With a Vengeance

by Annette Dashofy

  “Speaking of…” Baronick gestured back toward the kitchen, where they’d found nothing more incriminating than a paring knife. “Was I the only one expecting to find MREs instead of Cheerios?”

  “I suspect he’d save the packaged military grub for emergencies and keep it stashed in a bomb shelter under the house,” Pete said, only half joking. “Let’s keep going.”

  They moved together into the living room, which was as dated and as normal as the dining room and kitchen. Drawers and nooks in the end tables and curio cabinet revealed nothing of interest. A few discolored photographs showing a smiling family—a pretty young woman with a strong resemblance to Lucy, a grinning twentyish version of Hector, and a tiny dark-haired sprite of a girl with a button nose and a ponytail—decorated tabletops and a mantle.

  A carpeted staircase led upward. Baronick opened a door under the stairs and looked down into the darkened cellar. “You wanna split up? I’ll take the basement. You check upstairs.”

  Pete headed for the stairs to the second floor without responding.

  The first room he encountered matched the style of the rest of the house. Double bed with a dingy chenille spread. Bureau. Chest of drawers. Two nightstands. And a closet. He started with a nightstand and was surprised to find the first one empty. The bureau was a combination of empty drawers and others containing women’s clothing. Not modern like Lucy would wear. Pete was no expert in women’s styles, but he guessed these to be at least twenty years old.

  Hector’s wife’s things. Same with the chest of drawers. The second nightstand contained a few pieces of cheap jewelry, a couple bottles of lotions, and a hairbrush.

  Pete opened the closet. Decades-old women’s dresses, blouses, and slacks hung on one end of a pipe. The other end was empty. Shoeboxes were stacked neatly along one side. He knelt down and started going through them. Sandals. High heels. Sneakers. All women’s styles. None modern.

  Neither Hector nor Lucy had ever had the heart to toss these things. Nor had they hidden any prepaid phones among the vintage fashions.

  Pete moved down the hall to the next closed door and pushed it open. Rumpled clothing, much of it camo, lay in piles on the floor and strewn on chairs. The bed wasn’t made and didn’t look like it had been in recent months. A muzzleloader was prominently displayed over a window with a shooting pouch and powder horn draped over the pegs supporting the rifle. Original or reproduction? Pete would look at it closer when he had a chance. It wasn’t their murder weapon, so his curiosity had to wait.

  Assorted boxes of ammunition sat on a dresser, some boxes closed, some open with shells scattered. Small caliber, probably used to shoot groundhogs around the house.

  But the gadget, which at first glance might have appeared to be a walkie-talkie, perched atop a chest of drawers was what drew Pete’s interest.

  A handheld police scanner.

  “Bingo,” he said to the empty room.

  A thorough search of Hector’s room revealed nothing else of importance. No thirty-caliber ammo. No burner phones. No hunting rifle hidden under the mattress. Just the scanner, from which he could have tracked who was on duty and responding to calls.

  A small bathroom in need of an update yielded nothing either. One room remained.

  Pete opened the door to an assault of pink. And lace. Unlike her father’s room, Lucy’s was neat and tidy. The bed was made. All of her clothes had been hung up or folded in drawers. A corner shelving unit displaying framed photos and a number of trophies and ribbons. Pete crossed to it for a closer look.

  The trophies—he counted fourteen of them—were topped with golden figures holding a rifle, similar figures with a handgun, or a sporting clay with a set of shotgun shells. Pete removed his reading glasses from his pocket and slipped them on his face. The small engraved plaques on the bases came into focus. Different shooting competitions, different dates. Same winner’s name. Lucy Livingston.

  Three of the trophies were for championship sharpshooter awards.

  “Wow,” Baronick said from behind him.

  Pete flinched. Damn it. He hated when the detective sneaked up on him like that.

  “I guess the girl can shoot.”

  “I already figured that much.”

  Baronick crooked a finger. “You might want to come downstairs and see what I found.”

