UNEASY PREY Page 24

  Pete and Wayne exchanged glances.

  “No,” Wayne said.

  “Convenient.” Zoe poked Pete again. “You can’t check it to see who she called.”

  “But,” Wayne said, “we do have the Naimans’ phones.”

  Zoe caught a glimpse of a spark in Pete’s eye. “You and your county lab guys can pull the call logs from those.” His lips parted in a lopsided grin that reminded her of a wolf contemplating its prey. “And while you’re doing that, I have an idea that might yield better results.”

  “Oh?” Zoe said.

  “I promised Ms. Sanders a scoop. Maybe it’s time I give it to her.”

  Douglas Naiman’s attorney had ordered his client to not answer any questions the police asked. The younger brother was nothing if not obedient where legal counsel was concerned. Pete left Wayne to oversee the booking of the two men on charges including burglary, aggravated assault, and murder. Whether or not the last one stuck remained to be seen.

  Pete phoned Lauren Sanders before he left the county jail. She agreed to meet him at the Vance Township Police Station at noon. In spite of Zoe’s demands to once again be a fly on the wall, he took her home. “Get some sleep,” he told her while planting a kiss on her bandaged forehead.

  Clearly the night at the hospital had taken its toll on her. She pouted, but ceased to argue once he tucked her into his recliner with one tabby in her lap, the other stretched out above her head like a furry orange hat.

  “There’s another thing that really bothers me,” she said as he headed for the door.

  “What’s that?”

  “Their grandmother. If this rash of burglaries has been the only thing financing her stay at Golden Oaks, what’s gonna happen to her now?”

  He wished he had an answer.

  At the station, he removed the “Out on Patrol” sign from the door, hung up his coat, and filled the Mr. Coffee with water and Maxwell House. As the contraption gurgled and sputtered, Pete took a seat at his desk and thumbed through his notebook. Whether or not Lauren Sanders had played a part in the thefts—and especially in Zoe’s injury—was only one of his concerns. There was also Oriole Andrews’ homicide. If the Naiman brothers were as principled about doing no harm as Dennis had purported, someone else had shoved the elderly woman down her basement stairs.

  Then again, Dennis admitted his brother had clobbered Zoe. It wasn’t out of the range of possibility that he was lying about Oriole. Admit to assault to deflect the suspicion of murder.

  The bells on the front door jingled. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes to twelve. If nothing else, the reporter was punctual.

  “Chief Adams?” Sanders called out.

  He stood and stepped out into the hall. “Back here.”

  She strode toward him, attired in the same dark wool coat and carrying the same leather satchel as always.

  Pete ushered her into his office and reclaimed his seat. She deposited the tote on the floor next to the visitor’s chair and shrugged out of the coat, revealing a navy turtleneck sweater and gray wool slacks. No jewelry. Although attractive, she did nothing to draw attention to herself. Pete suspected she could easily disappear in a crowd. Observe without being noticed.

  Sanders fixed him with a displeased glare. Apparently, she didn’t appreciate him brushing her off. “If you’ve called me here to ask about Golden Oaks, I haven’t had time to look into it yet. I’ve been too busy trying to get information about the two men in the white van that crashed last night.”

  “Those men are the reason I called. I can now confirm we’ve made an arrest in your Senior Killers case.”

  The glower vanished. “Wonderful.” Her pen poised, she asked, “What are their names?”

  “Dennis and Douglas Naiman. They’re brothers.” Pete watched for a reaction.

  There wasn’t any. “Can you spell that last name please?”

  If she did indeed know them, she was one hell of an actress. “N-a-i-m-a-n,” he said and then read their ages and home address to her from his own notes.

  “How did you capture them?”

  “Officer Nate Williams spotted the suspect vehicle driving south on Route 15 last night. When he ran the plates, they came back as belonging to a different vehicle. At that point the suspects attempted to flee and during a brief pursuit, they lost control and went off the road.” Pete detailed the injuries and subsequent arrest. He mentioned questioning the older brother, but left out the part about the denial of having killed anyone.

