“Yes, ma’am.” Pete helped her get her second arm through, then he selected a gown of his own and suited up.
The small room smelled of antiseptic. A monitor above the bed tracked Kroll’s heart rhythm. Two machines produced intermittent beeps of different tones.
Mrs. Kroll shuffled to her husband’s bedside, rested a small hand on his arm, and bent over to kiss him on the cheek. He stirred. With a smile, she whispered something to him, and he smiled back.
A cavern opened inside Pete’s chest. He ached for what these two old folks had. A bond so close that it had survived decades of for better or worse, in sickness and in health. He’d had it once. He thought. But nowhere in his marriage vows was there any mention of sticking out the long hours and fears involved in being wed to a cop.
Mrs. Kroll fingered a strand of her husband’s white hair sticking out from the bandage. “Marv, honey? Chief Adams is here to see you. Do you think you can talk to him?’
Kroll moved his head slightly, as if trying to get a good look at Pete. Taking the hint, Pete crutched closer to the bed. “Hello, Mr. Kroll. How are you feeling?”
He managed a weak shrug. “Like I’ve been run over by a hay wagon.”
“I’ll try to be brief. Can you tell me who did this to you?”
Kroll’s forehead creased. “I wish I could. But I don’t remember anything about it.”
“Nothing? Maybe you remember having company? Did anyone come to see you? Talk to you?”
“I wouldn’t know I’d been shot in the barn if Bernice hadn’t told me.” With what looked like Herculean effort, Kroll tried to shift in his bed. He let out a groan as he settled back where he’d started. “I don’t even recall going to the barn. To be honest, I’m not sure I remember getting up that morning. Doctors say I have retro— retro—”
Mrs. Kroll patted his arm. “Retrograde amnesia, dear.”
He nodded. “They tell me I may never remember the stuff I did right before the accident.”
Except it wasn’t an accident. Damn it. Pete had hoped Kroll could solve this string of crimes by giving him one lousy name. But Pete knew about head traumas and had been afraid this might be the case. So he tried another route. “Mr. Kroll, do you remember going to see James Engle last Wednesday?”
The old man became even more still. Only that zigzagging line of mountain peaks and valleys on the monitor gave evidence of life. After several long moments, Kroll blew out an audible breath. “Yes.”
“Why did you go see him?”
“I had some questions for him.”
“Questions? About what?”
Kroll continued to stare unblinking at Pete. “I...I’d rather not say.”
“Did these questions have anything to do with the letter you’d hidden in your tractor’s tool box?”
The old man’s eyes widened, and he shot a glance at his wife.
“It’s okay, honey,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ve seen the letter. I know all about it.”
Kroll grimaced. “I didn’t want you to find out about it until...”
“Until what?” Pete asked.
The question appeared to pain him more than his injuries. “I wanted more information than what that no account rattlesnake provided in that damnable letter of his. It was a tease is all it was. He didn’t really say a blamed thing.”
Mrs. Kroll laid a hand on her husband’s chest. “He said I wasn’t at fault for Vernie or Denver’s deaths. That’s something.”
He met her gaze, tears rimming his eyes. Pete noticed the old man’s heart rate had rocketed.
“It wasn’t enough. I wanted to know why the blazes he let this go on for all these years. Why he let you suffer. That son of a—” Kroll pressed his lips closed in a hard frown. “I figured James had done it. Killed those men. And I wanted him to admit it to me.” Kroll looked at Pete. “And to you, too, of course. I wanted him to come clean. As punishment. Not only for the crimes, but for what he’s put my girl through all these years. Letting her believe she was responsible for the deaths of those men. The guilt she carried—” The old man’s voice cracked and a tear traced alongside his cheek, to his pillow. “And for him to suggest that burden may have contributed to her illness and never do anything about it.”
Mrs. Kroll swept a hand across his face, brushing the tear away, then bent down and kissed his forehead.
Pete gave them a minute. Once Kroll seemed composed, Pete said, “And did you get him to admit anything?”
“In a manner of speaking. He said he was protecting his sister.”
“His sister?” Pete checked his notes. “Mae? Vernon Miller had gotten her pregnant.”
Kroll raised an eyebrow. “You knew?”
“I told him,” Mrs. Kroll said.
“So did James say his sister killed the Miller brothers?”
Kroll appeared to consider the question. “No. He didn’t say anything concrete. Just that Mae had been sweet and they were protecting her.”
“They?”
“I assume he meant him and his brother. But when I asked him about it, he clammed up. Told me he’d said as much as he was free to.”
Pete jotted a reminder to press Wilford Engle on the matter. “Mr. Kroll, how did James seem when you left?”
“Seem?” The old man pondered the question. “I guess I’d have to say he seemed glum. Despondent. But to be perfectly honest, the few times I’ve seen him over the last few years, he’s been that way. A real sad sack.”
Which meshed with Dr. Weinstein’s diagnosis of depression. “Did you see anyone else around James’ place while you were there?”
“No, sir.”
“Any other cars? Maybe you might have thought they were just passing by, but could have stopped after you pulled out?”
