Web of Deceit (7 page)

Irritated, Franks
says, “Like a full apartment that was empty.”

They continue to
search the apartment, but find nothing.

“This place is so
perfect it looks like a showroom,” Frank says.

“Yeah, too
perfect.” Beth sits on the sofa.
Nothing can hide under this sofa. It sets
directly on the floor without any legs.
Her eye catches a dark speck on the
beige fabric.
How did that get there?
Is that grease?
She kneels
down to inspect a smudge of grease near the floor. “Frank,” Beth says. “Help me
tip this couch upside down.” Sure enough, the grease is on the bottom and side
of the sofa. “Keep your eyes open.  There may be grease on something else.”

Ignoring Frank’s
puzzled expression, she focuses on her search. They search ten more minutes but
find nothing more.
Hey, how about the bed? That would be heavy and long like
the couch.
In the bedroom, she has Frank help her remove the mattress and
box springs from the bed.

“Aha, more grease,
just as I thought,” Beth says, delighted, “a smudge—just enough to prove that
you’re not insane, Frank.”

“What do you
mean?”

“Kelly is a
starving actress. She doesn’t have a car. Her house is impeccable. Not one
thing out of order. That’s funny—it’s the second time today I have seen this.
Anyway, no sign of a dust ball or a cobweb. Yet, we find grease on her couch
and bed. I believe you, Frank. Someone moved her out and then moved her back
in. They must have been wearing greasy clothes or somehow brushed the furniture
against it.”

“Why would someone
do that?”

“Got me. This
whole day feels like something out of the twilight zone,” Beth replies. “Hey,
did Odell say who he had close last night?”

“Yeah. Kelly,”

“Hmm, she closed
last night and opened this morning. That was mean. What is he doing, trying to
make her quit?” Beth asks. “Cash box was perfect, not even missing a penny. I
think we’ve stumbled onto something really big, Frank. Can you keep the grease
off the record for now?” Beth asks. “Don’t even tell Chip. OK?”

“Yeah, o’course,”
Frank says. “If I share the information I’ve got now, the only thing it’ll
prove is I’ve sucked you into my delusion.”

Beth gives Frank
an understanding expression and pats him on the back. “I assure you, I don’t
get sucked into anything.”

*   *   *

“Thanks Berny.”
Beth says, giving the key to the apartment manager behind his desk. “What do
you remember about the grandmother?”

“Not much, except
she dressed kinda old fashioned and was real proper. That’s all that sticks out
right now.”

Beth hands him her
card. “If you think of anything …”

Berny butts in.
“Yeah, I know, call ya. I watch CSI all the time.”

“Great,” she fakes
a smile.
A professional.

Frank winks at
Beth, letting her know he feels the same way. “I’ll be in touch with ya,” he
says to Berny as they leave.

Oh, what a tangled
web we weave,

When first we
practice to deceive. Sir Walter Scott

Beth unlocks her office
door, trudges in, and collapses into her executive leather office chair.
Unlocking
the bottom right drawer, she pulls out the materials she collected at Vicky’s
house. She sighs. “Boy, today has been unbelievable.” She notices the light for
her phone’s mailbox blinking as she reaches to turn on her desk lamp.

She presses the
mailbox play button.

An emulated,
monotone female voice says, “You have three messages. Message number one …”

“Hey Beth, it’s
Sam. Kyle and I decided to take a trip to the Bahamas. I’ll call you in a week
or so when I get back. Later,” Sam’s happy voice says.

“Message deleted.
Message number two …”

“Hey hon, it’s
Elliot. Got the car. I’m head’n back home. Give me a call if you’re goin’ over
that stuff. I’ll come back.”

“Message deleted.
Message number three …”

The phone plays
silence for fourteen seconds followed by the click of a terminated connection.

“Nice,” Beth says,
barely audible.

“Message deleted.
No more messages.”

Beth fits the
headset to her ear and presses speed-dial one. She leans back and clasps her
hands behind her head as she waits for the connection. She hears the unique
call-waiting ring.
He better answer.

*   *   *

Elliot checks the
caller ID, cuts his call short with Frank and answers Beth. “Hey, hon.”

