Web of Lies (19 page)
I nodded slowly.
Chelsea cleared her throat. “How much time is left to get the drawing in tomorrow’s paper?”
“Not much. The paper’s already laid out by now. They’d have to pull something and stick this in before going to press. But time is even more important for Amy and that man, if they’re in that room. Every minute could count.”
“Yes, I just . . . I wish God would tell me more.” Chelsea rubbed her forehead.
“I say do it,” Jenna declared. “So you ‘overstep your bounds’ and Blanche gets mad at you. Big deal. Or let
me
leak the drawing. Then you can say you had nothing to do with it.”
I nailed her with a look. Jenna knew I couldn’t tell a half-truth. “Maybe we — ”
The phone rang.
Jenna waved her hand at it. “Let it go.”
I pushed from my chair. “Better not. It could be important.” At the kitchen counter I checked the incoming ID.
Rod Blakely.
My head jerked up. “It’s the policeman outside.” I spun toward the window, nerves tingling. “He’s not in his car.”
“Well, answer it!” Jenna jumped from her chair and grabbed the cordless phone. “Hello?”
I angled my line of vision down the street. An unfamiliar vehicle was parked some distance from the house. Who was that behind the wheel? I swung around, eyes searching Jenna’s face. Chelsea pushed back from the table, one hand on her heart.
“Yes, okay, thanks.” Jenna fluttered a
be calm
gesture and cocked her head, listening. “He told you we’d want to talk to him?” She crossed to the window, pulling back a sheer curtain. “Okay, I see his car. But I don’t recognize it. And I can’t see his face.”
Officer Blakely now stood on the sidewalk next to the car. He reached toward the window, pulled back a driver’s license, and spoke into his phone.
“Okay.” Jenna covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “He’s seeing who — ” Her head jerked and she slid her hand away. “Yes, I’m here.
Who?
” Her face slackened. Slowly she lowered the phone.
“You’re not going to believe this. That reporter Milt Waking’s out front. He wants to see you and Chelsea.”
F
or a moment none of us moved. A horrified look creased Chelsea’s face. “Milt Waking?
Here?
” Like an automaton, she pulled to her feet, skirted the table, and edged toward the window. One of her hands floated up to circle the base of her neck. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. How did he
find
me?”
I nudged her away from the glass. “Get back so he won’t see you. We don’t have to let him in.” My mind whirled. Milt Waking, at my door. I’d thought it bad enough dealing with local reporters. And
this
man — talk about arrogance. If Tim Blanche had taken the class, Milt Waking taught it.
Chelsea drew in her shoulders. “I know, but — how does he know I’m here?”
I closed my eyes, trying to remember the last time I’d seen Milt on FOX News. Had he been covering a West Coast story? Maybe somehow he’d seen our local paper this morning . . . But even so, how did he get here so fast?
“Jenna,” I hissed, “tell the officer to send him away —
now
.”
“Wait a minute.” Jenna’s eyes danced across the kitchen as if seeking an alternative answer. She blinked a few times. Pulled the receiver to her ear. “Officer? We don’t know if we want to see him or not. Tell him to cool his heels; we’ll call you back.”
She clicked off the line.
My mouth hung open. “Are you
crazy
?”
“No, huh-uh.” Chelsea held up both hands. “I’m not seeing him; he’s nothing but trouble.”
“I know, I know.” Jenna took her time laying the phone on the table, then faced us, one hand on her hip.
Uh-oh.
I could see the wheels turning in her head. “Hear me out, okay? I think we should let him in, because we need to find out why he’s here. That much can’t hurt.”
“Oh, yes it can.” Chelsea’s voice bent upward. “That guy can make a story out of anything. You let him near you and the next thing you know — ”
“I don’t want him here, either.” I shot my sister a withering look. “The very fact that he’s hunted Chelsea down — that should tell you something.”
“O-
kay
.” Jenna gave an exaggerated shrug. “So we hear his story, and if we don’t like it, we throw him out. We’ve got a policeman right outside the door to help us.”
Chelsea paced the kitchen, indignation rolling off her shoulders. “He absolutely
hounded
me during the Trent Park murder case. If it weren’t for him — ”
“If it weren’t for him, how would the Salad King trial have gone?” Jenna reminded her.
