Tangled Webs

by Irene Hannon

  Any other time, Roger would have been entertained by her theatrics.

  Today apprehension trumped amusement.

  “You want me to find out, send him back, or tell him you’re busy?” Lynette tugged at the collar of her turtleneck as she continued to wave her hand in front of her face.

  Roger tapped a finger on his desk. Despite the unsettling currents in the air, it was possible this visit was nothing more than a follow-up to the button discussion.

  But no matter the reason for the man’s appearance, perhaps he could use it to his advantage. If he could recruit McGregor to help him convince Dana it would be safer to vacate the premises, she might be more inclined to leave Beaumont.

  It was worth a try, anyway.

  “Go ahead and send him back.”

  Instead of leaving at once, Lynette pinned him with the same scowl she used on her sixteen-year-old son whenever he messed up. “Did you eat today?”

  “I’m going to drop by the Walleye after this meeting.”

  “That’s not an answer . . . or maybe it is.” She harrumphed. “I’ll call Hazel and tell her to save you a couple of Chuck’s fajitas. They’re on special today.”

  As she disappeared out the door, he tried to erase thoughts of spicy food from his mind. Unless his stomach stopped churning, he’d have to settle for a late breakfast of poached eggs and toast.

  Sixty seconds later, McGregor walked in.

  He rose and held out his hand. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” The man returned his firm shake. “Have a seat and tell me what I can do for you today.”

  “I wondered if the button produced any leads.” Dana’s neighbor folded his long frame into the chair across the desk, his posture relaxed.

  But his laid-back pose was a pretense. Nothing about this man was relaxed. His eyes were sharp. Probing. Intense. Leashed energy radiated from his pores. If the need arose, he’d be ready to rumble in a heartbeat.

  Watch your step with this one, Burnett.

  “I’m afraid not. As I mentioned on Sunday, it’s a very common button. Plus, as I suspected, there were only fragments of prints on it. Not enough to run through a database.”

  “Hmm.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  Since he had no idea, Roger remained silent.

  After a few seconds, Finn reached into his pocket and pulled out another plastic bag. “You might have better luck with this.” He set it on the desk.

  As Roger stared at the buckle, the air jammed in his lungs.

  Stay calm. Keep your expression neutral. You’ve never seen this before, remember?

  Masking his shock, he tipped forward in his chair and pretended to inspect it. “Is that some kind of clasp?”

  “Yes. From a swim fin.”

  The man would have to know what the buckle was used for.

  “Where did you find it . . . and why is it important?”

  “This morning. On the side of a road in the national forest, near Dana’s property.”

  As he proceeded to fill him in, Roger had to use every ounce of his self-control to mask his panic.

  Finn McGregor had spotted him last night—all because the excitement of finding the gold had addled his brain and he’d forgotten to switch off the stupid dive light.

  Even worse, his fingerprints would be all over the fin buckle.

  “So I’m assuming our man is searching for some item of value he thinks is in the lake,” McGregor concluded, lobbing the ball into his court.

  Roger folded his hands on his desk to hide the quiver in his fingers. “That’s an interesting theory. But it seems unrelated to the vandalism at her place.”

  “Not necessarily. As I told Dana, if our diver prefers to keep his search secret, he may not want to risk any witnesses. Diving in the middle of the night can’t be very efficient, however. He could be trying to make her so nervous she leaves, giving him daylight access.”

  McGregor thought the diver was the one trying to spook Dana?

  That was rich.

  He was the one trying to protect Leo’s granddaughter.

  “I suppose that might be possible.” He imbued his tone with as much skepticism as he could. “But I’m having difficulty wrapping my mind around the notion that Leo’s lake could contain anything worth going to so much trouble to get.” That, at least, was true. Or had been until he’d held the gold bars in his hands last night.

  “That’s what Dana said too.” Finn crossed an ankle over his knee. “Maybe you’ll find some prints on the buckle that will give us a lead—and shed some light on the issue.”

  “It’s worth trying, I suppose.” He picked up the plastic bag and examined the buckle.

  “Have you had any success tracking down your other vandals?”

  At the slight emphasis on the word other, Roger appraised him. “You think this is a separate operation?”

  “Don’t you, based on what I saw last night and what we found today?”

  Every instinct screamed at him to say no, to attribute Dana’s difficulties to the same perpetrators who were playing havoc with the picnic grounds. To dismiss this as nothing more than an extension of those pranks.

  But even if he didn’t know every intimate detail of what was happening at Leo’s place, he’d be drawing the same conclusions as the man across from him. There was a big disconnect between picnic grounds graffiti and the stuff going on at the lake. To pretend otherwise would raise suspicion.

  He needed to play this as professional as he could—and try to get McGregor on his side in the campaign to send Dana packing.

  “Yes, I do—and to tell you the truth, it worries me. I have a very small department that’s already stretched thin. Trying to catch the picnic grounds vandals is hard enough. I can’t park an officer there every night, all night. The Lewis place is even more of a challenge.” He shook his head and frowned. “We have less chance of catching someone in the act there, given the isolated location—and that fire could have had a lot more serious consequences than it did.”

