answered.

  Kelly. Suddenly I couldn’t talk. I didn’t want to tell her a thing. I’d promised her this case wouldn’t be dangerous. I pulled in air, willing it not to shiver in my lungs. “Hi. What are you doing?”

  “Not much.”

  “Where’s Jenna?”

  “I don’t know; around here somewhere. What’s wrong?”

  Was I that transparent? “Nothing. I’m just kind of in a hurry here. Would you find her for me?”

  “Yeah, okay.” I heard muffled footfalls, voices. “Here she is.”

  My throat closed again. Despite my sister’s tendency toward calm in a storm, I didn’t want to talk to her either. I’d failed my family. Again.

  “Hi, Annie. What’s up?”

  I saw Chelsea slip her own phone from her purse, start dialing. Wouldn’t her husband just love this news. Blanche’s forefinger punched air as he loudly demanded answers from nearby officers. How could Orwin Neese have been in such close proximity to the police station that he’d seen me and Chelsea arrive?

  “Annie?”

  “I’m here.”

  A pause. I could feel it already, that sister connection — the vibration of invisible fiber optics that heralded unpleasant news. “What’s wrong?”

  I turned away from the scene — Chelsea on her phone, the growing number of officers — and told her.

  Stunned silence. I wandered two steps, looked back toward my car. A technician was pulling out his materials, preparing to dust the wipers and windshield for prints. Vaguely I wondered
if they would try Chelsea’s tires as well. Could body oil show up on rubber? A memory stumbled through my head, something Chetterling once told me: around forty different ways existed to check for fingerprints. In the meantime Chelsea would need new tires. She wasn’t going home in that car anytime soon.

  “Okay.” Jenna’s voice sounded stiff. “All right. We’ll . . . handle this. Just like before.”

  “I don’t know if I’m going to get my car back right away.” It was the first of a dozen details that came to mind. “You might have to come get us.”

  “That’s fine. No problem.”

  Bradley Clark, chief of police, emerged from the station with his bearlike stride, beefy arms held away from his sides. He headed straight for Tim Blanche. Knowing Clark’s reputation for protecting his department, I read plenty from his creased forehead and working jaw. The pressure to find Orwin Neese had just multiplied tenfold. A man stupid enough to kill in broad daylight, whose face appeared on the front page of every newspaper in town, had trespassed onto their own turf to wreak havoc. How embarrassing. Somebody in the department would have to answer for this — and that somebody was Blanche.

  “I’m heading over there now.” Jenna’s voice tugged at me. “You need to demand protection until this thing’s over. Will you do that? ’Cause if not, I’ll demand it for you.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I’ll do it.” I dug fingers into my scalp. “Jenna, wait. Bring Kelly with you. We can’t leave the kids alone.”

  “Is Stephen still at work?”

  “I think so. I’ll call him next.”

  “Look, this isn’t going to take too long. Catching Neese, I mean.” Jenna’s tone rounded into a soothe. “His picture’s everywhere and he’s obviously right in the area. Where’s he going to hide?”

  “Yeah.” I licked my lips, needing water. “It can’t be soon enough for me.”

  Time burned on. The technician dusted black powder onto my SUV’s windshield and wipers but found no prints. On the premises, all four tires were carefully removed from Chelsea’s car. Even pulling the Lexus onto a tow truck bed could have disturbed some of the evidence. In the lab they would try to raise fingerprints. Technicians would measure the slashes, determine the size of knife used. Blanche called a tire garage, catching someone just before they closed for the night. The business, out of stock for the size Chelsea needed, brought over four temporaries to place on the car. The man from the garage would change the tires, then drive the Lexus back to his business. He would find the needed tires on Monday. Sundays they were closed.