UNEASY PREY Read online

  Merlin, one of Zoe’s two orange tabbies, leapt into her lap, demanding attention.

  Sylvia set two plates, each containing a monster-sized sandwich of lunchmeat, cheese, lettuce, pickles, and mayo on wheat, next to the computer. She sneezed. “Damn cat.”

  Zoe deposited Merlin on the floor with a gentle “shoo.” He gave her a green-eyed glare and sauntered to his food dish.

  Dabbing at her nose with a tissue, Sylvia pulled a chair around from the other side and took a seat shoulder to shoulder with Zoe. “Eat. You’ll feel better with some food in your stomach.”

  Zoe shot a look at her. “But will you? Are you okay?”

  Sylvia pointed at the cat and mumbled something into the tissue.

  “We could have gone to your house.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Zoe knew the break-in weighed heavily on the older woman. She might want to be home, but the vacant spots on the shelves served as constant reminders of strangers rummaging through her things. “I can lock Merlin and Jade in the bedroom.”

  “It won’t help.” Sylvia tucked the tissue into her sleeve and picked up her sandwich.

  Zoe brought her focus back to her computer, pulled up Google, and typed in “Lauren Sanders.”

  Sylvia took a bite and pointed at the images that popped up. “That’s not her.”

  “Different Lauren Sanders.” Zoe scrolled down past several references to a Detroit TV news personality until she came to another reporter with the name. “There she is.”

  Once they’d found the correct one, the links about her were numerous. Zoe started at the top and clicked.

  Sylvia leaned in, reading over Zoe’s shoulder. “Are you sure that’s the right one?”

  The article was from a Philadelphia paper and dealt with the downfall of a major drug ring. The byline and the small headshot next to it were definitely their Lauren Sanders. “Yep.”

  More links took them to different issues of the same paper. Some were major crime stories, front page, above the fold. Others were multi-part features, delving deeper into stories of human trafficking, elder abuse, and gangs.

  “Are you sure that’s the same Lauren Sanders?” Sylvia asked again.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Look.” Zoe clicked a link that brought up the reporter’s bio and an enlarged version of the headshot. A few years younger, but clearly the woman who had helped in the barn yesterday.

  Sylvia set down her sandwich, wiped her hands on a paper napkin, and angled the laptop to face her. “You eat. I’ll read.”

  As if Zoe couldn’t manage both. Then again, the glare from the screen was definitely aggravating her headache. “Okay.” She slid the computer even closer to Sylvia and placed her plate in the warm spot left behind.

  “According to this, she studied journalism at Northwestern University, graduating near the top of her class. She worked at several top newspapers in Boston and New York earlier in her career before settling in Philly.”

  “How old is that bio?” Zoe asked around a bite of baloney and Muenster.

  Sylvia squinted at the screen. “This one is from five years ago.”

  “Try to find out when and why she left.”

  After a half hour of searching and clicking links, as well as sliding the laptop back and forth between them, they managed to ascertain that Sanders’ final article with the Philadelphia paper covered a deep-reaching police corruption case. Then nothing. No more bylines. And no explanation for her disappearance. If she’d been fired, they’d kept it under wraps.

  Sylvia rose and stacked the empty plates. “It’s like she vanished from the earth two years ago.”

  Zoe scrolled down a little further and found a more recent post. “No. Not from the earth. Just from Philly.”

  “Oh?”

  “Here’s something dated last month. A piece she did in the Enterprise about the Christmas party at the Kid’s Center.”

  “From police corruption to kids’ parties. How far the mighty have fallen.” Sylvia turned to face Zoe. “How long has the Enterprise been in business? Couldn’t have been more than a couple months.”

  Zoe typed Phillipsburg Enterprise into the search bar and skimmed through the results. “Looks like the first issue came out the first week in December.”

  Sylvia nodded thoughtfully and turned back to the sink.

