Chapter Twenty-Three
Bodhi slowed the car to drive through the tollbooth lane, activating the E-ZPass reader, as he entered the turnpike at the Allegheny Valley Interchange and pointed the car east toward Harrisburg. He’d have to remember to add the turnpike fees to his sticky note of expenses.
After he cleared the booth and merged onto the highway, he used his phone’s voice command feature to call Saul at home. He was careful to keep his eyes on the dark road stretched out in front of him.
As a rule, he was a monotasker. He’d read the studies that showed multitasking caused what the experts called attention residue, which occurred when part of the brain was still distracted by thoughts of the previous task even after a person had moved on to the next. But more than that, he’d spent most of his adult life practicing mindfulness, focusing on being present and devoting his attention to the moment. Sometimes, though, circumstances demanded he split his attention.
Saul’s wife, Mona, answered the phone. “David residence.”
Her lilting voice gave no hint to any chaos that might be happening in the background. But Bodhi suspected that, with four kids, the David residence was sure to be chaotic during the post-school/work hours of a weeknight.
“Hi, Mona. It’s Bodhi. Could I speak to Saul?”
“Bodhi! Have you changed your mind about dinner? We’re just about to sit down. I can keep it warm until you get here.”
“That’s a gracious offer, and I really am very sorry for backing out on short notice, but a work emergency came up. I’m actually headed out of town for the night. I hope we can do it sometime next week?”
She laughed. “You know, we do eat dinner every night. There’s no need to be formal about it. Just show up at dinner time and we’ll fix you a plate. You’re welcome any time.”
“Thanks, Mona.”
“No thanks needed, we’d love to have you. Now let me get Saul for you.”
He heard her tell one of the boys to let their father know he had a phone call. A moment later, Saul’s voice boomed through his phone’s speaker.
“What’s up, Bodhi?”
“I’m following up a hunch. I’m not necessarily following your office’s standard operating procedures—”
“Color me shocked,” Saul interjected in a dry voice.
“—so the fewer details you know, the better. I need Tory Thurmont’s home number, if you have it handy.”
“It’s only six-thirty. You can probably still catch her at the lab.”
“I know. I don’t want to talk to her now. But I am going to need to talk to her later. I didn’t want to risk waking up your kids.”
“Why can’t you call her now and get her home number?”
Bodhi exhaled. “Because she’ll want to know what I’m doing; and if I tell her, she’ll probably try to stop me. I want to wait to speak to her until the die’s been cast and it’s too late to do anything about it.”
“What?”
“You asked.”
Saul was silent for a long moment.
“And you hired me,” Bodhi pointed out. “You know how I operate.”
Saul grumbled something unintelligible.
“So can you maybe text the number to me from your cell phone? I’m about to go through a tunnel and I might lose you.”
“Which tunnel? Fort Pitt? Squirrel Hill? Liberty? Bodhi, where are you?”
“Uh, no, the Tuscarora Mountain Tunnel.” He smiled to himself.
It was technically true. He was about to go through the tunnel. In another hour or so. It was, as his monk friends would say, a true lie. It reminded him of the story of the time the Buddha saw a man sprinting through the forest as if being chased. The Buddha moved several feet away from his original spot. Seconds later a band of robbers came along. They turned to the Buddha and demanded if he’d seen a man run by while he’d been standing there. The Buddha answered, truthfully, ‘no.’ After all, he hadn’t been standing in that spot when the man had run by.
“On the turnpike?” Saul demanded.
“Is there another one?”
“What are you up to? No, never mind, you’re right. Don’t tell me. I’ll send you her number. Listen, you be careful. Apparently there’s a winter storm headed our way.”
“Thanks, Saul. See you tomorrow.”
He ended the call and peered through the windshield. The lights from the tractor trailers speeding by on his left smeared into blurred trails in the darkness as the little car rocked from side to side. If he could make it to Carlisle before the snow started, he’d consider it a win.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mrs. Antolini turned out to be a talker. A widow, whose children and grandchildren were scattered across the mid-Atlantic region, she was eager for company. She insisted on brewing a pot of coffee for her detective guests and served the hot beverages with homemade pizzelle cookies she’d made over the weekend.