  “I’m aware of that.” McGregor’s jaw hardened.

  Ah. Telling.

  He and Dana had obviously become much more than neighbors.

  That gave him an angle to exploit.

  Forearms on the desk, he leaned forward. “You know, I’d feel a lot more comfortable if Dana wasn’t out there by herself while this situation is unresolved. You two seem to have become friends. Is there any chance you could persuade her to go to Leo’s house in St. Louis for a couple of weeks until we straighten everything out?”

  McGregor rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers, his eyes shuttered. “You think you might have the case solved by then?”

  “It’s possible. We have this”—he lifted the bagged buckle, which would be of no help since it wouldn’t contain any prints thirty seconds after McGregor walked out the door—“and we’re keeping our ear to the ground. We’ll get a break eventually.”

  “Yet you haven’t had a break with the other vandalism incidents, and those began when?”

  “Early April—but there’s been no activity for the past ten days or so. That’s why I thought they might have moved on to the Lewis place . . . until this.” He tapped the plastic bag, silently cursing his carelessness. If it hadn’t been for the buckle, he could have continued attributing the hits at Dana’s place to the same perpetrators . . . and deflecting suspicion from the real culprit.

  “Early April. Three weeks and no leads.”

  At the hint of censure in McGregor’s voice—and the implication he wasn’t doing an adequate job—Roger straightened up. This might be a small-town police department, but he knew how to work with limited resources, to find innovative ways to get information. No one had a right to impugn his professionalism.

  “As a matter of fact, I have my suspicions. My officers and I cultivate a good relationship with the citizens. They talk to each other—and to us. We’ve earned their trust, and they pass on inform
ation. We’re also tuned in to the grapevine. This isn’t public knowledge, but we have two suspects we’re watching closely. It’s only a matter of time before we catch them.”

  “I suppose community gossip and scuttlebutt can be a useful tool in crime solving.” McGregor studied him.

  “Very.”

  “Yet it hasn’t helped you identify any suspects in Dana’s case.”

  Blast.

  He’d walked straight into that one.

  Backpedal, Burnett.

  “Every case is different.” He managed to pull off a calm, cool, composed tone. “The incidents at her place are very recent. Plus, it’s an isolated location. There may be just one person involved, meaning less chance of leaks. That’s why I think it would be safer if she cut her stay short. Has she said anything to you to suggest she might be thinking about doing that?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea how long she plans to stay?”

  “The original plan was indefinitely.”

  Not what he wanted to hear.

  Roger scratched the back of his left hand. “Well, I’ll beef up patrols out there as much as I can—but it may not be sufficient to prevent another incident.”

  Instead of responding, McGregor glanced at his hand.

  Instantly, Roger stopping scratching. Looked down.

  An angry red rash had appeared on his skin sometime in the past few hours.

  Wonderful.

  He must have brushed against some poison ivy last night in the woods.

  McGregor lifted his gaze—but his eyes were hooded. “Dana was telling me just this morning how she got a bad case of poison ivy on her first visit to her grandfather’s place.”

  Once again, Roger knitted his fingers together on the desk, brain firing on all cylinders. Had Dana and her neighbor discovered a patch of poison ivy somewhere in the vicinity of her late-night visitor? And if so, was McGregor beginning to wonder if the strange goings-on were connected to a certain police chief?

  No. That was a stretch—and jumping to conclusions could lead to panic . . . and more mistakes.

  Besides, no matter what kind of theories the man across from him might concoct, they’d go nowhere. The one piece of evidence McGregor had produced that could identify the mystery diver was in a plastic bag on his desk. Under his control. And he wasn’t going back to Leo’s property again for illegal purposes. His personal mission there was finished.

  “Poison ivy is common in these parts.” Pretending the rash was anything else would be foolish. Based on past outbreaks, in another few hours there would be no disguising it. “I picked up a touch of it myself, as you can see. It likes to hide in the weeds along the back of my property.”

  McGregor let a few moments of silence tick by, then stood. “I won’t keep you from your work any longer. You’ll let me know if you find anything on the buckle?”

  “Of course.”

  The man eyed it—almost as if he was having second thoughts about leaving it and wished he could snatch it back.

  Not going to happen.

  Roger rose, picked it up, and set it on the credenza behind his desk. “My first priority after you leave.”

  After a brief hesitation, McGregor held out his hand. “Thanks for your time.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Roger returned his firm shake, remaining on his feet as the man disappeared out the door.

  Only after he heard Dana’s neighbor exchange a few muffled words with Lynette did he lower himself into his chair.

  The meeting had not gone well.

  Not only had he failed to win McGregor over as an ally in his quest to convince Dana to leave, but her neighbor had seemed suspicious—and the poison ivy had added fuel to the fire.

  He scratched his hand again. The calamine lotion and Benadryl in his medicine cabinet at home would take care of the itchiness.

  Too bad he couldn’t as easily produce a remedy for his other problem.

  Namely, Wayne Phelps.

  Shoving back his chair with more force than necessary, Roger rose and began to pace. If it wasn’t for Wayne, he’d be home free. He could pay Leah’s bills at Woodside Gardens, get more than a handful of hours of sleep each night, throw out his bottle of Tums.

