Web of Lies (7 page)
More conjectures flowed. What if Chelsea envisioned someone in my family being hurt? What if it was one of my children? Or Erin, or Dave?
Oh, God, please don’t let it be that!
Only by sheer will did I rein in the disturbing thoughts. By the time I reached the police station, I’d forced myself into calmness. But I realized one thing. I could not refuse Chelsea Adams based on the scant information I knew.
Lord, why did You tell her to call
me
?
T
he minute I entered the Redding Police Station, sketchpad in hand, I found myself hustled toward Tim Blanche’s office.
“You got the drawing? Good, we’ve been waiting for you.” Rod Houp, a thin, hunched officer with a face like Mr. Burns on
The Simpsons
, prodded me down the hall. He bristled with the energy I’d become all too familiar with — the adrenaline rush of chasing a killer. “We’ve just gotten some ID leads on the suspect. Here’s hoping the composite is a match.” He pulled up short outside the detective’s office. The door was slightly ajar, voices filtering through — Blanche’s, and a young woman’s, fraught with tension. “Hang on just a minute.” Rod rapped on the door, then stuck his head inside. “Annie’s here.”
“Great, send her in.”
Rod stepped aside, a brisk wave of his hand ushering me inside the office. He dogged my heels into the cramped quarters and closed the door. Tim rose from behind his battered desk, already reaching for the drawing. “Composite done?”
“Yes, but it’s still on the sketchpad. I thought I’d prepare it for you here.”
“Yeah, fine. Let’s see what you got.”
My gaze fell on a figure perched in a chair before Tim’s desk. She looked to be in her early twenties. Long dark hair with red-pink streaks. Black liner smudged beneath frightened, chocolate eyes. She took one look at me and pulled in her shoulders, arms cradling her chest. I gave her a tentative smile as I flipped back the cover of the sketchpad and held it out to Blanche. The young woman did not respond, her eyes following the drawing as if it were fire in my hand.
Blanche grabbed the sketchpad and stared at the drawing. Plucked a piece of paper from his desk and compared the two. Back and forth, back and forth jerked his eyes. I watched his face as jagged lines smoothed from his forehead. He gave a quick sigh, aimed a meaningful look at me. “Dayna.” He spoke to the young woman. “Is this the guy you’re talking about?” He turned the sketchpad toward her.
Dayna’s eyes widened. She pulled in a breath, held it. Went very still, as if a wall of immobility might defend her against a knowledge she couldn’t deny. Then she nodded and her face crumpled. She dropped her head in both hands and sobbed.
My feet carried me to her, one of my hands resting on her shoulder. I focused questioning eyes on Tim. Satisfaction played across his features. The very air around him crackled with sudden energy. He didn’t so much as glance at Dayna. With a flick of his wrist, he motioned to Rod to whisk the girl away. “Show her where the bathroom is, will you? Then have her wait in the lobby until I can talk to her a little more. I’ve got an arrest warrant to issue.”
Without a word Rod complied. Dayna’s sobs bounced off the walls as he led her away.
Indignation stiffened my back. Break in the case or not, Blanche had no right to be so insensitive. “We should call Gerri Carson.” I kept my voice level. “Whatever’s happened here, Dayna could obviously use some help.”
Blanche sank into his chair, eyes riveted on the drawing. “Yeah, sure, I’ll call her.” His tone edged with derision.
My jaw clenched. Okay, so Blanche thought Christian ity was for the weak and foolish, that much he’d made clear. A comment here and there, particularly after I’d spoken out during the Poison Killer case, and I knew where he stood. He could think less of me if he wanted. Gerri was another matter. Yes, she was “one of those Christians.” She also happened to be a very experienced and caring law enforcement chaplain, and right now an apparent key witness needed help.
“Maybe you’ll forget, Tim, with all that’s on your mind.” Despite my efforts, the words sounded judgmental. I worked to soften them. “How about if I call her for you?”
Blanche’s eyes rose to mine, one side of his mouth twisting into the familiar curl. “Fine. Whatever.” He regarded me for a moment, then flexed his shoulders, as if to say he was a big enough man to shake aside our differences. “Annie, I got a lot to do, but before you make that phone call, let me tell you what I’ve learned about
this guy. Take it as a warning to be careful while he’s on the loose. Sounds like we’re dealing with a real sicko.” He pointed his finger at me. “But
I’ll
get him.”
