Down To The Needle

by Mary Deal

  That was all Abi needed to hear. Margaret Griffin had probably been on his mind all night. Joe had been the one to insist they handle their situations together. Now he was evidently having a change of heart. Either he had found a greater measure of courage, or was losing it. “Whatever you say, Joe.”

  She lay in bed thinking. She had to give him time and space. What had he meant by each of their respective situations playing on each other's mind? Surely her circumstances were getting to him. Maybe he had reached his saturation point. Or memories of Margaret had come back to haunt him and he was again falling prey to heated obsession. She forced the thought out of her mind, rolled over and buried her face in her pillow.

  The next few days Abi immersed herself in the store, making preparations for the hours she would be absent. She rose early Thursday morning after a sleepless night. Her appointment at the attorney's office was not until three o'clock. All she could do was pace the floor and worry as the hours dragged on. Finally, she carried a steaming mug of coffee into Becky's art room and wandered around, staring at each drawing and photo. She wondered if Becky's eyes might still be as big and dark as chunks of obsidian. She studied her daughter's creamy olive complexion and wondered if she had ever had pimples. She wondered who had been there to help her adjust to menstruation. Becky would be twenty-eight years old now, though Abi often thought of her as a five-year-old and had difficulty thinking about her having boyfriends and sex. For all she knew, Becky could be married somewhere, with children. Becky's life, their lives and enjoyment together had been snatched away. She wondered if Becky was even alive.

  She kept both hands on her mug, though they trembled desperately and the coffee splashed over the rim. Finally, she sat the mug on the top of the dresser and rushed to the closet and covered her face with one of Becky's playsuits.

  The phone rang in other parts of the house. By the time she ran the length of the landing to her bedroom, she was out of breath.

  “Ma'am?”

  “Det. Britto?” She needed the assurance though no one else called her ma'am.

  “Yes.” His voice smiled into the phone. “You okay? You sound a little—”

  “I'm okay… okay.”

  “Well, I wanted to let you know that Winnaker's being returned to prison.”

  “She's better?” Abi felt a surge of relief.

  “Yes. She's responding well to a new medicine. Her attorney has agreed to meet us there instead of his office. What do you think about that?” His voice exuded excitement.

  “I'm truly grateful for your help. When?”

  “Well, I got something else for you. Can you meet me right away?”

  “Right now?” She was still in her bathrobe.

  “Now.” He enunciating clearly. Something in his voice sounded urgent. He had something new.

  “Where?”

  “I don't want you to get your hopes up.” He hesitated as a moment of silence came through the phone. “I've got a shocker for you. Something you need to see.”

  “Then I'll need to find Joe.”

  “Already tried. Can't reach him, but you won't need him for this.”

  Abi remembered the times Det. Britto had been a little too familiar, holding her hand, touching her shoulder, the testy look in his eye. She couldn't be sure of his motives or if that was just his way. She didn't want to have to worry about his actions on top of everything else when being alone with him. “I'm sure I can reach him.”

  “Okay.” Again, the detective's voice expressed disappointment. “Just come now.”

  “What have you got?” What was the real reason he didn't care if Joe was present? Her intuition cautioned that Det. Britto's friendliness might not be above using the case to get closer to her. His nonchalant gestures conveyed a subliminal message of interest. She brushed aside the thought, needing to remain focused.

  “Meet me at the Cape Café.”

  “Okay, I know that place.”

  “Good. Just get there.” If he had come up with anything new and could shed some light on Megan Winnaker's case, he wouldn't discuss it over the phone.

  “On my way.” She began yanking off her robe.

  “If you don't reach Joe, we'll go to Rachter together.” He paused and then quickly added, “Ma'am, this is important. Come right away, please.” The secreted tone of his voice hinted at something dramatic. Perhaps that was only his way of expressing paranoia about a case he desperately wanted to crack. Or he might simply be trying to impress her. Regardless his motives, she hurriedly dressed.

