Whenever he felt like giving up – on anything – he’d remember his pap’s words.
Gino inhaled a deep breath, stood to his full six-two, then walked back into the diner.
The old man approached him again. “Sorry, Gino. Didn’t mean to spook ya. Your pap and I go way back … Umm… before he passed, that is. We played football together. ‘Course, we didn’t have the gear yens have today.” The old man tapped his head. “They just gave us a strip of leather to put over our noggins.” He chuckled and turned, gesturing that Gino should walk with him. “Your pap was a good man, going into the service and all, then on to being a cop.” The old man stopped, then rested his cold and clammy hand on Gino’s forearm. “Your pap ever mention me?”
Gino shook his head.
“Name’s Alan Jones, but everyone calls me Smitty.” He started walking again, stopping in front of the booth where the captain still sat, staring up at Gino as though he’d grown an extra head. “See yens around,” Smitty called over his shoulder as he scurried back toward the kitchen.
Captain notched his head up then glared at Gino, sucking his teeth again. “What’s up?”
Gino sank into the booth, leaning forward. “Tell me how this crime scene mirrors my grandparents’ deaths.”
Jackson moved to the end of the booth, resting his back against the window. “I just got off the phone. I set up a time to go inspect the scene, but apparently there’s not much to see.” He propped his elbow up on the table. “What always struck me as odd with your grandparents’ deaths is that they both died peacefully in their sleep on the same night.” Captain turned and looked around as though someone might be eavesdropping.
Good, Gino thought, he still has some preservation skills. He’d wondered about that when Captain had sat with his back facing the door, as opposed to the window, as he now sat.
Captain Jackson leaned over the table. “Your pap was the epitome of good health. Heck, he worked out more than you or I do, and he was only in his early fifties. According to Detective Waters, they found these folks the same way, with no signs of a struggle. Doesn’t it seem strange that not just one, but two couples would die together in their sleep?”
Confused, Gino shook his head. “Maybe, but their deaths are twenty years apart. Why would you think that it’s murder?”
“Because Waters does. Evidently, a man letting his dog out to do its business, saw someone dressed all in black leaving the house in the middle of the night. He assumed it was a burglary, but did the smart thing and called 911. Not ten minutes later, the police arrived, found nothing missing, but discovered two dead bodies.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Gino followed Captain Jackson and Detective Mark Waters into the house of the murdered couple. The detective had a commanding gaze and a strong handshake for his age. Gino guessed him to be in his late twenties.
Not that Gino was old at thirty-two, but he’d certainly spent more time on the streets than Mark Waters, and yet Detective Waters had that seasoned look. Eyes that read not just what your lips spoke, but what your entire body said.
In his years as a police officer and detective, Gino had learned that you listened to people with your eyes, not your ears. Bad guys could utter a lie without missing a beat, but their body language screamed the truth.
Detective Waters passed two closed doors, then stepped inside the last room at the end of the hallway. “Forensics has already dusted for prints, so help yourself, gentlemen.” He shrugged. “Though, there’s not much to see. Nothing in the room was out of place according to their daughter, who came in this morning and gave a statement. She’s an RN who had just gotten off the nightshift, so she came right in.”
Gino shifted his gaze from the detective to take in the room. The bedroom was immaculate … not one crooked picture, no dust on the nightstands, even the couple’s slippers were lined up perfectly by the bed, ready for them to step into the next morning.
Captain strolled toward the master bath, and Gino walked over to the bookcase adjacent the bed. Something wasn’t right. He knelt down in front of the case and spotted the one thing in the room that wasn’t meticulously in its place.
Eight photo albums, each with a description of its contents, stood upright on the second shelf. The retired woman must have been into scrapbooking. Sheila had attempted to make a scrapbook of their wedding album, but had given up on the tedious task. It was clear that the woman who had made these was a perfectionist. Each bound book had a label of either a year or event, and only one was moved a fraction out of place.
Gino pulled out the album with the embossed title “Thurber’s Team” written on the spine.
Waters moved up behind him and peered over his shoulder. “Whacha got?”
Gino shook his head as he flipped open the book with his latex-covered hand. “I don’t know, but it was the only thing in the room that was out of place.”
He traced the outline of the blank first page. Based on the small amount of residue used to affix a picture, a photo was missing. Gino flipped to the next page, which held multiple photos of young men in football gear. On one of the pages, ’57 was scribbled onto the frame of the black-and-white photograph. Upon flipping through the pages, he discovered every page had at least one picture missing.
Captain crossed the room and hovered over the detectives. “Whaddya find, Gino?”
“I think I found our first lead, Captain.” He pointed to one of the pictures on the page. The image was faint, and there was barely an outline of a man in the background, but he’d recognize that smile anywhere. “That there’s my pap.”
CHAPTER SIX
Gino pushed the food around on his plate. His mind kept returning to the picture of his grandfather in the dead couple’s photo album.
“Ouch!” He darted his eyes across the table, frowning at his wife. “Why did you kick me?”
Sheila smiled. “I’m sorry, was that your leg? I didn’t know you were here. I thought I was eating alone.”
