EMBELLISHED TO DEATH (6 page)

“You can move it behind the building.” He pointed toward the side of the conference center.

The alley was small. Tight. “I don't think so.”

“It'll fit.”

“Not with me driving it.”

“I'm sure you can drive straight.” The manager heaved up the lift gate and secured the latches. “I don't want to see this thing here for another minute. You croppers have been nothing but trouble.”

I opened my mouth to argue then shut it. Since our arrival, the manager had dealt with a murder in the parking lot, questions and demands from the police, banking issues, and questions about the resorts plumbing systems. He was right. We were burdens.

“I'll move it right now.”

“Good.” He stood back and crossed his arms.

I heaved myself into the driver's seat and drove the beast toward the alley. I could
just
make it. Traveling slower than a snail, I continued down the small fairway. At the end of the makeshift road, a bumper stuck out from a thicket of prickly bushes and weeds.

Sliding out of the truck, I glanced around, making my way to the vehicle. I pushed through the weeds, taking care of where I placed my feet. A small amount of heat rose from the hood of the dirt-coated white compact car. I peered into the window. Clothing. Empty fast food wrappers. File folders. Professional camera with a telephoto lens. Someone was using the vehicle as a home base for spying. I was leaning toward Morgan not being an FBI agent. The FBI would've sprung for a room for an agent on assignment.

Morgan's threat rattled through me. The guy was either lying or a rogue. Both options were bad. I had to do something before I once again found myself at the mercy of a scheming man. The months in Germany where I followed the advice of counsel and remained quiet, waiting for the police to sort it out, only increased people's suspicions of me. The prevailing thought was an innocent person railed against her accusers, shouted “I'm not guilty” from every rooftop at every opportunity afforded them.

The truth was that even though the legal system had the motto “innocent until proven guilty” most people viewed it as the opposite. Once a finger of guilt, or an accusation was made, a person was guilty until they proved otherwise–and as I learned today–sometimes not even then.

FIVE

  

I removed my cell out of my pocket and called Bob. “I located your hit man.”

“What?”

I tripped my way to the back of the vehicle, bracing myself on the bushes. The sharp leaves pricked my fingers. There was no way I wanted my prints on the car. “The man sent to take out your thief. Think I found him. Or at least the vehicle.”

“Where are you?”

I told him my position and how I discovered the vehicle. “I'm going to get a picture of the plate for you. Also, there's a small trail in the wooded area. I'm not sure where it leads to but I can find out. There might be a way to get here from the main or side road.”

“Get the hell out of there!”

“I will. I just need—”

“Now, Faith. If you're right, the person will return. Soon. The cops are leaving, the person will return to their hiding place.”

“It's not a very good one.”

“Stop arguing and run.” Bob ended our phone call.

Bob was right. The best thing was to hightail it out. A criminal without a well-thought out scheme was just as dangerous as one with a great plan. And if my assumption on the who was correct—Morgan—he'd already let me know what he had devised for me. He could kill me, then plant enough evidence in the car to frame me for the poor woman's murder.

I scrambled way out from the bushes and weeds. The truck and trailer loomed before me. Morgan, or whoever owned the car, would notice a truck almost kissing bumpers with their “hidden” vehicle. I had to back the trailer up.

I yanked opened the door. Grabbing the strap above the door, I hauled myself inside. As I pivoted to get seated, someone shoved me. I fell against the steering. My breath whooshed out.

“Quick, move over,” Bob said.

I smacked his arm then moved myself into the passenger seat. I rubbed the sore spot on my chest.

“Sorry,” he said.

Before I settled into the seat, Bob zipped the truck backwards. I pitched forward, bracing my hands on the dashboard. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No.” Bob expertly navigated our mobile store unit out of the alleyway. “But Ted will kill me when he finds out I got you involved in this.”

“Actually, I'm doing all of this on my own free will. The best person to keep me out of jail is me.”

Bob cast a quick look in my direction. “Care to explain that?”

I didn't get a good read on his expression, but I needed to tell someone and my options were limited. And as Bob said, he did get me into this. “You're looking at the prime suspect of the hit-and-run.”

“Are you sure Steve is the only one who hit his head on the asphalt?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes.”

“How can you be a suspect when you were almost run down by the same vehicle? Detective Bell might be annoying, and hardheaded, but he's not an idiot. He's going to know that there's no way you could've been driving that car.”

“Apparently, I hired the person driving the car.” How could Bob hold a conversation and maneuver the truck and trailer backwards? I had trouble just getting the mammoth beast to move forward down the alley. Bob managed to turn around and park it with the truck facing out. The end of the trailer almost touched the bumper of the hidden vehicle.