  Chapter 21

  “Finally.” Joe nodded toward the entrance where the hostess directed the detective toward their corner booth. “This better be good.”

  “He sounded urgent when he called.”

  Joe wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “I hear anxiety in your voice. I'm sorry, it's just that—”

  “Morning.” Det. Britto rushed toward them. He shook their hands then laid a large manila envelope on the table. He shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it on a nearby hook. As he scooted into the booth opposite then, he turned his coffee cup upright.

  A cute blond waitress approached. “Will y'all be having an early lunch?” Two soft dimples appeared. Her twangy southern accent added a homey touch to the warm ambiance of the much-favored dimly lit lunchtime gathering place across from the museum. “How are you, Det. Britto?” She filled his cup.

  “Still wishing I was younger.” He looked like the cat that had to give up the chase.

  “Now don't go gettin' started.” She had perfect white teeth and Det. Britto seemed to like them. Or maybe it was her lips.

  Abi's nerves jumped in the pit of her stomach. She smiled at the waitress. Any young woman could be her daughter and she might never know it. She studied the girl's face. Absurd, she told herself. This girl's genes were flagrantly different. Besides, Abi already knew the waitress had come west from Georgia to attend college; had intentions to return to her family, and was not looking for anyone other than a man.

  Det. Britto watched the waitress walk away and then looked from Abi to Joe. “Better eat something. This'll be a long day.”

  “All I want to do is hear what information you've turned up, then be on our way.”

  “There's plenty of time.” He laid his hand flat on the manila envelope. His expression went hollow. “Besides, I got something important to go over with you.” Suddenly, he picked up and scanned a menu. The waitress returned to top off their coffee, took their orders, then left after an exaggerated teasing wink at Det. Britto.

  “You must have come up with something good.” Joe seemed impatient, but it was the only way they could respond to the nerve-wracking situation.

  “Maybe good, maybe bad. First of all, thanks for agreeing to meet me here, instead of the precinct.”

  “Get on with it, Britto.”

  “Okay, it's about that artwork of Winnaker's and that magazine that's supposed to be stored in Property.”

  “Supposed to be?” Abi knew what was coming.

  “Oh-oh.” Joe's shoulders slumped.

  “Supposed to be.” Det. Britto raised his eyebrows. “The gas can and the SS tunic is still there. The painting, the pastel drawings and that travel magazine—” He slowly shook his head.

  “Gone?”

  “They were logged in eight years ago, but no one's needed 'em since the case closed.” He sighed heavily. “Eight years. We'll never know how long they've been missing.”

  “They could have proven something. I knew it, Joe.”

  Det. Britto looked like his suspicions were being confirmed too. “Someone didn't want to take a chance that art might reveal Winnaker's whereabouts.”

  “What else, Britto? You didn't bring us here to tell us how inept the PD can be.”

  Det. Britto put up a hand. “Before I divulge my information, I'm obligated to ask you some questions, ma'am.” He shifted into an investigative voice. He looked her in the eyes and Abi sat straight
er, ready to face anything head-on. “I know all that art makes for a good connection with this Winnaker girl up at Rachter….” His words hung in the air while he rummaged through his pockets, finally producing a small scratch pad and pen and pushed them across the table to her. “Here. I want you to write down both your daughter's and your husband's full names and birth dates. Times and places of birth, too, if you remember.”

  “Aw, Britto, don't tell us you're going to consult with an astrologer.”

  “Nothing of the sort.” He motioned impatiently for Abi to proceed. “Please.”

  Abi threw a quizzical sideways glance at Joe who shrugged and whose raised eyebrow suggested they had better hear the detective through. Abi wrote quickly. “I don't remember the time of day my husband was born. What's the purpose of this?”

  Joe leaned close and read what she had written. “April fourth? Becky's birthday just past.”

  “She's twenty-eight now.” Abi choked up. She tried to smile but couldn't. She slid the paper to Det. Britto who first silently read the information, then repeated aloud, “Becky Ann Fisher. Preston Leroy Fisher.” Then he looked straight into her eyes again and the piercing look sent a message like none other.