On the one hand, Burton mused, as he munched on a crisp corner of an anise-flavored snowflake, they had work to do. On the other, Mrs. Antolini’s hospitality beat the dickens out of scrabbling around an abandoned house in the dark. Judging by Chrys’ blissful expression as she sat beside him on the plastic-covered loveseat, he wasn’t alone in his view.
Just as he was about to steer the conversation away from Mrs. Antolini’s granddaughter’s success as a multi-level marketer of essential oils, he was distracted by the sight of his partner dunking her cookie into her coffee. What kind of savage would ruin a perfectly crunchy pizzelle by making it soggy?
Oblivious to her error, Chrys leaned forward, “So, Mrs. Antolini, do you know where Anastasia’s living now? Or maybe where she works?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t. After her mother died,”—she interrupted her explanation to cross herself—“Anastasia stayed another couple months then moved out and put the house on the market. It sat empty until Damon came home from the Army and then … after he killed that woman, it was empty again. She hasn’t been back. Not once in seven years. And, no, I’m sorry, I don’t know where, or if, she works. She was taking college classes when she lived here.”
“Who takes care of the house?” Burton asked.
Mrs. Antolini gave a tsk of disapproval. “As you can see, nobody, really. Damon used to pay someone to come out and cut the grass and shovel the snow when the house was up for sale. But once the sign went down, the landscapers vanished, too. When the grass gets out of control, someone will harangue a visiting grandkid to mow it. And people take turns shoveling so the mailman doesn’t break a leg.”
“You could call the city, ma’am. They’ll send someone out to take care of it and then bill Mr. Tenley,” Chrys suggested.
The older woman sniffed. “The Kesslers may have had their problems, God rest their souls, but this isn’t that kind of neighborhood.”
Burton hid a smile. Murdering son or no murdering son, the good denizens of Stanton Heights weren’t about to call the city on a neighbor. Time to change the subject.
“What about Olivia Scott? Anybody by that name ever stay at the house? Maybe a girlfriend of Tenley’s?”
Mrs. Antolini’s scowl softened. “Oh, that Olivia, she was a real sweetheart. So friendly. She moved in with Anastasia when Lisa died. She only stayed a few months to help Anastasia out. They were college classmates, if my memory’s right.”
“Do you remember where they took classes?”
“No. But, but Olivia works at Moretti’s.”
She sounded so confident that Burton wanted to believe her. “The Italian place in Bloomfield?”
“That’s the one.”
“You mean she used to work there?” Chrys asked.
“She still does.”
“Are you sure?”
Another sniff. “Of course I’m sure. I got her the job. My maiden name is Moretti. My cousins have owned that restaurant since 1973. Olivia picked up some shifts waiting tables, and everyone loved her. She’s the night manager. She’s probably wo
rking tonight. Thursday’s are busy, Sal and Andrea will want their best people on the floor.”
Burton squeezed his fist in triumph and drained his coffee mug. “In that case, Mrs. Antolini, we’ll get out of your hair. Thank you for the cookies and coffee.” He stood.
Chrys followed his lead. “And the information.” She scooped up the tray and the dirty dishes and carried them out to the kitchen before the woman could object.
A mere twenty-five minutes later, they’d finally managed to escape Angela Antolini, had made the seven-minute drive from her house in under five, and were parking right in front of her cousins’ restaurant.
“This is a loading zone,” Burton pointed out.
Chrys rolled her eyes and exited the car without responding. She hurried under the faded maroon canopy and yanked open the heavy doors. Burton trailed her at a more leisurely pace.
Inside, the dim dining room with its white tablecloths and candelabras was more than half-empty, but the lounge was crowded. Every seat at the U-shaped bar was occupied, as were most of the high tables positioned along the long wall.
