With a Vengeance

by Annette Dashofy

  “You’re wrong.” Pete resisted adding as usual. “Thanks to the dogs, we know where the shots were fired from.”

  Baronick lifted his gaze toward the trees on the western hillside. “You had that pegged before the dogs confirmed it, though.”

  Pete contemplated the distance. “About two hundred and fifty yards, I’d say. We can’t rule out someone with sniper training, but any deer hunter could easily make that shot.”

  “Either way, he didn’t leave us much to work with,” Baronick said. “My guys have been going over the area with a metal detector and have come up with squat.”

  “Our shooter is smart enough to police his brass.”

  “But not smart enough to cover his tracks.” Literally. They’d found a set of tread marks from a quad on a trail through the trees. The gunman had ridden in and out on an all-terrain vehicle. The K-9s had picked up a scent and followed it to a remote blacktopped road. Pete guessed the shooter left a truck parked there, loaded up his ATV, and simply drove away, before Kevin had even gotten the call.

  “He has a thing for quads,” Pete commented, more to himself than to Baronick. “He used one to gain access to the area. He used a second one to lure the ambulance crew out into the open.”

  Baronick took a few steps toward the spot where the paramedics had fallen. “He was willing to sacrifice the second ATV. Left it behind knowing we’d confiscate the thing. He may have policed his brass, but maybe he wasn’t so careful with the quad he left behind.”

  Pete’s gut told him they weren’t gonna be that lucky.

  Zoe climbed out of Sylvia’s car in front of Kramer’s Garage and thanked her for the lift. Sylvia fluttered a hand and sped off. Zoe’s ancient Chevy pickup was parked near the fence, a sign that repairs had been completed as promised.

  Zoe stepped through the garage’s dented steel door. Inside, the smell of motor oil and rubber smacked her in the face.

  Power wrenches whirled and screeched from a bay farther down the row.

  But the sight of Medic Two in the first bay stopped her cold.

  A mechanic in gray coveralls, which matched his hair, charged around the back of the ambulance toward her, a strained, polite smile on his face. “Good morning, Zoe. Your truck’s ready.”

  “Thanks, Gabe.” She pointed at the medic unit. “What’s that doing here?”

  Gabe Webber glanced at the ambulance as if he hadn’t noticed it before. “Oh. The police asked us to tow it here so they could process it. Said they didn’t have the spare manpower right now to deal with it at the township garage.”

  Zoe wandered around the ambulance. Mud clung to the tires and the wheel wells. A fine coating of dust coated much of the lower half of the vehicle. Her own pickup rarely saw a hose and a bucket of suds, but the EMS crews took great pride in keeping their ambulances spit shined.

  Gabe tagged after her, a concerned frown on his face. “I ain’t supposed to let no one near it. I was told it’s evidence.”

  “I know. I won’t touch anything.” She reached the driver’s side door and was about to turn and go back when she spotted the ugly, jagged hole high on the front fender. “Is that…?”

  “A bullet hole? I guess it is.”

  For a moment, she forgot her promise to not touch, but recoiled short of fingering the puncture. Had one of the sniper’s shots missed? Or had the bullet that pierced Medic Two already passed through a human body?

  Her chest tightened, and she retreated.

  Worried creases lined Gabe’s face. “We should talk about your truck.”

  Zoe forced a smile. Poor Gabe probably feared he was going to have to call another ambulance for her. “Yeah, we should.”

  The mechanic relaxed and motioned her toward the cashier’s window. “I replaced your entire exhaust system. Plus, your brakes and rotors were shot, so I put new ones on.”

  The weight of her empty wallet bore down on her. “That’s what Bud told me when he phoned.” The original work order called for repairing the muffler and checking the brakes. “It turned into a lot more than I’d planned.”

  The worry lines returned. “Once I got in there, I found the tailpipe was completely rotted away. And your brakes were down to metal. The boss explained all that, right?”

