He hit traffic on I-90, and by the time he arrived in Bay Village, an upscale suburb west of Cleveland, a lowering sky spit rain against the windshield. He exited at Clague Street, passed the tennis courts and baseball diamond in Reese Park, and headed west on Lake Road. Flanked on both sides by mature trees, the narrow, two-lane street cut through a fashionable residential area with Lake Erie just a few hundred yards to the north. There were older, well-kept bungalows and ranch homes to his left and pretty side streets lined with blue spruce and maples and Bradford pear trees that would be budding in a few weeks. The lakefront lots to his right were long and narrow, as if the developer had tried to squeeze in as many waterfront properties as possible. Many of the older homes on the lake—even those of historical significance—had been torn down and replaced by extravagant mansions with tennis courts and swimming pools and stunning views of the water.
He’d memorized the street number and slowed upon reaching the two-acre lakefront estate Joey Ferguson had inherited from his parents. Trees obscured the house from full view, but Tomasetti could see that the place was lit up like a football stadium. It looked like Ferguson was celebrating his newfound freedom.
He drove slowly past. Ten yards from the driveway entrance, a heavy wrought-iron security gate and post-mounted card reader warned off interlopers. He continued west on Lake for a hundred yards and then made a left into the parking lot of the Presbyterian Church, turned around, and idled past the estate a second time. From this vantage point, he could see the tennis court through the trees and a dozen or so cars parked in the circular driveway. He knew there were a pool and gazebo at the rear of the estate and a boathouse where Ferguson parked his parents’ thirty-four-foot Sea Ray. It was amazing what you could see from the sky without ever leaving the ground.
He had to hand it to the guy; Joey Ferguson knew how to live. He had a reputation for throwing world-class parties, hiring local chefs and bartenders, and shelling out plenty of cash for musicians or comedians. He lived in one of the most exclusive areas of the city, with a wine cellar filled with booze that cost more than Tomasetti earned in a year. Yes, Joey Ferguson lived his life to the fullest. He’d amassed most of his fortune back when he worked for the late Con Vespian. Before his untimely demise, Vespian had had his fingers in all the nasty pies. Extortion. Money laundering. Heroin. He’d been riding high—until the night they hit Tomasetti’s family.
He could barely remember the days and weeks that followed, but he knew something terrible had been unleashed inside him. In the end, Vespian paid dearly for his sins. For Tomasetti, the victory had been bittersweet, heavy on the bitter.
The Cuyahoga County prosecutor hadn’t taken it sitting down. John Tomasetti might have been one of their own, but that thin blue line went only so far when it came to murder. He’d been put before a grand jury. But the evidence was sketchy and the citizens of Cuyahoga County were sick of the bad guys getting away with murder. They’d handed down a no bill and Tomasetti walked away without so much as a scratch on his record. Chalk up one for the good guys.
Once the media coverage dropped off, Tomasetti quietly resigned his position with the Cleveland Division of Police and, with the help of one of the few friends he had left, landed a job with BCI. In the following months, he worked hard to put that dark chapter of his past behind. But he didn’t forget. A man never forgot something like that. The only question that remained now was if he was going to do something about it.
The blare of a horn jerked him back to the present. Not giving himself time to debate, Tomasetti turned into the sleek blacktop driveway, pulled up to the call box, and pressed the button.
“Name?” came a youngish male voice.
“John Tomasetti,” he said.
“I don’t see you on the invitation list.”
“Ferguson will see me.”
They made him wait nearly ten minutes. Two cars crowded against his bumper—a vintage Jaguar and a Viper—the drivers looking put out and anxious to get at all the swag awaiting them inside. Tomasetti was considering turning around and leaving when the gate slid open.
The asphalt curved right, snaking through a forest of tall, winter-dead trees. The Viper swept past, the passenger sticking her hand out the window and flipping him off. Tomasetti caught a glimpse of long blond hair an instant before the sports car skidded around a rococo fountain, swept through a brick archway, and disappeared from view.