“It sounds like you heard this theory from someone, and I want to know who. It doesn't sound like something Bell would say.” Bob turned off the engine.

I squirmed in the seat. “Well, he says he's an FBI agent but I'm not sure I believe him.”

Bob's head jerked toward me. “What?”

“That car behind us looks lived in, and the FBI doesn't threaten people to get confessions. At least I don't think so. It's not like I've ever had a run-in with them.”

“Threatened you?” Bob's expression darkened. “Who? When?”

“He said his name was Morgan. He followed me into the trailer a little bit ago.”

Bob hissed in a deep breath then released it. “Did you see the guy's badge?”

“He showed me something but I didn't get a good look at it.”

“Here's what we're going to, you're going to go back inside. I'll come in about twenty minutes later—”

“We're going to leave the trailer here? Won't that let the guy know we've found his getaway vehicle?”

“If you're right, I don't want it easy for him to take off.” Bob pocketed the keys. “I'm going to bring the keys to you and make a production of it. If this guy is going to come after someone, it'll be me.”

“I don't want you putting yourself in danger because of me.”

“I'm not. I placed the danger on you, so it's only right for me to take it back.”

“Do you think the killer is hanging around here because he wants to get rid of all the witnesses? Or is it just about making sure the police have a viable suspect? Why not take off?”

“Those are questions I'll work on answering. You just concentrate on keeping an eye out for the ID thief in case she and the victim aren't one and the same.”

My stomach rocked and rolled. “Could he have killed an innocent woman by mistake?”

Bob gently squeezed my shoulder then patted my arm. “I got this, Faith. I won't let you go to jail for murder.”

“I'm more worried about someone else getting hurt.”

“We're going to do our best to make sure that doesn't happen. I'll deal with this Morgan guy. You keep an eye out for the woman trying to become someone else.”

“I think I know who they're trying to become.”

Bob raised his eyebrows and stared at me.

I told him about the missing album.

“I'll put some safety measures in place for your grandmothers. If anyone tries to get credit in their name, I'll get a notification.” Bob reached across me and pushed open the passenger door. “You should get before the guy, or whoever owns the car, comes back.”

“I'm thinking—”

“Don't,” Bob cut me off. “I've heard from Ted about what happens when you go off thinking.”

“What I'm thinking,” I continued on anyway, “is that the woman killed drove one of the cars out front. I'll get pictures of the license, and you run them.”

“I hate to admit it, but that's a good idea. Send the pictures to Ted. I'll go take a look at the concealed sedan and see if I can find out who owns it, and also more about this Morgan.”

“Shouldn't we tell Detective Bell about our theories?”

“First, I need to find out if Morgan is actually an FBI agent. If he is, and is here to work against the law and not for it, I can't tip him off by going to Bell. The agent could easily get a hold of any information the police have. Bell won't believe me—or you—without hard proof.”

Bob and I parted ways. He headed for the thicket of bushes. I walked into the parking lot, keeping a careful eye out for Morgan, or the owner of the car parked in the weeds. There was a chance I was wrong and those people weren't one and the same. And if one of my theories was right, the killer might have a couple of more people on their list.

The person who hit the woman backed up and ran her over again. Someone harbored a lot of anger toward the victim. Maybe the woman deliberately didn't carry identification because it was important no one knew her name. I'd guess having your identity stolen and the ensuing havoc would send someone over the edge. Bob had said the last person's name she stole was displeased enough to kill the ID thief.

Then why was my grandmothers' album missing? Croppers didn't go around stealing other's completed scrapbooks. I had no proof it was stolen. The album might be mixed up in packing materials, or among the product on the shelves or table.

A group of four women, weighed down my totes, headed inside the conference center. Two cars were parked in the unloading zone. No one was lingering outside. I needed to get my pictures before that changed. I slipped my cell phone from my pocket and headed to the last row of cars. The woman had come from that general area so I'd start with those vehicles and work my way around the parking lot.

I didn't know how much time I had for this mission so I needed to plan wisely. I passed one car and then squatted down beside the one next to it. I wanted to get a good shot and figured if I placed myself in the middle of three cars, I'd get three pictures before I had to move.

Unfortunately, my well-thought out plan was short lived as most of the cars weren't parked in clusters of three, and people continued driving into the lot. I did my best to act like taking photos in a parking lot was normal.

