Christina Freeburn - Faith Hunter 03 - Embellished to Death

by Christina Freeburn

  I settled into the seat. Where did Steve put the keys? He might have taken them with him. But knowing Steve as I did, he would’ve left them somewhere in case there was an emergency and the trailer needed moved.

  The glove compartment? Nothing. Under the seat? I felt around. Nothing. The passenger seat? I crawled over the console and checked underneath. Bingo. The keys. I shoved the key into the ignition. Now to start this baby up and get it moving. I prayed pulling into the empty spaces would be as easy as I envisioned.

  After a few jerky starts and stops, I figured out the pressure I needed to use on the gas pedal and inched the mobile Scrap This store away from the loading zone. The moment the bumper cleared the awning, a van zoomed up

  I parked the truck and trailer. I scrambled out and for a few minutes stood to the side and admired my work.

  The strap to pull down the door was still out of my reach. I just discovered I had a talent for parking large vehicles, so maybe I also possessed some high jumping skills. I jumped, almost face-planting into the metal door and twisting my ankle when I landed on the edge of the curb.

  Okay, bad idea. I needed to admit defeat and find someone taller.

  A dark-haired man wearing a WVU golf shirt sauntered toward me. “Looks like you could use a hand.”

  “The handle is a little out of my reach.”

  “I can see.” He tugged down the door.

  I jogged up the ramp.

  “It looks like you’re about done.” The man looked into the trailer. “I can carry those boxes for you.”

  “I got it from here. Thanks for your help…” I paused and waited for him to supply his name.

  “A lot of women attend this scrap thing.” He looked at two women entering the convention center with large rolling totes.

  “About a hundred,” I said. And one of them was the woman Bob needed to find. I hoped for Bob’s sake, and the victim of the identity thief, that he found her before the event ended on Sunday. It would be hard to track her down once she left the building.

  The man climbed in. He stretched out his arms, placing one hand on either side of the opening. The trailer darkened. “I was hoping we could speak privately.”

  Fear clawed at my chest. I breathed deeply to steady myself. No need to panic. The trailer door was open, and people unloading nearby vehicles were a scream away. Or maybe not. I parked at the far end, and the back of the trailer faced the building. There was no reason for anyone to walk past the trailer unless they wanted to find me.

  “I’d rather not.” I kept my voice steady and attempted to walk past him.

  He matched my movement, blocking me from getting out.

  “I need to go back to my store.”

  “We could talk there, but I’m certain you’d rather we keep this between us.” The man took a wallet from his back pocket. He flipped it open and showed me a badge. “My name is Morgan. I work undercover for the FBI.”

  The FBI? The fear in the pit of my belly turned into terror. My ears buzzed like bees got stuck in them. Why in the world was an FBI agent at the crop? Why did he want to talk to me?

  “I’m sure you’re going to keep quiet about my being here. It’s not a fact that should get around.”

  “Since I don’t know anything that’ll be easy to do.” I judged the distance and space between him and the door. I might be able to get past him before he reacted.

  “Come now, Faith, don’t act like your activities wouldn’t have come to our attention.”

  Shudders crept along my skin when he made the point to drop my name.

  “Scrapbooking doesn’t seem like it would interest the FBI,” I choked out.

  “True. But a woman pushing her way into two homicide cases does interest us, especially when another just happened to occur in her presence. So many coincidences.” He looked me up and down. Limited light in the trailer made his expression impossible to read.

  I heard my ragged breathing. I needed to remain calm. Nothing signaled guilt more than an overreaction of any type. Long ago memories wrapped around me, making it hard to breath. I did not like being interrogated by police. Guilty always seemed to be the assumption made no matter what.

  Drawing in deep breaths, I tried settling myself down. I had done nothing wrong. The car that killed the woman had almost struck me. There’s no way he could point the blame at me, and why was he trying to? I wasn’t trying to solve the murder, if there actually was one; so far the only confirmation was what I thought I saw and this intense guy’s accusation.

  “I need to get back to work,” I said.

  “Off to solve another murder, or should I say… frame someone for the crime you put into action.”

  I wanted away from this man. “I don’t do murders. Think what you want but there are witnesses who know I had nothing to do with what happened to that woman. I was almost run down.”

  “Of course you were. There’s nothing like portraying yourself as a victim to have people discount your involvement. You’re quite a natural at it.”

  I tried inching my way past him.

  Morgan grabbed hold of my arm, bringing me to a halt. “Miss Hunter, I know a lot about you. We know a lot about you.”

  I really, really, really didn’t like the pronoun “we.” Images of my past slithered into my head and heart. The pain in my stomach increased.

  “Others don’t know that Kane wasn’t your first murder.” He looked right into my eyes.

  Coldness washed over me. I hated what I saw in his gaze. A knowingness. Cruelty. Power. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He let out a small laugh. “Come now. Your first case was when you solved that murder in Germany. Now do you remember? Your naïve, I’m the victim, little backwoods West Virginian act fooled the military. You pinned a murder on Adam Westcott and I’m the man who’s going to make you finally confess.”