  “For heaven's sake, Britto. What have you got?”

  Too much heat in the restaurant said the owners hadn't realized that spring had arrived. The music was a little loud, too, but Det. Britto seemed pleased that no one else might hear. Still, he leaned toward them.

  “I have a shocker for you—for both of you, I guess.” He sighed. “Could be good. Could be bad.”

  “Wait.” Joe put up a hand. “If you're going to drop a bomb on us, Abi has a heart—”

  “I'm all right, Joe.” She reached to pull his hand down. “I'm ready for this.”

  “Ma'am?” Det. Britto's voice softened. “You have what? A heart condition?”

  “Never mind that. I need to hear what you've come to tell us.”

  “Okay, I hope you're up to this.”

  “The envelope. What have you got?” Joe had almost reached for it himself.

  Instead of opening the envelope, Det. Britto pulled it closer and folded both arms across it on the tabletop. “I've made some friends… real friends who know how to keep their mouths shut. This time, I'm going against the grain and all, because this information won't be leaked until I decide to make it public.” He frowned. “Still, the law says I've gotta' file this into Evidence before I leave the office this evening.”

  “Please, Det. Britto. What does this have to do with us?”

  “Maybe everything.” He glanced at the envelope then back to Abi. “You see, after Winnaker was arrested, the PD confiscated all of her father's World War II memorabilia. Actually, all the PD needed was that SS ring. After Winnaker was sent up, the rest of the artifacts were donated to the Seaport Historical Museum, right there, across the street.” He pointed in the direction of the museum. “Up till recently, you could still go in to see it.”

  “That's all going to the Smithsonian now.”

  “It was, Arno, but maybe not for a while.” The detective finally ripped the seal on the envelope.

  Abi tensed, her heart pounded. She felt around the padded seat until she found her purse, reached in and wrapped her hand around the bottle of nitro tablets.

  The crisp manila envelope crackled as Det. Britto opened it. He stuck his hand all the way in to retrieve something near the bottom. “Maybe Joe and I better do this alone first. I don't wanna give you a heart attack.”

  “I'm fine. I'm fine.” She wished people would stop pampering her. She could hold her own. If she had a heart attack, she would simply deal with it. Angina pectoris would not prevent her from finding her daughter. She dropped the pills back into her purse.

  “If you say so.” Then he rested his arms on the tabletop again, his hand still inside the envelope. “It's like this. The Museum was cleaning and refurbishing some of the items in preparation to ship to the Smithsonian, like you said. Someone was wiping down a little box, like a man's jewelry case or stationary box. They noticed the bottom was pretty thick but tapped hollow. The curator had me look at that box just before I called you this morning, ma'am. You must've seen it, Arno, haven't you?”

  “May have.”

  “If you've seen the exhibit, it's the box with the deep carving all over that was in the separate display case.”

  Det. Britto turned to Abi. “I'm scared for you, and I don't know how to break this to you, so I'm gonna do it as easy as I can.” He looked at her sympathetically while laying out age-old documents in front of her on her placemat. “The reason I had you write that information on the pad there? These two birth certificates were found in the fake bottom of that carved box. They contain the same names and information you just wrote down.”

  Chapter 22

  Abi could not stifle the little scream that escaped her. Several people turned to look their way. She ducked her head and hid her face behind her hand.

  “Let me see those.” Joe grabbed them up. He and Abi examined them.

  “I was right.” Abi choked back emotion. “These are the real certificates. Preston took them. Megan's my daughter!” She rocked back and forth whimpering.

  “Easy, Abi, honey.” Joe reached to comfort her. “You're going to be all right now. You hear me?”

  “Water, water.” Det. Britto offered her the half-full goblet on the edge of her placemat. “Drink, please.” He watched her intently. “I'm sorry for giving you this bad news.”

