Read Online Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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growl, the thunder of a man running . . . furniture crashed—or was it the sound of an axe shattering a door? Then, from what might have been outside, floated a wild howl of pain. Animal or man, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care.
I peeked around the door, then sprinted to my truck. Not until I was almost to Burnt Store Road did I use my cell to call 911—the whole time checking the mirror, afraid I was still being chased.
Standing amid a fireworks of flashing blue lights, I said to a detective, “I’ve already sat in the back of two squad cars and answered that very same question. I don’t feel like sitting. And don’t see the point of repeating myself.”
The most troubling question, out of the dozens I’d been asked, was, “Are you sure you saw something in the sink?” Two detectives and a sheriff’s deputy had varied the wording, of course. “Tell me again about that wig.” And, “In a dark room, what caused you to think the hair was human?” And, “How did you know the water was bloody if you couldn’t find a light switch?”
I hadn’t said
bloody
, I had said
reddish-colored
, so it had been an attempt to trick me. Not the first or last either.
The questions by themselves weren’t upsetting, but the fact I was being asked so delicately, and repeatedly, told me what the police would not: the sink had been empty when they arrived. Nor had the pit bulls returned, and maybe the wreckage in the living room had been removed, too. No way to guess specifics, but I was convinced that someone had returned to the house and neatened up the crime scene. They’d had time to do a good job, too, which was my fault. I had refused to park at the intersection of Pay Day Road and await help as the operator had insisted—sit there alone and risk the axe man having a fast truck or ATV? Nope. Instead, I’d driven straight to a Publix parking lot, six miles away, where there were bright lights and witnesses. Even police GPSes didn’t list the pot hauler’s nickname for what amounted to a long driveway, so thirty minutes or more had lapsed by the time I’d led police back to the old Helms place.
“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Mrs. Smith,” the detective was saying now. “It’s procedure. People under stress sometimes forget details. Sometimes even imagine details that—”
“It’s
Ms.
Smith,” I interrupted. “And I didn’t imagine a door beaten down with an axe. And I didn’t imagine the man who tried to kill me with that same axe.”
“The
same
axe?” the detective said, trying to draw me out by sounding intrigued.
I ignored him by offering advice. “As to the pit bulls, take a walk around the yard, then be sure to check your shoes before you step in a car. Detective? I don’t care if you believe me or not. Find Rosanna Helms, that’s all I care about. Someone broke into that poor woman’s house and there’s no telling what they did to her.”
The man frowned and started to say, “Ms. Smith, it’s not my job to believe—” but then stopped to concentrate on a radio message by touching a finger to his ear. I listened to him say, “Yeah . . . Yeah—if you say so.” Then, “Yeah, well, I’m not crazy about the idea, but—” Then, “Sheriff, if that’s what you want, no problem. She’s right here.” Then the detective stood taller, looking for landmarks, saying, “We’re by the house, the whole perimeter’s taped off, so we’re standing in the drive by the . . . Well, hell, if he knows the woman, he’ll recognize her, right?”
I wondered who it was who knew me, while the detective, looking peeved, adjusted a knob on the transceiver in his breast pocket. “There’s someone wants to speak with you,” he said finally. “He’s on his way.”
“A relative of Mrs. Helms?” I asked.
The man shook his head. “You’re welcome to sit in my car. The mosquitoes, I spent a couple of nights camping on Cayo Costa, but they weren’t this damn bad. How about a
I peeked around the door, then sprinted to my truck. Not until I was almost to Burnt Store Road did I use my cell to call 911—the whole time checking the mirror, afraid I was still being chased.
Standing amid a fireworks of flashing blue lights, I said to a detective, “I’ve already sat in the back of two squad cars and answered that very same question. I don’t feel like sitting. And don’t see the point of repeating myself.”
The most troubling question, out of the dozens I’d been asked, was, “Are you sure you saw something in the sink?” Two detectives and a sheriff’s deputy had varied the wording, of course. “Tell me again about that wig.” And, “In a dark room, what caused you to think the hair was human?” And, “How did you know the water was bloody if you couldn’t find a light switch?”
I hadn’t said
bloody
, I had said
reddish-colored
, so it had been an attempt to trick me. Not the first or last either.
The questions by themselves weren’t upsetting, but the fact I was being asked so delicately, and repeatedly, told me what the police would not: the sink had been empty when they arrived. Nor had the pit bulls returned, and maybe the wreckage in the living room had been removed, too. No way to guess specifics, but I was convinced that someone had returned to the house and neatened up the crime scene. They’d had time to do a good job, too, which was my fault. I had refused to park at the intersection of Pay Day Road and await help as the operator had insisted—sit there alone and risk the axe man having a fast truck or ATV? Nope. Instead, I’d driven straight to a Publix parking lot, six miles away, where there were bright lights and witnesses. Even police GPSes didn’t list the pot hauler’s nickname for what amounted to a long driveway, so thirty minutes or more had lapsed by the time I’d led police back to the old Helms place.
“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Mrs. Smith,” the detective was saying now. “It’s procedure. People under stress sometimes forget details. Sometimes even imagine details that—”
“It’s
Ms.
Smith,” I interrupted. “And I didn’t imagine a door beaten down with an axe. And I didn’t imagine the man who tried to kill me with that same axe.”
“The
same
axe?” the detective said, trying to draw me out by sounding intrigued.
I ignored him by offering advice. “As to the pit bulls, take a walk around the yard, then be sure to check your shoes before you step in a car. Detective? I don’t care if you believe me or not. Find Rosanna Helms, that’s all I care about. Someone broke into that poor woman’s house and there’s no telling what they did to her.”
The man frowned and started to say, “Ms. Smith, it’s not my job to believe—” but then stopped to concentrate on a radio message by touching a finger to his ear. I listened to him say, “Yeah . . . Yeah—if you say so.” Then, “Yeah, well, I’m not crazy about the idea, but—” Then, “Sheriff, if that’s what you want, no problem. She’s right here.” Then the detective stood taller, looking for landmarks, saying, “We’re by the house, the whole perimeter’s taped off, so we’re standing in the drive by the . . . Well, hell, if he knows the woman, he’ll recognize her, right?”
I wondered who it was who knew me, while the detective, looking peeved, adjusted a knob on the transceiver in his breast pocket. “There’s someone wants to speak with you,” he said finally. “He’s on his way.”
“A relative of Mrs. Helms?” I asked.
The man shook his head. “You’re welcome to sit in my car. The mosquitoes, I spent a couple of nights camping on Cayo Costa, but they weren’t this damn bad. How about a
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