“Funny.” He peered back down at his food.
“What’s going on, Gino? You haven’t said a word since you walked in the house. Well, unless you count the grunt you muttered as you tromped up the steps.” She rested her hand on his arm. “Talk to me. Is that dream still bothering you?”
He exhaled a deep breath and threw back his head. If it were only that simple. How could he tell his wife that he’d been hearing ghost chimes and smelling pipes that weren’t there? She’d think he was insane. He was starting to wonder himself.
Gino tapped his thumb on the table, but then stopped himself. He’d been trying to break that nervous gesture. He couldn’t question a suspect with a tic that’d give him away if he were trying to convince a suspect that he had evidence when he didn’t. “Not exactly.” He couldn’t lie to Sheila; she’d see right through him. Ten years of marriage, and he swore she knew him better than he knew himself. He ran his hand across his mouth. Dang, another tic. Usually when a criminal ran his hand over his mouth, it meant he was planning to lie. A subtle way of admitting that even he didn’t believe the words he was about to speak. Gino decided to start with the truth. “There was a double homicide last night.”
“In Camp Creek?” Her eyes widened as she covered her mouth with her hand. Her body language was easy to read, always had been.
“No. Edenbury.”
Her hand fell to her lap as though it were okay that the homicides had happened in the neighboring town instead of Camp Creek. “So, why are you involved?”
“Their deaths mirrored the deaths of my grandparents.”
“But I thought —”
“Yeah, me too,” he interrupted. “It just doesn’t make sense. I’m having all these crazy dreams, and then suddenly Captain takes me aside to tell me about two homicides that mirror my grandparents’ deaths, and that he’d always thought their deaths were suspicious —”
“He said that?” she cut in.
Gino nodded. “Yeah, but that’s not the worst part. When I go
t to the crime scene, I found a photo album of an old high school football team from the fifties. And when I checked it out, there were several pictures missing. But even stranger, my grandfather was on the team.”
As if not understanding, Sheila leaned forward. “Your grandfather’s picture was at the crime scene?”
He nodded again. “Exactly — wait a second!” Gino jumped up from the table and ran upstairs. He pulled down the attic stairs and climbed up.
Walking carefully, stepping only on the beams, he made his way to the back of the attic. The house had been in his family for generations. His parents had stored all of his grandparents’ items in the attic after their deaths. And the idea of throwing away their personal stuff just didn’t seem right. After all, it was their house. His parents had rented it out after his grandparents’ deaths, but said that the home was his whenever he got married.
A box of old photo albums sat in the corner, covered with years of dust. He knelt down beside it and sorted through the dates his grandmother had marked on the side.
There it was. 1957. He flipped through a few pages until he saw the name he was searching for. He’d just spoken with him this morning. Smitty.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He recognized the man’s face immediately. But the strange thing was … Smitty wasn’t focusing on the camera. The scraggly-looking teen was staring off to the left, toward a few cheerleaders standing in a loose circle.
Gino stood and walked toward the single overhead light bulb on the roof. He held the picture up to the light. Yep! He knew one of those cheerleaders looked familiar. Even stranger, his grandmother was also not paying attention to the girls in her group or the camera. Martha’s eyes were peering to the right. Gino searched the picture for his grandfather. He was standing in front of them, a large toothy grin stretching his face as he watched the game or practice game. He’d always been a happy man. Always had a joke to share. Were Smitty and Martha staring at his Grandpap Joe, or someone else? Or maybe this was all just a stupid coincidence —
“What are you doing?”
Gino gasped as Sheila’s voice broke into his thoughts at the same time her head popped up through the attic opening. “Oh, my God! You almost gave me a heart attack, woman!” He whooshed out a gust of air, feeling his heart thrash double time inside his chest.
She huffed through her nose at the same time that she laughed. “As jumpy as you are at home, how in the world do you ever search buildings?” She shook her head. “Come on down before you fall through the ceiling. That’s all we need.”
Gino pulled the clingy plastic film back and carefully removed the old photo from the sticky page, attempting not to tear it. Once removed, he tucked the picture in his pocket, returned the album to the box, and then carefully traced his steps back toward the stairs. Sheila was right. They didn’t need an extra expense of having to fix a hole in the ceiling.
What had been going on with his grandmother and Smitty? They couldn’t have been having an affair. Smitty wasn’t even a good-looking guy. His grandfather, on the other hand, was a catch. His grandmother had always joked around about how he’d swept her off her feet, right after he plowed into her off the football field while tackling the wide receiver. She’d said the moment he picked her up off the ground and stared into her eyes, she knew. She’d said it was love at first sight, and she’d never been able to see another man in that way again.
Gino couldn’t imagine that she’d have cheated on him, especially in the 1950s. Who did that back then?
He backed down the stairs and bumped right into his wife, and jumped again. “Stop sneaking up on me,” he demanded, smiling.
“Gino, what’s going on?” Sheila crossed her arms in front of her, accentuating her breasts. All of a sudden, he didn’t care about pictures and grandparents. It was time to forget all this crazy stuff … until tomorrow.