  While Sylvia washed dishes, Zoe continued her online probe, searching for Lauren Sanders on various social media sites. One pulled up at least a dozen accounts for the name, none of which seemed a likely match. Another only showed the wrong Lauren Sanders. And another offered nothing at all.

  Sylvia was right. It seemed the reporter dropped off the globe two years ago only to reappear last month.

  Zoe’s headache had eased, either from the food or from the distraction. Her brain was still fogged, but not enough to stop her from wondering what had brought down a journalistic superstar. And why would someone with her credentials be working at the fledgling Phillipsburg Enterprise?

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was Seth’s turn to host the weekly Saturday night poker circle. Pete provided the transportation for Zoe and Sylvia, although he wondered how long they’d be able to stay. Zoe still looked and acted dazed, but in spite of his suggestion that she skip the game, she insisted on going. When he called her hardheaded, she grinned and said she’d heard that somewhere before.

  At least he could keep an eye on her.

  Seth rented the bottom floor of a two-story company house, walking distance from the police station. Back in the early 1900s, Dillard Coal Company had built rows of the cookie-cutter homes for its workers and their families. Over the last century, some had been razed. Others remodeled beyond recognition. But a handful of the blockish structures remained. Seth’s place was one of them. Some might consider the buildings ugly. Pete saw them as historic. Charming.

  The interior, however, had seen remodel after remodel. Walls torn down. New ones dividing large rooms into smaller ones. And doors everywhere. If Pete had owned the place, he’d have gutted it and started from scratch.

  Seth seemed content with his bachelor pad apartment though. His kitchen counter overflowed with the food and beverages brought by the poker players. Pizza, chips, jugs of pop, and a case of beer.

  Zoe’s partner, Earl, arrived a few minutes later. He shook Pete’s hand and eyed Zoe. “You will go to any lengths to cut out of work, won’t you?”

  She touched the bandage on her head. “Yep. I got spoiled being off with my knee. Thought I’d try something different this time.”

  Pete chuckled. At least the concussion hadn’t diminished her sense of humor.

  The final member of their group, Bruce Yancy, the burly former township fire chief, shuffled in lugging a case of water. Everyone except Sylvia filled paper plates, grabbed their beverage of choice, and settled around Seth’s dining room table.

  Pete eyed Sylvia. “You’re not eating?”

  “Not hungry.” She rubbed her stomach. “The sandwich I had for lunch gave me indigestion.” She shot a look at Zoe. “And her cats still have me wheezing.”

  “You both could’ve gone to your house.”

  Zoe leaned toward him, bumping his shoulder with hers. “She didn’t want to.”

  “Ah.” He got it. “Say no more.”

  Yancy sat across from Zoe and gestured at the bandage. “You should be home resting, young lady.”

  She swept a hand around the table, pointing at each of them. “Two cops, the county’s best paramedic, a mother hen, and my favorite fireman. Do you seriously think I’d be safer anywhere else?”

  Earl gave a low whistle. “She’s calling me the county’s best paramedic? Her head injury must be worse than we thought.”

  Seth nudged Yancy. “Besides, if she’s not thinking straight, we might actually win some of her money tonight.”
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br />   The good-natured banter settled down for a couple of hands. Pete quickly decided Seth was right about Zoe’s diminished poker skills. At least no one at the table was greedy enough to take total advantage of her bad bets.

  As Sylvia won the pot for the third hand, she set her gaze on Pete. “Have you found out anything about Lauren Sanders?”

  Had Sylvia learned of the deal he’d made with the reporter? He kept his poker face in play. “Didn’t realize I was supposed to be investigating her.”

  Sylvia glowered at him. “Uh-huh.” She waggled a finger between her and Zoe. “Well, we did some digging and uncovered some interesting stuff.”

  “Oh?”

  “Who’s Lauren Sanders?” Yancy asked.

  Pete gathered the cards for his turn to deal. “A reporter with the new newspaper in town.”

  The retired fire chief snorted. “Do they honestly think they can make a go of it?”

  “Apparently.” Pete lifted his gaze to Zoe. “What’d you learn?”