  “Yeah.” But knowing in advance didn’t make it hurt any less. Zoe ran her expenses versus income through her mental calculator and came up with flashing red sub-zero balances. “You guys take credit cards, don’t you?”

  “Oh, sure thing.”

  Zoe heaved a loud sigh. “It’s cheaper than a new car payment, I guess. And it should be as good as new now, right?” she offered, with more enthusiasm than she felt.

  Gabe’s expression didn’t elicit much confidence. “I ran into another problem. When I tried to start it, it took a few tries.”

  “The click, click, click thing? Yeah, it’s been doing that for a couple of weeks now. I just keep fussing with it until it starts.”

  The mechanic winced. “Except one of these days it ain’t gonna. Sooner than later, most likely. You need a new starter.”

  Zoe struggled to pull her credit card from her wallet, as if the plastic was resisting the added burden too. “How much will that cost?”

  “With an old truck like this, the parts shouldn’t be more than a hundred dollars. Labor will only be another hundred. Maybe a little less.”

  Only? She choked. “Really?”

  He nodded glumly, as if the money for the needed repairs was coming out of instead of going into his pocket.

  “But that can wait a while, right?”

  Gabe shrugged. “When it goes, she ain’t gonna start for you.”

  “Great.” Zoe contemplated asking if there was anything else, but was afraid of his answer.

  The mechanic disappeared while Zoe handed her credit card through the cashier’s window to Bud Kramer, the wheelchair-bound owner of the garage who no longer tackled the hands-on part of the business. “Sorry to hear about Barry Dickson,” he said as she signed away money she hadn’t earned yet. “He was a real decent guy.”

  “Yeah, he was.” She didn’t mention that she was on her way to his autopsy.

  As she crossed the gravel parking lot, she heard someone call her name and turned to see Gabe jogging after her. He caught up, huffing. “I didn’t wanna say anything in front of the boss, but I’ll keep an eye out for a used starter for your Chevy. I should be able to pick one up for you lots cheaper than what we charge. And I’ll install it for half of what Kramer’ll gouge you.” He shoved a business card into her hand. “Call me at home. I’ll take care of you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, stunned.

  He gave a dismissive wave over his shoulder as he shuffled back to the garage.

  She pocketed the card and studied the rusty tailgate of her beloved old Chevy. Today’s repairs already had her in the hole. The additional ones, cut price or not, weren’t even in the ballpark of her current budget.

  But going into debt might be the high point of her day, considering her next stop.

  Three

  “You’re getting better at these.” Only Franklin Marshall’s eyes were visible above the mask.

  Not enough of his face for Zoe to determine the degree of sarcasm in his words. “Am I?”

  The stench of an autopsy played havoc with her every time. The sight of a body opened up on the stainless steel table didn’t faze her. Nor did the pop of ribs being cut with clippers that looked like something a landscaper should be using to trim trees.

  Not even the grayish face of a man she’d known for much of her life was enough to send her running. No, it was the smell that drove her out of the morgue on more than one occasion since she’d taken on the deputy coroner role.

  The stupid surgical masks, worn to protect the living from whatever contagions the deceased might carry, did little t
o block the odors.

  Franklin chuckled. “You’re still in here, aren’t you?”

  For the moment.

  Forensic Pathologist Lyle “Doc” Abercrombie straightened from leaning over the body, holding a mound the size of a fist in his gloved hands. Barry’s heart.

  Doc carried it to a nearby table, setting the organ down as gently as if it were still beating. “Zoe. Photos please.”

  Swallowing the rising nausea, she stepped forward, camera in hand. Doc pointed out the damage he wanted her to document.

  Behind her, Franklin moved closer to the body, bending over to peer into the chest cavity. “This sniper is a helluva shot.”

  Doc left Zoe to her photography. “Not that he needed to be. He used a high-powered rifle. The bullet shattered a rib and shredded the aorta, his lungs, and everything else in its path. The victim never stood a chance.”