  Pete followed him into the basement. Steel shelves lined the block walls and held dozens of jugs of water, what had to be several months’ worth of assorted canned foods, and large tins with the lids popped open—probably the detective’s doing—containing sacks of flour and sugar. Cardboard cases marked “Meal, Ready-To-Eat” filled another set of shelves.

  Baronick pointed at them, grinning proudly. “I knew there would be MREs.”

  Seven five-gallon gasoline cans sat against the opposite wall. Pete had expected more. Maybe Hector had a buried gas tank somewhere on the property.

  “This is what you wanted me to see?” Pete asked.

  “Not quite.” Baronick headed farther back into the cellar, ducking through a doorway. “Watch your head.”

  Pete followed the detective, avoiding the low clearance. Inside, a series of fluorescent light fixtures illuminated the room. The elaborate workbench and tool display forced Pete to tamp down a rush of jealousy. A deconstructed shotgun occupied a portion of the bench. Reloading supplies took up the remainder.

  A trio of mammoth gun safes stood in formation against the wall opposite the work area. He blew a soft whistle of appreciation.

  “What do you want to bet there’s a thirty-ought-six in one of those?” Baronick asked.

  Pete wasn’t about to take that bet. “Have you found anything else?”

  “Isn’t this enough?”

  Pete shot a look at the detective.

  Baronick aimed a thumb at the storage cabinets over the workbench. “I haven’t finished searching those yet.”

  “You keep looking.” Pete turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Outside to talk Hector Livingston into coughing up the combinations. Unless you plan on testing your safe-cracking skills.”

  As soon as Pete hit the top of the basement steps, his phone chimed. A check of the screen revealed he’d missed a call. Apparently there was no cell service in Hector’s basement. Pete pulled up details of the missed call, hoping it was from the officers tracking down the Livingston girl. Instead, it was from Zoe. As much as he loved hearing her voice, right now he didn’t have time. He needed to catch the shooter who was putting her in harm’s way.

  If he hadn’t already.

  He found Hector as he’d left him, standing in the shady backyard, his face ominous and still, like the sky just before the arrival of a storm. The Monongahela County uniformed officer assigned to keep watch over their suspect acknowledged Pete with a nod.

  “Nice workbench you’ve got downstairs,” Pete said.

  Hector glared at him in silence.

  Pete’s phone chimed again.

  Still hoping for word on Lucy, he checked it, but found a text from Zoe instead. He pocketed the phone without reading the message. “I need the combinations for your gun safes.”

  Hector responded with a disdainful suggestion that Pete do something which was physically impossible.

  Pete studied the man. His eyes. His face. His stance. This was no cocky young thug. Nor was he a fool. No. This was a fiercely private man who believed in personal freedom. He was a father who loved his daughter, crazy or not, more than life.

  But was he a killer?

  “Look, Hector, I understand you hate having us here. To be honest, I’d rather not tear up your house and go through your stuff either. You could save us both a lot of grief by being straight with me.”

  A muscle in the man’s jaw twitched. But he didn’t tell Pete to go to hell.

  “I
am going to put an end to this killing with or without your help. If your daughter is involved in any way, I will stop her. No matter what.” Pete let the full meaning of his words sink in before continuing. “If she’s the one I’m after, and if you want to keep her alive, you need to help me stop her before it’s too late.”

  Panic flickered in Hector’s eyes. He looked away, his jaw tense. When he brought his gaze back to Pete, the mask was once again firmly in place. Yet the hostility seemed less intense. “Lucille didn’t do this.”

  Pete folded his arms. “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Then prove it. Give me the combinations to your gun safes.”

  “You won’t find anything to tie either of us to the shootings.” Hector jutted his jaw. “Unless you plant it.”

  Pete suspected Hector was baiting him. “You’ll have to take my word on that.”

  “Why should I?”

