Her Deadly Touch: An absolutely addictive crime thriller and mystery novel (Detective Josie Quinn Book 12)

by Lisa Regan

  “How did you find out about his nickname?” Josie asked.

  “He told us. Came home from school one day angry and upset. Refused to go to drum practice even though missing something on his mother’s precious schedule was a cardinal sin.”

  “What happened?” said Gretchen.

  Again, he rubbed at his beard. “Nothing. Nothing happened. I started to tell him he needed to take responsibility for his actions and think long and hard about why the other kids would call him that, and Gloria put a stop to that right away. She accused me of taking the other kids’ sides when really, Wallace had been getting into trouble at school for months for picking on people. So ultimately, nothing happened. She shut me down. But regardless, I kind of thought it was a good thing. I know that sounds terrible, but that nickname got to him, you know? I hoped he would take some time to think about his actions and maybe try to be better.”

  “Dee Tenney told us there was an incident with her daughter, Gail, right before the crash,” Gretchen prompted. “Your wife confirmed it. Did you feel like maybe he hadn’t learned his lesson?”

  Nathan nodded. “I did. I was really upset about that whole thing but you know, Gloria said she put it to bed, and she didn’t want me getting involved. Which pissed me off because he was my son, too. I was going to talk to Miles about it, you know, father to father—but then the crash happened, and it didn’t matter anymore.”

  “Did Krystal know about the nickname?” asked Josie.

  “I don’t know. Probably. Bianca probably told her. Bianca told her everything. They had a good relationship like that.”

  “Who else knew about the nickname?” Gretchen said.

  “I don’t know. Everybody, I guess. All the kids at school knew about it. Wait a minute. Why are we talking about my son’s middle school nickname? Is that what you came here to ask me about? I don’t understand.”

  They explained, as they had to Gloria, in the vaguest way possible, that his son’s nickname had been found with Krystal’s body.

  “That makes no sense,” he said. “Are you sure? It has to be a mistake. Why would Wallace’s nickname be where Krystal was killed?”

  “We don’t know,” Josie admitted. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Nathan, can you tell us about your activities from Thursday night through Monday morning?”

  He looked from Josie to Gretchen and back again before shaking his head. A small laugh escaped his lips. “Sure,” he said. “I was here. I’m always here. I write website content now. Work from home. I went out for food a few times.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?” Gretchen asked.

  “Nope,” he said. “I’m all alone.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Josie and Gretchen got takeout for lunch and headed back to the station. Amber popped up from her desk as soon as they entered the great room. She looked out of place in the detectives’ area with her brightly colored maxi dress, her taupe wedge sandals, and her auburn locks cascading down over her shoulders. She smiled at them but Josie could see the tension pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I need an update on the Krystal Duncan case,” she told them. “The press is going crazy. They know she was found dead. The Chief confirmed that, but wouldn’t give them anything else, which has made it so much worse. They already ran a story on the twelve o’clock news that she had been found dead. My phone is blowing up. My email is practically full—”

  Gretchen handed Amber a brown paper bag. “That’s a Cobb salad. You like that, right?”

  Nonplussed, Amber stared at the bag like it was a severed head. “Um, yeah.”

  “You’ll eat that,” Gretchen said. “Then you’ll tell the press the following details: that Krystal Duncan’s body was found in the cemetery on Monday morning. The ME ruled her a death a homicide. We have no further information. We’re following every lead. If anyone has any information about Krystal’s whereabouts from Thursday through Monday or about her death, they can call the main Denton PD number. That doesn’t seem like much more than they already have, but it’s something. Push for tips from the public.”

  Amber stared at Gretchen for a beat. Then a smile spread across her face. “Thank you.”

  Josie and Gretchen took their own lunches to their desks and dug in. Josie ate without tasting anything. The morning had taken more out of her than she anticipated. She was thinking about walking to Komorrah’s for a cup of coffee when Chief Chitwood’s door banged open. He strode into the great room, his flinty gaze landing on Josie immediately. “Quinn,” he barked.