He parked behind a black Escalade with darkly tinted glass and got out. He barely noticed the rain as he started toward the tall double doors. He could smell the cold, wet air of the lake now. The earthy scent of rotting foliage and the bark nuggets surrounding the boxwoods and blue point junipers growing on either side of the front door. He’d just stepped onto the Italian tile of the porch when the door opened.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Tomasetti. You’ve got balls showing up unannounced.”
“I like to keep things spontaneous.”
Joey Ferguson was thinner than he remembered. Tomasetti knew he was forty-six years old, but Ferguson looked closer to fifty.
“What do you want?” Ferguson asked.
“Just a quick chat.”
After a too-long hesitation, he opened the door wider and ushered Tomasetti inside. “Is this an official visit?”
“Personal.” Tomasetti stepped into a foyer with twenty-foot-high ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and fieldstone floor. A curved mahogany staircase, its far wall adorned with oil paintings framed in gold leaf, beckoned the eyes to a railed balcony. Through a wide doorway, he could see into a living room, where a dozen or so people milled about, martini glasses held in elegant hands, curious eyes cast his way. Beyond, a wall of glass looked out over a brooding Lake Erie.
“Hell of a view,” Tomasetti said.
“My lawyer owns it now.”
“I guess he earned it.” He pretended to enjoy the vista. “I bet Vince Kinnamon is wishing he had as good a lawyer as you did.”
Ferguson stiffened at the mention of Kinnamon’s name. Word on the street was the men had once been partners. Tomasetti didn’t know that to be fact, but judging from the other man’s reaction, it was damn close. Ferguson motioned toward the hall. “We can talk in my study.”
Tomasetti didn’t turn his back to him. Ferguson got the message and started down the hall first. They passed framed photographs of women and children in a sick parody of the all-American family. He was aware of the din of voices behind him. Ferguson walked a few feet ahead, and Tomasetti wondered if he could pull his weapon and shoot Ferguson in the back of the head before someone pulled out their piece and cut him down.
At the end of the hall, Ferguson opened a set of double doors that took them into a paneled study. The scent of woodsmoke and pipe tobacco met Tomasetti when he stepped inside. Mahogany hardwood shelves filled with thousands of books comprised three walls. The fourth offered another stunning view of the lake. A corner hearth crackled merrily, giving the room a warm glow. Despite his hatred for the man, Tomasetti was impressed.
Ferguson seemed completely at ease as he crossed to a bar, where crystal decanters sat atop gleaming mahogany. “Can I get you anything? Scotch? Or maybe you’re a bourbon man?”
Instead of taking one of the two visitor chairs, Tomasetti strode to the window and looked out at the lake, placing himself between Ferguson and the desk. “I don’t need anything from you.”
Ferguson tossed ice into a tumbler and poured amber liquid from a decanter. “You’re not going to do something you’ll regret later, are you?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Ferguson must have seen something in Tomasetti’s eyes because suddenly, he didn’t look quite so sure of himself. “A hasty decision at this point would be unfortunate for you.”
“It would be unfortunate for one of us.”
Making a sound of annoyance, Ferguson picked up the tumbler and threw back the alcohol in a single gulp. “So talk. I don’t have all night.”
“So, h
ow is it that you get the six-thousand-square-foot mansion on the lake,” Tomasetti said breezily, “and Vince Kinnamon gets a trial with the possibility of life in prison?”
Ferguson smirked. “Don’t you love the criminal justice system?”
Tomasetti was across the room before the other man could set the glass down. Vaguely, he was aware of Ferguson’s eyes going wide. He took a step back, opened his mouth as if he couldn’t believe Tomasetti was actually going to cross the invisible line that had been drawn. Tomasetti slapped the glass from his hand. The tumbler thudded dully on the floor. He clamped his other hand around Ferguson’s throat, digging his fingers into the flesh, and shoved him against the bar.
“You cut a deal, Joey?” Tomasetti ground out. “Is that what you did?”
Ferguson clawed at Tomasetti’s hand. “Can’t … do … this,” he choked out. “You’re … cop.”
