Web of Lies (12 page)
“Look here.” Delching pushed back soil and debris with both hands as Cisneros and Chetterling squatted beside him. I leaned forward, trying to see. “A femur.” He pulled the long leg bone out of the dirt and gently brushed it off. Stanish took it from him, crossed to the white sheet and laid it in place.
Delching wiped sweat from his face, leaving a smudge of dirt on his jaw. “My guess is, with us finding pieces
this close together, the skeleton was intact. The backhoe broke it apart.”
I absorbed the news, questions swirling. Who was this person? Why was the body here? And — was the timing of its discovery significant? I thought over the events of the last two days. The 7-Eleven shooting . . . Chelsea’s vision . . . now this. Suspicion niggled in my gut. Three disturbing events in a row. Something told me that two of them were more than coincidence.
“What do you think?” I asked Chelsea.
A troubled expression flicked across her face. “I have no idea.”
“Does it . . . I mean, do you
see
anything?”
Annie, what an idiotic question.
Jenna tilted her head, eyebrows raised, as if she indeed expected some supernatural insight. Chelsea hitched her shoulders. “I’m sorry, I don’t know any more than you do.”
Jenna spread her hands, then dropped them. “Oh well. It was worth a try.”
Chelsea offered her a self-conscious smile.
Tires zinged against pavement. I turned to see a beige car cut to a stop. Adam Bendershil bounded out of the driver’s seat, notebook in hand. The passenger door opened, spewing a photographer with camera.
Shades of two days ago. “Oh great.” My shoulders slumped. “My favorite reporter is here.”
Chelsea jerked around. Up swung the camera, straight at us.
Click. Click.
“Oh.” She ducked. Too late.
Jenna practically growled and turned a purposeful back to Adam. He made a beeline for me, a man on a mission. His photographer advanced to the end of the runway, snapping photos of the men, the half-pieced skeleton. Anger tightened my shoulders. That was someone’s
body
lying there, not some object of fascination. Couldn’t he show a little more respect?
“Annie Kingston.” Adam drew up before me, pen poised over paper. “What can you tell me about the skull?”
Sure, Adam, what would you like — name, date of birth, social security number?
I shot him a withering look. “You know I don’t talk to you.”
“Oh, come on now, the Bill Bland case was a year and a half ago. How long are you going to hold a petty grudge?”
Jenna whirled on him. “Leave her alone!”
Adam held up a hand, feigning surprise. “Whoa. Aren’t we touchy!”
In my pocket my cell phone went off. The incoming number was Dave’s. I strode away from the reporter as I answered. “Hi.”
“Hey. I just heard some strange news. What’s going on?”
I told him. “Are the girls still with you?”
“Yes. So I’ll stay here. Not something they need to see.”
“True, and now the media’s shown up. One more reason to stay away.”
“Uh-oh. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I forced a lilt into my tone.
Dave didn’t seem to be buying it. “Annie, do you need me to come out there?”
“No, really. I’m fine.” I was doing it again — pushing him away.
“Okay.” A sort of weary disappointment coated the word. He paused. “Did you meet with Chelsea Adams?”
“Yes. She’s here. We were just finishing when we heard about this.”
Silence. I knew he wanted to press for details but wouldn’t load that on me now. “Dave, thank you for checking on me. I’ll talk to you soon as I can. Tell you about everything.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
I clicked off the line and wandered back to Chelsea and Jenna, sighing at the heat and Adam Bendershil, who was now calling questions to Larry Delching. Tiredness washed over me. My feet ached. Jenna slumped, hands on her hips, eyes still fixed upon the reporter. Chelsea looked a little wilted herself, and definitely unhappy at Bendershil’s presence. She stole a glance at her watch and I checked mine. After three. We needed to leave. At this rate she’d get back to the Bay Area much later than she’d intended.
I touched her arm. “It’s getting late for you. If we’re going to see Officer Blanche, we need to do it now so you can get started home.”
She nodded almost distractedly, then turned to stare at the grimed half skeleton.
“See Officer Blanche?” Jenna, still seething over Bendershil, was quick to jump on a new target. “Whatever for?”
I ignored her, focusing on Chelsea. “What is it?” I gestured toward the laid-out bones. “Do you think this has something to do with your vision?”
She placed a hand at the back of her neck. “I really don’t
know
. But you have to admit, this timing . . .”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Jenna eyed me with her
don’t-be-an-idiot-Annie
look. “
Why
would you two go see Officer Blanche?”
“Jenna — ”
“To show him the composite of the face I saw.” Chelsea’s words were firm, unrattled. “In case it’s the man who may be missing after that shooting you witnessed.”
Jenna’s eyes jumped from Chelsea to me. “What makes you think
that
?”
“Look, let’s just go.” I turned toward the car. “We can talk about it on the way to the house.”
Chelsea threw me a glance and tactfully headed for the vehicle. Her slow walk, the sag of her shoulders, spoke volumes. She didn’t relish being the cause of any problem between me and my sister.
Jenna opened her mouth. I turned away and called out to Chetterling. “Ralph, we need to get going.”
“Annie, you better tell me what’s going on,” Jenna demanded.
Chetterling pushed up from his kneeling position in the dirt, arched his back, and made his way to me. Sweat shone on his forehead. He swiped at a trickle on his temple. “Don’t know yet, but as you can see, we might need you for this one. Are you up to it?”
I gazed at the face I’d come to know so well. Chetterling’s combination of large nose, thin lips, and granite-cut features, combined with his aura of authority, used to intimidate the daylights out of me. But time and again he’d proved his heart. He was a good, caring man, and his question spoke to his selflessness. He knew I was still recovering from the events of the past summer.
“Yes, I’m up to it.”
