No Way Home Page 3
Three
Pete dreaded death notifications, and now he had two on the same beautiful autumn Sunday. He pulled into the small parking lot at Vincenti’s Market in the equally small former mining town of Elm Creek, turned off the ignition, and leaned back in the seat of his SUV.
Monongahela County Detective Wayne Baronick had stepped in and claimed the drug OD case as Pete expected. Baronick had headed the county’s drug task force for over a year. The detective offered to make the notification, but the Vincenti family lived in Vance Township. Pete not only considered them to be within his jurisdiction, but also under his protection. He’d failed where their daughter was concerned. Facing the parents was his duty and his alone.
Pete stepped out of his vehicle and pressed through the glass door into the grocery.
Vincenti’s Market may have been small, but it carried a little of everything. Residents of Elm Creek came to the market for a few supplies between longer trips to bigger, better-stocked stores.
An older woman in a navy-blue dress gathered a pair of bulging plastic shopping bags from the checkout counter, thanked the lady behind it, and shuffled toward the door, giving Pete a smile as she passed.
“Good afternoon, Chief Adams.” Bonnie Vincenti, petite and wearing dark slacks and a vivid green t-shirt bearing the store’s logo, stepped out from behind a counter.
There was no mistaking the familial resemblance to the young girl from this morning. Shannon would have grown up to look just like her mother. Had she lived.
Pete removed his hat. “Mrs. Vincenti. Is your husband here?”
Her pert smile faded. “He’s at the meat counter. Is there something wrong?”
“I need to speak with both of you.” Pete glanced around. “Is there anyone else who can man the store while we talk?”
Her face paled. “A.J.’s in the back. What’s this about?”
Anthony Jr. Their son. Pete would have preferred to speak with all of them at once. However, he ushered the parents into the small office in the rear of the store and asked their son to take care of any customers who came in. More than likely, once Pete broke the news, the market would be closed for the rest of the day and probably longer.
Tony Vincenti put a heavily muscled arm around his trembling wife as Pete closed the office door. “What’s going on, Chief?”
There was no good way to say it, and in Pete’s experience, trying to ease into the subject only raised everyone’s blood pressure. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we found Shannon this morning—”
Bonnie’s knees buckled. “Oh God,” she said, her voice breaking in a sob. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
Tony Vincenti’s deep olive complexion paled. “Drugs?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Bonnie buried her face against her husband’s massive chest and wept. Tony remained stoic, although Pete sensed the big man was dying inside.
“We’ve put our daughter through rehab three times,” Tony said. “But heroin is a wicked master, and Shannon was its slave.”
Bonnie pushed away from her husband and turned a tear-streaked face to Pete. “I thought she’d beat it this last time. She was her old self. Bright. Funny. Studying to get her GED. She was alive for the first time in a long while.”
Tony’s jaw tensed. “Yes. Until three weeks ago.”
Pete eased his notebook from his pocket. “What happened three weeks ago?”
“We’re not sure,” Bonnie said. “But she started backsliding.”
“She began lying to us.” Tony released his wife and paced the small office. “She’d stay out late, sometimes all night, and tell us she was with a girlfriend. But when we checked, the girl and her parents hadn’t seen Shannon.”
Bonnie sniffled. “I was afraid she’d started using again. But when I asked, she denied it.”
“Of course she denied it.” Tony wiped his reddened face with one massive paw. “What else would she do?”
“Do you have any idea who was supplying her?” Pete kept his voice gentle.
“No.” Tony clenched both fists, shaking them as if he had someone by the collar. “If I ever get my hands on whoever gave her that poison…”
“Could you give me the names of the rehab facilities she’s been in? And a list of her friends?”
“Of course.” Bonnie crossed to a shelf and picked up a Rolodex. “But the friends we have numbers for wouldn’t be involved in drugs. And she never told us anything about the ones who were.”
“I realize that. But maybe they know some of the people Shannon wouldn’t talk about to you.”
“Oh.” Bonnie nodded and flipped through the cards.
Under different circumstances, Pete might have smiled. No contacts saved on a phone for the Vincentis. Old school. Rolodex. Just like the one in Pete’s office.
Tony sunk into the chair at the desk. “We tried to make the girl see she was stronger than those drugs. To have more self respect than to do that to her body.” His shoulders sagged, all the bluster gone out of him. “Heaven help us. We failed. And now my little girl is dead.”
The big man’s voice shattered on the last word. He put his head down on the desk and sobbed.
As expected, Tony and Bonnie locked the door behind Pete as he left. Vincenti’s Market was closed until further notice.
Pete sat in the parking lot and punched Baronick’s number into his cell.
“Have you spoken to the family?” the detective asked without wasting time on standard greetings.
“Leaving their place now.” Pete related the girl’s history of drug abuse, specifically heroin addiction.
“Did they know anything about meth?”
“All they were aware of was the heroin.” Pete flipped a page in his notebook. “I’ll question her friends and the family’s neighbors after I talk to Dale Springfield’s widow. Why don’t you see what you can find out from the rehab centers.” Pete read the facilities’ names and addresses to the detective.