The detective’s emphasis suddenly clarified everything. His meaning knifed right through me. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Blanche’s
I
didn’t mean himself over others in law enforcement. It meant himself versus
me
. I’d led authorities to the Poison Killer. I had helped in the case against Bill Bland. And I’d stopped Lisa Willit’s murderer from going free.
Blanche’s attitude toward me, his cynicism against my faith, was all tied to one thing: jealousy.
I stared at him, hoping against hope that he didn’t see the stunning realization on my face. And the anger. How could
anyone
be jealous of me, after what I endured? Who could possibly wish that on himself? I’d gladly, a million times over, have handed the breaking of the serial killer case to Blanche, if he’d wanted to be in my shoes. If he’d wanted to nearly die.
I swallowed, feeling the heightened rise and fall of my chest. An awkward pause prickled the air.
“All right. Tell me what you know.” I remained standing.
Blanche pierced me with a look, then blinked away. A little too forcefully, he smacked my sketchpad down on his desk. Handed me the piece of paper that he’d compared to my drawing. My eyes fell on a printout of a driver’s license. Orwin Robert Neese. Age thirty-two. Five feet, eleven inches tall. Brown hair and eyes. That face — by now I knew all its contours, its proportions. I had just drawn it.
God, thank You for helping me do it right!
I gave the paper back to Tim and waited.
Blanche jerked his chin toward the chair in which Dayna had sat. “This gal, Dayna Edwington, was one of three people who called today. Said she heard on the TV last evening that Mike Winger had been shot. Wednesday night, she was at a birthday party for some friend. One of those parties where there’s too much booze and drugs, people with defenses down and tempers waiting to fly. This Orwin Neese was there. A real hotshot. Has quite a bit of money, apparently through a large inheritance, and flaunts it. According to Dayna, the guy’s heartless, paranoid, and has a mean streak. She couldn’t see what her roommate — named Amy Flyte — saw in him. Maybe the flamboyance and money. Whatever. Amy told Dayna that Orwin made her feel special. Protected. But then he starts showing real jealousy, surprise, surprise. It gets extreme. She can’t talk to another guy, barely look one in the eye. That’s the context you’ve got when Mike Winger arrives at the party and starts showing attention to Amy.”
As Blanche talked, my thoughts turned from him to the shooting scene. The film in my mind whirred. I remembered staring in my rearview mirror, seeing the pointed gun jerking up and down in the bearer’s murderous dash.
Jealous. Heartless, with a mean streak.
Yes. A man like that could kill in broad daylight.
How close he had come to me and Jenna with a loaded weapon. I shuddered.
God, thank You for Your protection.
Blanche’s gaze fell to the composite and he sniffed. “So Orwin and Mike get in a violent argument. Orwin spouts off about how Mike’s the second guy that day who’s hit on Amy, and both of these men are going to pay. So will Amy. Orwin says he’ll kill all three of them, and they’d better believe him ’cause he’s done it before.” Blanche lifted his eyebrows and paused, emphasizing the information. “Dayna and Amy hightail it away from the party, along with Mike. Which only makes Orwin madder.
“Then, of course, yesterday Mike Winger was shot. This morning Amy leaves the apartment but doesn’t show at work. Dayna gets a call around noon — nobody can find the girl. Dayna calls Trend Gear Stereo Systems, which Orwin owns. He hasn’t shown up there either. Dayna’s terrified that Orwin killed Mike and now her best friend. So she came in to tell us her story.”
I stared at a deep scratch on the top of Blanche’s desk, assimilating the information, imagining Dayna’s fear. I hoped Blanche
did
find this murderer. Tim could have all the glory he wanted. Just get this guy off the streets. “Dayna looked pretty scared. Any chance Neese would go after her, if he knew how much information she was giving?”
Blanche’s mouth flattened. “Oh yeah, don’t think she hasn’t thought of that. We’ll have to keep a real eye on her.”
Oh, Dayna.
I knew the fear all too well.
“What about this third guy?” I asked. “The other one Orwin said he would kill. Anyone know who he is?”
“None so far. Orwin named no names.”
A chill blew down my neck. I clenched my upper arms. “So we could have two people missing? Up to
three
people dead? And we have no idea where Orwin Neese is.”