“All right.” His eyes roved to Chelsea, who was waiting at the car, then back to me. I could see the lingering questions in his eyes. “Talk to you soon.”
Thirty minutes later Chelsea and I, despite Jenna’s vehement arguments, were on our way to see Tim Blanche. I drove my SUV, my composite in a large folder on the passenger seat. Chelsea followed in her own car. Once we were done with Blanche, she would head home. We’d each eaten a quick sandwich. The roast beef and cheese sat heavily in my stomach. Now that I’d called the detective and said we needed to see him, I couldn’t help wondering how I’d gotten myself into this. Like clotted milk, the man’s voice had thickened with scorn when I reminded him why Chelsea’s name sounded familiar. “Why on earth does she want to see
me
?”
Here it came. Some woman who claimed to have visions from God trying to tell Detective Tim Blanche how to run his investigation? “We may have information for you about Amy Flyte. We’re not sure, but we think we should tell you just in case.”
He heaved a sigh, betraying his conundrum. How to deny my request without sounding close-minded and controlling?
“Yeah, all
right, come on down if you must,” he clipped, “but I’m really busy and you’ll have to make it quick.”
As if we’d want to linger for a friendly chat. Still, Chelsea and I had a story to tell, and I was determined Blanche would hear it. I could only hope that we’d finish before he threw us both out of his office.
B
y the time we reached the station, my heart hammered. I shot Chelsea a crooked smile as we opened the door. “Here goes.”
When we stepped into the lobby area, I caught sight of Ryan Burns setting up a small table. A makeshift sign was taped to its edge: “Help crime victim Toby Brown. Every dollar you give will be matched with three more.” Nearby on the floor sat a clear plastic box with a slit in the top. A few bills already lay in the bottom of the box.
“Annie Kingston, hi!” Ryan’s pudgy face creased into a smile.
“Hi, Ryan.” I introduced him to Chelsea and they shook hands. “This is great of you to do.” I pointed to the sign. “I take it you’re the one who’s matching the dollars?”
Ryan’s gaze dropped and he shrugged. “Don’t tell people, okay? I mean, the police know, but . . .”
I smiled. “Okay.”
“Who’s Toby Brown?” Chelsea asked.
I opened my purse to pull out my wallet. “The boy who was shot on Thursday. He has a single mom who doesn’t make much money. His job helped support the family.”
Ryan lifted the plastic box onto the table. I dropped in a twenty-dollar bill as Chelsea reached for her own wallet.
“Hey, thanks.” Ryan looked pleased.
He must have been close to thirty, but with his shy demeanor and short, stout frame, Ryan struck me more as an awkward school kid. No one would ever guess he was the wealthiest citizen in Redding. Five years ago, as a clerk in a photocopy store, he’d won $56 million in the California state lottery. Much of his newfound money had gone to help local schools, citizens, and law enforcement.
“So.” Ryan ran a hand through his thatch of brown hair. “You here to work on the Orwin Neese case? I saw your drawing of him in the paper. I suppose everybody has by now.”
No doubt, including Orwin Neese himself. That thought gave me the shivers. I repressed the urge to throw Chelsea a look. “Yes, you could say that.”
“Well, keep safe, okay? We don’t need a repeat of last time.”
“Oh, don’t you worry.”
Three months ago Ryan had put up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of the Poison Killer. In the end he’d tried to write that check out to me. I insisted he give the money to the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department instead.
Ryan shifted his feet. “Well, I need to go. I have a lot more boxes to drop off around town.”
Chelsea and I bid him good-bye, then turned reluctant footsteps down the hall.
In Tim Blanche’s office, I found myself headed for the same corner, same chair, as Dayna Edwington had occupied the day before. Despite the fifty percent chance of that, ghosted implications drew a finger down my spine. The detective would likely treat me no better. A glance around the room didn’t elevate my expectations. Folders and papers cluttered Tim’s desk, two Styrofoam coffee cups small islands in the sea of files. More cups lay crushed in the wastebasket. A vague smell of sweat and dust tinged the air. Blanche had probably been working nonstop since the murder. Little sleep and frustration would not make him a ready recipient of our story.
He hung up the phone and stood as we entered, his movements brisk, distracted — almost as if by design. “Let’s hope this thing doesn’t ring for a few minutes.” He waved a hand at the receiver.
“Tim, thanks for taking time for us.” I introduced him to Chelsea and he stuck out a hand with a swift nod. She shook it, looking straight into his eyes as if fathoming the man.
Blanche stared back, his wariness obvious. “Sit, please.” He indicated the chairs and sank into his own behind the desk, leaning forward, fingertips tapping strewn papers.
“Do you have any leads on Orwin Neese?” I asked. “Or on Amy?”
He made a face, as though I’d accused him of not doing his job. “Nothing on Amy. No one’s seen her anywhere, which can’t be good. As for Orwin, that’s why the phone’s ringing so much. We’re running down leads from acquaintances of his. I just haven’t caught up to him yet. But I will.”
I again. No teamwork. Just I.
“And the identity of the possible missing young man?”
“Nothing there either.” Tim buffed his forehead with one hand. “Not sure he exists. If he did, you’d think we’d have a missing persons report by now.”
True.
My gaze dropped to the chaos of paper before him. Fresh indecision swirled through me. Chelsea and I had no proven basis for being here, and Tim’s impatience to get back to work had him chugging like a race car engine.
“Now.” Blanche looked to Chelsea, getting down to business. “What can I do for you?”
She clasped her hands in her lap, sitting almost casually, as though removing herself from Blanche’s humming energy field. “I know Annie told you a little about why we needed to see you. And you have some knowledge about my involvement in some cases in the Bay Area?”
“Yeah.” He rapped his knuckles against the edge of the desk.
“I’d like to tell you about this recent vision I had.”
“Does it have anything to do with this murder?”
“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.
