Secrets Boxset: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery Collection

by J. S. Donovan

  “That could blow our cover.”

  “Only if she knows she’s being followed. Otherwise, I’m just a stranger who couldn’t hold it until she got home. Wait here.” Anna concealed her firearm with her collared cyan button up shirt. Looking both ways, she marched across the street and passed into the crochet club house. The women looked up with surprise. Anna smiled briefly and beelined to the restroom. She tried the handle. Unlocked. Anna yanked it open and peeked under the stalls. No one.

  She crossed the hall to the men’s bathroom. Empty. Clenching her fists, she turned to the rear exit.

  “She duped us.” Anna said into the borrowed earpiece as she looked both ways in the alley.

  Rennard cursed. “I’ll tell the guys.”

  Anna dashed down the alley. Sirens sounded on the street side and black FBI cars peeled out into the light traffic. An old man with a name tag carried a pregnant bag of garbage to the trashcan behind his shop. Anna jogged to him.

  “Did you see a woman pass this way?”

  “Uh…”

  “I’m working with the FBI. Please.”

  The old man pointed to the back of the building. Anna cut inside. It was a warm place with multiple floors and segmented sections of various tools, memorabilia, furniture, and other antiques. A musty smell hung heavy like that of an old book, and the dry air clung to the inside of Anna’s mouth. She jogged between the aisles, knocking shoulders with patrons and nearly bumping over a record player on the side of a table.

  She came to the front of the store just as an FBI agent passed through the door. As Anna shook her head, the agent pointed to the second-floor balcony. Anna saw the tail of Stacy’s blouse vanish behind the railing. She saw us!

  Without taking a breath, Anna was up the rickety stairs and into the next level of the shop. It was not as crowded but still a labyrinth. Anna darted past Raggedy Anne dolls slouched on a rocker and turned at the corner lot containing old fishing pools, tackle boxes, and mounted trophies. She reached the back corner of the second floor and twisted to-and-fro, thinking about where she would run if she were Stacy. A nearby hallway was sealed off with velvet rope bending between two rusty posts, one of which had been moved to make way for someone. Anna slinked by to the door at the end. It led to stairs that opened to the roof.

  Catching her breath, Anna burst out of the building and felt the afternoon sun upon her. Tube vents snaked across the roof. All around, the tops of Victorian-style brick buildings jutted into the air. Even the cone-shaped towers of the distant Crawford County Bank were visible. On the same strip of shops on which she stood, Anna spotted another stairway entrance that descended into a different section of the long building. The door shut as Anna looked. Feeling her lungs struggle for a breath, Anna sprinted to the stairs.

  “She went into another building…four doors down.” Anna said into the earpiece with a dry throat. Anna jiggled the handle. Locked. Thirty feet away, a ladder descended into an alley. Anna gripped a hold of its rungs and moved swiftly downward. She could’ve slid down the side bars but wanted to preserve the skin on her palms.

  An FBI squad car pulled into the alleyway. Anna cut through what she estimated to be where the roof stairs led: a flower shop. Lilies and yellow wild flowers could camouflage Stacy’s shirt. The woman at the counter shouted at her. Anna ignored it in her pursuit of the lady whom she still hadn’t seen. After a moment’s observation, it became clear that the flower shop didn’t extend into the upper floor. Frowning, Anna hastily exited to the sidewalk and sought for a way to find the second floor. She hiked up a set of stairs that clung to the side of the building and entered a photographer’s workshop. Wedding pictures and corny valentines’ portraits hung on the walls. The man behind the counter greeted Anna with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “Are you--”

  “I’m looking for a woman. Did anyone just run through here?” Anna interrupted.

  The man gawked and then said. “Not that I know of.”

  I swore this was the right unit. A door at the back was labeled employees only.

  “Does that lead to the roof?” Anna asked.

  “Yeah, why?”

  Anna boiled, realizing Stacy never left the stairwell. “Let me up there.”

  “I’m sorry but--”

  “This is a federal investigation. Open the door!”