  Sanders scribbled page after page of notes, pausing when he stopped. She eyed him. “So they confessed to killing Mrs. Andrews?”

  Sanders was sharp. Pete held her gaze. “Dennis Naiman confessed to being at her house. He states Oriole Andrews was alive when they left. Which was true. She died later at the hospital from her injuries.”

  The reporter jotted another page of notes before fixing him with that laser-sharp stare again. “Is there anything else?”

  Pete had anticipated the question. He intentionally winced and shifted in his chair.

  She leaned forward. “There is something else. Tell me.”

  “Yes, there is, but it’s not for public knowledge yet.” He pretended to struggle with a decision.

  Sanders kept her eager eyes on him, waiting.

  He glanced toward the door—knowing full well they were alone—and then came forward, resting his arms on his desk and lowering his voice. “Can you keep this off the record for now?”

  “Absolutely.” She leaned forward as well, her fingertips lightly resting on his wrist. “As long as you promise to let me know the moment I can run with it.”

  “Deal.” He made a production of wrestling one more moment with the decision to blab. “We’re pretty sure they didn’t act alone.”

  Her eyes widened for just a second. “Really?”

  Pete nodded. “We think there’s a third person out there who helped them cover their tracks.”

  He watched her mull over this tidbit. “Any idea of this third person’s identity?” she asked.

  Pete freed his arm from her touch and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve already said too much. You have my word. As soon as I’m at liberty to divulge more, I’ll be in touch.”

  Sanders hesitated, then closed her notebook and deposited it in her bag. “I appreciate you speaking with me, Chief. How much time can you give me to get this story out before you make an official statement?”

  “Detective Baronick has a press conference planned for one. Is that enough time?”

  She checked her watch. “Perfect.”

  They stood and shook hands. Pete watched her scurry out and listened for the bells signaling her exit. When he knew he was alone, he once again settled into his chair to mull over what had just happened.

  She’d given up nothing when he sprung the suspects’ names on her. But the “news” of a third party being involved had definitely taken her by surprise. Did she have any inkling that he believed the third person in question might be her? If she did, what would be her next move?

  Pete had been thinking Zoe was way off base in her suspicions about the reporter. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  Zoe hung up the phone after updating Rose about Sylvia’s condition and thumped the recliner into its upright position. Rose had considered making the trip back to Pennsylvania, but with Sylvia stable and resting comfortably, she elected to take a wait-and-see approach.

  The gray January gloom had cleared. Jade and Merlin had bailed on her and now curled in the spots of sunshine pooling on the back of the sofa. The Steelers had a primetime game tonight so the only things on Pete’s antenna TV were infomercials.

  Zoe stood, pausing to let the room stop spinning, and swore. There wouldn’t be many more days in the Krolls’ barn, and here she was, wasting a beautiful one. Stuck. Inside. Because of those punks who bashed her
upside the head.

  The floor stopped swaying, and she shuffled to the window, squinting like a mole used to being underground and blinded by a glimpse of the sun. Melting snow drip drip dripped from the gutters. She made a mental note to tell Pete he better check them for an ice jam or blockage that was keeping the water from making its way to the downspouts.

  Which led her to wonder about the conditions at her “new” farm. Gutters. Roof damage. Leaks. More to add to her to-do list. Stuff she should be dealing with right now.

  She turned. Too fast. Waited for the walls to stop moving. And headed to the kitchen.

  Her mind ran on a loop. Horses. Farms. Mr. and Mrs. Kroll. Were they all right? How was Sylvia doing in the hospital? Harry…even more stuck than she was.

  And Barbara. That sweet old woman with the two thugs for grandsons. What was to become of her now that they wouldn’t be paying her bills any longer?