“Let’s go to bed early.” He grinned. “It’s been a long day, and I really didn’t sleep much last night.”
Tomorrow, he’d make the connections. He always thought better after an early night with his wife. He’d sleep deeper, so his mind could connect the dots he missed in the daylight hours.
His wife took his hand and led him toward their bedroom; evidently, she was ready to forget her day and the screaming fifth graders she taught, too.
“Sheila,” he started, not certain how to ask this stupid question, but his wife had been extremely close to his grandmother when she was a child. Since she didn’t have grandparents, Martha had been like her godmother. Sheila and he had been best friends all through grade school, until he saw her as the opposite gender in high school, that is. It was weird at first, but after their first kiss under the bleachers, he knew she was the woman he’d marry someday. Even his mother had been upset when they’d stopped dating when Sheila moved away for college. But it had worked out for the best. He’d dated enough women in those four years to recognize what a catch Sheila was. When he saw her at the age of twenty-two, he knew immediately that she was the woman for him. After he finally convinced her to go out with him, they married within six months.
“Yes?” she asked as she walked into their bedroom.
“Never mind.” He pulled her into his arms. Thinking about their first kiss always had his mouth watering to taste her. He pulled both her arms up above her head and turned her body so she was up against the wall. Taking advantage of the position, he pressed his mouth against hers. She opened up to him, allowing his tongue to explore her. Ten years and he still loved kissing her. He moved to her neck, tickling her with his breath, making her squirm.
“You know,” she whispered in his ear, breathless from just one kiss, “there’s a bed three feet behind you where you can take full advantage of me.”
He lifted his head and stared into her eyes. She knew him so well. Keeping hold of her hands, he pressed his lips to hers again, while moving her to the bed. He held both of her hands above her head with one hand now, while his other hand unbuttoned her sweater. “I love it when you allow me to take advantage of you, Mrs. Canale. And when you wear these sweaters with all these buttons. All you need now is a strand of pearls …”
She giggled in response.
“You’re not supposed to giggle.” He laughed, capturing her lips again and taking full advantage of her body, looking forward to the moment when she couldn’t take it any longer, and her hands would break free from his so she could pull him tighter against her body.
After they’d both worked out the day’s stress, they each released a sigh of total contentment. A few seconds later, Sheila made her way to the master bath.
“Babe,” he called out to her before she shut the door.
She turned around, so beautiful standing there half-dressed in the muted light from the bathroom. “Mm-hm?”
He shook off the thoughts of following her into the shower. “Did Gran ever mention someone named Smitty?”
“No, but she wrote about him in her diary.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The driver sat across the street in a new Chevy pickup, holding a pair of binoculars aimed at Gino Canale’s house. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. All this should have ended with the death of Gino’s grandparents twenty years ago, but it seemed the secrets would never go away.
Killing the first time had been difficult, but doing it again had been harder. If there had been any other way to handle the situation, it wouldn’t have been necessary. But sometimes, people just wouldn’t let the past die. They continued to try to resolve problems instead of letting the past disappear.
Now the problem was Martha Canale’s diary. According to Sue Thurber, Martha had documented every secret she’d ever heard inside her diary. For some reason, women back in the fifties tended to record all their personal secrets — and other’s. Nowadays, narcissistic people simply documented their life on Facebook for the voyeurs of the world.
The radio crackled as if the light-rock station had suddenly changed to an out-of-area frequency.
Odd. According to the salesman, the radio was a top-of-the-line digital stereo. It wasn’t supposed to have static. Figures. It seemed you couldn’t rely on anyone to tell the truth, especially a car salesman. It was as if they purposely tried to take advantage of the buyer by recommending faulty aftermarket items to pad their pockets.
A chill swept through the truck, and the driver raised the window in response. Shifting the vehicle into reverse, the driver started to back up, but saw a figure standing behind the truck, and slammed on the brakes. When the driver whipped around to look out the rear window, nothing was visible except inky darkness and a deserted street.
Suddenly, the crackly radio blared out music at decibels so high that the truck windows rattled in the darkness. The engine revved as the gear shifter moved into drive and the truck lurched forward, slamming the driver into the seat, causing a shrill scream to penetrate the air as the truck barreled toward a streetlamp.
The speedometer’s white arm moved to the right with speed almost as fast as the truck careening toward the corner and the waiting pole that would split the truck down the middle like a hot knife through melted butter. The steering wheel refused to move, and the brake and accelerator pedals were nonexistent. At the last second, the driver cringed, preparing for the crash, but nothing happened.
Opening one eye cautiously and then the other, the driver realized that the car had never moved from the parking space across from Gino’s house.
The radio had fallen silent, and the window was down as it had been only minutes earlier. Heart racing and blood rushing, the driver carefully turned the ignition. The Chevy sprang to life with a quiet purr, and the soft-rock station started up again. Melodic guitar lines from an old Santana tune streamed through the speakers at the radio’s normal volume. But as the title of the song scrolled across the radio display, the driver blanched. Evil Ways.
The Pit Stop: This Stop Could be Life or Death Page 2