  Startled, the man shambled to the door and mumbled to himself as he found the right key. The second he did, Anna pushed by him and up the stairs. It spit her out on the roof. No sign of Stacy. Anna went to the corner of the building. Down the road, she saw the yellow Beetle that hadn’t been touched. FBI squad cars locked in the perimeter. “Where are you?” Anna mumbled to herself repeatedly. During the commotion, a drab grey Saturn station wagon reversed out of a parallel parking spot.

  This time, Anna slid down the ladder. Her hands burned and blisters bubbled on her palms. After phoning Rennard, she dashed to the sidewalk. Rennard’s car screeched to a halt in front of her and, reaching over the front seat, he popped the door.

  He looked as though he was about to ask a question but Anna beat him to the punch. “There!”

  She pointed to the station wagon rolling down the road at exactly the speed limit. Rennard stomped on the accelerator. The traffic light turned red before he reached it. He sped up. Drivers in the cars on the left and right side of him punched their horns and then noticed the tail of FBI cars following behind.

  “Where did she get the other car from?” Rennard asked.

  “I don’t know. It may have been parked there the whole time or someone picked her up.”

  The station wagon weaved between the roads until it was out of sight again. Anna tried to follow the trail. She spotted the station wagon on the side of an alley, cruising in the opposite direction.

  “Over there.” Anna pointed.

  Tires screeched as Rennard swung the car one hundred and eighty degrees. The tires burned rubber and left behind a “J” shaped track as he slingshot down the road, tail end wobbling. The other FBI squad cars mimicked him, giving local onlookers a show they wouldn’t forget.

  They spotted the station wagon parked crookedly by a boat dock. The Arkansas River roared beyond, large transport ships taking cargo down the wide body of water. Anna and Rennard got out and flanked the station wagon, guns up. The station wagon’s front door was wide open. Monotone dinging escaped the vehicle. As more FBI cars approached in the distance, Anna and Rennard moved through the dock, passing by boat after boat tied to long white pathways that extended their arms over brownish green water. At the end of one was the woman. Hunched down and wearing a bright yellow shirt, she looked like a bale of hay.

  Quietly, Anna and Rennard approached her. She fidgeted with the dock line that anchored a nice cruising boat. It wobbled as Stacy tugged and right as she was about to release it, she heard Anna.

  “Stacy Tipton. We have some questions we’d like to ask you.”

  The woman turned to them. Her round face was red and sweaty with bangs that were glued to her forehead. Catching her breath, she smiled with a confused look on her face. “Can I help you?”

  7

  Mezzoforte

  The Van Buren interrogation room was small and consisted of a tin table, two equally uncomfortable chairs, a fixed camera mounted in the upper corner, and the steady buzz of a lackadaisical air conditioner. Anna remembered the heat and the faint stench of cigarettes that hovered about the room. If the smell had a color, Anna guessed it to be a sickly yellow. Perhaps standing in the dimly lit observation room was a blessing in disguise. Sergeant Mathis allowed them the space for the afternoon, and Anna and Rennard planned to make the most of it. Anna chewed her nail and look through the one-way glass window. Her anxious reflection lived on the darkened pane.

  Inside, Agent Justin Rennard draped his signature FBI jacket over the back of his metal chair, leaving him wearing a white collared shirt neatly rolled up past the elbow. Below, he had a leather belt, black slacks, and shiny black Rock
port dress shoes. He wasn’t one for a suit and tie, Anna realized. Probably because the work they did together was always foot-on-the-ground. Anna wore a cyan-colored button up shirt and slacks, but she betrayed the professional outfit with comfy tennis shoes. After running through two fires and getting in multiple shootouts, fashion was the last thing on her mind. She forsook makeup days ago.

  Stacy Tipton sat opposite of Rennard and nervously rubbed her small, stumpy hands together. The lack of proper AC in the room left her round face, arms, and band below her neck glowing red and sticky. Her tiny eyes cast down to the table. She fidgeted in the chair, struggling for comfort. Drinking from the glass of water relaxed her tense shoulders. She grabbed the neck of her sunflower yellow blouse and shook it, fanning her neck and down her chest.

