No Way Home

by Annette Dashofy

  Rose had recovered enough to reclaim driving duties. Zoe climbed into the passenger side. “Did you call them and let them know we’re coming?”

  “I tried. It kept ringing. I know they have an answering machine, so I figured they were talking to someone else and ignored the call waiting signal.” Rose wheeled the small car out of the parking lot and headed into Aztec. “They’re probably getting a lot of condolence calls.”

  Or making funeral arrangements, Zoe thought. She fell silent, watching the town sail past. Under different circumstances, she’d have loved to spend the day wandering through the shops, checking out the museum and the reproduction Old West town.

  But not now.

  Rose made a right at the light and headed toward the airport. After only a mile or so, she turned into a road with a sign pointing to Kokopelli Estates.

  “Kokopelli?” Zoe asked, stumbling over the pronunciation.

  “I’ll buy you a book on local legends and history,” Rose muttered.

  They pulled into the housing development, which, like everything else, bore no similarity to such communities back home. No cookie-cutter houses here. A few vinyl-sided homes looked similar in style to those back east. But others were adobe houses in various shapes and sizes set on streets with names like Anasazi Drive and Spotted Wolf Avenue. Some had green sod yards, but most had lawns of stones and rocks with a few strategically placed plants, shrubs, and small trees.

  “Wow.”

  “Will you quit with the wows already.”

  Zoe hadn’t realized she’d said it again. “Sorry.”

  Rose made a growling noise in her throat. “No. I’m the one who’s sorry.” She glanced at Zoe with a tight smile. “Look, once we find Logan, I promise to give you the grand tour of the Four Corners.”

  Zoe reflected the forced smile back at her. “Deal.”

  The house they parked in front of was one of the flashier adobe ones with a flat roof, lots of windows sporting partly closed blinds, and what looked to be the ends of wooden poles sticking out along the top edge of the exterior walls. The rocky landscaping appeared to be professionally designed with a strong desert flavor.

  Zoe trailed Rose to the front door. A woman with black hair and bloodshot brown eyes opened it. She stared at them, bewildered.

  “Juanita,” Rose said, reaching to embrace the woman.

  Kayla Santiago’s mother snapped out of her daze and recoiled, avoiding Rose’s touch. “What are you doing here?”

  “¿Quien es?” a masculine voice asked from somewhere inside the house.

  “It’s Rose Bassi,” Juanita replied. “His mother.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear about Kayla,” Rose said. She made a move to enter the house.

  But Juanita blocked her. “You are not welcome in our home.”

  Zoe looked back and forth at the two women—Rose with her mouth gaped open in shock and the bereaved mother, her eyes glistening with sorrow and anger.

  “I—I don’t understand,” Rose stuttered.

  The man belonging to the voice appeared behind Juanita and placed his hands on her shoulders. “What is there to not understand? We don’t want you in our home. Go away and let us grieve our child in peace.”

  Rose shrank beneath his glare. “But you know me, Manuel. I adored Kayla. We were all friends. Enough that I let Logan stay here while I took Allison home to Pennsylvania.”

  Manuel Santiago gently moved his wife out of the doorway and took her place in it. “A mistake on our part. Trusting you. Trusting—” A sob shattered his voice. He drew a deep breath. “We trusted your son. I’ll never forgive myself for taking him under our roof.”

  Tears glistened in Rose’s eyes. In much the same way Manuel had taken over for his wife, Zoe took Rose by the arm, easing her aside and stepping between her and Kayla’s father.

  “Mr. Santiago, my name is Zoe Chambers.” She extended a hand, which he eyed suspiciously. “I’m a deputy coroner with the Monongahela County Coroner’s Office in Pennsylvania.” Somehow, introducing herself as a family friend of the Bassis didn’t seem like the way to go. “I’d like to express how deeply sorry I am for your loss.”

  He glared at her with an expression of puzzlement rather than the venom he’d aimed at Rose. After a moment, he took her hand in a firm shake. “Gracias. But I don’t understand what a coroner from Pennsylvania is doing in New Mexico.”

