UNEASY PREY Read online

  “Not yet.” Zoe wasn’t about to discuss the various closed-head injuries that could be at play. “Janie, is there an outside entrance to the basement? Some way we could bring your grandma out other than up these stairs?”

  The question seemed to take Janie by surprise. She blinked. “Oh. Yeah. Around the back.”

  Zoe slapped Seth’s arm. “Give me a hand?”

  “You bet.”

  It took another fifteen minutes or so to ready Oriole for extrication from the basement. With the broken or dislocated shoulder immobilized, the leg velcroed into a splint, a cervical collar firmly in place, and Oriole secured to a backboard, Zoe, Earl, and Seth carried their patient and their equipment up five steps and through the exterior bulkhead to the waiting stretcher.

  Janie stood to one side, her gloved hands folded and pressed to her mouth. Zoe wasn’t sure if she was blowing on them to keep warm or praying. Or both.

  Zoe quickly bundled the old woman against the biting cold as Earl buckled the straps.

  Seth flipped his collar up. “Be careful. I did a quick job of clearing this sidewalk, but it’s still slick. And kinda uneven in places.”

  Not to mention the two exterior lights on the house—one on the front porch and one above the bulkhead doors—didn’t cast much illumination on the side of the house.

  Seth and Earl flanked the head of the stretcher while Zoe guided from the foot of it. “Let’s go,” she said.

  Moving slowly, the processional made it to the rear of the ambulance with Janie shadowing them. They were about to roll Oriole into the patient compartment when a voice carried to them from farther up the hill.

  “Hey! Wait. What’s going on?” A streetlight revealed a shadowy figure picking his way toward them, waving one arm.

  “Oh, no.” Janie started toward him. She paused to gesture to Zoe. “Go on. Take care of Gram. I’ll deal with him.”

  The older gentleman had made it to the edge of the yard before Janie reached him. His voice sliced through the cold. “What’s wrong with Oriole?”

  “Go home, Trout,” Janie said. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “No, she’s not all right. If she was, she wouldn’t need an ambulance.”

  Zoe and Earl pushed the stretcher into the ambulance and locked it in place. “I’ll drive,” Earl said.

  “You guys okay?” Seth asked. “I’m gonna go see what’s going on with Mr. Troutman.”

  “Go,” Zoe said. “And thanks for the help.” She climbed in beside Oriole as the officer jogged away and Earl slammed the door.

  Once the ambulance reached the bottom of the hill and made the turn onto Route 15, the ride smoothed out enough for Zoe to take another set of vitals. The heart monitor still revealed a steady rhythm, but the rate was slightly faster than it had been at the house. She checked Oriole’s blood pressure. One-twenty over seventy. Zoe wished all her patients had a BP like that. Once again, Zoe patted the elderly woman’s cheeks. “Oriole? Oriole? Can you hear me?”

  Still nothing.

  The trip to Brunswick Hospital usually took a half hour. At least the roads were dry.

  About fifteen uneventful minutes passed with Zoe keeping an eye on the zigzagging lines dancing across the heart monitor’s screen. Every sway of the ambulance, every pothole added a squiggle; however, she could at least tell Oriole’s pulse was regular.

  But it was slowing. Gradually. At first, the decreased heart rate hadn’t alarmed Zoe. She’d expected it to level out.

  It wasn’t.

  She plugged the stethoscope into her ears, pressed the diaphragm to the inside of Oriole’s elbow. Pumped up the cuff. Released the valve slowly. Listened. And watched the gauge.

  One-oh-six over sixty-four.

  Zoe didn’t like it. At all. She removed the stethoscope from her ears and reached for the radio. Time to confer with the ER doc at Brunswick. Before Zoe could punch in the hospital’s frequency, Oriole moaned.

  Zoe set down the mic and leaned over so she was directly in the older woman’s line of sight. “Oriole? Can you hear me?”

  She moaned again. “Yeah.” Her eyelids fluttered. Opened. Her eyes shifted as if trying to find something. Then they settled on Zoe. “What—where am I?”

