Brink of Death

by Brandilyn Collins

  For the next two minutes Tip rants and raves. Edgar is an idiot who wouldn’t know a jump rope from a rattler. He’s a rich man’s son trying to play tough in the streets, and one day it just might get him killed. Or worse, it just might get him caught by the police. And then where would ol’ Tip be, huh? Turned in, that’s where. The big fish named to authorities while the little fish cops a deal.

  But Edgar would never do that, would he. Not as long as he enjoys the health of his wife and son…

  Edgar chills to the bone. He hates this man. He wishes he’d never met this man.

  He needs this man.

  Tip forces Barry Draye’s name from Edgar. The remaining details bounce from Edgar like popcorn on cement—their agreement to meet at Barry’s home the next night, the promises of business deals to follow. With a stream of curses, Tip tells Edgar what he thinks of “his little plan.” Upstanding insurance man Barry is probably an informant. He’ll be wired. Sell him the coke and police will be waiting on the front porch.

  Too late now, though, Tip says. Now he’s got to clean up Edgar’s mess. Tip insists on going with Edgar to Barry’s house. If the man’s wearing a wire, he’ll know it. “Make sure,” he adds,

  “that the guy’s alone.”

  Not until the following night, when they are greeted on Barry’s unlit front porch, does Edgar think, wait a minute, if Tip thinks this guy’s hooked to cops, why are we here? Tip is high and wound up tighter than a coiled spring. He’s wearing a designer nylon jacket. He keeps his hands in his pockets as Barry leads them into the house.

  In Barry’s family room Tip takes charge, like the turf is his own. He’s not quite six feet but he’s muscular as all getout. And his expression can blacken like the mask of death. Tip gets all up in Barry’s face, pushing his finger into the man’s chest, saying he’d better not be tight with any cops. Roughly he searches Barry’s body. Barry turns ghost pale as he insists he’s on the level.

  Edgar can tell Tip’s enjoying himself, liking the fear he inflicts.

  Then Tip goes off on a real tangent, talking about the people he’s killed and how he’ll cut Barry up and put him in a dozen trash cans if Barry ever so much as mentions to anybody what’s gone down here. Barry tries to keep his cool. Tells Tip, okay, let me just pay you and you can give me the stuff, then be on your way. Tip says, “Give Edgar the money.” Barry takes out his wallet and passes Edgar a small stack of one hundred dollar bills. Tip waits until Edgar counts it.

  Barry replaces the wallet in his back pocket. “Okay, now your turn.”

  Tip tells him he’ll get the stuff when Tip’s good and ready to give it. And for good measure he punches Barry in the chest.

  Barry stumbles back and falls like a sack of potatoes. His head misses an end table by inches. Edgar backs away, trying to make himself small. He wants to tell Tip, hey, take it easy, Barry’s okay.

  But he can’t speak.

  And then Barry surprises the daylights out of Edgar. He scrambles to his knees, pulls open the single drawer of the coffee table, and yanks out a gun.

  No, no, no, no, no, Edgar thinks, and words start spilling from his lips. His mouth turns motor. He begs Barry to put the gun down and Tip to stop and says this is not the way to do business, guys, what are you, both crazy? Know what would happen to my car sales if I tried to sell a sport coupe this way? This is just a nice little deal, and we can all be nice little friends. Tip, let’s just make the connect and get out of here; Barry, put the gun away.

  Tip makes a noise in his throat like an infuriated bear and kicks the gun from Barry’s hand. The gun flips in the air and lands a few feet behind Barry. The man yells and holds his fingers. “Get the gun, Edgar,” Tip demands, and Edgar does what he’s told, because what else can he do?

  Tip pulls a knife from the pocket of his jacket.

  That scares Edgar bad. Real bad. All he can do is tell himself everything will be okay. Just get the gun, do what Tip says.

  And if I turn away from that knife, concentrate on picking up the gun, it won’t even exist.