  Crap. He’d caught the big flaw in her impromptu plan. “Logan Bassi’s grandmother is a township supervisor back home. She asked me to come along and help with the case any way I can.” Only a partial lie. Zoe hoped her years of poker playing was enough to sell the bluff.

  Manuel Santiago studied her with an intensity she could feel boring into her brain. Pete had that same look, and she always believed he could read her mind. Hopefully Santiago could not.

  He lifted his chin. Gave a quick nod. “Fine. Please come in, Miss…”

  “Chambers.” She resisted the urge to sigh in relief. “Zoe Chambers. Thank you.”

  He stepped aside, allowing her to pass, but continued to block Rose. “Not you. You are still not welcome in our home and never will be.”

  Zoe fixed her friend with a look she hoped spoke more than she dared say out loud. “Wait in the car, Mrs. Bassi. I’ll be out when I’m done.”

  The silent reply in Rose’s eyes was half hostile, half grateful. “Fine.”

  Zoe followed Mrs. Santiago into a living room decorated with sombreros, serapes, and colorful woven blankets. The horizontal blinds were almost completely closed, blocking out the bright sun. In one corner of the darkened room, a table held a framed portrait of a smiling raven-haired beauty. Kayla. Rosary beads draped the photo, and lit candles surrounded it.

  “Please. Sit down.” Mrs. Santiago gestured at the sofa. “May I get you something? Coffee? Water?”

  “No, thank you.” Zoe sat. She hadn’t brought a purse and wished she’d thought to bring a pad and pen like Pete carried. It would have gone a long way to make her look like the unbiased investigator she was pretending to be. It also would have helped her remember anything she learned. She thought about Wayne Baronick and how he used his phone instead of the old-school notepad. She dug in her pocket and pulled out her cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” Mr. Santiago asked, his tone thick with distrust.

  “I use this to keep my notes,” Zoe lied. Except it wouldn’t be a lie for much longer.

  “Before we answer your questions, could you answer one for me, por favor?” Kayla’s mother asked, sitting next to Zoe on the sofa.

  “If I can.”

  “I’m sure you’ve been in contact with our medical investigator. Perhaps you could tell us something. They refuse to give us any idea of when our Kayla’s body will be released.” The woman’s voice caught on the word “body.” “We would like to make arrangements. For a funeral.”

  Zoe felt Mr. Santiago’s gaze on her, watching for any sign of deception. She wished she had been in contact with the coroner or medical examiner’s office. It would be a smart move. One she intended to make. Soon. “They didn’t tell me anything about releasing your daughter’s body. I’m sorry. But I’ll ask them as soon as I’m done here, and I promise to get back to you when I know something.”

  “Thank you. I don’t understand why it is taking so long. Kayla had been missing for almost a week. They found her four days ago—”

  “Three,” Mr. Santiago interrupted. “It was only three days ago, mi corazón.”

  Mrs. Santiago lowered her head. “It feels like much longer.”

  Zoe took the woman’s hand. “I know it does. But the medical examiner has a lot of work to do before he can release her to you. We all want him to be able to help the police find who did this.”

  “We already know who did this,” Kayla’s father said bitterly. “Logan Bassi. He is r
esponsible for our daughter’s death.”

  Zoe lost all pretext of impartiality. “Logan? Why do you think he’s to blame?”

  “He fell in with some bad people. They got him involved in their business. And because of it, our Kayla is dead.”

  “What kind of business?”

  Manuel Santiago’s face contorted—shifted and morphed like clouds in a wind storm—through a multitude of emotions. Pain. Rage. Grief. Devastation. “Drugs.”

  The word cut deep. “Drugs?” Logan? Rose’s Logan? Zoe’s Logan? “I can’t believe it.” The moment she said it, she knew she’d made a mistake. Mrs. Santiago pulled her hand free. Her husband’s eyes hardened.

  “You are not here to help us find justice for our daughter,” Mr. Santiago said, his voice raw. “You are here to protect the boy who got her killed.”