  She snapped the needed pictures and lowered the camera. She’d already photographed Barry while he was still wearing his paramedic’s uniform, the same as hers only much larger, as well as after he’d been stripped. The entrance wound—small, round, and pink—exhibited very little blood, but some fibers from his shirt clung to it. On the other hand, the bullet had ripped a huge, jagged hole upon exiting.

  Zoe flashed back to the night before, when she and Franklin had processed Barry’s body at the scene. He’d clearly bled out in less than a minute. Died in a pond of his own blood.

  She wondered who had been shot first. Barry or Curtis? What had it been like for the second victim? Seeing his partner gunned down, only then to be shot as well.

  Barry had been a big, loveable lug, but he’d also made an enemy or two in his day. Simply on the basis of his size, he often acted as the protector of the weak.

  A recent incident, which Zoe had heard from others at the garage, floated to the surface of her mind. A couple of weeks ago, a young, drunk badass had called Barry out. Apparently, he’d popped the thug with one fist after taking as many of the punk’s insults as he could handle. According to the guys, the loudmouth ran away in tears, but had been heard around town making threats about a rematch.

  Curtis was physically the polar opposite of his partner. Lean and non-threatening, he avoided altercations at all costs, telling everyone that he was a lover, not a fighter. Everyone at Mon County EMS eagerly awaited Curtis’s upcoming wedding to Lucy Livingston, who some of the guys described as ten-car-pileup gorgeous. Lucy had dumped a jerk of a boyfriend for Curtis, who’d proposed after a whirlwind three-month courtship.

  Zoe tried to remember Lucy’s ex-boyfriend’s name to no avail. Could jealousy have driven the jilted lover to try to kill his rival?

  “Zoe.”

  She snapped out of her reverie and looked up to find Franklin staring at her over his mask. “I’m sorry. What?”

  The coroner motioned toward Abercrombie. “Doc asked if you wanted to run the gut.”

  As if all the other aromas weren’t disgusting enough, opening and washing the intestines ranked at the top of the Awful Smells List. She’d never lasted through it, even with someone else doing the deed. “Uh. No. I’ll pass.”

  Doc snickered, smile lines deepened around Franklin’s eyes, and Zoe realized both men were teasing her.

  At least she thought they were teasing. “You’re evil, you know.”

  “You make it too easy.” Franklin took the camera from her hands.

  “No more photographs?” she asked.

  “No. I don’t want you to drop my new Nikon when you pass out.”

  Oh, crap. They weren’t kidding.

  Pete stood in the police station’s conference room, studying the crime scene photos spread across the long table. An overturned ATV. The ambulance with a bullet hole in the fender. Close-ups of the tread marks from the second ATV. Various shots of the body.

  Every aspect of the case gnawed at him. The ambush. The victims. The lack of evidence. The lack of a suspect. That one really ate at him.

  His cell phone rang for what felt like the twentieth time. Concerned citizens kept phoning, demanding answers he didn’t have. Or offering their thoughts on who might be behind the killings. He’d taken a list of names and would follow up even though he knew most of the accusations were bogus. This time, though, the name and number on his caller ID weren’t local.

  Chuck Delano. His former partner from their days with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police currently resided in Hawaii. A couple of months back, Chuck had hounded him relentlessly to accept a job at some swanky resort on Maui. At one point, Pete had been on the verge of taking it too.

  Pete answered the phone. “No, I am not moving to Hawaii.”

  “Well, why the hell not? Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re in love.” The way Chuck said the word made it sound like a high school crush.

  “I’m busy. What do you want?”

  “No need to get snippy. But I do have another job offer for you. Not quite as good as the last one, at least starting out, but I think you’d make head of security within three months easy.”

  “I told you. I’m not moving.”

  “Bring the girl with you. One word for you, Petey. Bikinis.”

  For a moment, Pete’s mind conjured up an image of Zoe in a skimpy bathing suit. He quickly filed the fantasy away for later, when he had the time to enjoy it. “I have to go.”

  “I don’t know how you can still live around there.” Chuck’s tone became more wistful.

