Deadly Web (12 page)

“I assure you we don’t.”

“Detective, I know Frank. You don’t. I’m telling you, you have it all wrong. The man who is behind those profiles is a sick man. He’s stalking me and harassing me. Frank actually promised to check it out. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if… Oh my God.” Melanie covered her mouth with her hand. “What if the man who’s stalking me killed Frank?”

“Mrs. Foster,” Bernard said, trying to veer the questioning away to a different path, “what is it you do here?”

“We’re data miners.”

“What does that entail?”

“Well… we go online, research a certain type of product line and then document it.”

“Go on.”

“There is no
going on
,” Melanie Foster said. “That’s what we do.”

“What was Frank working on recently?”

“Screws.”

“Screws?” Hannah asked.

“Yes. He was documenting various prices and attributes of screws.”

Hannah felt as if she were going to fall asleep just from hearing about this. “Mrs. Foster, can you think of anything out of the ordinary that happened lately, and relates to Frank?”

“Yes. I told you. He said he would try and track down my stalker.”

Hannah sighed. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Foster.”

They walked back to her cubicle, and Melanie sat down. Hannah was just fishing for one of her cards when Bernard said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Foster, who’s this?” He pointed at the background wallpaper on her monitor. It was a photo of a smiling man with a dark, wavy mane of hair.

“That’s my husband,” Melanie said.

“But…” Bernard hesitated. “Isn’t he bald?”

“Of course not. What gave you that idea?”

“There’s a picture on his Facebook profile…”

Melanie stared at them both coldly. “Is that what the police have come to? Following our Facebook profiles? I’ll be sure to remove mine. Yes, my husband was bald. Two years ago. He had cancer, and he was going through chemo.”

“Oh,” Bernard said weakly.

“He’s much better now, thank you for asking,” Melanie said acidly.

“So what do you think?” Mitchell asked Jacob as they drove back to the station. “Her mom says she had no friends or boyfriend.”

“Wouldn’t be the first mom to know nothing about her daughter,” Jacob said. “She was clearly with someone the night she was killed. Probably her boyfriend.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and his fingerprints will be in the system.”

Jacob nodded absentmindedly, staring out the passenger’s window. He was thinking of his own daughter, and how little he knew about her in some regards. And she was mad at him for some reason. It occurred to him that she might have cut her hair the day before. He couldn’t be sure, but it had looked a bit different. And if she got a haircut and he hadn’t mentioned it… well, that could explain her mood. Definitely.

His phone rang, an unfamiliar number. He answered. “Detective Cooper.”

“Hello,” a gentle, feminine voice said. “Uh… my name is Vera. Vera Aliysa. I’m Dona’s sister? I understand you just met my mother, and informed her—” Her voice cracked.

“That’s right,” Jacob said. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your mother didn’t mention that Dona had a sister.”

“Yeah,” Vera said softly. “She wouldn’t. I’m not very close to my parents, Detective. Dona was always the one they fluttered around.” There was no bitterness in her voice, only something that sounded like sad acceptance. “After college, I pretty much stayed away. I don’t see any of them much.”

“I see.”

“But I talk to Dona… I mean I talked to Dona every week. And sometimes we’d chat online. It’s funny, I hated Dona when I was living at home, but once I moved out… we became really good friends.”

Jacob had heard that story many times before. He remained silent, let her talk.

“Anyway, my mom said you were asking about a boyfriend, and of course she told you there was no one.”

“That’s right,” Jacob said.

“Dona was seeing someone for the past three months, Detective. His name is Blayze Terry. And I know that you’ll be able to find him pretty easily, because he just got out of prison six months ago. That means that you have his file, right? With fingerprints and DNA and everything.”

“That’s right miss. We’ll be able to contact him.”

“I… look, Detective, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that’s your guy. And maybe you’re right. But he was sweet with Dona, and caring. My sister can be a really difficult person to be with, and he was incredibly patient. I talked with him twice, and he always sounded full of love. He wasn’t a violent man, or anything. He was a burglar—that’s why he was in prison. He never hurt anyone.”