  She took a few sips and calmed. “I thought once I knew for sure she was Becky, I'd know the next step to take, but I don't.” She swallowed hard. “Why not, Joe?”

  Joe held her and she collapsed against him. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She accepted Joe's handkerchief and wiped at her eyes.

  “Uh, wait, ma'am.” Det. Britto reached to touch her hand. “This doesn't necessarily prove Winnaker is your daughter.”

  Abi sat upright and looked straight into the detective's eyes. “What are you saying?”

  Det. Britto took a quick sip of coffee. “Winnaker had her own birth certificate in her possession with a birth date in September, if my memory serves me.” He tapped the yellowed documents with a fingertip, “One set of certificates would be wrong then, and you just said these were the real ones.”

  “You said you checked Megan's story way back when.”

  “Checked it all.” He rolled his eyes as if trying to draw up long forgotten details. “The way Winnaker told it, her dad had said lightning struck the flagpole at the county building and burned the place to the ground, way back when she was wee little. We checked that out as soon as she told us. That part was true. They really had a fire in the county building. Everything went to ash.”

  “Every single record?”

  “Birth, death, marriage, divorce, business records, you name it. Podunk town wasn't automated yet. They only had paper records and microfiche.”

  Abi stared intently at the detective, trying to glean more from his expression. “So all the woman in prison knows is that she's Megan Winnaker.”

  “Would seem that way.”

  Though the facts seemed confusing, two scenarios existed. Winnaker was imitating Becky for reasons unknown. Or, Becky was running from something and posing as Winnaker. That could only be concluded if Winnaker knew about the birth certificates being in the bottom of the little box. “Can we find out if Megan knows about these?”

  “Uh-uh. Let's just keep this quiet till we find out more about her to help us glue things together.”

  “Joe, that's why pictures in a magazine attracted her to this area.”

  “That's right. She told me the only family she knew was her dad and that he claimed her mother deserted them. She wanted to find the rest of her family but didn't know where to search till she saw those pictures.”

  “What rotten lies Preston must have told her.” But Abi knew all the findings could apply to either Megan or Becky.

  Det. Britto
reached across the table and patted her hand. “If Winnaker is really your daughter, she must have grown up hating the person who loved her most.”

  “What will she think of me if she's really Becky?” Abi slid her hand away and dropped both to her lap. With each clue that should enlighten the situation, each seemed only to darken the outlook, complicating something as simple as an identity.

  Joe reached for a hand in her lap. “Remember, Abi, she came wanting to find family. It'll all work out.”

  Det. Britto again smoothed his beard. “Wait a minute. You're missing my drift. Let's assume Winnaker's real name is what she claims and that she's an honest to goodness hell-raiser. Her father was connected to the Aryan movement, wore his head shaved and all. He had a nightmarish reputation and was linked to a lot of skinhead activities—riots, parades, that sort of stuff.”

  “His activities don't necessarily make her bad.”

  “No, they don't. People knew he had a daughter but no one saw much of her.”

  “So did either have a police record?”

  “Couldn't dig up a rap sheet on either. So here's what I'm getting at.” Det. Britto tapped an index finger again on the certificates. “What if these two people are missing? What if these two people are dead and this Winnaker woman and her father knew something about how they got that way?”

  Abi's mouth hung open as she stared at the detective and then back to the certificates. “And still kept something which would be incriminating evidence if they were caught?”

  Det. Britto sighed heavily. “Criminal minds know no limit.” Could be a trophy of the kill. A couple pieces of paper can't compare with the trophies some people hold onto. Heads, body parts….”

  “Britto!”

  Abi was on the edge of her seat again. “Are you saying it's possible that Megan Winnaker and her father may have had something to do with the deaths of Becky Ann and Preston?”

  “If we can—if it's proven that your daughter and your…uh, her father—are no longer on this earth, yes, that could be why these birth certificates were kept and hidden.” He paused. No one spoke. He blew out a long breath. “You remember the marked differences in that art we looked at?”