Scrambling around, I snapped some more pictures of the license. My eye was drawn to an out of state plate. Florida. Long way to come for a crop. I knelt down and focused my cell on the plate.

A throat cleared behind me. “What are you doing?”

I glanced up. A woman wearing oversized sunglasses, jeans, and a purple t-shirt stared at me. Her hair was hidden underneath a baseball cap though a few blonde wisps dangled at her cheek.

“Looking for my room key. I dropped it out here.” I pretended to pick something up. “Here it is.”

“Why do you need your cell phone?”

“I was updating my Facebook status. I know I should turn my phone off for the weekend but I can't manage without it.” I hung my head down and continued rambling. “I told myself it's only so I can accept credit cards and here I am hiding out in the parking lot so my boyfriend doesn't know I can't handle staying away from social media longer than fifteen minutes.”

“I recommend you don't hide out here, you can get hit by a car that way. People should pay attention to their surroundings at all times.” The woman walked over to a large sedan a few cars over.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket then jogged over to our trailer. It had been awhile since Steve went up the room and I wanted to check on him. After making sure Morgan wasn't around, I collected my purse and Steve's bag from the cab of the truck.

I hustled my way into the building and headed for the elevator. My shoulder ached from the weight of the straps tugging on it. Steve's bag was a lot heavier than it looked. Or maybe it was all the electronic gadgets I “needed” to bring to the scrapbooking retreat that were in my tote: my reading Kindle, my watch-movies-and—get-on-the-Internet Kindle, a paperback book in case I grew tired of looking at a screen, my iPod as I didn't want to drain the battery of my cell phone listening to music, and of course all the chargers.

The only item I'd probably take out of the bag this weekend was my phone, which I now carried in my back pocket, but I hadn't wanted to leave one of my devices behind and then find I had time to use it. I pressed the elevator button and the door immediately opened. Someone pushed their way past me, knocking me forward.

I tumbled into the elevator, the extra weight on my shoulders bringing me to my knees. I shot my hands out to keep my face from meeting the floor. “Hey!”

“What were you doing?” Morgan grabbed my arm and yanked me up.

Get out!
The voice of reason screamed in my head. Morgan was a volatile situation in the making, and I had no idea why.

He hit the door closed button, and placed his hand over the keypad. The other hand yanked at my arm.

“Hold up.” I slipped the straps of the bags off and pulled away from him. “What is with all the pushing and shoving all the time? Just because you work for the government doesn't mean you get to be grabby.” Or say you do.

“Were you out there planting evidence? Trying to find the next victim to blame your crime on?”

“The car that killed her almost ran me over. There's no way I drove a car that almost hit me.”

“Victimhood. The story of your life.” Morgan pressed his hand into my shoulder, pinning me to the back of the elevator. His other hand stayed over the door close button. “Make this easy on yourself and fess up.”

I shoved Morgan's hand away from me. “I have nothing to fess up to.”

He reached out and twisted a strand of my hair around his finger. “You think I'm the only one who has connected your past to your present crime solving activities. I've been keeping track of you for a while now. And I'm not the only one.”

Tears clogged my throat. I blinked a few times, swallowing hard to get rid of the building pressure. Who else knew, and planned on using it against me? No. Stay focused. People like Morgan thrived on fear. The only way out of this situation was being strong. There was no reason to trust anything the man said.

My silence encouraged Morgan. He grinned at me, relaxing his hold. His hand moved from my shoulder down my arm. “Some physical affection might change my mind also.”

I averted my eyes, not wanting to look into his lustful gaze.

“Good girl. Behave yourself and you'll stay safe.”

He was lying. I knew it. If I don't show some fire and spunk, he'd steamroll right over me. The biggest fear in my life was Steve and my grandmothers finding out about my past. About Adam. It was time I snatched the power away from those who wanted to hurt me.

I slapped Morgan's hand off of me. “There's nothing to connect between me and any murders. If you want to tell Steve and my friends about my past, go right ahead. Maybe I'll tell them myself.”

“Maybe I should make sure you are who you say you are.” Morgan shoved his hand into my purse and yanked out my wallet. “It's not like you haven't rewritten your past already.”

“Who else would I be?” I tried keeping my gaze from the free keypad. Would I have time to get the door open and get out?

Morgan looked at my driver's license then dropped my wallet back into my purse. “An identity thief.”

He was also looking for the identity thief, and thought he'd find her by threatening me. Play it cool. Get out and find Bob. “So either I'm this murderer, or I'm someone else. You can't have it both ways. Either I'm Faith Hunter or I'm not.”