Jacob knew love could turn into hate pretty quickly, and passion could become violence. Nevertheless, he said, “Thank you for telling me this, miss. We don’t assume anything, but we would like to follow all possible leads.”

“Thanks, Detective.”

“Did your sister mention anyone else she was in contact with? Maybe someone she had a disagreement with?”

“No… my mom was right about Dona avoiding people. She was suffering from depression, and mostly stayed at home. She tried to kill herself last year, but Dad found her before it was too late, and got her to a hospital. Sorry, I’m rambling. She didn’t mention anyone.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in your sister’s manner? Was she agitated or angry or—”

“Detective, my sister can have radical mood swings mid-sentence,” Vera said. “So asking about unusual behavior is a bit moot.”

“Okay,” Jacob said. “Thanks. Please let me know if anything occurs to you.”

“I will. And I would appreciate it if you kept me posted on any progress. Uh… my mom won’t necessarily let me know if there’s any update.”

“Goodbye, miss.”

He hung up, and turned to Mitchell. “Looks like we found our boyfriend,” he said.

Chapter Nine

Jacob and Mitchell drove back to the station to check out the file on Blayze Terry. They wanted his address, as well as the name of the cop or detective who had arrested him. They didn’t want to go into this blind. If Blayze Terry was a dangerous man, they wanted to know it beforehand.

The name of the officer who had arrested him was one Jacob Cooper.

Every job can get monotonous after a while. Lawyers, doctors, clerks, porn actors, trapeze acrobats… whatever your profession is, if you do something for long enough the days tend to blend into each other. It doesn’t mean you don’t like the job, or you find it boring. It’s just that not every day is a fireworks display of excitement and adventure. Even secret agents probably sometimes feel that the plans for the nuclear submarine they just “procured” kind of feel like the secret plans they stole last month.

Jacob couldn’t really remember arresting anyone named Blayze for burglary. He couldn’t remember writing this report. It probably hadn’t been a very interesting case. Guy broke into a place, guy told an acquaintance, the acquaintance turned out to be a snitch, guy went to jail. Been there, done that. And it had happened more than five years ago, he told Mitchell hotly.

Mitchell seemed to think Jacob was getting old. He asked if Jacob was taking his Alzheimer’s pills.

Ha ha, Jacob said. What a comedian.

Blayze Terry’s current address was listed in his file. Like Vera Aliysa had told them, he’d been out of jail for the past six months. There were several phone numbers in the file. The first one was Blayze’s, and it went unanswered. There was another phone number, for Blayze’s pastor. At the trial, the pastor had testified to Blayze’s character and his desire to change. It hadn’t helped.

The pastor answered Jacob’s phone call. He told Jacob that Blayze was doing very well so far. He’d been an alcoholic before the burglary and, as far as the pastor knew, he was staying away from alcohol.

Jacob thought of the bottles of beer on Dona’s table. It didn’t seem to him like Blayze was doing such a good job at staying sober.

Blayze was working in an electronics store, the pastor said. He had the name of the store somewhere. Jacob waited patiently until he found it.

Blayze did not answer his door, nor was he at work. The shift manager told Jacob and Mitchell that Blayze was a good employee, caused no problems. They were pleased with him. He had taken the day off; the shift manager didn’t know why, or where he was.

It seemed as if their suspect might be on the run. Or drunk. Or both. Time was ticking, and Jacob and Mitchell decided to split up.

Mitchell went looking for Blayze at the pubs around his address.

Jacob went off to talk to the snitch mentioned in the report.

It was the third bar he’d checked, a place called The French Frog. So far, Mitchell had managed to meet a drunk who thought Mitchell was his long lost friend, to be propositioned by a prostitute, and to be propositioned by a woman who didn’t seem to be a prostitute. No luck finding Blayze, or anyone who knew where Blayze was—though the second woman who propositioned him suggested Blayze might be hiding in her pants.

Mitchell doubted that was the case.

The French Frog had one bartender, a bored waitress, and two customers nursing beers. Mitchell walked slowly to the bartender, looking around. The bar didn’t seem to be doing very well. It was dirty, and most of the chairs seemed old, rotting, or broken. There was an old jukebox in the corner, and a pool table with no balls on it. Several faded advertisements for beer plastered the walls. It seemed like a place one would come to alone, for the sole purpose of getting drunk.