  Rennard started casual. “We apologize for the air conditioning. How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?” He offered her refreshments or a smoke. The woman took water and though she was tempted by the danish, the tasty treat remained untouched on the paper plate on the table. Rennard decided against cuffs, in hopes it would coax Stacy to be more open.

  “Might I ask why I’m here, Agent?” The woman’s voice was polite, quiet and Southern.

  Hands folded over his notebook, Rennard smiled at her. “You may. The truth is, Ms. Tipton, we believe you that you have connections with Keisha Rines’s abduction.”

  “That precious little thing?” the woman asked, her eyes going wide. “That’s absurd. I-I loved that angel, and the fate that befell her makes my stomach churn.”

  “According to our timeline, you were talking to her parents when the abduction occurred, correct?”

  “Why, yes. They’re lovely people. Am I guilty of saying hi?”

  “No, Ms. Tipton. My goal here is to understand how you fit into the abduction. You clear that up for me and you are free to go.”

  “What role do you think I played?” Stacy asked as if it was the most ridiculous accusation she’d ever heard.

  “A distraction.” Rennard replied stoically. “This is not a game, Ms. Tipton. A child's life is on the line and that’s something I take very, very seriously.”

  The woman settled down her sarcastic antics and went back to rubbing her hands nervously. “I apologize, Agent. This whole situation has me flustered. Speaking from the heart, yeah, I’m guilty.”

  From the observation room, Anna smiled slightly at the victory and waited for the coming words.

  “Guilty that I didn’t do more to stop it,” Stacy finished. Her eyes watered and her lip quivered. “If I had known that talking to that doll’s parents would lead to her death, I would’ve never approached them. Every night, I toss and turn thinking of Keisha and those news reports.”

  “Why were you there, Ms. Tipton? You were not a registered guest.”

  Stacy nodded and wiped snot from her nose. A red rim surrounded her teary eyes. “I know. I wasn’t invited, but I wanted to see the angel for myself. I’d heard so much about her and I hear her music all over the place. If I’d known my curiosity would get her killed, I…” Like the flipping of a light switch, her expression changed. She turned a fierce gaze to Rennard. “But you accuse me anyway. Think I’m some of molester--”

  “I never said anything about that,” Rennard interjected calmly.

  Stacy did not share in his cool. “You best turn in your badge because you're the worst investigator I’ve ever seen. I’ll say it now and say it a million more times if I have to, I was not involved in any way with the abduction of that girl, and I will not listen to the false accusations any longer.”

  The woman crossed her thick arms around her broad chest and turned her chin away from Rennard.

  “Ms. Tipton, I still have questions I’d like for you answer. Like why you ran from us or what you planned to do with that boat.”

  Stacy didn’t give him so much as a glance, let alone reply.

  After forty minutes of talking to a stone wall, Rennard grabbed his jacket and notebook and exited the room.

  Anna met him in the hall and tucked her short hair behind her ear. “That much luck, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Rennard replied, frustrated. A few officers bustled by. The bullpen was active around them with officers making calls or bringing in drunks. “She’s obviously hiding something.”

  “Mood swings, outbursts, constant denial, not to mention the fact that she ran from us. The woman’s textbook. You need to keep pressing.”

  “She’s shut herself off from me. At least when I’m in the dog house, both parties are trying to work things out, but this woman… If you want to have a go at her, by all means.”

  Anna shook her head. “This is your gig. I’m a consultant, remember?”

  His piercing eyes met hers. “You think I care about who gets credit for the case? I care about results, Anna. That and saving lives. If you’re better equipped for the situation, please, do what you do best.”

  Anna smiled softly and felt her blood pumping. I couldn’t have said it better myself. “Thanks, Rennard. If you can grab a few things for me, that would be a big help.”

  “You name it, I’ll get it.”

  Anna let Stacy Tipton gel in the hot interrogation room for twenty more minutes before going inside. She called the technique Miami Heat. Get the suspect hot and desperate and then move in for the kill. Had it backfired before? Of course. But it had also won Anna dozens of confessions back in the Sunshine state.