That brought Chelsea to a halt. I opened my mouth, then closed it. My sister’s logic began to seep into my head. Milt Waking was a consummate pain, but he also made things happen.
Chelsea sighed. “Okay, so he has his . . . strengths. But if we talk to him, prepare for every word to end up on national news.”
“If he wants a story, he’s going to get it whether we talk to him or not.” Jenna eyed us both, exasperated. “Look, weren’t we were just talking about leaking that composite to the press? Now a FOX News correspondent shows up at our door. You gonna tell me that’s just coincidence? I’d have guessed you two would see this as an answer to prayer.”
Chelsea cast her a beleaguered look. “Oh, please. It wouldn’t be the first time God used Milt Waking. But I sure hoped I’d never see that happen
again.”
Jenna half chuckled. Chelsea made a face, then heaved a martyr’s sigh. “Well, it’s your house. But can we at least establish some ground rules? Believe me — that give-an-inch- take-a-mile phrase? Milt Waking invented it.”
Before we could change our minds, Jenna returned the officer’s call. “Could you hand your phone to Mr. Waking for a moment?” She paused. “Hi, this is Jenna Gerralon, Annie Kingston’s sister.” She pounded out the words like a no-nonsense judge. “We’re going to let you in. But if you don’t behave yourself, I’m throwing you right back out. Got it?”
She punched off the line and tossed her head. “Here goes. You two better crank up your prayer machines.”
M
ilt Waking might as well have entered a lions’ den. Jenna opened the door, shoulders arched, claws ready if the man made one false move. I hung behind her, glaring and wary. Chelsea lurked off to the side, arms crossed. Milt made eye contact with each of us, surprise flitting across his face, then quickly fading. “Ladies.” He dipped his head, and that charm-ridden Waking smile spread across his movie-star features. His thick dark hair was perfectly combed, as if he stood before the camera. “Thank you for seeing me.” His gaze wandered back to Jenna and hung there, approval in his brown eyes. She stared up at him, features stern. But her shoulders sank the tiniest bit. Milt’s eyes warmed and he smiled wider.
Uh-oh.
I saw that spark.
My sister lifted her chin. “I’m Jenna. I suppose you’ve deduced that.”
He inclined his head like a prince to a princess. “Pleasure to meet you.”
They gazed at each other.
Jenna swept her arm toward me. “You know my sister, Annie Kingston.”
“Yes, of course, nice to see you again. And Ms. Adams. It’s been a while.”
Chelsea muttered a stiff greeting.
“Have a seat, Mr. Waking.” Jenna lifted a hand toward the furniture around the fireplace. “You need something to drink?”
“No, thank you. And call me Milt.”
He trod across the hardwood floor, hands clasped, feigned humility blanketing his shoulders. He stood about six one, wearing casual khaki pants and a designer knit shirt. Traveling clothes. I’d never seen him in anything but the suit and tie of his profession. He seated himself on the end of a couch, knees apart. Even in his purposeful casualness a certain power emanated from him. This was a man who knew his own charisma and how to use it. The effect may have held little sway over Chelsea and me, but I could already see the churnings within my sister.
Why had I let this man in my house?
Milt’s gaze traveled around the room. “You’ve got a great-looking place here.”
“Thank you.” I sat in the armchair between the two couches, Milt on my left. Chelsea chose to sit to my right, as far away from Milt as she could get. Jenna slipped onto the other end of the couch Milt had taken, angling her body slightly toward him.
I took a deep breath. “All right, we have no time for games. Why are you here and what do you want? And we expect the truth.”
“Fine, I’m going to lay all my cards on the table.” He raised his eyebrows, sincerity his middle name.
Chelsea gave him a look:
That’ll be the day.
“First, let me tell you what’s happened to me since the Salad King case.” He cleared his throat. “As you can imagine, I found myself in high demand. First I moved up to anchorman for our San Francisco station, then went to FOX News. I took that job with one quid pro quo, which I’ll tell you in a minute.” He flashed a little smile at Jenna. “Two years ago, Annie, you made national headlines. Then a second and third time. But I was always on the other side of the country.” Milt turned his hands palm up. “So I told my boss the next time you came up in the news, I
had
to be here.”
I pressed back in my chair, trying to keep my face impassive. He couldn’t possibly understand what his words did to me. Every time I’d ended up in danger, I promised myself it would never happen again. Now to hear from a reporter this was simply a given? Indignation spiraled through me. I was a
person
. A sister and a mother. Not some sensational news story waiting to happen.