Blanche rubbed a hand down his face. “That’s about the long and short of it.” He pushed to his feet. “Okay. You go make your phone call to that chaplain. I got more important things to do. I
am
going to find Orwin Neese. Before he kills anybody else.”
Help him do it, God,
I prayed as I walked from his office.
Help him do it soon.
Before I left the police station, I called Gerri Carson and told her about Dayna. Gerri said she would come right away, and she’d ask another chaplain to follow up with Dayna during the next few days. Gerri was leaving the following day for a much-anticipated Hawaiian vacation with her husband.
“I know you need the rest, Gerri,” I told her. “Thanks for doing this while you’re trying to pack.”
As Dayna and I waited in the reception area, I assured her that the police were doing all they could to find her roommate, that even now they were issuing an arrest warrant for Orwin Neese. No doubt they would also obtain a search warrant for his home, seeking evidence such as a gun that would match the bullets removed from Mike Winger and Toby Brown.
Dayna sat with fidgeting hands in her lap, eyes downcast, as she talked to me about Amy and their friendship. Her voice shook, and after a short while she could speak no more. She took to rubbing her thumb hard over the back of her hand, watching the skin crinkle over her knuckles. I could do little but silently pray for her. And Amy.
“It’s my fault.” She whispered the words so softly that I almost wasn’t sure I’d heard them at all.
I focused on her profile, the curve of her shoulders. “Why would you say that?”
Her throat convulsed. “I’m the one who wanted to go to that party. Amy wanted to break up with Orwin because of . . . the way he is, and she knew he’d be there. But I convinced her to go anyway.”
Her final words tilted upward, and another sob rattled her chest.
“Dayna.” I laid a hand on her bent neck. The bones of her spine jutted into my palm. That physical sense of her framework jolted me, a reminder of the even greater frailty of her soul. Words of solace evaporated from my tongue. Who was I to tell her not to feel responsible, when my own guilt still plagued me? Guilt over my failure to keep Vic, my ex-husband, from straying. Or to keep Stephen away from drugs. The guilt I’d once felt over Lisa Willit’s death. Again and again people had told me these things weren’t my fault. My head knew they were right. But my heart didn’t want to let go.
Oh, God, what do I say to Dayna? What do I say to myself?
Like some heavenly intervener, Gerri Carson stepped through the door. She wore her chaplain uniform, a short strand of her curly gray hair whisked up by a breeze. I rose to confer with her in whispers, then led her to Dayna. The young woman was now in the best of hands.
Before leaving the station, I talked to another officer investigating the shooting, pulling more information from him about Neese. Then I headed for home. During the fifteen-minute drive, I prayed. For Dayna. For Amy. For justice.
And for wisdom in knowing what to do about Chelsea Adams.
I
arrived home to the domestic scene of Erin and Kelly in the kitchen, making chocolate chip cookies. A comforting sight, however messy. It never fails — those two girls spell disaster for a kitchen. Anytime they bake, sugar ends up crunching underfoot, flour spread across the counters. I took one look around the room and shook my head. I could have sworn they’d had a food fight.
“Hey, Mom.” Kelly lifted a white-coated palm and swished back her thick brown hair with her other hand.
“Hi, Annie,” Erin sang.
“Hello, girls.” I lugged my portfolio and purse over to the table and set them down. The smell of blended butter and eggs tickled my nose. “What are the cookies for?”
“For a while.” Erin grinned at me, showing perfect white teeth. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a smear of flour on one fair cheek. I gave her an
oh ha-ha
look and sank into a chair. “How did the interview and all that go?” Erin tore open a package of chocolate chips and dumped them in the mixing bowl full of dough.
I took in her profile, the swing of her small hoop earrings as she churned a wooden spoon through the thick mixture. Her concentrated efforts belied the anxiety she faced every time my work involved a homicide. Witnessing her own mother’s murder had plummeted Erin to the depths of pain. And the memories still haunted her.
“Fine.” I hoped the girls would let the subject drop. “Did you turn on the oven yet?”
Kelly
tsked
. “Mom, we know what we’re doing.”
“Hm.” I made a point of looking around. “Have you told the kitchen that?”
“We’ll clean up.” My daughter pulled out a cookie sheet, reached for some dough and balled it in her hands. I watched as she placed the large dollop on the sheet and pulled more dough from the mixture. This time it went in her mouth.