  “Miss Hunter, you cannot park that there.” An angry voice boomed.

  The manager. I was saved. Though, I wished it was Detective Bell coming to scold me.

  “In the trailer!”

  Morgan yanked me right up against him. He leaned his head forward and whispered into my ear. “I know how you operate. You won’t get to play victim on my watch. No one but you will take the fall for that woman’s murder.”

  I knocked into Morgan. He careened sideways, smacking his shoulder into the side of the trailer. I scurried out from the dark enclosure and into the welcoming heat and bustle going on in the parking lot.

  More croppers had arrived and dragged, tugged, and finagled bags of various sizes and colors into the conference center.

  Morgan exited right after me, carrying a box. He slid a look, a mix of keep-your-mouth-shut and a leer, at me. “I’ll take this one in for you. Glad I can be of some assistance.”

  “I hope you’re not planning on leaving this parked here.” The manager slapped his palm near the toilet.

  “There’s nowhere else.” I embraced my annoyance, wanting the emotion to push out all the fear. Fear never did me any good.

  “You can move it behind the building.” He pointed toward the side of the conference center.

  The alley was small. Tight. “I don’t think so.”

  “It’ll fit.”

  “Not with me driving it.”

  “I’m sure you can drive straight.” The manager heaved up the lift gate and secured the latches. “I don’t want to see this thing here for another minute. You croppers have been nothing but trouble.”

  I opened my mouth to argue then shut it. Since our arrival, the manager had dealt with a murder in the parking lot, questions and demands from the police, banking issues, and questions about the resorts plumbing systems. He was right. We were burdens.

  “I’ll move it right now.”

 
; “Good.” He stood back and crossed his arms.

  I heaved myself into the driver’s seat and drove the beast toward the alley. I could just make it. Traveling slower than a snail, I continued down the small fairway. At the end of the makeshift road, a bumper stuck out from a thicket of prickly bushes and weeds.

  Sliding out of the truck, I glanced around, making my way to the vehicle. I pushed through the weeds, taking care of where I placed my feet. A small amount of heat rose from the hood of the dirt-coated white compact car. I peered into the window. Clothing. Empty fast food wrappers. File folders. Professional camera with a telephoto lens. Someone was using the vehicle as a home base for spying. I was leaning toward Morgan not being an FBI agent. The FBI would’ve sprung for a room for an agent on assignment.

  Morgan’s threat rattled through me. The guy was either lying or a rogue. Both options were bad. I had to do something before I once again found myself at the mercy of a scheming man. The months in Germany where I followed the advice of counsel and remained quiet, waiting for the police to sort it out, only increased people’s suspicions of me. The prevailing thought was an innocent person railed against her accusers, shouted “I’m not guilty” from every rooftop at every opportunity afforded them.

  The truth was that even though the legal system had the motto “innocent until proven guilty” most people viewed it as the opposite. Once a finger of guilt, or an accusation was made, a person was guilty until they proved otherwise–and as I learned today–sometimes not even then.

  FIVE

  I removed my cell out of my pocket and called Bob. “I located your hit man.”

  “What?”

  I tripped my way to the back of the vehicle, bracing myself on the bushes. The sharp leaves pricked my fingers. There was no way I wanted my prints on the car. “The man sent to take out your thief. Think I found him. Or at least the vehicle.”

  “Where are you?”

  I told him my position and how I discovered the vehicle. “I’m going to get a picture of the plate for you. Also, there’s a small trail in the wooded area. I’m not sure where it leads to but I can find out. There might be a way to get here from the main or side road.”

  “Get the hell out of there!”

  “I will. I just need—”

  “Now, Faith. If you’re right, the person will return. Soon. The cops are leaving, the person will return to their hiding place.”

  “It’s not a very good one.”

  “Stop arguing and run.” Bob ended our phone call.

  Bob was right. The best thing was to hightail it out. A criminal without a well-thought out scheme was just as dangerous as one with a great plan. And if my assumption on the who was correct—Morgan—he’d already let me know what he had devised for me. He could kill me, then plant enough evidence in the car to frame me for the poor woman’s murder.

  I scrambled way out from the bushes and weeds. The truck and trailer loomed before me. Morgan, or whoever owned the car, would notice a truck almost kissing bumpers with their “hidden” vehicle. I had to back the trailer up.

  I yanked opened the door. Grabbing the strap above the door, I hauled myself inside. As I pivoted to get seated, someone shoved me. I fell against the steering. My breath whooshed out.

  “Quick, move over,” Bob said.

  I smacked his arm then moved myself into the passenger seat. I rubbed the sore spot on my chest.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Before I settled into the seat, Bob zipped the truck backwards. I pitched forward, bracing my hands on the dashboard. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “No.” Bob expertly navigated our mobile store unit out of the alleyway. “But Ted will kill me when he finds out I got you involved in this.”

  “Actually, I’m doing all of this on my own free will. The best person to keep me out of jail is me.”

  Bob cast a quick look in my direction. “Care to explain that?”