  Zoe needed to get out of the house. Out into the brisk air and the sunshine. She should go check on Sylvia. And Harry. And the Krolls. And Janie. There was too darned much to be done to be trapped inside. Her pickup was parked in Pete’s driveway. Her keys hung on a hook on the wall. But she’d been ordered not to drive, and the way her head was throbbing, it was one of the more sensible orders she’d received.

  A rap at the kitchen door jarred Zoe from her fussing and fuming. She peered through the peephole to see Patsy’s face distorted by the wide-angle-view glass.

  “Hey,” Zoe said as she opened the door and motioned her cousin in. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I thought you might have cabin fever.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Patsy glanced around the room. “Where’s Pete?”

  “Working. Is everything okay at the barn?”

  “Yeah. Except Windstar misses you.”

  “Ha. As long as he’s getting his grain and hay, he doesn’t care who gives it to him.”

  Patsy chuckled. “True.”

  “Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”

  Patsy stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. “No, thanks. I came by to bust you outta here.”

  Zoe would have jumped up and down, but knew her head would pound like a bass drum if she did. “I’ll get my coat.”

  Minutes later, she clicked the seatbelt in Patsy’s Toyota Tundra.

  “Where to?” Patsy asked.

  Zoe ran the list through her head again. She caught Patsy’s gaze. “My farm?”

  Patsy’s expression turned pensive. “I was thinking that too. We should assess what needs to be done to make it horse-ready. We’re running out of time.” She shifted into gear and pulled onto the potholed street.

  A thought struck Zoe, and tightened the fist that had been squeezing her brain. “I hope my mother doesn’t change her mind.”

  “About giving you the farm? Why would she?”

  “Because it’s Kimberly we’re talking about. And me.”

  Patsy made a face. “You don’t give her enough credit.”

  “And you give her too much. I’d list all the times my mother has let me down, but I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “From what I’ve been told, you weren’t the easiest teenager to raise either.”

  “Teenager? True. But she doesn’t have much use for her grownup daughter either.”

  “And when was the last time you tried to have a civil conversation with her?”

  Zoe stared out the window at the passing houses. Patsy used to be her friend. Her friend. Now she’d clearly set up a tent in Kimberly’s camp. Arguing would do no good. Patsy’d been indoctrinated into Kimberly’s view of their mother-daughter relationship. “Maybe you should just take me back home.”

  “What?” Patsy sounded stunned and hurt at the suggestion. “No. Don’t be silly.” She fell silent but kept driving, turning onto Route 15. A mile or so down the road, she said, “Besides, this thing with the farm isn’t just about you and her.”

  It took a moment for Patsy’s meaning to sink in. “In other words, she’s giving me the farm to help you out.”

  Zoe’s cousin squirmed. “No. Well, maybe. I told her about the jam we were in with the Krolls selling their place. I never asked her to help either of us. Giving you the Engle farm was her idea. And it’s you she’s deeding it to. Not me.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they stood in front of the barn where they’d found the first van. Clouds were moving in again and the temperature hovered near thirty-two degrees. The partially melted snow created a slurry of water and ice. Zoe’s concerns about the gutters turned out to be warranted. She hadn’t noticed on their previous trip, but the ones on the house sagged in the middle. And the downspout on the barn was completely detached, leaving a constant flow of snowmelt trickling from the gutter into a small pond at the rear corner.

  Yes, Kimberly was deeding the family farm—in all its crumbling glory—to her. Not Patsy.

  Thanks, Mom.

  Patsy picked her way to the fence, grabbled one of the posts, and tried to shake it. “Well, this one is solid.”

  Zoe gazed across what had been the pasture. “That’s one out of how many? A hundred?”

  “At least. Feel up to walking the fence line?”

  No. “Sure,” she said with forced cheeriness.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  There were days when Pete regretted his poor relationship with the press. This was one of them. If he had friends in journalism, he could enlist their help in finding out what was going on with Lauren Sanders. And what had gone on with her that drove her out of the big league.