  His motor mouth runs on—okay, okay, I am picking up the gun. See? Not a threat anymore. See, Tip, now it’s in my hand, and I’m gonna turn and give it to you…

  Barry makes some weird cry that pinches off. Edgar whirls to see Tip’s knife buried in his chest. Barry topples over on his side, right next to Edgar. No, no, no, Edgar says aloud, and the next thing he knows, Tip’s pulled out the bloody knife and is wiping it on Barry’s shirt. Edgar’s legs get all weak and he sinks to one knee, nearly dropping the gun. His right hand flings out to catch himself, his forefinger swishing across Barry’s bloodied chest.

  “Come on, come on,” Tip urges, and Edgar grabs the end table to help pull himself to his feet. Tip puts the knife back in his jacket pocket and zips it up.

  Then they are out the front door, Tip turning the knob by sticking his right hand underneath his jacket so he won’t leave prints. And they’re climbing into Edgar’s car and driving away.

  “Go slow, go slow,” Tip warns, “like there’s nothin’ wrong.” Tip takes the gun from Edgar and says he’ll keep it as a souvenir.

  Edgar shakes the whole way to the back parking lot of the grocery store where Tip’s luxury car awaits. And the entire trip is filled with all sorts of creative ideas from Tip about how Edgar and his family can die if he ever tells…

  By the time I read the last sentence, my heart fluttered like a trapped butterfly. I could hardly take it all in.

  How could this story be connected to Lisa’s murder?

  I set the file on the desk. Then swiveled in the chair to stare at the Willits’ house.

  Think, Annie, think.

  Okay, facts. First, the composite. The man in my drawing was the same man who stopped me on the Redwood City street. The man who wanted the file I just read.

  Did the discovery of this file prove my composite was right?

  I pondered that. Maybe the man in Redwood City had been telling the truth. He was a courier for Gerralon & Haynes, and he did wonder about a missing file. And okay, so the file existed. I still could have conjured him from my subconscious when drawing the composite. In that case the only coincidence here was that I drew him by mistake.

  But Erin recognized the drawing.

  True, but Erin was a highly traumatized twelve-year-old.

  Traumatized or not, when she first described her mother’s killer, she told of his bright-blue eyes, his blond hair.

  I sighed. I could go around and around with this. But bottom line, what could I or the detectives do but believe Erin when she said the drawing was on target?

  Second, the file. If that man on the street lied to me, if he wasn’t who he claimed to be, who was he? Evidently, he’d cared enough about recovering this file to seek out Grove Landing and the house he believed to be my father’s and break into it. He’d cared enough about not getting caught that he’d attacked Lisa so she couldn’t call the police. And maybe the only reason he let Erin live was because she’d fainted. All these thoughts brought me to the question, who else would care about this file so much other than Tip, whom it implicated?

  One more niggling thought clamored. If Lisa Willit’s killer indeed broke into the wrong house, he must have realized his mistake. The papers on Dave’s desk would be all wrong, plus Lisa didn’t look a thing like me. Even if he didn’t get a close look at the papers, and if he knew enough about my family to think Lisa was my sister (and there was a twelve-year-old girl in the house), surely by now he realized his mistake. The media had covered the crime. The victim’s name wouldn’t fit.

  Now he would know the truth. And given that he so badly wanted this file…what was to keep him from coming back?

  Chapter 25

  My fingers shook as I dialed the offices of Gerralon & Haynes.

  No. Now Haynes & Asher. One man’s death meant another man’s promotion.

  It was already nearing five. I had to get through to Sid—a man so busy that I imagined hi
s wife even screened his home calls. Even as I dialed the number, myriad responsibilities bombarded me. I would have to tell Detective Chetterling all I’d discovered. And Dave Willit. I should admit to him the horrible truth: if he lived anywhere but across the street from me, his wife would be alive.

  And the kids. I had to protect them. The more certain I became that the Sybee file had led to Lisa’s death, the more I knew I could not take chances with my children. They would have to get out of this house, go to their father’s. Surely even Vic wouldn’t fight me on this one.