“I’m on it. As for friends and family, I’ll send one of my task force out to interview them.”
“No. This is my jurisdiction. I’ll handle the local aspect to the investigation.”
“Now, Pete—” Baronick’s voice carried that damned condescending tone that drove Pete to understand homicidal tendencies.
“It’s not open for debate.” Before the county detective could argue, Pete ended the call and started his engine.
Next stop—the Springfield residence. While acquainted with the commissioner, Pete had never met the man’s wife, but had a vague notion of hearing the term “trophy wife” bantered about by those who had.
Twenty minutes later, Pete turned into the Springfields’ driveway. White fence fronted the property but was all for show, ending thirty feet up the lane. The house, invisible from the road below, came into view after he topped a rise. It was one of those new homes, built to resemble a farmhouse. Farther back, lumber framed out what appeared to be a large barn under construction. Next to it sat a shiny aluminum horse trailer hitched to a red four-door Ford F-350 with tires that probably cost more than Pete’s house.
He parked in front of the attached garage and approached the front porch. Jack-o’-lanterns that had passed their prime perched on bales of straw next to the steps. Bundles of corn stalks leaned against the porch’s support posts. The strains of a toe-tapping country song drifted from inside. He pressed the doorbell and waited. When there was no response, he pounded on the highly polished oak door.
The volume on the music lowered, replaced by the muted thud of footsteps. The door swung open, revealing a statuesque redhead dressed as though headed for the gym. No. Not gym. Health club. The stuff this woman wore showed every curve—and would have shown every ounce of flab if she’d had any.
“Chief Adams,” she said. “What can I
do for you?”
Pete blinked, realizing she’d caught him staring. The hint of a smile told him she was used to it. And didn’t mind. He took off his ball cap. “Mrs. Springfield?”
“Please, call me Hope. Mrs. Springfield is my mother-in-law.”
“Hope. May I come in?”
Concern creased her forehead. At least she didn’t do that Botox shit. “Yes, of course.” She stepped back, allowing him to pass. “Is something wrong?”
Unlike the façade, the inside of the house was all chrome and glass. “I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding your husband.”
Her face froze. “Dale? What kind of bad news?”
“There’s been an accident. Mr. Springfield was killed this morning.”
“Killed?” Her voice squeaked. “What kind of accident? Car?”
“No, ma’am. It appears he was thrown from his horse.”
“Cisco.” Hope walked stiffly to a beige leather sofa and dropped into it. Both hands went to her face, her fingers covering her mouth. After a moment, she lifted her gaze to meet Pete’s, her eyes a liquid mix of green and brown. “He loved that horse. But I’ve been afraid something was going to happen. Cisco’s spooky. About everything. I figured Dale was going to end up with a broken leg. But he’s…dead?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Pete looked around at the empty house. “Is there anyone I can call for you? Family, perhaps?”
“Call?” she echoed, her voice barely a whisper. “No. We have no family around here. Dale has a grown son in Texas, but they aren’t close. I don’t think they’ve spoken in well over a year.”
Pete noted her use of present tense.
“I guess…oh, dear…I guess I need to contact Dale’s office. And make some sort of arrangements.” Her hands lowered from her face to her lap. “I don’t even know who to contact about such things.”
“Do you have the number for the coroner’s office?”
She looked at Pete, her moist eyes puzzled. “No. I mean, Dale knows all the county officers, but I don’t.”
Pete pulled out one of his business cards. “I’m writing down Franklin Marshall’s number for you. He’ll let you know when your husband’s body will be released after the autopsy. And Franklin owns a funeral home, so he can give you information on that end of things as well. I’m sure someone from his office will contact you, but this way you have his number.” Pete handed her the card. “And mine.”
Hope studied it as if she’d never seen one before. “Autopsy?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’ll probably schedule it for first thing tomorrow.” Or second thing. There was the Vincenti girl too. Franklin Marshall had a busy Monday ahead.
“I don’t understand. You said he died falling from his horse. Is an autopsy really necessary?”
“I’m afraid it is.” Pete watched her process the news and wished he could hear her thoughts. “If you don’t mind, I have a couple of questions. Provided you’re up to it, that is.”
She blinked and sat up straighter. “Of course. I don’t imagine it’s going to get easier anytime soon. What do you need to know?”
“When did you last see your husband?”
“See him? Last night when we went to bed. I heard him this morning. He got up and dressed early. Before sunup.”
“Does he usually wake up that early on a Sunday?”
Hope smiled wistfully. “No. But we heard the weather forecast. He figured it might be the last time he’d get to ride before winter sets in.”
“The others were planning a trail ride later in the morning. Didn’t he know about it?”
“Oh, yes. But he had a lunch meeting planned and needed to get back.”
“A meeting with the other commissioners?” On a Sunday?