  I didn’t get a good read on his expression, but I needed to tell someone and my options were limited. And as Bob said, he did get me into this. “You’re looking at the prime suspect of the hit-and-run.”

  “Are you sure Steve is the only one who hit his head on the asphalt?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes.”

  “How can you be a suspect when you were almost run down by the same vehicle? Detective Bell might be annoying, and hardheaded, but he’s not an idiot. He’s going to know that there’s no way you could’ve been driving that car.”

  “Apparently, I hired the person driving the car.” How could Bob hold a conversation and maneuver the truck and trailer backwards? I had trouble just getting the mammoth beast to move forward down the alley.

  Bob managed to turn around and park it with the truck facing out. The end of the trailer almost touched the bumper of the hidden vehicle.

  “It sounds like you heard this theory from someone, and I want to know who. It doesn’t sound like something Bell would say.” Bob turned off the engine.

  I squirmed in the seat. “Well, he says he’s an FBI agent but I’m not sure I believe him.”

  Bob’s head jerked toward me. “What?”

  “That car behind us looks lived in, and the FBI doesn’t threaten people to get confessions. At least I don’t think so. It’s not like I’ve ever had a run-in with them.”

  “Threatened you?” Bob’s expression darkened. “Who? When?”

  “He said his name was Morgan. He followed me into the trailer a little bit ago.”

  Bob hissed in a deep breath then released it. “Did you see the guy’s badge?”

  “He showed me something but I didn’t get a good look at it.”

  “Here’s what we’re going to, you’re going to go back inside. I’ll come in about twenty minutes later—”

  “We’re going to leave the trailer here? Won’t that let the guy know we’ve found his getaway vehicle?”

  “If you’re right, I don’t want it easy for him to take off.” Bob pocketed the keys. “I’m going to bring the keys to you and make a production of it. If this guy is going to come after someone, it’ll be me.”

  “I don’t want you putting yourself in danger because of me.”

  “I’m not. I placed the danger on you, so it’s only right for me to take it back.”

  “Do you think the killer is hanging around here because he wants to get rid of all the witnesses? Or is it just about making sure the police have a viable suspect? Why not take off?”

  “Those are questions I’ll work on answering. You just concentrate on keeping an eye out for the ID thief in case she and the victim aren’t one and the same.”

  My stomach rocked and rolled.

  “Could he have killed an innocent woman by mistake?”

  Bob gently squeezed my shoulder then patted my arm. “I got this, Faith. I won’t let you go to jail for murder.”

  “I’m more worried about someone else getting hurt.”

  “We’re going to do our best to make sure that doesn’t happen. I’ll deal with this Morgan guy. You keep an eye out for the woman trying to become someone else.”

  “I think I know who they’re trying to become.”

  Bob raised his eyebrows and stared at me.

  I told him about the missing album.

  “I’ll put some safety measures in place for your grandmothers. If anyone tries to get credit in their name, I’ll get a notification.” Bob reached across me and pushed open the passenger door. “You should get before the guy, or whoever owns the car, comes back.”

  “I’m thinking—”

  “Don’t,” Bob cut me off. “I’ve heard from Ted about what happens when you go off thinking.”

  “What I’m thinking,” I continued on anyway, “is that the woman killed drove one of t
he cars out front. I’ll get pictures of the licenses, and you run them.”

  “I hate to admit it, but that’s a good idea. Send the pictures to Ted. I’ll go take a look at the concealed sedan and see if I can find out who owns it, and also more about this Morgan.”

  “Shouldn’t we tell Detective Bell about our theories?”

  “First, I need to find out if Morgan is actually an FBI agent. If he is, and is here to work against the law and not for it, I can’t tip him off by going to Bell. The agent could easily get a hold of any information the police have. Bell won’t believe me—or you—without hard proof.”

  Bob and I parted ways. He headed for the thicket of bushes. I walked into the parking lot, keeping a careful eye out for Morgan, or the owner of the car parked in the weeds. There was a chance I was wrong and those people weren’t one and the same. And if one of my theories was right, the killer might have a couple of more people on their list.

  The person who hit the woman backed up and ran her over again. Someone harbored a lot of anger toward the victim. Maybe the woman deliberately didn’t carry identification because it was important no one knew her name. I’d guess having your identity stolen and the ensuing havoc would send someone over the edge. Bob had said the last person’s name she stole was displeased enough to kill the ID thief.

  Then why was my grandmothers’ album missing? Croppers didn’t go around stealing other’s completed scrapbooks. I had no proof it was stolen. The album might be mixed up in packing materials, or among the product on the shelves or table.

  A group of four women, weighed down by totes, headed inside the conference center. Two cars were parked in the unloading zone. No one was lingering outside. I needed to get my pictures before that changed. I slipped my cell phone from my pocket and headed to the last row of cars. The woman had come from that general area so I’d start with those vehicles and work my way around the parking lot.

  I didn’t know how much time I had for this mission so I needed to plan wisely. I passed one car and then squatted down beside the one next to it. I wanted to get a good shot and figured if I placed myself in the middle of three cars, I’d get three pictures before I had to move.