Chetterling returned my wave, unsmiling.
Please, please, somebody up there, let something good happen here today.
The prayer made me blink. I hadn’t thought about God as much in my entire lifetime as I had in the past few days.
My brain flashed sequences of Lisa’s funeral and my conversations with Gerri Carson. Pastor Storrel’s words drifted through my mind. I pictured Dave and his friends praying in my kitchen, sincere in their belief that God was listening. As the memories flicked by, once again a desire to know a God like that surged through me. To know a God who would really listen. Whom you could take with you wherever you went, to whom you could talk—and who would answer.
Would you answer the kind of prayer I just prayed, God?
Something that must be so insignificant to you?
Breathlessly I trotted up the steps to join Chetterling. He nodded at me.
“That was pretty quick.”
“I told you I’d hurry.”
I passed through security as an ordinary citizen while Chetterling flashed his badge. A long escalator straight ahead led to the second level, where Sybee’s trial took place. I glanced upward, thinking of the trial…of Sid Haynes…
my father. Chetterling looked at me, a knowing expression on his face.
“Memories?”
“Yeah.”
He inclined his head. “Springer said his office is on the fourth floor.”
“Okay. Let’s take the elevator.” I pointed the way.
Chetterling eyed me as the elevator rose. “Let me do the talking unless I ask you, all right?” His words were a statement, not a question. I nodded.
The courthouse air smelled dust-covered and old, a testament to the miasma of anxiety and dashed hopes. Art Springer’s small office was crowded with cabinets and stacked boxes of files from various trials. His well-used desk was oak, chipped and scarred, the varnish of its corners long worn.
Sunlight filtering through dusty blinds on the room’s one window did little to lift the oppressive aura. I couldn’t help comparing this with my father’s office at Gerralon & Haynes, where ebony furniture shone and luscious ferns graced the corners of designer-painted walls. Such was the difference between successful defense attorneys and government-paid prosecutors. This dichotomy had carried over into the courtroom during Sybee’s trial, albeit in other forms. There it was the “justice-minded” prosecutor against the hired “big gun.”
The “protector of the people” versus the “fast-talking” defense lawyer.
And in the end, the loser facing the winner.
Judging from Springer’s stiffened movement as he rose to greet us, that outcome was not far from his mind. I’d judged him correctly—he was not happy to revisit the Sybee case on this fine summer day.
Springer was dressed in his inevitable brown suit and striped tie, the collar of his shirt too big for his scrawny neck.
He stood behind his desk, shaking Chetterling’s hand and casting a dubious look at me.
“You were at the trial. One of the courtroom artists.”
“Yes, Annie Kingston.” I held out my hand and he shook it limply. Chetterling glanced at me, as if surprised that Springer had not mentioned my relationship to Trent Gerralon. Oh boy, here we go.
“I didn’t expect to bring Ms. Kingston along when I talked to you,” Chetterling explained as we took our seats across from Springer’s desk. The detective’s chair creaked as he settled himself. “But it occurred to me she may be of some help.
So I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, no, of course not.” Springer’s tight smile creased his sallow cheeks. The gesture looked almost mechanical, as though pulleys on either side of his mouth jerked taut, then relaxed. Not a charming sight by any means.
Chetterling set his notebook on the desk, seemingly unaware of Springer’s demeanor. How could he miss it?
Then again, Chetterling rarely missed anything.
“Thanks for your time,” he began. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m investigating a homicide outside of Redding that may have ties to Edgar Sybee’s trial. Information leads us to believe that the suspect could have been involved in Barry Draye’s murder.”
One of Springer’s eyebrows rose. That cynical praying-mantis expression of his.
Detective Chetterling opened the notebook. In a pocket on the inside of the cover lay a copy of the composite. He slid it out and laid it before Springer. “Recognize this guy?”
Springer bent forward, peering at it. I watched his eyes wander from the top of the drawing to the bottom and back again. Then he leaned back in his chair with a shake of his head. “Never seen him before.”
I let out a breath. But then, hadn’t I guessed this? Somehow I knew that the Face, from the beginning to the very end, would continue to remain elusive. Almost as if he were taunting me.
“Who is he?” Springer looked up.
“We don’t know, but we think he’s from this area.” Chetterling left the drawing in front of the deputy D.A. “This composite was drawn after interviewing the one witness—the victim’s daughter.”
Springer perused the sketch once more. “Quite detailed.
This daughter gave you an awful lot of information.” He looked at Chetterling through the tops of his eyeballs. “She says the drawing looks good?”
“She swears by it.”
“How old’s this girl?”
“Twelve.”
Springer pursed his mouth. “She saw the murder? She was traumatized?”
My lips pressed together. If Springer knew I’d drawn the composite with not one iota of training in forensic art, he’d probably be outright sneering.
“Yes, she was. It took us a while to let her calm down and be ready for an interview. The first two attempts didn’t work at all.”
Springer studied the drawing, a wince at one side of his mouth. “The eyes are so blue, they don’t look real.”