  “You’re in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. I’m Zoe Chambers. How are you feeling?”

  Another moan. “Been better.”

  “Well, we’re taking good care of you. You just rest. You’re gonna be fine.”

  Oriole closed her eyes for a moment, wincing in pain. When she opened them again, she fixed Zoe with a confused stare. “I remember you.” Her face relaxed. “You’re one of Janie’s friends. And you helped me before.”

  Zoe gave her a smile. “Yes, I did.”

  “I gave you some vegetables. From my garden. You and that young man with you.”

  “That’s right.” Nothing wrong with Oriole’s memory.

  The woman’s gaze shifted again, inspecting as much of the ambulance interior as she could with her head and neck immobilized. “What happened?”

  Zoe rested a hand on Oriole’s wrist. A comforting gesture. But also a chance to check her pulse. “You fell down your basement steps.”

  “I fell?” Oriole puzzled over the news.

  Her heart rate was definitely elevated, and harder to palpate. Zoe stuck the stethoscope into her ears just as Oriole said something. Zoe removed the earpieces. “I’m sorry. What?”

  The woman’s face had paled even more. “I said I didn’t fall.”

  Zoe sighed. The elderly often hated to admit to their frailty. And arguing would only upset the woman.

  “Didn’t fall,” Oriole repeated. “I was pushed.”

  “Pushed? What do you mean?”

  But Oriole’s eyes rolled back in her head and her eyelids fluttered shut.

  “Oriole? Oriole?”

  Even with all the extraneous tracings from movement, Zoe could see the irregularities of her patient’s heart rhythm. She jammed the stethoscope into her ears and took another reading.

  Eighty over fifty-two.

  Zoe slid across the bench and slammed open the sliding door between the patient and driver compartments. “Earl,” she called. “Move it. She’s crashing!”

  TWO

  Freshly showered, attired in his favorite jeans and sweatshirt, and starving for supper, Pete Adams flipped on the kitchen light. One of Zoe’s orange tabbies blinked at him from the counter.

  “What are you doing there?” Pete asked the cat. Then he realized he was talking to an animal. When had he started doing that? He scooped up the feline and deposited it on the floor by its half-full food bowl.

  Zoe could tell the two apart. He couldn’t. All he knew was one had some white on it. The other didn’t. And one was female, the other male. Pete didn’t care enough to check. He just called them both “Cat.”

  This one looked up at him with accusatory green eyes and meowed.

  “You have food.” Pete, however, did not.

  In the eight weeks since Zoe had moved in with him, this was the first evening he had to fend for himself in the supper department. He had to admit, it was nice coming home from a day on duty as police chief in Vance Township to a hot meal. Zoe wasn’t exactly a gourmet chef, but she made a mean roasted chicken. Tonight, though, she was back on her regular EMS shift, and the house felt empty.

  The tabby meowed again.

  Empty except for the cats.

  Pete opened the refrigerator and stared at the contents. A six-pack of beer, some pizza in a zipper storage bag, and a couple of microwave bowls with lids stared back. He pulled out one of the mystery bowls and was about to thumb the lid open when someone knocked on his door.

  He stuck the bowl back in the fridge. Who the hell was on his porch at seven o’cloc
k at night? Not a resident in need of police help, or one of his officers would have phoned. Even Sylvia Bassi down the street wouldn’t simply drop in after dark.

  He hit the switch for the outside light and opened the door. “Nadine?”

  The presence of his sister was a red flag on its own. The strained expression on her face dropped a lead weight on Pete’s heart.

  He held the storm door for her and moved out of her way. “Is Pop okay?”

  “No, he’s not okay. He’s got Alzheimer’s. He’s never okay.”

  Pete closed the door on the biting cold that had escorted Nadine inside. Pointing out that their father’s dementia was nothing new didn’t seem like the right way to calm down his drama-queen sibling. “Is that why you’re here?”