“Not exactly.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “My husband and I are very opposed to the Marcellus Shale gas drilling they’re planning to bring into Monongahela County and Vance Township in particular. Federated Petroleum Resources intends to have a representative speak at the township supervisors’ meeting tomorrow evening. Dale was to have lunch with a group of local environmentalists to plan their strategy so they can offer an educated rebuttal to the gas company’s propaganda.”
Marcellus Shale—the much ballyhooed rock formation underlying western Pennsylvania, eastern Ohio, and most of West Virginia—was known to be rich with natural gas. Almost a decade ago, Pete had heard their region being touted as the next Saudi Arabia. At the time, he’d laughed. But neighboring counties had been dealing with the battle between the big gas companies and the small environmental groups for several years now. It was a battle that had on occasion turned ugly. He knew it was only a matter of time before the drilling debate moved into his territory. “Where were they meeting?”
“At Parson’s Roadhouse. Do you know it?”
“Quite well. Do you happen to have a list of names of the people your husband was meeting with?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard. “Oh. I don’t know.” She looked around the house, the fingers of one hand curled against her chin. “I’m sure they were all in my husband’s cell phone. He probably had it on him.”
He had. Pete made a note to retrieve it from the victim’s personal effects as soon as he returned to the station.
“Excuse me, Chief Adams.” Hope’s forehead creased in a puzzled scowl. “But all these questions. You sound like you’re investigating my husband’s death. You did say it was an accident, didn’t you?”
Pete gave her his best comforting smile. “Until the coroner rules otherwise, I have to treat it as a homicide. It’s standard procedure.”
Her eyebrow twitched. “Oh. I see. It’s just a little unnerving. Even the thought of…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. You’re just doing your job, right?”
“Right. And I only have one more question. I’m curious, Mrs. Springfield—Hope. Why didn’t you go riding today with your husband? I understand you usually did.”
She lowered her face. Her slender shoulders rose and fell with a ragged sigh. “I wish I had gone. I intended to. But I stayed up late last night watching TV and couldn’t drag myself out of bed this morning. If—if I had—” Her voice grew raspy. “If I’d been along with Domino to keep Cisco calm, Dale might still be alive.”
Zoe parked her battle-scarred Chevy pickup in front of Rose’s house and turned to Allison. “Well, that ride didn’t go quite as planned.”
The teen, still pale and unusually quiet, attempted a grin. And failed. “I don’t know how you do it. Look at dead bodies all day, I mean.”
Zoe forced a laugh. “I don’t. Most of my patients are alive and stay that way.”
Allison appeared to mull over actually saving lives. “Yeah, I guess.”
Thinking back, Zoe realized the kid hadn’t been around her for the saves. Maybe she’d have to arrange an ambulance ride-along for Allison. Let her see Zoe being a paramedic rather than a deputy coroner. Of course, there were no guarantees what kind of calls would happen during any given shift. Maybe a ride-along wasn’t such a good idea. “Let’s go inside.”
They climbed down from the truck. Zoe slung an arm over the girl’s shoulders as they headed toward the house.
Rose Bassi paced the kitchen floor, her phone pressed to her ear. She looked up as they came through the door, her face tense, but didn’t say a word.
She didn’t say anything into the phone either, and Zoe wondered if she was listening or was on hold. Either way, the call clearly wasn’t a pleasant one.
Allison must have interpreted her mother’s silence the same way. “Now what?”
“Maybe it’s Logan,” Zoe said, sotto voce.
“I doubt it. If it was Logan, Mom would be screaming her head off.”
In spite of their whispers, Rose’s glare told Zoe they’d been heard and their comments were not appreciated.
Allison balanced on one foot and tugged off first one cowboy boot and then the other, letting each one thump to the floor before gathering them and setting them next to the door.
“Yes, of course I understand,” Rose said, her tone contradicting her words, “but you have to understand where I’m coming from. My son hasn’t answered his phone for four days. Hasn’t returned my calls or my texts. That’s not like him.”
Zoe could hear, but not make out, a calm voice on the other end of the line.
“I know he’s eighteen, dammit. I’m his mother.”
“Oh, boy,” Allison whispered. “Logan better stay out there. ’Cause if he ever shows his face around here again, Mom’s gonna kill him.” In stocking feet, the girl padded out of the kitchen, disappearing down the hall toward her room.
Zoe looked down at her own boots. She knew better than to cross Rose’s spotless floors with them still on, but with no place to sit near the door, and not willing to try Allison’s balancing act, she risked taking two extra-long strides to reach the kitchen table and flop into a chair.
The calm voice must have said something appeasing, because Rose took a seat across from Zoe. “He’s six feet tall, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, light brown hair, blue eyes. No tattoos.” The muffled voice said something to which Rose responded, “Scars? Nothing on his face.”
While Rose listened, the creases in her forehead deepening by the second, Zoe pulled off her boots and quietly set them on the floor.
“He has a scar on the back of his right calf from a hockey accident years ago, but I don’t see how that will help you find him.”
Zoe cringed. Identifiers like that wouldn’t help locate a missing boy, but would definitely help identify a found body.