  But first I had to gather all the knowledge I could about the papers. I still could not let go of the hope that the Redwood City man was who he claimed to be and not some paranoid drug dealer called Tip.

  By providence Sid Haynes picked up his own phone.

  Where to start?

  “Sid, it’s Annie. I’m in trouble.”

  His hesitation lasted a fraction of a second. I knew he paused not because of the words, which he’d heard hundreds of times from clients, but because they came from me.

  “Tell me about it.”

  That was Sid. Terse. Ever efficient. I pictured him reaching for a white pad of paper and pen to take notes, envisioned the starched cuff on his right sleeve, the fine gray fabric of his suit.

  The story rushed from me in a torrent. Lisa’s murder, my composite, the Face, my remembering. Sid made no more sound than an occasional grunt. When I was done, I stopped to catch my breath.

  “Well,” he said slowly. “What do you know.”

  I knew Sid would not tell me the inner workings of his

  “other man” defense for Edgar Sybee—that is, how it had been built. I could only assume he’d picked up what my father had already put into place, based upon the evidence at the crime scene, and continued with it. It occurred to me now that he may be quite surprised to hear how close to the truth his defense turned out to be.

  But Sid’s surprise wasn’t my concern. I jumped to my most pressing question. “Do you know the guy I saw on the street? Does his description sound familiar?”

  Please tell me he’s for real!

  Sid inhaled. “Annie—” his concerned tone told me I was about to receive answers I didn’t want to hear—”there is no such person who works for us. As a courier or anything else.

  And even if there were, I wouldn’t need him to get me a file from someone in my own office.”

  My eyes fell to the pages, looking through them, as if the truth were hidden somewhere within the weaving of that paper. “Did you know about this file?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think it’s real?”

  “Evidently, it was real enough to get somebody killed.”

  Lisa’s face flashed before me. I pressed my knuckles against my chin.

  “Ironic thing, it couldn’t be used against the guy in court, because it would fall under hearsay.”

  “Oh.” The legality of the file hadn’t even occurred to me.

  “But the file’s being used in court isn’t the issue. The point is, if this story got into the authorities’ hands, it would give them good reason to find this man Tip and question him.

  That could lead to a whole new investigation.”

  That made sense. Paranoid, Sybee had called Tip. Incessantly careful about being caught by police.

  “But why wouldn’t you know about the file? You took over Sybee’s defense. If he needed this story at trial, surely he’d have told it to you.”

  “He didn’t need it, as you know. Not all the details, anyway.” Sid fell silent for a moment. I heard the faint tapping of fingertip against wood, and an uncomfortable twinge that he was not being completely forthcoming skittered across my nerves. “Apparently, sometime between his telling your father all this and my taking over the case, he changed his mind.”

  It dawned on me then. Even if Sid did know about the file, he couldn’t tell me everything. The trial was over but attorney-client privilege remained. I bit my lip. I didn’t want to go to Detective Chetterling with half a story. I wasn’t sure he’d listen to me, especially after I cried wolf about an intruder Monday night.

  Although with what I knew now, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was right and the Face was here…

  “Okay. I realize you can’t tell me everything about the case. But would you just answer a few more questions?”

  “Annie, I am telling you everything I know about that file, which is nothing. But one thing is clear. You’re playing with fire. One woman’s already been killed. You don’t need to be the second. Get that file out of your house—today. Call the detective in charge of the investigation and tell him everything you’ve told me.”

  “Of course, I’ll do that. But it’s not just the location of this file, Sid. It wasn’t in the Willits’ house and Lisa was killed anyway. What matters is that it’s supposed to be here.”

  “What matters is that someone out there wants it very much. And if it’s Tip, which sounds quite plausible, you really could be in danger. Drug suppliers are the worst, Annie; I’ve been around criminals long enough to know that. They’re power-hungry and greedy, and most of the time they do not care who lives or dies.”

  I still wanted a reason not to believe all this. There must be something, some plausible explanation, that we had overlooked. “It just seems so crazy that the man would take such chances to get the file. Why would he want it that much?”

  “Annie, think about it. He’d counted on a guilty verdict.