Chetterling glanced at me, as if he felt my frustration. “We believe in the veracity of the composite as far as it concerns our homicide. It will be printed in local papers here tomorrow, and we expect to get some leads. In the meantime we’d like to get a jump on this guy.”
“Okay.” Springer leaned back in his chair. “So how can I help you?”
His tone signaled anything but a willingness to help. As before, Chetterling seemed to pay the man’s demeanor no heed. But he used his posture to communicate plenty, hunching forward, his hands clasped and elbows resting on the arms of his chair. As if puffing out his frame to appear even larger than normal. Comparing the body language of the two men in our small quarters, I’d say Springer appeared to have retreated as far as he was able.
The detective got right to the point. “We believe that when this man—” he indicated the drawing—”committed the homicide, he was seeking a file on an interview between Sybee and his original attorney, Trent Gerralon. In that interview, Sybee tells Gerralon how Draye’s murder went down—that a drug dealer did it. A man he names. We think that drug dealer and the man in this composite are the same. Evidently, he got scared once the case was left open and wanted to purge the file.”
Left open. Chetterling was reading Springer, all right. Playing the politic, he’d refrained from saying the word acquittal.
Springer was doing his best to keep a poker face, but even as his mouth remained closed, his jaw hung askew, and that telltale eyebrow had crept upward again. His lips parted then as he seemed to ponder which question to ask first.
“Sybee’s a lying druggie and a killer. Why on earth should you believe him?”
Chetterling shrugged. “If the story’s a lie, why would this guy come all the way to the Redding area and break into a house just to get the file?”
The deputy D.A.’s nostrils flared with a long intake of air.
“I’m clearly not getting the whole story here. Maybe you’d better start from the beginning.”
That would be my cue. Chetterling turned to me wi
th a slight nod. “The story starts with Ms. Kingston.”
Pinpricks danced across my shoulders. Worried as I was about Springer’s reaction to my filial ties, even stronger rose my desire to not let Chetterling know I was concerned—and hadn’t prepared him.
“You know me as an artist at the Sybee trial—” I forced myself to look Springer in the eye—”you may not be aware that Trent Gerralon was my father.”
Springer hooked a stare at me as he processed the words.
I dared not look at Chetterling. No doubt the deputy D.A.’s reaction was not lost on him. A low-slung cloud seemed to form around Springer’s shoulders, sullen and thick with the dust of resentment. My thigh muscles tensed, preparing for a quick rise when he ordered us out of his office.
“Go on,” Springer said tightly.
I hesitated. Slowly it dawned on me that Springer would save face in front of Chetterling. To display ill will against my late father would show that his loss in the Sybee trial continued to sting. I plunged into my story. By the time I finished, my palms were sweaty. Springer had barely moved. Not so Chetterling, who’d shifted in his chair as though we were engaged in casual conversation.
As my words fell away, Springer gave a slow blink, as if searching the back of his eyelids for an answer to this conundrum. “Well.” He raised his chin. “I agree you have a fascinating tale there. And of course—” he looked to Chetterling—”I understand your need to apprehend your suspect. I don’t know what the correlation is between your case and mine. I can’t explain the coincidences. But I’m sure that’s all they are.”
He pinched his lips together and stared at me. “One thing.
You seem to have numerous secrets, Ms. Kingston. Just as I wasn’t aware of your relation to Trent Gerralon, neither was I aware that you, a courtroom artist, are trained in forensic work.”
Springer’s snide remark sank through my chest like a rock. I was willing to bet he already knew the truth. “Actually, I—”
“She was available,” Chetterling stated, “and she could calm the witness. As it turned out, Ms. Kingston’s interview yielded a detailed composite.”
I could have hugged Chetterling—until I realized he was defending himself and his investigation more than he was defending me.
“Yes, isn’t it, though.” Springer lowered critical eyes to the drawing. “So…very detailed.”
No one said anything for a moment. Springer’s cynicism hung in the air. Chetterling slid the composite across the desk as if it were gold and slipped it into his notebook.
“No need to keep you any longer,” he declared with measured politeness. “I’d just like to ask once more, now that you’ve heard the entire story, if there’s anyone you can think of—perhaps some vague suspect whose face you have not seen—that could have been involved in the Draye murder.”
Springer held the detective’s gaze before gifting us with his precise and disdained answer. “Absolutely no one.”
Chetterling nodded curtly. “Thanks for your time.”
Chapter 35
Why didn’t you tell me he didn’t know you’re Trent Gerralon’s daughter?” We stood on the sidewalk outside the courthouse, Chetterling’s jaw set and eyes narrowed. “And don’t tell me you didn’t think about how hostile he’d be when he found out.”
“I did…but only when I was on the way here. And then I just…”
“Didn’t want me to say you couldn’t go in.”
“N-no. Well…yes.”
Chetterling shook his head, looking across the street toward the county jail. “Some buffer you are.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Whether I was there or not, you’d have had to tell him about me, about my part in this whole thing. He’d have acted the same. Springer just can’t get over that he lost the case.”