  She stared at him. “Sir?”

  He raised a brow and folded his arms over his thin chest. A single white hair floated over top of his balding scalp. “You got something for me?”

  It took Josie only a second to realize he was referring to the rosary beads. What he was really asking was whether or not she was ready to give them back. She had no idea when that would be or how she would even know, but she was certain she still needed them. She felt their weight in her pocket. “No, sir,” she told him. “Not now.”

  He nodded and turned his glare toward Gretchen. “Palmer. What’s going on with the Duncan murder? The whole town’s got its panties in a bunch over this—as they should, as they should—but I don’t want a panic.”

  Gretchen gave him a rundown of hers and Josie’s activities since Krystal Duncan’s body had been found. “We’ve got to speak with Gloria Cammack’s employees and see if we can confirm dates and times she was accounted for.”

  “But she’s got a weak alibi,” said Josie. “And Nathan Cammack has none at all, and he was close to Krystal—at least before the accident.”

  Chief said, “You think the Cammacks did this?”

  “No,” said Josie. “I don’t, but we’re just doing our due diligence.”

  “What about the cemetery workers? Did they check out?” he asked.

  “They did,” Gretchen said. “I ran all their names before we went to the morgue. No red flags.”

  “How about the Tenney woman?” said the Chief. “You think she could have something to do with it?”

  Gretchen said, “I doubt it, but she’s got a weak alibi, too. Noah took her statement yesterday. She doesn’t work so she’s home alone most of the time. Heidi Byrne can account for some of her time, and she’s got receipts from some errands she ran on Monday morning, but other than that, no one can confirm whether or not she was really home alone for most of the time that Krystal was missing.”

  Josie added, “Plus she genuinely didn’t seem to know what ‘Pritch’ meant.”

  “Or she lied,” Chitwood suggested.

  “Sure,” agreed Josie. “She could have lied, but I don’t think that’s the case here.”

  Chitwood shook his head. “You’re telling me you found out all this crap about this woman’s pot habit and about this one having an affair with that one or maybe not but nothing that points you toward Krystal Duncan’s killer?”

  Gretchen frowned. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “There was no DNA on the body? Nothing?”

  Gretchen flipped through some pages in her notebook. “I’m sorry, sir. The ERT didn’t find anything.”

  “What about the method? Carbon monoxide poisoning? Does that get us anywhere?”

  “No,” Josie said. “The only thing it tells us is that the killer would need access to an indoor area that he could fill with carbon monoxide and leave her there long enough to die from it. Maybe somewhere out of the way enough that no one would hear her screaming or trying to get out before the gas started taking effect.”

  “So, a garage,” said Chitwood. “Probably in a single home with enough land around it that her screams would go unheard. That narrows it down. I hope one of you has a miracle in you, because otherwise—”

  The rest of the sentence was cut off by the stairwell door banging open. Their desk sergeant, Dan Lamay, stood hunched over, trying to catch his breath. “We got a situation downstairs,” he huffed.

  Josie and Gretchen we
re on their feet. Chitwood said, “Lamay, you ever hear of a phone? I’m pretty sure we’ve got one down there for you to use.”

  “Yeah,” Lamay said. “I’m gonna need a new one. This guy pulled it right through the opening in the plexiglass and out of the damn wall.”

  The three of them charged through the door. Dan limped along behind them. He was nearing seventy, overweight, and fighting a bad knee. Chitwood said, “Lamay, you should have locked down the station.”

  “He’s not a threat,” Lamay said, following them down the stairs. “He’s not armed or anything, and he’s on the other side of the glass, still. He’s just distraught. It’s Sebastian Palazzo.”

  Josie and Gretchen stopped at the door to the first floor and looked up the steps toward Dan. Gretchen said, “Sebastian Palazzo, the father of Nevin Palazzo, who also died in the West Denton bus crash two years ago?”

  Dan nodded. “He said his wife is missing.”

  “Well, shit,” said Chitwood.