  Zoe recovered her professional façade. “I’m here to learn the truth.”

  “The truth?” Kayla’s mother said. “The truth is we gave that boy a home. Food. Shelter. My husband helped him get a good job. And how does he repay us? By dragging our daughter into the world of drug trafficking.”

  None of this made sense. But Zoe didn’t dare question it. Not here. Not now. “Okay. Do you have any names of Logan Bassi’s associates? Friends?”

  “No.” Both Santiagos shook their heads.

  “Do you know any of these bad people you mention?”

  “Of course not,” Mr. Santiago said emphatically.

  “Do you know anyone I can talk to who might know something?”

  The pair exchanged a look. One of those wordless conversations that only long-married couples or lifetime friends can manage.

  Mrs. Santiago turned her dark eyes on Zoe. “The Bassi boy has a sister.”

  “Yes.” Zoe dragged the word out, not wanting to hear where this was going.

  “Allison, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ask her. She knows her brother’s friends.”

  Memories of Allison’s past with drugs jumbled Zoe’s thoughts. She battled to clear her mind. Stay focused. “I’ll talk to her. But is there anything else you can tell me to help find Logan? Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  Mrs. Santiago’s eyes glistened. “If there is any justice in the world, I hope he’s dead too.”

  The bitter hatred in the woman’s face and in her words stung like a slap. Zoe looked to Mr. Santiago, but his expression was a closed door. Zoe stood. “Thank you for your time. I’ll speak with the medical examiner and have him get in touch with you about when Kayla’s body will be released.”

  They thanked her with no real gratitude in their voices.

  Rose waited in the car as promised and grabbed Zoe’s arm the moment she climbed into the passenger seat. “What did they say? Do they know where Logan might be?”

  What could Zoe say to her friend? She couldn’t very well tell her the Santiagos wished Logan dead. And she didn’t want to tell her about their claims regarding drugs.

  “Zoe?” Rose squeezed her arm. “What did they say?”

  At the door, the Santiagos watched them. Zoe pointed at the keys in the ignition. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “On the way where?”

  “To the medical examiner’s office.”

  Rose’s eyes widened in panic.

  Zoe realized what Rose was thinking. “No, no. They didn’t say he was dead. But I promised them I’d find out what I could about Kayla’s autopsy and when her body might be released.”

  Rose blew out a noisy sigh of relief. “Okay.” She started the engine and backed out of the driveway.

  “When are Sylvia and Allison coming?”

  “Late tomorrow. Why?”

  No way was Zoe going to tell Rose about the Santiagos’ intimation of Allison’s drug connection. “Allison might be able to help us track down some of Logan’s friends from out here.”

  And Zoe hoped like hell none of them took her down the road Kayla’s parents alluded to.

  Ten

  “My home away from home.” Baronick set his laptop on the Vance Township Police Station’s conference room table.

  From a chair at the far end of the table, Pete watched the detective unpack. “Don’t get comfortable.”

  Baronick shot him his trademark toothy grin. “You love having me around. You just won’t admit it.”

  Pete grunted. “Right. You keep telling yourself that.”

  Kevin rolled the department’s whiteboard through the door, banging the thing against the jamb.

  He winced at Pete. “Sorry.” To the detective, he asked, “Where do you want this?”

  “The usual place. Thanks, Officer.” Baronick untangled a power cord and plugged one end into the laptop. “Then start writing down what we already know.”

  Pete thumbed through his notes. “It’s going to be a short list.”

  “And that’s precisely why I’m here.” Baronick stuck the other end of the cord into a wall outlet.

  The young officer uncapped the dry erase marker, but Pete stopped him before he wrote on the board. “Make a line down the middle,” he said.

  Kevin looked at him, puzzled.

  “Divide the board in half,” Pete made a vertical slash in the air. “Left side for the Springfield case. Right side for the drug cases.”

  “Good idea,” Baronick said.

  Pete had expected the detective to protest just for the sake of argument. As Kevin split the whiteboard with a heavy black line and labeled each half, Pete stood and approached. He claimed the marker from his officer and started transferring his notes onto the board.