“I’m at the
office; come over and we’ll go through the materials I collected from Mrs.
Freedman’s daughter’s house. I’m starting now.”

“OK, I’m on my
way.”

*   *   *

Now, let’s
check out this notebook.
Beth opens the notebook and finds several pages
missing.
Someone was in a hurry when they removed these.

The pages have
ragged edges as if they were grabbed in one hand and torn out with haste. Ten
to fifteen pages remain intact and on one is written, “You will never find us!”

“Hmm, that’s odd,”
Beth says to herself. She puts the notebook down.
I wonder what was on the
pages that were ripped out.

Beth takes the
bundled pictures and letters out of her purse. She removes the rubber bands and
places them in three neat piles on her desk. Two of the stacks are pictures.
People
posing.
She flips over the pictures and checks for names, dates, or
anything that can identify Vicky or her mother.
None of these pictures were
taken without false studio backdrops.
One background is a time-lapsed photo
of a stream running over a gray stone waterfall through a lush forest. Another
scene is cotton-ball clouds floating in a surreal blue sky.  All of the
supposed parents and their children are dressed for a funeral and smiling
cheese. No cluttered bedrooms or kitchens. No Christmas trees with presents
underneath or pictures of porches with jack-o’-lanterns and autumn leaves. No
cakes with candles surrounded by smiling children.
There’s nothing here.

The third stack
contains handwritten letters on lined paper. She removes the band and reads a
poem and love letter, both with the emotional depth of a newspaper obituary. The
letters were written in a dry, condescending prose and are signed, “Love, Mom.”
No surprise there.

Finally, Beth’s
attention focuses on the locked photo album. She reaches into the back of the
bottom right drawer and pulls out a small locksmith’s set. She searches for the
correct instrument.
Ahh, this should do it.
She inserts the pick and
turns it aptly to align the lock’s mechanism as if using a key and it clicks
open.

Beth ponders each
picture in order as their story unfolds. Baby toys, Easter bunnies, and
inflatable wading pools pass by, revealing the lives of a man, woman, and
child. Beth finds Vicky’s name printed on the back of one with the face of a
young girl peering through the oval, cutout face of an astronaut in a large
white spacesuit. One has a date printed neatly on the back and others have a
digital time stamp in red within the picture. She closes the album, still
musing. “These are the real deal.”

Beth reaches for
the locket that she pulled out of Vicky’s nightstand.
This is more difficult
than is appears.
She presses her thumbnail against it with enough force to
shave a piece off and then the clasp gives way with an audible snap. Inside,
the tiny family portrait adds the final punctuation mark to the pictorial
documentary of their lives.
Nothing substantiates Mrs. Freedman’s
accusations.
Why would Vicky’s mom disappear?
There is no evidence
of the usual drama kings or queens from broken homes where desperate moms make
so many bad choices in the name of survival.
Where’s her father? His last picture
is no more than two years old.
Beth’s mind continues arranging the pieces
of the puzzle as she reclines and closes her eyes. The minutes pass in the dim
room, lit only by her desk lamp. Her exhaustion covers her like a blanket and
her thoughts disconnect from the world.

In the darkness a
spider web materializes from nothing. Beth has the lucid impression of a web
fusing to the moistened skin of her cheeks, eyelids and forehead, causing a
warm tingling sensation. She is unable to detach from the uncertain horror. Her
heart quickens with her increasing fear and anxiety. Her mind wants to escape
to consciousness, but she presses to suffer the dream because of something
greater and deeper within herself.
I must see this.
Her mind’s eye
focuses upward toward the ceiling filled with an enormous spider web and in the
midst, a black widow. Working hard at its web, it knows that Beth is staring
into its eight hideous eyes. Not concerned, it continues its tedious
masterpiece …

Beth’s headset
reports the incoming call as her mind rushes to the surface, leaving the vision
buried in her subconscious. She presses the answer button before the second
ring. “Hello?”

“Beth, it’s Sarah.
I know where your missing girl is,” Sarah says with exuberance. “They weren’t
taken. They’re hiding.”

“I knew it!” Beth
straightens with anticipation. “Where are they? Is there any way I can talk to
them?”