“Can I help you?” the bartender asked. He was about twenty-five, maybe a bit older, with a tattoo of an octopus on his neck.

“I’m looking for a man,” Mitchell said.

“There are two right here,” the bartender said, motioning at the customers. “Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Mitchell flipped out his badge and then took Blayze’s mugshot from his pocket. “This is the guy I’m looking for.”

“He ain’t here,” the bartender said. “What’d he do?”

Mitchell shrugged. “Have you seen him?”

The bartender took the picture from Mitchell and looked at it closely. “Hey, Tara,” he said. “Isn’t this the guy from two days ago?”

The waitress took the picture from the bartender and studied it. “Which guy?” she asked.

“The one who was trying to get all the women to show him their boobs for five dollars.”

She squinted. “Nah,” she said. “That guy was way older. Way, way older. Hang on, isn’t this Monday guy?”

The bartender took the picture back from her. “Could be,” he said. “Definitely could be Monday guy.”

“Who’s Monday guy?” Mitchell asked.

“There’s a guy who comes here every Monday,” the waitress said. “We call him Monday guy, because that’s the day he shows up here. Monday.”

“Okay,” Mitchell said.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s the guy,” the bartender said.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Mitchell asked.

“Last Monday,” the bartender said.

Walked right into that one, Mitchell thought.

“So, Monday guy… would you happen to know where he is?”

“Nope. I think he lives around here, though, ‘cause he always gets really drunk, and when I offered to get him a cab he said he’d walk home.”

“So, last Monday, this guy comes in,” Mitchell said, trying to jolt their memory. “What did he do?”

“Same as always,” the waitress said. “Ordered a shot of whiskey and a beer, and drank them both. Then ordered another shot and another glass of beer.”

“Usually by the third round, he’s already kinda woozy,” the bartender said.

“Did he mention anything?” Mitchell asked.

“Oh, it’s always the same with him,” the waitress said. “When he comes in he’s all polite and shit. Then, when he gets drunk he starts talking about how he’s gonna kill that bitch.”

Mitchell tensed. “What bitch?” he asked.

“Who knows? Half the men who come here talk about their wives or girlfriends, and when they talk, it usually ain’t about how they love them and how lucky they are,” the waitress said.

“Yeah?” Mitchell said.

“It’s the opposite,” she clarified.

“I got that, thanks. So this guy talks about killing that bitch. He say anything else?”

“No. He usually just says every few minutes that he’s gonna kill that bitch, or he’s gonna shoot that bitch or strangle that bitch—”

“Did he say strangle?” Mitchell asked, laying his hand on the counter.

“Probably. Yeah, I guess. Anyway, when he’s done he pays with a hundred-dollar bill and leaves. Always the same. A hundred-dollar bill.”

“How long has he been coming here?” Mitchell asked, wondering if Blayze had begun drinking the moment he got out of prison.

“I don’t know,” the waitress said. “Two years?”

“Nah, Tara, it’s way more. Three years, I think,” the bartender said.

“That can’t be,” Mitchell said. “The guy I’m looking for only got out of prison six months ago.”

“Oh,” the bartender said. “Really?” He looked at the picture again. “Huh,” he said. “Now that you mention it, he is kinda different. Hey, Tara, don’t Monday guy’s eyes look a bit different?”

She checked the photo. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Totally. Monday guy’s eyes are more narrow like uh… almost like a Chinese guy.”

“But he’s not Chinese,” the bartender said.

“And anyway, I think Monday guy’s name is Phil,” the waitress said. “At least, that’s what people call him. Sometimes people here say ‘hey Phil’ when they see him.”

Mitchell stared at the bartender and the waitress in frustration. “Can I have my photo back?” he said.

“Sure,” the bartender said, and handed it over,

“Do you know that the octopus on your neck only has six arms?” Mitchell asked, pocketing the mugshot.

“Yeah.”

“Octopuses have eight arms,” Mitchell said.