  Pete leaned in a little closer. Lowered his voice. “Because deep down, I think we’re on the same side. You used to be a firefighter. Life dealt you a damned lousy hand. In similar circumstances, I might have reacted the same as you. But you’ve been on the line of fire. You know what it takes to do the job. I don’t think you could kill your own kind. And even if you could, I don’t think you’re coward enough to do it from a distance.”

  Pete wasn’t sure he believed a word he was telling Hector. But he could tell the man was giving his words serious thought.

  “If you didn’t do this, and if your daughter didn’t, then a killer is still out there ready to strike again, I’m wasting valuable time tearing your house apart, and another man or woman on the front line might die because of it.”

  Hector’s gaze had shifted to one side. His lower lip pressed the upper one into an inverted U.

  “The combinations,” Pete said.

  Hector deflated. Rheumy eyes met Pete’s. “You got something to write on?”

  Pete watched as a trio of county officers each carried two hunting rifles—thirty-ought-sixes—from the Livingston house. Hector had been moved to the backseat of one of the county cars. For once, Pete didn’t give a damn about turning the case over to Baronick and his men. Their ballistics lab would make quick work of matching one of the half dozen weapons to the brass they had in evidence.

  Or clearing them.

  Let the county boys do the lab work. Pete intended to be the one to catch the killer.

  Baronick appeared at the back door, spotted Pete, and jogged down the steps and across the yard to him. “We’ve got her,” the detective said.

  “Lucy?”

  “Yep. Just got a call. She’s in custody.”

  “Where’d they find her?”

  “Greene County. At a friend’s house.”

  Pete’s phone rang. “So Hector was telling the truth,” he said as he checked the screen, expecting to see Zoe’s name. In all the hubbub, he’d forgotten to read her message. But this time the incoming call was from Chuck Delano. The guy was persistent. No doubt about it. Pete pressed the key to ignore the call.

  “Yeah,” Baronick said. “He told the truth about that much at least. I can’t wait to hear what the girl has to say though. I’ve sent two of my men to bring her back to Monongahela County Police Headquarters.”

  “County Headquarters?” No. There was no damned way Pete would allow County to snatch this case from him now. “She comes back here.”

  “Be reasonable, Pete. You’re already stretched too thin. We have the facilities and the manpower. You don’t. The only reason I’ve let you spearhead the investigation up until now is because this is where the action has been. But it makes no sense to bypass County and bring Lucy here for questioning.”

  Maybe not, but Pete wasn’t letting go. He remembered Hector’s words to him three days ago and echoed them to the detective. “Do you know how to tell when she’s lying?”

  “No. How?”

  “I do,” Pete said. Her lips move, he thought to himself, but he wasn’t sharing the joke with the detective.

  Baronick glared at Pete. Pete glared back. A game of who-blinks-first. They’d played it many times before.

  “All right. We keep her at HQ, but you can sit in on the questioning,” Baronick said.

  “No deal.” Pete wasn’t about to leave his township when a killer might still be on the loose. And Baronick knew it. “You bring the girl here. After we both question her, County can have her.”

  The detective held eye contact, but took a deep breath. Pete refrained from smiling. He’d won this round.

  “Fine. We’ll play it your way. This time.” Baronick pulled out his phone and walked away.

  Pete keyed up Zoe’s text message. He read it once. And then again. “Hey,” she wrote, “did you know Bud Kramer has a quad hidden under a tarp in the back of his garage?”

  Twenty-Four

  Zoe and the rest of the A crew stood in front of the open bay door, gazing at Medic Two as if it were a wounded comrade newly out of the hospital. Earl fingered the metal where the bullet had pierced the fender.

  “Does it pass your inspection?” Tony asked.

  Earl tipped his head, squinting at the patch job. “Yeah. Gotta say, Kramer’s guys do good work. I can’t even see a dimple.”

  The crew seemed appeased. Their large orange and white team member had been pronounced fully recovered and ready for duty.