“I’m not allowed
to say, but I’ll find out if she is willing to speak with you.”

“Great. In the
meantime, I’m going to do a little research.”

“And, Beth.”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful; I
have a strong feeling you’ve stumbled into a web of deceit.”

How does she do
that? Without me telling her anything about my dream, she seemed to know more
about it than I do.
An involuntary shiver races through Beth as she
remembers her dream.
Creepy, just, creepy
.

Beth pulls the
keyboard close and wakes the computer from hibernation. She pulls up a browser
window with links to high-end information services. Her firm subscribes to
eleven sites that provide cross references between addresses, social security
numbers, and name fragments. For the few hundred dollars a month in fees, the
resources are priceless. Beth starts her search on Mrs. Freedman.
What did
she say her first name was? I can’t remember.
The phone rings. While
pressing the button on her earpiece. “Hello.”

“Hey, hon, I just
pulled in. Come get the door. My hands are full,” Elliot says.

Opening the door,
Beth is stolen away by the aroma of a fresh-baked pizza. “Mmm, the usual?”

“Of course—extra
cheese, jalapeño, and pepperoni. Knowing you, I figured you’ve been too busy.”
Elliot slides through the door holding the pizza in one hand like a delivery
person.

“Yes,” Beth says,
“breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Beth locks the main office door behind Elliot.
“I hate days like this. Hey, do you remember any of Mrs. Freedman’s personal
information?”

“Did she even give
any?”

“Yes. Whether it’s
true or not is another story.” Beth opens the filing cabinet and pulls out the
case file.

Elliot has other
thoughts. He places the pizza on the desk. “Come eat. You need a break.”

Beth takes her
time returning to her desk with her nose buried in Mrs. Freedman’s file.

Lacking couth,
Elliot asks, “What did you find out about the stuff you lifted from Vicky’s
house?” He takes a large bite of steaming hot, thin-crust pizza and pulls a
chair to the desk.

Beth notices the
grease dripping onto her genuine cherry-wood desktop. She throws the case file
on Elliot’s lap and retrieves a stack of napkins from the lower left desk
drawer, a common recurrence on pizza nights.

“Elliot!” Beth
snaps at him as she places the several napkins under the pizza box.

“Ya know, hon, and
don’t take this wrong way,” Elliot grabs another piece of pizza, “you need to
learn to relax, or you’re gonna end up being just like Mrs. Freedman someday.”
He crams half the piece into his mouth.

Shocked and
enraged, Beth glares at Elliot, not having to say a word.

He swallows. “You
would feel really bad if I choked.” He points to the box on the desk. “Eat.”

Beth snatches a
piece out of the box and plops down. “Find Mrs. Freedman’s first name while I
find out how many Freedman’s are in the Boston area.”

“You should search
the newspaper archives to see if anything comes up,” Elliot mumbles with a full
mouth.

“I had no idea
there were so many Freedman’s in Massachusetts.” Beth stares at her monitor.

Elliot opens Mrs.
Freedman’s dossier. “Her first name is Margaret … her address is … She’s
widowed. Her husband’s name was Walter Freedman.”

“Nothing peculiar
comes up for Margaret Freedman. The address is confirmed by two independent
sources,” Beth interjects while continuing to type. “Her address of ten years.”

“Does it say where
she lived before?”

Beth opens a new
browser window to cross reference the dossier’s data. After searching five
minutes, Beth relents. “Nothing. There are no other addresses.”

“She probably
moved here after her husband died,” Elliot says. “Do a search on Walter
Freedman and find all the previous addresses under that name.”

Minutes become
hours as Beth types away at the keyboard, hoping to come up with something,
only to find nothing. Beth glares at Elliot sound asleep in the chair with his
feet kicked up on her desk. Too tired to push him off his expensive perch, she
closes her eyes to rest for a moment.

Thud!

Startled by the
sudden noise, Beth wakes from her sound sleep. Half out of her chair, she
watches Elliot pick himself up from the floor. “Thanks for the wake-up call,”
she says while laughing. “Maybe next time you will keep your feet on the
floor.”