  His own internet search unearthed nothing more than what Zoe had shared with him. Law-enforcement sites revealed a couple cases of Sanders being held in contempt of court for refusing to reveal her sources and one civil disobedience charge surrounding a protest march when she was in college. Nothing violent. Nothing any other reporter didn’t have in their files.

  Pete picked up his phone and keyed in a number he hated to use for help.

  Baronick answered with an annoyed, “It’s only been a few hours. You don’t honestly expect me to have anything yet, do you?”

  “Actually, no, but—”

  The detective laughed. “Ha. But I do. Just call me Super Cop.”

  Pete had a retort for him, but decided against using it.

  “I cashed in some favors and got the Naimans’ phone logs. No calls to Lauren Sanders’ number. In fact, most of the calls were to and from their grandmother and Golden Oaks. A couple were to area pawn shops. We’ll pay those guys a visit first thing tomorrow morning. However, there are still a few unidentified numbers we’re trying to track down.”

  “Good. But that’s not why I’m calling. How’s your relationship with the news media?”

  “Better than yours. Why?”

  “Lauren Sanders didn’t always work for small local news outlets.” Pete told him about her history, as much of it as he knew. “Then she dropped off the map. I’d like to know why. And what she’s been doing since then.”

  “And you think I can find out?”

  “I think with your gift for bullshit, you’ve cultivated some friendships that could help. You’re giving a statement to the press in fifteen minutes or so, right? Maybe you could pull someone aside for a private chat.”

  The line fell quiet and for a moment, Pete thought the call had been dropped. But Baronick’s loud sigh indicated otherwise. “I don’t suppose I need to ask why you’re interested in this woman’s past.”

  The image of Sanders bent over Zoe’s crumpled form in the snow crept to the forefront of Pete’s brain. Douglas Naiman may have struck the blow, but Pete wasn’t convinced the reporter hadn’t somehow been involved. “I want to know just how far she’ll go to get the inside track on a story that might put her back in the big leagues.”

  They’d made it
roughly a hundred yards before Zoe had to admit defeat. She clung to a post—thankfully a sturdy one—and closed her eyes.

  Patsy had hiked on ahead, but returned, her fists planted on her hips. “Okay, this was a bad idea.”

  “What? Accepting the farm as a gift?”

  “No.” Patsy huffed. “Exerting yourself. You’re almost as white as the snow. Should I go back and drive my truck out here to get you?”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll be okay.” Zoe looked back at the stretch of fence line they’d just walked. “At least there are more good posts than rotted ones.”

  Patsy’s enthusiasm had dwindled. “Yeah, but the wire’s a mess.”

  “I don’t like barbed wire for horses anyway.”

  “Me either.” She gave Zoe a pained smile. “I guess Kimberly’s ‘gift’ really does leave a lot to be desired.”

  “Gee. You think?” Zoe immediately regretted the sarcasm. Her cousin looked on the verge of tears. “Don’t worry, Pats. I’ll make it work.” She pushed away from the fence post and slapped Patsy’s arm. “Come on. I have someplace else you can take me.”

  The bells on the station’s front door jangled as Pete ended his call with Baronick.

  “Hello?” Seth’s voice floated back to him. “Anyone here?”

  “In my office,” Pete called out. A moment later, the young officer, attired in jeans and a bulky bomber jacket, appeared at the doorway. “It’s your day off,” Pete said.

  “Yours too.”

  “I don’t get a day off.” When Seth didn’t move, Pete gestured toward the chair across from him. “What’s on your mind?”

  Seth slid into the seat, his hands stuffed in the jacket’s pockets, a scowl on his face. “Something’s been bugging me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something was off. In my gut. You know?”

  “I do.”

  “I think I finally figured out what it is.”

  When Seth didn’t continue, Pete said, “And?”

  “The locks. Mr. and Mrs. Kroll’s door was forced open. So was Sylvia’s. But there was no sign of forced entry at Mrs. Andrews’ house. None.”