  The mention of Bud Kramer set Zoe’s nerves on edge. Had Pete received her message? Would he have time to check into the ATV hidden under the tarp? Or would he even bother when he was focused on the Livingstons?

  She shook her head. Bud as a sniper was about as preposterous an idea as she’d ever come up with.

  Besides, she was the one who had alerted Pete to Lucy as a potential suspect. He’d think she was nuts if she called him to check every single ATV in the county.

  Tony clapped Zoe on the back. “So what’s the latest?”

  Had she missed something? “About what?”

  He fixed her with a look. “What do you think? You’re Chief Adams’ girl. You have the inside scoop on the investigation.”

  Chief Adams’ girl? That’s how they saw her? “I’m not really his…I mean, we’re not really…”

  Tony further narrowed his eyes at her.

  She glanced around and discovered the others giving her equally skeptical looks. “I haven’t talked to him since this morning. They were watching Hector Livingston’s house and trying to find Lucy.”

  “I heard they arrested Hector and were searching his house,” Tracy Nicholls said. “And they captured Lucy down in Greene County and are bringing her back for questioning.”

  “Oh,” Zoe said. Obviously she was out of the loop, Chief Adams’ girl or not.

  Tracy blushed when the other crewmembers all turned their attention to her. “I was talking to my friend at the newspaper a little while ago.”

  “So they’ve caught them.” Tony sounded relieved. “Good.”

  Tony, Tracy, and the other two guys on the crew drifted into the office, talking about the case and whether Hector or Lucy…or both…was the killer.

  Zoe ran the news through her head and wished it brought her the same sense of relief as the others felt.

  “What’s wrong?” Earl asked.

  She blinked, realizing she’d been staring at, but not really seeing, him. “I was thinking.”

  “I know. About what? I thought you’d be happy to hear Lucy and her father were in custody.”

  “I thought so too. Maybe I would, if I’d heard it from Pete.”

  Earl crossed his arms. “He’s probably busy.”

  “No matter how busy he is, if he believed I—we were safe, I think he’d let me know.”

  A trace of a grin crossed Earl’s face. “A minute ago you were arguing about not being his girl.”


  She opened her mouth to throw the we’re just friends line at him, but realized who she was talking to. Earl knew her too well. Instead, she said, “That’s not the only thing bugging me.”

  “You’re still hung up on Bud Kramer having a quad.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah. Maybe. No.” Zoe laughed at her lack of conviction. “I know it’s stupid. We’re talking Bud. We’ve known him for years.”

  “Decades,” Earl corrected.

  “He has no motive to hurt any of us.” That Zoe knew of. “Besides, he’s in wheelchair. The shooter, whoever he is, may have used a quad to get in and out, but he had to climb off the thing to make his shots. Bud couldn’t do that.”

  Earl fell silent, pensive.

  The flicker of doubt in his eyes tightened a knot in her shoulders. “What?”

  He fixed his gaze on Medic Two, but Zoe was pretty sure he wasn’t seeing it any more than she’d been seeing him a moment earlier. He shook it off. “I remember hearing Bud used to be a wild man in his younger days. Hot tempered. Always goading guys into fights.”

  “That’s still a long way from premeditated murder,” Zoe reminded him. “Besides, he’s in a wheelchair.”

  “Because of the pain when he stands.”

  “When he stands?”

  “And walks. Bud Kramer isn’t completely wheelchair bound. He can get around for short distances.”

  Short distances? Like the distance from a quad to a preselected vantage point for firing on unsuspecting fire and EMS personnel? Zoe shivered. “I have to call Pete again.”

  With Hector secured in Vance Township’s holding cell under Kevin’s scrutiny, and Lucy’s ETA still about an hour out, Pete decided to take advantage of the lull in action to look into this quad Zoe had called him about. As Pete parked in front of Bud Kramer’s Garage, his cell phone rang again. Zoe’s name flashed on the screen.

  “Hi,” he said, wondering if she could hear him smile.