Crushing the other man’s throat with his fingers, Tomasetti leaned so close, he could smell the whiskey on his breath, the stink of fear coming off his skin. He could feel Ferguson’s pulse raging beneath his fingertips and he marveled at how easy it would be to kill him. He squeezed harder, long-buried rage driving him toward a precipice and inevitable drop.
Tomasetti put his mouth an inch from the other man’s ear. “I haven’t forgotten what you did.”
Ferguson made a strangled sound, his mouth gaping, tongue protruding. His face turned purple. Veins throbbed at his temples. He slapped at Tomasetti, but his blows were ineffective.
All Tomasetti could think was that he wanted him dead. Gone. In hell, where he belonged. It would be so easy to cross that line.
But this wasn’t like before. Far from it, because for the first time since the deaths of his wife and children, Tomasetti had something to lose. Thoughts of Kate and the life they’d built flashed in his mind. He knew if he took this any further, he would lose her and destroy everything he’d worked so hard to build.
Ferguson went slack. Tomasetti released him. The other man went to his knees, leaned forward, sucking in great gulps of air. “You son of a bitch,” he croaked.
Giving himself a hard mental shake, Tomasetti stepped back. He watched impassively as the other man got to his feet. He saw the imprint of his fingers on his throat, but there was no satisfaction. No sense of justice.
“You fuck.” Ferguson’s hands fluttered at his throat. His face was red. He was breathing hard, glaring at Tomasetti, murder in his eyes. “You’re a cop. You can’t come in here and assault me.”
“You’re right.” Tomasetti let his mouth twist into a smile. “I can’t.” He started toward the door.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ferguson snarled.
Tomasetti twisted the knob, let the door roll open. “Enjoy the rest of your party.”
CHAPTER 8
By the time I reach the station, the rain is pouring down so hard, I drive past my designated parking spot and have to back up to turn into it. Flipping up the hood of my jacket, I hightail it to the door. The interior is dry and smells of heated air and paper dust laced with nail polish. It’s after 5 P.M.; Despite my fatigue, I’d been entertaining thoughts of heading back to the farm, if only for a shower and to check on Tomasetti, but there are a few more things I need to tie up before I can call it a day.
“Hey, Chief.” Jodie Metzger, my second-shift dispatcher, is sitting at the phone station, a magazine spread out on the desk in front of her.
“Hi.” I stop at her desk and glance down to see her quickly stash the nail polish in a drawer. “I like the blue.”
She grins sheepishly as she hands me a stack of messages.
My conversations with Hoch Yoder and the Seymours dog me as I walk to my office and unlock the door. While I have no concrete proof that any of them were involved in the murder of Dale Michaels, I can’t discount the connections.
I’ve barely made it to my desk when my cell phone vibrates. I glance down and see BCI LAB on the display and snatch it up quickly. “Burkholder.”
“Hi, Chief. This is Chris Coleman with the lab. I have some preliminary info for you.”
“Anything on the blood in the car?”
“We’re still processing the car, but we do know the type is O positive. There was quite a bit, actually, so he may have sustained the gunshot wound right before being put into the trunk or maybe even while he was in the trunk. DNA is going to take a few days. Sorry for the delay, but things are stacked up here.”
“Prints?”
“All over the place. We were able to match Michaels’s. We should have the rest tomorrow sometime.”
“What about the tire marks?”
“We picked up a successful tread. I scanned them into the computer, and we were able to match it to Michaels’s Toyota.”
I’d been hoping the tread would implicate an as-of-yet unidentified vehicle, and I try not to be disappointed. “Did you guys look at the wooden doll yet?”
“We did. There’s not much there. No prints we could pick up. Blood is the same type as the victim’s.”
I think about that a moment. “Is there any way to tell if the doll is old or new?”
“I can have one of the other lab guys take a look at the paint. Might be able to give you a ballpark.”
“That’d be great.”
“Back to the car,” she says. “We found yellow nylon fibers on the rear bumper.”