Milt laced his fingers. “So I started watching this area. Making some contacts.”
Contacts.
In other words, sources who’d leak him information.
“I’ve been covering a story in San Diego. I saw the local article about you witnessing a crime. I checked with my producer, saying I may need to come up here. Then I read this morning’s Redding paper. All the stuff about you two.” He looked to Chelsea. “Your vision, your photo with Annie. I took the next plane.” He spread his hands.
“And the quid pro quo?” Distrust laced Jenna’s tone.
Milt looked at Chelsea. “Ms. Adams, you shouldn’t find it hard to believe I’ve been watching for news of you too. My condition for leaving the Bay Area was — ” a sheepish expression crossed his face — “if you ever made headlines again, I’d be able to drop everything to pursue the story. So when I saw
both
of you, together, I knew something was really up.”
No doubt. He must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Chelsea eagled-eyed Milt but said nothing. Jenna crossed her arms. “So what do you want from us? You’ve got your contacts — go talk to them.”
“True, but . . .” Milt turned to me. “I want to know what
you
need.”
Chelsea stared at him in disbelief. “We don’t need anything from
you
.”
“Yes, you do.” Milt looked her in the eye. “I know you don’t like me, Ms. Adams. But you let me in here. You wouldn’t have done that unless you thought I might help you in some way.”
Chelsea dropped her gaze. Jenna’s expression showed grudging admiration that Milt had seen through her before he even walked in the door. I sought a zinger, some comment caustic enough to shoot down this man’s grandiose notions. But my tongue lay dead.
Milt sought each of our faces. “Have you talked to anybody in the Police Department today after these stories hit? Do you know what’s going on?”
Here it came — reining us in with knowledge we were desperate to have. I gave him a slow blink. “I suppose you do.”
He scratched his cheek. “Well, I know a few things. Like the findings of the department’s handwriting expert? He compared that threatening note to some of Orwin Neese’s handwriting. The results are inconclusive. Not surprising, I suppose, with that purposeful block lettering. Still, the police have no reason to think it
wasn’t
written by Neese.”
An analysis of the note already? Blanche hadn’t even bothered to tell me. Not that it mattered; we knew Neese left the note. But how had Milt found this out so soon?
Sudden reality sledgehammered my chest. No matter what we did, Milt Waking was going to get his story. He’d plaster my face and Chelsea’s on national news — and there wasn’t one thing we could do to stop it.
Oh, God, help.
Milt sighed. “I have to be honest with you. The police aren’t going to talk to you much anymore. They’ve clamped down, particularly after your phone conversation with Blanche this afternoon.”
Violation heated my cheeks. “Who told you about that?”
He shrugged. “From what I hear, Tim Blanche is a real controlling guy. He doesn’t want people thinking he’ll fall for this ‘vision from God’ stuff.” Milt leaned forward.
“Which means he’s not going to give that drawing to the paper.”
“Mr. Waking — ” Chelsea sounded cool — “I don’t see how you expect to impress us with all this inside knowledge. You’re only succeeding in violating our privacy.”
He shook his head. “Ms. Adams, I know you believe in that vision of yours. But surprise, surprise, the police aren’t listening. So here I am — coming to your rescue.” He turned to me. “I know you’ve got a copy of that drawing. Forget Blanche; give the drawing to me. I’ll put it on national TV, where everyone will see it.”
My mouth dropped open. What had this man done, bugged our kitchen? “Why in the world would I join forces with
you
?”
Milt spread his hands. “Let’s drop the pretenses, shall we? You obviously believe in Ms. Adams’s vision. I’ve seen her in action enough to believe it too. I don’t understand it, but I believe it.” He leaned toward Chelsea, voice intensifying. “You’ve been in this position before — when the police wouldn’t listen. And what did you do? You took matters into your own hands because you had to. Now you need to again.”
Chelsea stared. “Odd, but I hadn’t come to that conclusion.”
“Yet. But you were headed there.”
“Uh, Mr. Know-it-all-reporter,” Jenna cut in. “You seem to forget that wouldn’t be Chelsea’s call. The drawing belongs to Annie.”
Milt offered her a hint of a smile, then turned to me.