A teenaged hostess appeared and grabbed two leatherette menus. “Welcome to Moretti’s. Two for dinner?”
Chrys flipped her badge wallet open. “We’re not dining tonight. We’re looking for Olivia Scott.”
The girl’s eyes widened and she nodded. “I … I’ll go get her,” she said as she backed away.
Burton passed the time reading the autographs on the framed celebrity photos that lined the wall. “Look, Michael Keaton ate here when he was filming Mr. Mom. Oh, here’s the cast of Striking Distance. Man, I loved Dennis Farina in that, although, come on, how unbelievable was it that Bruce Willis got busted down from homicide to river rescue?” He chuckled.
Chrys shot him the rare double-raised eyebrows. “What are you going on about, old man?”
“Old man?”
“You know those movies weren’t even filmed in this century, right?”
“Right. That’s why they’re classics.”
“I don’t think either film qualifies as a classic.”
“Agree to disagree.”
The hostess returned, hurrying to keep up with a tall brunette. She wore her hair cropped close and pinned back from her face with a pair of sparkly barrettes.
“Officers? I’m Olivia Scott, the manager here. Ashlyn said you wanted to speak to me?”
“Yes, Ms. Scott, we’re detectives actually. I’m Detective Martin. This is Detective Gilbert,” Chrys handled the introductions.
The young woman’s smile froze on her face. “Detectives? Please don’t tell me they’re running drugs out of my kitchen again.”
“Is there someplace private where we can talk?” Burton countered.
“Sure, follow me.” She leaned over the hostess station and checked something in the reservation book, nodded to herself, and led them down a narrow hallway to a small office.
A pair of folding chairs sat across from a short desk and a third chair. The desk was flanked by two metal filing cabinets, and the room was devoid of decoration or personal touches, with the exception of a small vase that held a tight, colorful bouquet.
“Pretty,” Chrys inclined her head toward the flower arrangement.
“Thanks. On my twenty-ninth birthday I decided I was tired of waiting for a guy who would buy me flowers. So now I buy myself a bouquet every week. Forty-two weeks and counting.”
“I like that.” Chrys nodded approvingly.
“Look, I’m happy to help in any way I can but we do have a party of ten coming in at seven-thirty. So, not to rush you, but it would be good if we got down to business.” She smiled unapologetically.
“Fair enough. We’re not with the narcotics division, and our investigation doesn’t involve the restaurant at all.”
The young woman drew her dark brows together and pushed out her lower lip, thinking hard.
“It’s about Anastasia Kessler,” Chrys explained.
Olivia Scott’s eyes dilated. Her nostrils flared. Her chest rose. All signs of surprise. Either she was a good actress or she was astonished.
“Anastasia? Is she okay?”
“We don’t know. We can’t find her,” Burton said.
She nodded, knowingly. “That sounds right.”
“What do you mean?” Chrys asked.
“I haven’t seen her or heard from her since 2012. She ghosted.”
“Can you walk us through your relationship? Start with how you came to know her and take us through her disappearance.”
“Sure, but … why are you guys looking for her now, after all this time?”
Burton and Chrys shared a meaningful look. They had no obligation to tell this woman a blessed thing. But sometimes it paid to be friendly. They’d likely gain more cooperation, more easily, and more quickly, if they gave her something. Burton blinked at Chrys, who tilted her head.
Olivia smirked. “Do you two have a secret nonverbal language or something?”
“Something like that,” Burton told her. “To answer your question, Detective Martin here and I are on the homicide squad.”
Her lips parted. “Homicide? Is she …?”
Chrys shook her head. “We don’t think so. But you may have heard her brother’s been in the news again.”
“Sure, something about the husband of that woman he killed? But he’s still in prison. Right?”
“He is. So, you were friends with Anastasia when her brother killed Raina Noor?”
“Sort of. I mean, if you’d have asked me then, I’d have said we were friends. But apparently, we weren’t as close as I thought.” Her voice was flat—a denial of an old hurt’s ability to cause her new pain.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Chrys suggested in a gentle tone.