  She shed her winter coat and slung it over one of the kitchen chairs. “You got a cat?” She sounded astonished.

  “Two, actually.”

  Nadine wandered toward the tabby. It looked up at her and meowed. She scanned the counters, the stovetop, the sink, and the dishes stacked in the drainer before swinging around to look at Pete. “You have a woman living here.” It was a statement of fact. Not a question.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “No dirty pots or plates piled everywhere. And you never had a cat in your life.” Nadine arched an eyebrow. “Zoe?”

  Pete didn’t exactly care to go into the details of his personal life. “Why are you here, Sis? What’s wrong with Pop? Besides the Alzheimer’s, I mean.”

  Nadine picked up the cat and stroked its head. “Can’t I just drop in for a visit?”

  “You never drop in for a visit. The last time you showed up unannounced, you brought Pop along and left him with me.” Pete’s own words gave him a momentary jolt of panic. “He’s not out in the car, is he?”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Of course not. It’s twelve degrees out there.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  Nadine held the cat closer, letting it snuggle under her chin. “I am here about Dad. He’s getting harder and harder for me to handle. My blood pressure is through the roof. I’m not sleeping because he wanders all night.” She swallowed. “I’ve made a decision. I’m putting him in an assisted-living facility.”

  “A nursing home?”

  She cringed. “Not a ‘nursing’ home. It’s a nice place. Or it looks nice from their website.”

  Pete opened his mouth, ready to chastise her for wanting to dump their father in a home. And for picking one from pictures on the computer. But he stopped and took a long look at his sister. The dark circles under her eyes. The sag of her shoulders. And when had she let her hair go gray? Pete softened his stance. “You should check it out, you know. Don’t rely on what you see on their website.”

  “That’s really why I’m here.” Nadine lowered the cat to the floor and stood a little taller. “I have an appointment to tour the place tomorrow morning. I want to take Dad. And I want you to come along too.”

  “Me?” Pete squirmed inside. “You know I’m on duty. I might be able to come into Pittsburgh tomorrow night.”

  “Nighttime won’t work. Pop’s sundowning is getting worse. And your work shouldn’t be a big issue. The place I have in mind is in Brunswick.”

  “Why Brunswick? I thought you’d want to at least have him close to you.”

  “I’ve had him close to me for a couple of years now. To be honest, I need some distance. And this way he’ll be a lot closer to you.”

  Pete wondered if he was imagining the accusatory tone in her voice. You get to take over caring for Pop. You won’t be able to make excuses for not spending time with him anymore. Pete didn’t need Nadine’s criticism. His own guilt cut deeper than anything his sister could say. “What’s the name of the place?”

  “Golden Oaks Assisted Living.” She stepped around the cat, dug a business card from her jeans pocket, and set it on the kitchen table. “The street address and website is on there. Our tour is scheduled for ten o’clock.” The look she gave him said don’t be late. “I’d suggest you check it out online before we get there.”

  Pete fingered the card without picking it up. “What’s Pop think about this?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not really. You aren’t planning to just dump him there without him knowing what’s going on, are you?”

  A flash of anger sparked in her pale blue eyes. “I’m not dumping him anywhere. Of all the—”

  Pete held up both hands. “Bad choice of words. I’m sorry. But I can’t believe he’s okay with this.”

  “He will be. He has to be.” The anger faded to something else. Something Pete recognized. Guilt. The same as he felt when he didn’t spend as much time with their father as he should.

  “I’ll be there. If something comes up, I’ll call you.”

  She shook a finger at him. “Nothing better come up.”

  As if on cue, Pete’s cell phone rang.

  Nadine raised her voice. “And if it does, you’re the police chief, for crying out loud. Have one of your officers handle it.”

  Zoe’s photo flashed on the phone’s screen. Pete turned his back to his sister and thumbed the green button. “How’s your first night back at work?”

  “Not so great.” Zoe’s voice sounded strained. “I think I need to report an assault.”