  She and Sylvia took turns telling him about Sanders’ history with the big-city papers.

  “Sounds like she was a media rock star,” Seth said.

  “Yeah.” Zoe restacked her poker chips. “And then she just vanished until she showed up here last month.”

  Pete shuffled the deck, replaying his earlier conversations with Sanders through his mind. Her being a big-deal, big-city reporter made sense. He’d always felt she was in a different sphere from the other news-media types he dealt with. But what the hell was she doing around here? Phillipsburg wasn’t merely a step down. It was a plunge to shame the most daring skydiver.

  “Hey.” Yancy snapped his fingers at Pete. “You gonna let Zoe cut the deck or are you gonna shuffle it until all the ink’s rubbed off?”

  Jarred from his thoughts, he set the cards in front of Zoe, who waved him off. He kept an eye on her as he dealt. Other than the bandage on her head, most people wouldn’t know anything had happened to her. But he noticed little things beyond her usual poker “tells.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked her, keeping his voice low.

  She hesitated, and he knew she was debating an answer he’d believe. “I’m okay. Not great, but okay.” She punctuated the affirmation with a less-than-convincing grin.

  Okay-but-not-great described the hand he’d dealt himself. Earl and Yancy either had terrific cards or were set to bluff their way to the pot. Zoe made no effort to fake it and folded rather than call. She excused herself and headed to the counter piled with food.

  Once everyone had discarded the duds and Pete had filled their requests, he checked his hand and decided to leave the duel to the others. He pushed back his chair and joined Zoe at the pizza boxes.

  “We didn’t get a chance to talk earlier,” he said, again keeping his voice low. “But I have a favor to ask you.”

  She chewed, covering her mouth as she said, “Oh?”

  “Could you talk to that emergency-room doctor—”

  “Dr. Fuller?”

  “Yeah. Could you find out if he’s noticed any ER patients arriving from Golden Oaks who might have suspicious injuries or illnesses?”

  Zoe swallowed and set down the slice of pepperoni pizza. “You’re worried Harry might be on to something?”

  “No. Not really. Maybe.”

  She looked at him expectantly.

  “After you and Sylvia left his room this morning, he did mention his suspicions again.”

  Zoe grinned. “You mean that old fart was faking not remembering?”

  “Who knows.”

  “Sure, I can talk to Dr. Fuller.”

  Pete hesitated asking his next question. “And could you maybe ask Franklin Marshall too?”

  Zoe picked up the pizza slice and eyed it, as if planning her next assault. “Already did.”

  “What?”

  “Before you even moved Harry in, I asked Franklin about the place.”

  Pete had known he was in love with this woman for months. Years maybe, although he hadn’t admitted it even to himself at the time. But at that moment, he fell even deeper in love with her. “You did? What’d he say?”

  “He said he’d never had reason to investigate any death that occurred there.”

  Pete hadn’t realized the weight that had been pressing down on him until Zoe’s words lifted it. He’d have kissed her, but his phone rang.

  There was a momentary silence when he answered. Then a low voice said, “I need to talk to Zoe Chambers.”

  “Who’s calling?” Another silence stretched so long Pete thought the caller may have hung up. “Hello?”

  “I was told I could reach Zoe Chambers at this number.” Something about the voice sounded familiar.

  “You can. But I’d like to be able to tell her who’s calling.”

  “This is Marcus Baker.”

  That’s why the voice sounded familiar. “Just a minute.” Pete handed the phone over to Zoe. “It’s for you. Janie’s boy.”

  She gave him a puzzled look and took the phone. “Hello?” Her expression morphed from perplexed to concerned as she turned and slipped away.

  Pete grabbed a paper plate and a slab of pizza for himself before returning to his seat. As he’d predicted, Sylvia and Seth folded, leaving Earl and Yancy to battle it out. Earl finally called Yancy’s last raise, and the retired fire chief plunked down a full house, kings over nines. Earl muttered a few choice curses, slapping his cards face down on the table.