Kroll started to shake his head, but winced. “No. I didn’t see a living soul.”
“Just one last thing. Why didn’t you say anything about this sooner? Especially after you heard the man had died.”
Kroll shifted his moist gaze to his wife. “Because I didn’t know what to say to Bernice. I thought I might go back and talk to him again, but then he went and killed himself two days later.”
“Actually, Mr. Kroll, James Engle died that same day you talked to him.”
Kroll choked. “What?”
“His body wasn’t found until Friday night, but the coroner believes he died sometime Wednesday.”
“Son of a...” Kroll fell silent for a moment. “I didn’t think one thing had anything to do with the other. Could my questions have driven James to...to kill himself?”
“I don’t believe so.”
A nurse breezed into the room and snatched a pair of Latex gloves from a box on the wall. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to ask you folks to step out for just a couple minutes.”
Pete folded his notebook into his pocket and repositioned his crutches. “I have all I need for right now, anyway.” He thanked both of the Krolls for their time and made his way out of the room.
In the hallway, Pete stripped out of the paper gown and slam-dunked it into the trash bin. Had Marvin Kroll’s questions driven James Engle to kill himself? Ironic that for years Bernice Kroll carried the guilt of having pushed two brothers to murder and suicide, and now her husband felt the same kind of culpability.
Could James Engle’s death truly have been at his own hand? From what Pete could determine, Kroll had been the last person to see him alive, but Pete wasn’t buying Kroll as a killer. Besides, the old man had been unconscious in his hospital bed when Carl Loomis had been murdered. And while James may very well have killed the Millers all those years ago, he certainly hadn’t shot Kroll. Or Loomis.
Which meant there was still someone out there.
Or back in Pete’s jail.
Tw
enty-Seven
Zoe glanced at the waiting room door as she thumbed through a tattered six-month-old Hollywood gossip magazine. Harry fidgeted in the chair next to her like an impatient eight-year-old. “When can we go home?” he asked for the fourth time.
“As soon as Pete comes out from visiting Mr. Kroll.” Also for the fourth time. She didn’t mention her father’s autopsy, which was scheduled to start within the hour.
She heard the electronic doors out in the hallway hiss open and expected to see a doctor or nurse cruise past the waiting room, just like the other dozen times. But this time several long seconds passed before someone appeared, and that someone was Pete.
Zoe jumped up. “How is he?”
Alexander Kroll rose from his seat as well and moved next to her.
“Considering what he’s been through, he looks good,” Pete said. To Alexander he added, “You can go back now if you want.”
Alexander thanked him and hurried off.
“Well?” Zoe prodded. “Who did he say shot him?”
“He didn’t.” Pete checked his watch. “We better get down to the morgue. Come on, Pop.”
Harry sprung from his chair. “Are we going home now?”
“Not yet.” Pete did an awkward pivot and hobbled away.
“What do you mean, ‘he didn’t’?” Zoe caught Harry’s arm and guided him after Pete.
“Kroll doesn’t remember. In fact, he doesn’t remember much of anything that happened earlier that day.”
“Crap.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady.” Harry’s voice sounded reprimanding, but his eyes twinkled.
Zoe feigned being dutifully rebuked. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”
Harry grinned and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. A gentleman escorting a lady.
To the morgue.
Zoe drew Harry alongside Pete. “Did you learn anything from Mr. Kroll?”
Pete pressed the down button at the elevator. “Yeah. I don’t believe he killed James Engle.”
She shot a look of annoyance at Pete. He ignored her which irritated her even more.
The doors pinged open, and they rode down to the sub-basement level.
They found Franklin Marshall in the office, already wearing his scrubs and ready to step through the doors into autopsy. He glanced at each of them before his gaze settled on Pete. “We have quite an audience today, don’t we?”
Zoe noticed a look pass between the two of them. “What?”
Pete started to answer, but Franklin held up a hand. “Zoe, I know I’ve hounded you about participating in autopsies, but I’m afraid this isn’t one you should attend.”
She slipped free of Harry’s arm. “That’s my father in there.”
“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t be.”
“No. Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Not again.” A gentle hand touched her shoulder. She wheeled on Pete, nearly knocking him off balance. “No one let me see my dad when I was little. You’re not going to keep me from seeing him now.”
“Franklin, keep an eye on Pop for me.” Pete held Zoe’s gaze and tipped his head toward the hallway. “Walk with me for a minute.”
“It’s not gonna make a difference.”
“Just hear me out.” Pete shifted both crutches to one hand and slung the other arm over her shoulders, leaning on her. “Come on.”
They left Harry and Franklin behind and stepped into the empty hallway.
Under different circumstances, the physical closeness to Pete, the warmth of him, the scent of him, would have made her dizzy. Instead, she braced against what she knew was coming. Another “for your own good” speech.
“I need to see my father.” She held her voice steady and low when what she wanted was to scream.
“I know.”
She was stunned when the expected argument didn’t transpire.
He reshuffled the crutches and turned to face her, resting both strong hands on her shoulders, tracing her collarbone with his thumbs.