“Sure. Okay. I met Anastasia during our sophomore year at Pitt. Right before Halloween, her dad got sick, and she ended up taking a few semesters off to help take care of him. After he died, she came back for almost an entire year. But then her mom got cancer. She took off most of 2011. When her mom died, she came back again. I was finishing up my senior year. After graduation, I stuck around Pittsburgh, looking for a position with a corporation that wanted to hire an American history major. Spoiler—there weren’t any. She asked me if I wanted to stay with her, rent-free, at her parents’ house.”
“So you moved in?”
“Yeah. And, actually, that’s how I ended up working here. The next-door neighbor, Mrs.—”
“We met Mrs. Antolini. She told us all about it.”
Olivia tossed her head back and laughed. “I’ll bet she did. She loves to talk.”
Chrys and Burton joined in with their own laughter. “Yeah, she does.”
When Olivia caught her breath, she said, “But it’s worked out great for me. The Morettis treat me really well. They’re paying for me to go to business school.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah.” She checked the time on her bracelet wristwatch. “So, anyway, I moved in and tried to help Anastasia get back into the swing of things at school and gave her a hand with clearing out the house and getting it ready to sell.”
“Sounds like you were a good friend to her.”
“I tried to be.”
“But?” Chrys prompted.
She shrugged. “She had a lot going on. She had this sort of pathetic crush on one of our professors—Professor Noor, actually. You know, the one whose wife her brother killed.”
Adrenaline zinged down Burton’s back. “She had a thing for Giles Noor? And she told you this?”
“No, she never said a word. But it was so obvious. It was cringy, the way she fawned all over him.”
Chrys scribbled something in her notebook. Then she said, “How’d she react when Mrs. Noor was killed? And then when the news came out that the murderer was her own brother?”
“I have no idea. She got sick, really sick, over the summer before she would’ve started her senior year. She was taking anoth
er leave of absence that fall when Damon murdered Professor Noor’s wife.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“She had leukemia. She started really aggressive chemotherapy right before classes started. We’d moved out of the house by then. She was staying in a one-bedroom close to the cancer center. By then, I’d started working here and moved into a house with some girls over on Friendship Avenue.”
She stopped, removed her hairpins, and raked her fingers through her hair. “I know it sounds like I was a bad friend. I tried to be there for her. I really did. I stopped by her apartment a couple times a week to bring her magazines and ice cream and hang out to keep her company, you know?”
“We’re not judging you, Ms. Scott,” Burton assured her.
“I guess I’m judging myself. I’ve always felt guilty—like I could’ve done more.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Chrys told her.
Olivia shook her head. “I guess. Anyway, I don’t know what happened to her. The last time I went by to see her, she told me her brother had left the Army. Retired, or something. And he was coming back home. He was going to donate bone marrow for her.”
“Bone marrow?”
“Right. The cancer doctors basically wiped out her cells with the chemo and radiation. Then they transplanted Damon’s bone marrow or stem cells—I’m not sure, I don’t know the details. She was in a really hopeful mood about it. The transplant was scheduled for later that week. But when I went to see her the day before the operation, she was gone. The apartment was empty. I never saw her again. I tried to call her, but her cell phone number was disconnected.”
“Did you find that strange?” Chrys asked.
“Well, yeah. Don’t you?” she countered.
“Anastasia’s crush on Professor Noor—how serious would you say it was?” Burton asked.
“She was pretty obsessed.”
“Obsessed enough to pay her brother to kill the professor’s wife?”
“Wait. What? You think Anastasia arranged the whole thing?”
“Do you think she was capable of it?”
Olivia thought for a moment. “Maybe. I know that sounds absurd. But she was in a pretty bad place. Both of her parents were dead. She was seriously ill. And she was pretty much alone in the world. Yeah. She might’ve been desperate enough to do something like that.” She covered her mouth with her hands as if she could take back the words.
Twisted Path Page 14