  Josie and Gretchen pushed through the door, into the first-floor hall, and jogged toward the lobby area. Sure enough, on the other side of the plexiglass that separated Dan Lamay’s desk from the rest of the room, stood Sebastian Palazzo, surrounded by a mess. Dan’s desk phone lay in the corner of the room, its wires frayed and torn like broken tree roots. Chairs had been overturned. The corkboard hung crooked, one side of it pulled out of the wall. Sebastian was tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders, and thick, wavy black hair. His dark eyes looked wild. The entire scene was incongruous with the rest of his appearance: charcoal gray suit pants, a white shirt and red tie beneath what looked like a lab coat. The words “Palazzo Pharmacy” were embroidered on the left breast. A pin was affixed just below that with the name of a nationwide pharmacy chain over top of his first name. Josie seemed to remember the chain buying out the Palazzo Pharmacy a few years earlier.

  When he saw them behind the window, he launched himself at the desk, his forearms banging against the glass until it shook. “I need help!” he shouted. “Help! Do you hear me? My wife is missing! Why doesn’t anyone care that my wife is missing?”

  Josie walked toward the door that led into the lobby. “Boss,” Gretchen said.

  But Josie didn’t care how crazed the man was or how much larger he was than her. She entered the lobby anyway, picking her way over the detritus to meet him at the desk. “Mr. Palazzo,” she said, her voice strong. “My name is Detective Josie Quinn. I’m here to help you. If you’d just calm down.”

  He pointed a finger at her nose and through gritted teeth, he said, “Don’t tell me to calm down.”

  Josie heard the door open and close behind her and she knew that Gretchen and Chitwood were there. She sidestepped out of the way of his finger and met his eyes. “I won’t tell you to calm down, but you must stop destroying our lobby. If your wife is missing, I’m not sure the best use of your time is sitting in jail on property damage charges.”

  He lowered his hand. “Are you going to help me?”

  “Of course,” said Josie.

  “I called 911 and they said they couldn’t help me because my wife hasn’t been missing for twenty-four hours.”

  “For adults, yes, we typically wait at least twenty-four hours to take a missing persons report, but since you’re here, why don’t you come inside to our conference room and tell us what’s going on.”

  The crazed look in Sebastian’s eyes slipped away. He seemed to come back to himself. Looking around the room, he put both hands in his thick hair. “Oh my God,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t—I’ll pay for all of this but please, just help me find my wife.”

  Gretchen held the door to the first-floor hallway open. “Come this way, Mr. Palazzo.”

  Chitwood led him down the hall with Josie and Gretchen behind. The Chief stayed in the conference room with them, insisting that Sebastian take a seat, and then hovering near the door while Josie and Gretchen began speaking with him.

  Josie said, “Your wife’s name is Faye, correct?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “How did you know that?”

  Gretchen leaned forward in her seat. “Mr. Palazzo, you probably don’t remember me, but my name is Detective Gretchen Palmer. I was the investigator on the bus accident case.”

  He studied her for a long moment. “Yes, right. I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Everything has been a blur. There were so many people. Police, lawyers, press, neighbors. Even people we didn’t know who just wanted to express sympathy.”

  “It’s fine,” said Gretchen. “Tell us about Faye.”

  “I came home for lunch and she was gone,” he said. “I come home for lunch from the pharmacy every day at eleven a.m.”

  “What time did you leave for work?” Josie asked.

  “Eight thirty in the morning. I work six days a week now. Monday through Saturday. I always leave at exactly eight thirty, and I come home at eleven for lunch. It’s so early because the pharmacy gets too busy after noon for me to leave. Faye and I have lunch every day at the same time. I mean, now we do, since Nevin was killed. I suggested it because she was so despondent after the crash that I was truly afraid she’d try to kill herself. She started seeing Dr. Rosetti after a few months, which helped, and then we started going to the group. That was very helpful, too, but we never stopped our lunch routine. Anyway, I came home the same time as always, but she wasn’t there. I searched the entire house, our garage, out back. Everywhere.”

  Josie said, “Are you sure she didn’t go for a walk or a drive or something?”