“From the rope?”
“We’ve still got to do the matching, but I’m betting they’re one and the same.”
“Any idea how the fibers got there?” But my imagination is already running with possibilities, none of them good.
“We inspected the rope and found that it had some recent damage, as if it had been abraded. A few of the nylon strands were sort of scraped off; some were broken. Could have been from the bumper or even the wooden beam in the barn.”
Disturbing images flood my mind. “As if someone tied one end of the rope around the victim’s neck, looped it around the beam, and tied the other end to the bumper of the vehicle and strung him up.”
“I’d say that’s a possible scenario.” She pauses. “But get this: Remember the tear in the victim’s jacket?”
“I do.”
“We found fibers from that jacket on the trunk latch.”
“So maybe he caught his jacket on the latch?” I ask.
“Jacket is canvas, which is a pretty sturdy fabric,” she tells me. “I’d say the jacket caught on that latch while he was being forcefully pulled from the trunk.”
“You mean with his own vehicle?”
“I can’t say for certain, of course, but that’s a possibility.”
I think about that a moment and try not to shudder. “Anything else?”
“Saved the best for last, Chief. We found an iPhone registered to Michaels.”
My interest surges. Michaels’s daughter had told us her father owned a cell phone. Glock and I did a cursory search of the vehicle, but once we discovered the blood in the trunk, I decided it would be best not to risk contaminating possible evidence, so we stopped and turned everything over to BCI.
“Where did you find it?” I ask.
“Trunk. Under the mat. Looks like while he was inside the trunk, he dropped it or was incapacitated and couldn’t get back to it.”
“Did you get any phone numbers off of it?” I ask.
Paper crackles on the other end. “I put all the names and numbers into a spreadsheet. You want me to e-mail it to you?”
“That’d be great.” I give her my e-mail address and disconnect. In the outer office, I hear Jodie talking to someone on the phone, laughing. She’s got her radio turned up too loud, but I don’t mind. My exhaustion from earlier is gone. I’m energized by the prospect of new information. I launch my e-mail software and a flurry of messages pours into my in-box, the last of which is from the BCI lab with a PDF attachment. I open the document. It’s a spreadsheet with names, phone numbers, dates, and a slew of unrelated numbers that a
re meaningful only to the technician who entered the data. I hit the Print key as I skim the document on my monitor.
There aren’t many calls, incoming or outgoing. Apparently, Dale Michaels wasn’t much of a talker. In the month leading up to his murder, he received thirty-two calls, most from his daughter, Belinda Harrington, and lasting a few minutes. I skim over several names and numbers I don’t recognize, then go to the second page. There are twenty-six outgoing calls, several to his daughter. Local businesses. A car dealership. The farm store. Some of the names I don’t recognize.
I go to the final calls Michaels made. One to Belinda Harrington on the morning of March 6. At 11 P.M. on March 7—which was probably the last day of his life—he made a call to The Raspberry Leaf, which is a local art gallery. A few minutes later, he made a call to Jerrold McCullough, whom I don’t know. Shortly thereafter, he made his final call to a name I do recognize. Artie “Blue” Branson is a well-known pastor of a local multidenominational church—and the last man in the county I’d have paired with Dale Michaels.
In his early fifties, Blue spends every Sunday preaching the gospel from his pulpit at the little frame church he built with his own hands. The rest of his time is dedicated to counseling troubled souls—drug addicts, prostitutes, and ex-cons—and providing for people who can’t provide for themselves. Known for his trademark black suits and sporting a goatee, Blue looks like a modern-day version of Johnny Cash, but he and his church have done more good for the impoverished than anyone else in the area.
I look at the list, but there’s only that one call to Blue. It lasted fourteen minutes. Did the two men know each other? Were they friends? Was Dale part of Blue’s congregation? There could be a dozen or more reasons for the call, but the timing of it bothers me, and I’m compelled to take a closer look.
I forward the PDF to Jodie with instructions to run all the names through LEADS to see if any of the callers or recipients have a criminal record or warrants.
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