  Silently he cursed the man who had complicated his life in ways he could never have imagined.

  Too bad the local market garden farmer couldn’t fall off the face of the earth.

  And too bad a small-town police chief who’d already strayed from the straight and narrow wasn’t the type to take matters into his own hands to nudge that wish along.

  But while his conscience was already pinging a persistent red alert, he wasn’t directly hurting anyone. Yes, he was looking the other way with the meth lab, but the people who bought Wayne’s product were choosing to inflict harm on themselves. Besides, if Wayne didn’t supply it, someone else would.

  You’re rationalizing, Burnett.

  Maybe.

  Still, he wasn’t taking chances with people’s lives, like Wayne had with that fire he’d started in the shed near Dana’s cabin.

  And Roger had no doubt the danger would accelerate if Dana didn’t leave.

  He stopped in front of his most recent award certificate and massaged his forehead. If the National Association of Chiefs of Police knew what he was up to, they’d nullify every one of the citations lining his walls—as they should. He didn’t deserve them. Not anymore. Protecting a lawbreaker was dead wrong.

  Bad as that was, though, his culpability would be far greater if Dana got hurt. Keeping law-abiding citizens safe was the most basic duty of a police officer.

  And he didn’t intend to fail at it.

  That left him only a handful of options . . . assuming he didn’t sell more of the gold to pay off Wayne.

  He could—and would—continue to lobby her to leave.

  He could—and would—do some night patrolling himself, try to intercept any further threat. If Wayne showed up . . . if he refused to listen to reason and insisted on carrying out whatever dangerous plan he came up with next . . . well, law enforcement officers were obligated to protect the public. The use of deadly force wasn’t encouraged, but neither was it condemned when a life was at stake.

  Roger rested his hand on his holster. In all his years as a police officer, he’d drawn his gun less than a dozen times. And he’d never had to fire it.

  But if Wayne gave him just cause?

  He could—and would—pull the trigger.

  “Knock, knock. I come bearing fajitas from the Walleye.”

  As Finn’s voice wafted through the open front window, Dana hit save and pushed her chair back. After their early-morning row across the lake, the best she’d hoped for was a quick evening drop-in. If this kept up, she’d be burning the midnight oil making up lost time on the current manuscript.

  Hmm. Sleep versus a bonus visit from Finn.

  No contest.

  She crossed the living room and pulled open the door. “This is a surprise.”

  “I want to fill you in on my visit with Chief Burnett. There were some interesting vibes during our meeting. I know I’ve already eaten into your workday, but I promise this will be a fast lunch. Hazel told me these are great.” He hefted a white sack.

  “Sold.”

  “That wasn’t hard.” He grinned.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “You want to eat on the dock? It’s a perfect day.”

  “Works for me.”

  She grabbed Pops’s sweater off the back of a chair in the living room and followed him down the slope.

  At the end of the wooden platform, he sat and let his legs dangle over the edge, removing two sodas and two wrapped bundles from the bag while she got comfortable beside him. “I asked them to assemble these so they’d be less messy. I hope you like them with the works.”

  “I do.”

  “Then dive in.” He handed her one of the parcels, along with several napkins. “I said less messy—but messy and fajita
s go together.”

  “And they’re well worth it.” She unwrapped the white paper and inhaled. “Mmm. Yum. So tell me what happened with the chief.”

  She listened as he recounted their exchange, eating steadily while he talked.

  After he finished, she cocked her head. Whatever had raised Finn’s antennas during the meeting eluded her. “The conversation sounds like it was pretty straightforward.”

  “It was. But the undercurrents . . . different story.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m not an expert on body language, but several things struck me. One, he tried hard to hide it, but I could tell he was shocked by the buckle. Two, Hazel told me his hands have been shaky lately. Three, he tried to enlist my help to get you to leave the cabin. Four, there was a brief spark of panic in his eyes when I told him about my theory that the lake holds something of value. Five—and this is the clincher—he has what appears to be a new outbreak of poison ivy on his hand.”

  Dana stopped eating. “Are you suggesting he might be behind the vandalism here?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything yet . . . just keeping an open mind.”

  “But . . . he’s been the chief here forever. Pops thought he was a great guy. He’s respected in town. And I heard he’s won a bunch of awards.”

  “I saw a lot of them on his office walls—but people can change.”

  Dana took a bite of her fajita, watching the blue heron come in for a perfect landing in his usual spot. “I know he’s been under tremendous stress with his wife. That could account for his shaky hands.”

  “True. Factoring in everything else, however, it all strikes me as more than coincidence—and I’m not discounting my instincts. They’ve saved my hide more than once.”

  She scooped up a piece of red pepper from the wrapping paper and stuck it back in her fajita. “Is he going to check the buckle for prints?”

  “So he says. But I doubt he’ll find anything.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged.

  She stared at him. “You think he might tamper with evidence?”

  “If he has anything to hide, he might—and that’s a topic worth exploring.” He finished off his first fajita and picked up the second. “Are you working late tonight to catch up after our hike this morning?”