  Seth was already waiting at Oriole Andrews’ front door when Pete arrived. “Have you gone back inside yet?”

  “No, sir. I locked up for Mrs. Andrews’ granddaughter once the ambulance left.” Seth held up a key ring. “She told me I should hold onto this since it’s a spare.”

  “Any sign of forced entry?”

  “None. I walked the perimeter of the house. The doors are all locked and appear undisturbed.”

  Pete looked at the uneven pavement leading from the street to the porch. “Someone cleared the snow, so we can’t tell about footprints.”

  Seth made a face. “That was me, Chief. Sorry. I didn’t want the ambulance crew to stumble when they were bringing Mrs. Andrews out.”

  “Were there many tracks before you cleared it?”

  “Kinda. I didn’t know I was dealing with a crime scene.” Seth lowered his head. “I screwed up.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Pete might have done the same thing. He noted the letter box next to the door. The mail carrier would have come and gone. Zoe and Earl. The granddaughter. And Seth. But who else?

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” the young officer asked, his voice tense. “Those con men?”

  “Yeah.”

  Two weeks ago, Janie Baker had called Pete to this very house. She’d been exasperated with her grandmother—and terrified for her at the same time. A generic white van had stopped when Oriole was home alone, and a man from the van came to the door claiming to be with the water company. She let him in and took him to the basement at his request, supposedly to check the pressure.

  “I’ve told her and told her to never let a stranger in the house.” Janie shook her head in frustration.

  Oriole shrugged. “He was polite.”

  Apparently nothing had been stolen. Pete impressed upon the elderly woman the importance of being wary of strangers. “Don’t answer the door,” he told her. “Call 911 if anyone knocks. We don’t mind checking things out. It’s our job.”

  Oriole had grinned. Pete didn’t believe for a minute she’d pay one bit of attention to his warnings. And now he feared these fake water-company employees may have returned. With devastating results.

  Pete dug the camera from his evidence-collection kit and photographed the door, zooming in on the unmarred lock. “Open it,” he told Seth.

  Careful not to smudge any fingerprints, Pete hit the light switch with a gloved hand. The old house smelled dank, as if the windows hadn’t been opened in a decade
. A fine layer of dust coated everything from the side tables to the upholstered furniture.

  “What do you want me to do, Chief?” Seth asked.

  “Run tape around the yard. The county crime investigators are on their way. I’m going to photograph the interior.” And keep his eyes open for anything that looked out of place.

  Seth jogged off to get the crime-scene tape from his car. Alone in the house, Pete snapped pictures. Large-scale shots of the living room, dining room, and kitchen as well as tight shots of the ancient television, the marred dining table, and the ancient gas stove. Calling any of it vintage would be kind. Dilapidated was more accurate.

  Nothing set off his infamous gut.

  He made his way to the hallway leading to the basement door. At the end of it sat an antique-looking dresser, its drawers slightly askew, as if someone had closed them in a hurry. Had Oriole interrupted the thieves going through it?

  Behind Pete a floorboard creaked. Seth or the county guys would have made their presence known upon entering. Pete straightened. Holding the camera in his left hand and keeping the right one on his sidearm, he spun.

  “Holy shit,” the old man at the far end of the hall yelped, clutching his chest. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  Pete relaxed. Slightly. “I could say the same thing. Mr. Troutman, isn’t it?”

  “Alfred Troutman. Yes, sir.” He gave a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know if it’s a good thing or bad that the chief of police knows my name.”

  “What are you doing in here, Mr. Troutman?” And where was Seth, who should have stopped him outside?

  “Trout, please. Everyone just calls me Trout.”

  Pete fixed him with a stern gaze but didn’t repeat the question.

  “Oh, uh. I didn’t realize you were in here.”

  “You said that already. Why are you in here?”

  Trout worked his hands as if washing them with invisible soap and water. “I saw the lights. Thought maybe Oriole had come home from the hospital.” He glanced around. “Is she here?”

  “No. She’s still in the hospital.”

  “Oh. Is she okay?”