  Then he’d have been home free. But Sybee was acquitted.

  And you remember how angry the D.A.’s office and the cops were about that? All those articles in the newspapers down here, people upset with the jurors and with me? In fact, as I recall, things heated up just about the time you say that man talked to you on the street. But it doesn’t matter how much anyone rants and raves, including the wife of the victim.

  Thanks to the double jeopardy law, Sybee will never be convicted of that murder. Which means, those same cops still have an unsolved case on their hands. Now, after their very public arguments that Sybee was the murderer, the detectives and the D.A. might not want to admit they were wrong.

  But you’d hope they would do the right thing. If they saw a strong indication that a second man, the possible killer, was with Sybee that night, it would be incumbent upon them to check it out. No wonder Tip is worried.”

  I pressed my fingers against the yellow pages on the desk—pages that should have been red for the blood they’d caused to be spilled. “Sid, how would Tip have learned about the file?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Please don’t pull attorney-client privilege on me now! If you know anything, tell me. I need to know.”

  “Annie, I will say it one more time. I don’t know anything about the file. Except that it’s dangerous and you need to take it to the authorities now.”

  “Would anyone else in your firm know about it? I mean, maybe my dad told Gary about it so he could start looking into the identity of Tip.” Gary Wallinger was an investigator in the Gerralon & Haynes office.

  “If Gary knew about it, he’d have told me.” Sid paused. I could almost hear his lawyer brain turning its gears. “You know…the last time I saw your dad was that Friday. He was leaving the office about three o’clock. I remember him sticking his head in my door, saying he was checking out for the weekend—that he’d be flying up to Grove Landing. I made some comment about his taking off so early. He said he had a meeting at the jail with Sybee. He obviously had that meeting, then flew out for the weekend.”

  I stared at the bottom cabinet drawer, still yawning open, my father’s briefcase beside it. Lisa Willit had paid for the contents of that drawer with her life. “Then no one knew about the file except my father and Edgar Sybee. And my dad did nothing with it, just left it in his briefcase.” Which, in my mind, left one possible conclusion. For whatever reason, Sybee told someone about it. Maybe he talked too much to the wrong person in jail. And the news go
t to Tip.

  “I can imagine how frightening all this must be for you.”

  Sid’s voice was the kindest I’d ever heard it. “Look, just in case, I’ll ask Gary about this guy you’ve described and get back to you. I’ve got the number to the house there, but do you have a cell phone? And meanwhile, you will call the Sheriff’s Office as soon as we hang up, right?”

  “Yes, I will.” I told him my cell number. “Thanks, Sid.

  You’ve been a big help.”

  I hung up the phone and cradled my head in my hands.

  A cold wind picked up in my mind, buffeting my thoughts like feathers. So much to do. Jenna would be arriving in an hour or so. I would have to tell her everything. That was the easy part. In fact, that was the only good part. I needed my sister’s strength right now. Jenna could help me think this through.

  But first I had to call Detective Chetterling.

  I stared at the phone, unwilling to pick it up again. When it rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Deja vu? I braced myself. This had better not be another reporter.

  “Hello?”

  “Annie—”

  Jenna’s voice caught as she said my name. An icicle slid down my spine. So rarely had I known my sister to cry. But she was crying now.

  Chapter 26

  “Jenna, what’s wrong?”

  “They laid me off.” The words came hard, bitter. “Can you believe it? My supervisor called me into her office today—you’re done, just like that. Take your things and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” A sob escaped her.

  “Oh, Jenna.”

  “It wasn’t just me, not that it makes me feel any better.

  They laid off a whole slew of people today, twenty-four altogether. Not one of us knew it was coming. I mean, we all knew the company hasn’t been doing well, but we didn’t expect this. They could have warned us. But no. They had to steal up on us like a thief in the night.”

  Of course they did. Wasn’t this the way our lives were going right now? I pushed out of my father’s chair and began to pace. My sister’s job. Not that she needed it financially anymore, but it was her world. I understood what it meant to lose a world.