  Yancy smugly raked in his winnings as Zoe returned and tapped Pete on the shoulder. “I need to talk to you.”

  He didn’t like her tone.

  He excused himself and followed her into Seth’s living room. “Why was Marcus calling you? And on my phone?”

  “Because mine was stolen in the burglary.” Zoe handed the phone back to him. “I’d told Janie to call your number if she needed me. I’m one of the emergency numbers she gave Marcus for when she’s not around, so she must’ve given him your number too. Anyway, he said his mom went shopping in Brunswick, so he and his buddies went out for a walk.”

  Pete had visions of another fight. “What happened?”

  “They were over on Oriole’s street, and he noticed lights on in the house.”

  “In Oriole’s house?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he notice any cars parked around it?”

  Zoe winced. “I didn’t think to ask. Sorry. But he didn’t mention any.”

  Pete handed her his phone again as he grabbed his coat from the pile on one of Seth’s chairs. “Tell Marcus to go home. Do not go into Oriole’s house alone.”

  Zoe waved away the phone. “I already did.”

  Pete pressed a kiss to the swath of gauze on Zoe’s forehead. “That’s my girl. You stay here. It’s probably nothing, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  The station was on the way, so Pete pulled into the lot and ran inside to snag the key Trout had given him from his desk drawer.

  By the time he parked in front of Oriole’s house, the lights had been extinguished. There was no sign of an intruder, no cars parked near the place.

  He grabbed his flashlight and stepped out into the cold, grateful that the air wasn’t as biting as it had been earlier. He aimed the beam at the partially snow-covered walk. No fresh tracks.

  Until he drew closer to the house.

  Smudged boot prints trailed both to and from the front door. About ten feet from the door, the tracks veered off the sidewalk and crossed the yard, headed up the hill.

  Toward Trout’s home.

  Pete knelt to study the prints. He couldn’t tell for sure without a boot to match to them, but the size seemed consistent with what he remembered of the old man’s shoes. What the hell was Trout up to now?

  Pete pulled out his cell phone
and snapped a photo.

  Pocketing the phone, he approached the front door, the key in his gloved hand. He debated the issue of using the key without the granddaughter’s express permission. But the kid had called about a possible intruder. Pete doubted Janie Baker would take him to task for making sure her grandmother’s property was secured.

  He shined the flashlight on the doorknob. No sign of forced entry. He closed his fingers around it and twisted, just in case someone had left it unlocked. But there was no give. He inserted the key. Or tried to. It didn’t want to fit into the slot. Must be one of those cheap copies they make at the hardware stores. After wiggling and angling the thing in different directions, it finally slipped all the way into the lock.

  But when he tried to turn it, the key refused to budge. It wasn’t merely stiff from an imperfect cut job. It wasn’t the right key. Closer inspection revealed no indication of the lock having been changed recently either.

  Pete straightened and gazed up the hill in the direction the fresh boot prints led. Dammit, Trout. What are you up to now?

  Two minutes later, Pete parked his SUV in front of the one-story clapboard residence of Alfred Troutman. Unlike Oriole’s house, lights glowed through curtains, which even from the outside appeared disheveled. Pete trained his flashlight at the path to the front stoop and the perfect boot print left in the skiff of snow. He retrieved his phone and pulled up the photo he’d just taken. To his eye, the tread looked like a match.

  He trudged to the rickety screen door and knocked.

  The curtains on the front window swayed slightly. Pete heard footsteps inside, but no one came to the door. He waited. Knocked again. After another minute or more, the footsteps returned, growing louder. The door latch clicked, and Trout swung it open.

  The old man stood there in a bathrobe pulled snug at his throat. Pete glanced down. Although Trout’s feet were clad in slippers, he was wearing trousers rather than pajamas, and the bottoms of his pants were darker. Damp. From hiking through the snow.

  “Chief Adams? Is something wrong?” Trout’s eyes had that wide, blank, puzzled look Pete had seen more and more on Harry’s face.