She shivered at his touch.
“The problem,” he said, “is your father isn’t in there.”
“What?” Had Pete learned something? For a moment her heart swelled with hope. Was her dad alive after all?
“What’s in there is a cadaver. A dead body. Everything that made him your dad has been gone for a very long time.”
She deflated. “I understand, but—”
Pete squeezed. Gently. “But nothing. Listen to me. I know you. I know what you want and where you’re coming from. You need proof. Incontrovertible proof that your dad died twenty-seven years ago.” Pete’s voice grew softer. He lowered his face toward hers. “All you’re going to see in there is a burnt shell of a man who’s been long gone.”
She couldn’t hold Pete’s gaze any longer and looked at the front of his wrinkled shirt. “But if that really is my father’s body in there—”
Pete brought one hand up to cup her cheek. “Zoe, let me do this for you. Let me take your place in there. Let me make that ID for you.”
She choked on tears that came out of nowhere. She tried to argue, but the words jammed in her throat.
“Zoe.” Her name on Pete’s lips sounded like a caress. “Do you trust me?”
She lifted her gaze to his clear blue eyes again and felt as though he’d connected to her thoughts, her soul. Her heart. Did she trust him? After all the bad choices she’d made in her life, did she trust this one man?
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then let me do this for you.” He lowered his face a little more, until his forehead touched hers. “I promise I won’t keep anything from you.”
The air had been sucked out of the hallway. Except for Pete’s warm breath on her face. Her lips. Thoughts swam, unfocused, across her brain. Her father’s body. The closed casket. What lurked under that lid? The truth. But could she trust this truth to anyone else? Even Pete?
“Okay.” Her voice sounded wet and strangled even to her own ears.
He skimmed his thumb across her lips. Pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek. And stepped back, breaking the link between them. Zoe struggled to regain her balance and her composure.
“I’ll tell you everything I find out,” Pete said. “Everything. You have my word.”
She nodded, afraid to speak.
He reached out and touched her face again. This time, she leaned into his touch.
“I’ll take good care of your dad.” Pete’s voice wavered. “You take care of mine.”
“I want to go home.” Harry sounded less like an eight-year-old and more like a stubborn old mule as Zoe guided him out of the elevator at the fourth floor and back toward the ICU.
“I know. I’m sorry. We have to wait for Pete to...get done with what he’s doing.” She touched the spot on her cheek Pete had kissed. The memory of his lips, the heat of his closeness, made her slightly woozy.
“How long is that going to take?” Harry demanded.
She switched from a mental picture of Pete’s eyes to one of a closed casket. “A while I’m afraid.”
Harry glowered. “I want to go home.”
“I’ll make you a deal. We’ll check on Mrs. Kroll. See if I can get in to visit my landlord for a minute. Then you and I will go down to the snack bar and get a milkshake.”
The frown vanished. “A milkshake? Chocolate?”
Zoe held her arms out from her sides. “Is there any other kind?”
“All righty then. Let’s go.”
She took Harry’s arm, and they started toward the waiting room. At the end of the hall, the automatic doors to the ICU swung open, and a trio in scrubs carrying on an animated conversation breezed out. At the same moment, a painfully thin old man shuffled out of the waiting room and headed towa
rd the elevator and Zoe and Harry. The old man lifted his head and his cold gaze seemed to settle on them.
Then he collapsed.
The trio in the scrubs leaped to his side. One of them managed to break the old man’s fall, easing him to the floor. A second one knelt beside him. The third whipped her stethoscope from around her neck.
Zoe kicked into paramedic mode and pulled away from Harry. But he closed his fingers around her arm.
“No.” Harry’s voice was oddly low and deep. Authoritarian. Very much like Pete’s.
Stunned, she turned to look at Harry. His expression was as stern and serious as his voice. “Harry, I’m a paramedic. I might be able to help.”
He didn’t release his grip. “No. Let someone else take care of him.”
The way Harry said him sent a chill up Zoe’s spine. She looked back at the group outside the waiting room. They were helping the old man to his feet. He brushed them off as if they were a swarm of gnats. “I’m fine,” she heard him say. “I take these spells.”
“Who is he?” she asked Harry.
“I don’t remember. I just know he’s not nice.”
As they watched, the old man shook off the last of the medical team’s attempts at assistance and continued toward Zoe and Harry with his head lowered. Watching his step. Or avoiding eye contact.
He passed them wide to their right without looking up. But Zoe never took her eyes off him. Something about him seemed familiar. Considering his age and frail condition, she’d probably transported him in the ambulance at some point.
Harry urged her forward. “Let’s go.”
She kept her gaze on the old man behind them as she allowed Harry to draw her toward the waiting room. The elevator doors pinged open, and the old man got on.
And Patsy Greene, loaded with a huge bouquet wrapped in green tissue, stepped off. She spotted Zoe and waved. “There you are,” Patsy called and broke into a jog to catch up.
Zoe had to wrestle Harry to stop.
2 Lost Legacy Page 25