The detective opened his mouth, then snapped it shut.
He bounced the notebook against his leg. “Maybe so. It was a long shot and I knew it.” He fixed his eyes on me. “All the same, I don’t need surprises, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, my voice small.
He pulled in a long breath. He had to feel beaten down, frustrated, and bone tired. With no rest in sight.
“All right. Thank you for coming.” It was an exit line if I’d ever heard one. “I’ll call you if anything else comes up. Like I promised.”
I gathered my courage. “Where are you going now?”
Not that I had any right to ask.
“Annie. Just leave me to my business, all right?”
His business. Irritation flared within me. Like it or not, it was my business, too. “You’re going to see Edgar Sybee, aren’t you? If anybody can identify the composite, it’s him.”
He gave me a wary look and said nothing.
“Let me go with you.”
“No.” He stretched out the word, like a parent denying a meddlesome child.
I sighed up at him. “Please.”
“Annie, look. You’ve done all you can for this case. You’ve done a lot. Now let it be. Let me do my job.”
“I can’t, don’t you see?” Desperation tinged my voice.
“What am I supposed to do, just sit in my sister’s town house and wait? My whole life’s on hold! It’s not safe in Grove Landing because a murder happened there. A murder that should have happened in my house.”
Chetterling’s lips parted but I cut him off.
“And it’s not safe here, either. Not so much for me but for my son.”
He frowned. “What’s the matter with your son?”
Oh great, why had I brought that up?
“He tends to hang out with the wrong kids here. Kids who do drugs. It’s a big reason why I moved to Grove Landing.”
“You’d best get home and keep an eye on him then. Drugs aren’t something you want your son messing around with.”
As if he had to tell me that. “It doesn’t matter if I ‘get home,’ because he’s not there anyway.” The defensiveness in my tone could not be stayed.
“Where is he?”
I half turned away, lowering my gaze to the sidewalk.
“He’s staying with a friend.”
“One of those friends?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know. Maybe.”
Suddenly my purse weighted my shoulder like a ton of bricks. I looked at Chetterling, feeling both enervation and defiance march across my face. For the first time since I met him, he looked nonplused.
“Never mind, you wouldn’t understand.” My voice veered off pitch. “You don’t know what it’s like to try to raise kids alone. I’m just…tired, that’s all. Even in this situation, my ex wouldn’t take the kids, so I had to bring them here.” I lifted my hands and let them flop back to my sides. “And I can’t watch Stephen every minute.”
Chetterling’s expression stilled, as though something I said had cut through his competent exterior. For that brief moment I saw not Detective Chetterling of the Redding Sheriff’s Department but Ralph Chetterling, the man.
“I know what it’s like to raise a kid alone.”
The words pulsed with experience. I had no idea what to say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
He shifted his weight, tapping a thumb against the notebook. Then cleared his throat. “Look. I’m doing all I can to solve this case quickly. I’ll do all I can to get you and your kids back to Grove Landing soon—a safe Grove Landing. And let me just say that I think it’s a good thing you’ve done for your son, moving there. If you have problems with him in the future, Annie, I want you to know you can come to me.” He shrugged. “Kids tend not to listen to their own parents. Maybe I can talk some sense into him.” He gave me a half smile. “Or maybe I can play sheriff’s detective and scare some sense into him.”
I nodded. “Thank you. So much. I’m…sorry I went off on you.”
He raised a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
Suddenly the conversation felt awkward. Too touchy, too
… personal
. I still couldn’t fathom why I brought up the subject of Stephen, particularly in the middle of an argument about this case and its latest dead end.
I straightened. “Well. Thank you again for your understanding. Didn’t mean to bring up my own problems at a time like this.” I fastened a gaze on him, hoping to look a lot more courageous than I felt. “Anyway, we’d best get moving.
Something tells me Edgar Sybee’s our man. We’re going to find out something important from him.”
Exasperation played across Chetterling’s features. Almost as if he were unsure whether I’d manipulated the entire conversation just to soften him up. Not that I’d stoop that low.
But I couldn’t find a way to deny it. Doing so would lend the idea a certain…credence.
“I know you don’t want me to go. But I can’t do any harm this time. Really. Sybee won’t care whose daughter I am. In fact, he’s got every reason to like me for it. So please don’t make me go back and just…wait. I have to do something. I have to.”
He tilted his head to regard the sky. I held my breath.
“All right, Annie. You can go. But let me do the talking.”
He spun on his heel and headed for the jail.
Yes!
I launched after him, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. As we crossed the street, my recent prayer flashed into my head. Let something good happen here today. I meant the courthouse, Springer’s office. But maybe this was the good part? That God was letting me continue to help with the investigation?
Oh boy, I was really going nuts now—rationalizing that prayer was working.
As we entered the county jail, I couldn’t help but pray one more time. Surely it would be my last.
Please, God, let Sybee tell us something.
Chapter 36
A jail is not the friendliest of places.
Brink of Death Page 18