  Taking Rennard’s notebook and pen, she stepped into the steamy room and was rushed by a wave of heat. She took a breath and let the door fall close behind her. Stacy’s tiny eyes followed her across the room as she shook the neck of her blouse. Her body jiggled at the action. A frown dragged down her round face and red cheeks.

  Anna pulled out the chair with a screech. The last time she’d sat here, her opponent was Edger Strife. She resisted a shudder as she thought of the man and trained her mind on the woman before her. “My name is Anna Dedrick,” She sat down and spaced out the notebook, thick folder, and pen evenly on the metal table. “You can call me Anna. Can I call you Stacy?”

  Stacy glared at her.

  Anna disregard the death gaze. “It’s hot in here, Stacy. Downright miserable. I know you don’t want to be here and I sure as hell don’t want to be here, so let’s skip the BS and petty girl talk and get down to it. Agreed?”

  Stacy watched Anna intently, trying to get a read on her. After a moment of heated silence, she unclenched her jaw and nodded.

  “Good. Now that we’ve established a common goal--to get out of this hot room and move on with our lives--let’s get started. You ran from the FBI this afternoon. Why?”

  “It’s not what you--”

  Anna raised her voice. “Don’t play dumb. Answer the question, Stacy.”

  The larger woman shifted her jaw like she was chewing gravel. “What would you do, sweetheart, if you saw a strange car parked outside your home especially with all the news about maniacs and kidnappers on the street? It was an overreaction, I see that now.”

  “When you saw the flashing lights and heard the sirens--I know you did because the whole town did--your first instinct was to hitch a boat and sail away even though you were completely blameless of any crime?”

  “I made a split-second decision. It may not have been the wisest, but it’s the one I made,” Stacy argued.

  “You’re lying, Stacy,” Anna objected. “The escape through the back door and up to the roof, having a station wagon conveniently parked two blocks down the road, keeping your boat fueled and ready to depart. That’s what us detectives like to call pre-meditation.”

  “My, aren’t you feisty and quick to jump to conclusions? It’s no small wonder you ain’t found a husband yet,” Stacy scoffed.

  “Don’t avoid the question, Stacy,” Anna said lowly, noticing Stacy’s rings on the woman’s finger but none on her ring finger. “You had a bug-out plan and it failed. What comes next is up to you.”

  The older woman looke
d at her with complete hatred.

  “You’re going to look at some photos.” Anna opened the dense folder before her. Making every motion deliberate, she extracted seven photos and placed them across the table.

  The first was a glamour shot of Keisha Rines. Her hair was sprayed, glossy, and curled into slinky ringlets that tumbled down her shoulders. She had a wide smile, pearly white teeth, and the sweetest eyes. Next to her was a photo of Lily Kendale. A shy, cute, and innocent blonde. Spread out beside each girl were photographs of their severed fingers. Anna’s stomach churned looking at them, but she did well in keeping a neutral face.

  Stacy recoiled at the sight, failing miserably to cover up her disgust.

  “This is the work of Wesley Jenkins,” Anna said. “You know how many little girls he’s done this to?”

  Stacy had no reply. She couldn’t remove her eyes from the photos. Anna withdrew three more prints from the folder and put them in front of Stacy. Each showed fifteen Missing Persons posters of various girls below the age of twelve.

  “Forty-five girls is our estimate. Those are the ones we know about. All of them are someone's child. All of them were prodigies. Girls with opportunities people like us will never have. Girls that could’ve made a difference in the lives of those around them.”

  Tears tumbled down Stacy’s angry face. She didn’t touch the stack.

  “Look through the pictures,” Anna commanded.

  Trembling, the large woman sifted through page after page of smiling little girls. All dead now.

  “Not that you care,” Anna went on. “But Wesley--if that’s the name he gave you--killed multiple detectives and their families before burning down their homes.”

  “I don’t want to look at these anymore,” Stacy growled.

  “Then start talking, Stacy, or we’ll spend the next five hours looking over mutilated cadavers hacked up into tiny little bits. I have videos too, you may want to see them. I’ve watched them all. Still hear those girls screaming when it’s quiet and I’m alone. I shut my eyes and I see them, hands tied and legs--”