  Sebastian shook his head. Tears gleamed in his eyes. “No, no. Her car was in the garage still. She wouldn’t just leave like that. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t do that to me. Not after Nevin.”

  Gretchen said, “Did you try calling her on her cell phone?”

  His gaze flitted to Gretchen. “That’s the thing. Why I know something is wrong. Her cell phone was there on the kitchen counter. Her purse was still in the foyer closet where she keeps it, and everything was still inside, including her anti-anxiety medication. Faye would never leave the house without it.”

  Josie looked at Gretchen. A sick feeling stirred deep in her stomach. Five days ago, Krystal Duncan had disappeared from her home, leaving her vehicle, cell phone, and purse behind.

  Gretchen said, “Mr. Palazzo, would you mind if we came over to your house and had a look around?”

  He shot up out of his chair, his face bright and earnest. “Yes, please,” he said. “Please come. There’s more. Something I need you to see. Like I said, I called 911 but they wouldn’t send anyone out.”

  Josie stood up, pinpricks of fear piercing the length of her spine. “What do you need us to see?”

  He walked toward the door. Chief Chitwood stepped out of the way. Looking back at Gretchen and Josie, he beckoned them to hurry. He said, “Something that wasn’t there before.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The outside of the Palazzo house looked like any other in West Denton—large, two stories, brick façade, three-car garage, and ample lawn space with carefully tended garden beds out front. The inside, however, was another story. The Palazzos had gone for a sleek modern look that seemed more in keeping with an upscale New York City apartment than a family home on the outskirts of a small, Central Pennsylvania city. All the furniture was black and white and so small it barely looked large enough to accommodate more than two people. The floors of every room were tiled in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern with fluffy white throw rugs throughout. Josie wondered if the house had always looked this way or if they’d remodeled after their son died. She could not imagine a child living here.

  “I didn’t see any signs of forced entry,” Gretchen said as they passed through the foyer. “Was the door locked when you got home?”

  “No, it wasn’t. Which is unusual because Faye always comes in and out through the garage. I mean, at least when she uses her car. Here, I’ll show you the entrance from the garage.”

  As they walke
d off, Josie took a look around the living room. Nothing was out of place. A white couch and loveseat formed an L-shape with a black end table anchoring the bend. A television was mounted on one wall. On another wall hung a massive black-and-white picture. At first, Josie thought it was wall art, but on closer inspection, she realized it was a photo of Faye Palazzo. Josie recognized her face from the news coverage of the bus crash. Faye had been a successful model in her early twenties. Any time she’d appeared on camera after the crash, even in her grief, she had been striking. The picture was a life-sized portrait. In it, Faye stood in high heels and a form-fitting dress. Her body was angled away from the camera, but her face was turned, looking over her shoulder. The backless dress showed off a wide expanse of skin. Her long, dark hair had been pushed to one side. A slit in her dress revealed one of her legs, slightly bent. It was an awkward position, to be sure, but her eyes showed no discomfort. They stared at the camera with an inviting and somewhat mysterious smile.

  Behind Josie, Sebastian said, “That’s her! That’s my Faye. She used to be a model.”

  She turned to see that he and Gretchen had returned from the garage. “She’s beautiful,” Josie said politely, but she wondered whose decision it had been to have the photo enlarged and hung in their living room.

  “That’s my favorite one,” Sebastian said. “She hates it.”

  “But she let you hang it,” Josie said.

  “She lost a bet,” he responded. “Come to the kitchen. I’ll show you what I found.”

  Josie turned away from the photo. In the hall leading toward the kitchen were even more photos of Faye from her modeling days, arranged in geometric patterns. Each one was in a small, square frame, and they were color. Faye modeling various dresses. Faye on a runway, presumably in New York. Or maybe Paris. Faye in a swimsuit, blowing the camera a kiss. Josie could tell by the quality of the shots that they had been professionally taken. There were no candid photos. Nothing taken in a happy moment by her husband. As they passed the dining room, Josie spotted a large portrait on the wall of the Palazzos on their wedding day. At least there was that.