  The hint of melancholy in his old partner’s voice kept Pete from hanging up. “I like it here. I’ve told you that.”

  “I know. But don’t you ever think about…you know?”

  Of course he knew. Eleven years ago, he and Chuck had responded to a report of shots fired. A drug deal gone south. One kid lay dead in the street. A second one took a shot at Chuck, hitting him in the leg. Pete had returned fire, ending the life of what turned out to be a fifteen-year-old boy. “Donnie Moreno.” He’d never forget the night or the name.

  “To this day I wake up in a cold sweat remembering,” Chuck said. “If I still lived back there, I’d probably have eaten my gun by now. And I wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger.”

  “It’s ancient history. We were doing our jobs. If you still can’t let it go, maybe you need to talk to someone.”

  Pete’s suggestion was met with a gruff laugh. “I do. I talk to the pretty barmaids downstairs at the lounge. I’m telling you, you need to come check the place out. Take a vacation. Bring your girl with you.”

  Bells jangled on the front door. “I have to go, Chuck.”

  “Think about it at least?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll think about it.” Pete ended the call.

  He couldn’t make out the words in the muffled exchange between the newcomer and Nancy, his secretary, but he heard enough to know the speaker’s identity. A moment later, Baronick swaggered into the room carrying two cups from the new coffee joint in Phillipsburg.

  The detective handed one to Pete. “I figured you could use this.”

  He mumbled his thanks.

  “Do you realize you have a crew of reporters camped outside?”

  “Yeah. I told them I’d give a statement as soon as we know something.” Pete inhaled the aromatic steam from the cup. “So do we have anything new?”

  “Not yet.” Baronick took a sip. “Your officer’s still overseeing things at the site. We’ve got teams with metal detectors trying to locate the spent bullets. What about the ambulance?”

  “I sent Nate Williamson over to Kramer’s to process it. We should hear something from him shortly. And Metzger’s in the back on the phone trying to track down the owner of the bait ATV.” Pete tapped the photo of the tread marks. “Tires aren’t a match, so we’re definitely dealing with two different vehicles.”

  Baronick set down his coffee and shook his head. “Quite the elabo
rate ruse, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah.” Maybe too elaborate, which was one of the many things that bugged Pete about the case.

  The bells at the front of the station jingled again. At the same time, Seth Metzger rapped on the open door to the conference room. Pete waved him in.

  “I tracked down the owner of the overturned ATV.” The officer handed a sheet of paper with his notes to Pete. “He’s from over near Marsdale. Reported it stolen two days ago. I called Marsdale PD and they confirmed.”

  Baronick read Metzger’s scribblings over Pete’s shoulder. “Maybe my guys will be able to pull some fingerprints or fibers off it.”

  “Not likely. This guy’s been pretty good about covering his ass.”

  Baronick grinned at Pete. “Don’t be so negative. He’s bound to slip up at some point.”

  Another knock at the door drew Pete’s attention. Zoe, pale and sporting a matched set of dark circles under her gorgeous baby blues, leaned against the doorframe as if her legs might fail her. He moved toward her. “Are you okay?” But the reason for her pallor hit him before she had a chance to respond. “The autopsy.”

  She pushed away from the door and allowed him to guide her to a chair. “I don’t care what anyone tells you, Vicks VapoRub does not cover those smells.”

  “You’re just now figuring that out?” Pete offered a sympathetic smile. “What did Franklin learn?”

  She shot a sickly glare at him. “Besides how fast I can run when I need to barf?”

  Pete winced. “Yeah. Besides that.”

  “Nothing unexpected. The bullet entered the upper left quadrant of the chest, took out the aorta, broke several ribs, and shredded the lung and the liver along the way before exiting just below the posterior right ribcage. Barry died within seconds from massive blood loss.”

  “Any bullet fragments?” Baronick asked.

  She shook her head.

  Pete propped one hip on the edge of the table and leaned toward her, resisting the urge to touch her arm. “Any word on Knox?”