  Below “Drug Overdoses,” he scrawled “Suspects” and listed “Nick Greenslate,” whom the Dinsmore girl had identified as Shannon Vincenti’s old boyfriend and supplier; “Wolf Man,” the new boyfriend she’d spoken of; “Michael Liggett,” who had called 911; and “Unknown resident of the Fort.”

  Pete glanced at Baronick. “Any comments?”

  “Greenslate has gone underground, but my men are following some leads on him. Haven’t learned anything about anyone called Wolf Man or Wolfie yet. And the Pittsburgh police are looking for Liggett.” He gestured at the other half of the board. “What about our homicide?”

  “Springfield allegedly went riding alone at the Kroll farm Sunday morning, but no one saw him arrive or leave on his horse, which returned to the barn without him around eleven thirty.”

  Baronick frowned. “So which came first? The chicken or the egg?”

  Pete spun to face the detective. “What?”

  “We know Dale was shot. But did he fall off the horse and then the killer put a bullet in his head? Or was he shot off the horse?”

  Kevin leaned on the table. “Doesn’t make much sense to shoot him after he’d hit the ground. His skull was fractured on the rocks, so he was already deceased. Or darned close. Why shoot him too?”

  “True,” Baronick said. “Okay, then, was the shooting intentional or accidental?”

  This was the annoying Wayne Baronick that Pete knew all too well. “Accidental?”

  The detective shrugged. “Didn’t you say Zoe reported hearing gunshots, multiple gunshots, over the course of the morning? Like hunters sighting in their deer rifles? Maybe Dale caught a stray bullet.”

  “Did your county lab give you any idea when the ballistics test will be done?”

  “I should hear from them any time now.”

  “Good. Then we’ll leave the guess work about hunting rifles until we actually know something.”

  The detective chuckled and resumed tapping keys on his computer. “Just playing devil’s advocate and pointing out that we can’t assume anything. The time of death was off from what was first assumed, as was the cause.”

  He had a point. Which pissed Pete
off. “All right, Detective. Is there anything else you want added to the case overview?”

  “Nope. Carry on, Chief.”

  Pete turned to the board again. “Suspects.”

  Baronick kept tapping. “The wife.”

  Pete wrote “Hope Springfield” on the board followed by “alibi” and a question mark.

  “Who’s her alibi?” the detective asked.

  “Cody Bodine.”

  “The gas company’s land man? Seriously?”

  “She claims he came by Sunday morning to talk to Dale. I have a meeting with him first thing in the morning to see if their stories match.”

  Pete scribbled “Joe Mendez” below Hope’s name.

  “One of your own township supervisors? And one who’s been firmly on Dale’s side of the fracking debate?” Baronick snorted. “Now I know you’re desperate for someone to pin it on.”

  Pete scrawled three question marks after Mendez’s name. “According to Hope, Joe knew Dale was going riding in the woods Sunday morning. I want to find out who he shared that information with.” But since Pete was on the subject of township supervisors, he added Howard Rankin.

  Baronick made a face. “Considering these are the guys who hire and fire their chief of police, you including them in a murder investigation may not be your best career choice.”

  “According to Sylvia, Howard is pushing to bring the gas industry here, although he’s trying to keep up the appearance of neutrality.” Pete tapped the name with the back of the marker. “Part of the investigation involves clearing the innocent parties too. If Howard falls into that category, he has nothing to worry about.”

  “And neither do you.”

  Next, Pete wrote “Drilling Proponents” on the board.

  “Not exactly a short list,” Baronick said. “Anyone in particular?”

  “Sylvia said Dale had been receiving threats. Nothing specific and mostly anonymous. Hope confirmed it. Springfield deleted his texts and call logs. We need to subpoena Springfield’s wireless provider to find out who exactly was contacting him.” Pete turned and faced the detective. “I know your boys went through his home office and confiscated his computer. I assume you did the same with his office in Brunswick?”