No Way Home

by Annette Dashofy

  Pete wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and powered down the window. “Get yourself something to eat and come sit in here.”

  Bodine gave him a thumbs up and jogged away. When he returned minutes later, he carried a white bag and large Styrofoam cup. “Damn, it’s cold,” he said with a thick western drawl as he settled into the SUV’s passenger seat.

  “Where are you from?” Pete asked.

  “East Texas. Betcha thought I was from Boston,” Bodine said with a wink and a grin.

  Pete took note of the white dress shirt, blue tie, and navy trousers. As far as attire went, Bodine could very well have been a Bostonian. “West Boston, maybe.”

  The Texan chuckled as he removed a footlong hotdog dripping with chili and onions from the bag. Not exactly breakfast food, but who was Pete to judge? “What’d you wanna talk to me about, Chief?”

  “Dale Springfield.”

  Bodine took a huge bite and chewed for several long moments before wiping his mouth and answering. “I heard on the news he was shot. Terrible.”

  “I imagine his death comes as something of a relief to you.”

  “Relief? What makes you say that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You work for the gas company. Springfield was trying to block you at every turn. Pretty convenient that he’s out of the way.”

  Bodine set the footlong down and exhaled. “Sounds like you have me tried and convicted already.” His voice held steady with no defensive edge.

  “Not my job. But you have to admit, you and Springfield were on opposite sides of the issue.”

  “I reckon so. But I’d only met the man twice, both in public forums. He was smart, and he meant well. Unfortunately, he was misinformed about a number of things. I’d like to’ve had a chance to discuss the safety features we use when hydraulic fracturing—what y’all call fracking. I wanted to make arrangements to show him around some of our sites. Let him see the process firsthand.” Bodine picked up the footlong again, inspecting it. “I’m sorry I never got the opportunity.”

  “Did you call Springfield? Email him?”

  Bodine took another mouthful, resulting in another extended silence while he chewed. Pete took advantage and wolfed down the rest of his sandwich.

  “Both,” Bodine said, swallowing. “I left messages at his office. Sent him emails. He never responded to either. I don’t know if he was afraid that being seen in public with me would look bad or if he was just bein’ plain mule headed about the whole thing.” He took a long draw on the steaming beverage in the Styrofoam cup. “I knew he was heading up a meeting of the local protesters on Sunday, so I went to his house in the morning. Wanted him to at least hear me out. I mean, if you’re gonna be the front man for a group, shouldn’t you know the facts?”

  “Did you get a chance to talk to him at his house?” Pete asked.

  “No.” Another bite. Another lengthy silence.

  Pete wished the guy wasn’t so polite about not talking with his mouth full. His east Texas mama must be proud.

  “No, I didn’t. Mr. Springfield wasn’t home. His wife told me he’d gone horseback riding.”

  “Oh. Wasted trip, huh?”

  “Not at all. Mrs. Springfield offered me coffee, and we sat down and had a long chat. I hoped she’d pass along the information I gave her and maybe he’d finally agree to hear me out.” Bodine shoved the rest of the footlong in his mouth.

  “Did she give you the impression that you’d gotten through to her?”

  The man chuckled around his breakfast and shook his head. Once he swallowed and wiped his mouth, he replied, “Not really. She’s clearly devoted to her husband’s politics. Even when they’re wrong.”

  Pete drained his coffee cup. “What time did you arrive?”

  “At the Springfields’? About ten thirty or so.”

  “And how long were you there?”

  “About an hour, I guess. Maybe a little more.”

  Pete had to admit, he was glad Bodine had supported Hope’s alibi. “All right. So you and Springfield never had a confrontation.”

  “No, sir, we didn’t.”

  “Do you know of anyone else at Federated who wasn’t as laid back about Springfield’s stand on fracking as you are?”

  “Oh, sure. There were quite a few of the big muckety mucks who threw screaming fits every time they read about one of Springfield’s speeches in the paper or heard him on TV.”

  “Anyone in particular who might have done more than scream?”

  Bodine’s eyes widened. “You’re askin’ if I know of anyone who might’ve killed Mr. Springfield?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

  He appeared stunned by the concept. “Why, no. Those good ol’ boys in the office, they’ve been through this same thing in every community we’ve gone into. They’re used to it.”

  “And they’ve always gotten their way.”

  “Mostly. Not always.” Bodine crumpled up the tissue his hotdog had been wrapped in and deposited it into the paper bag. “Look, Chief Adams. The Marcellus Shale formation is huge. It’s not like we’re limited to drilling for gas in one or two municipalities. If a county or township votes against us, we just move on. There’s always someone else who wants the money. Killing our opposition would be bad PR.”

  “You have a point. Okay, answer me this. You’ve been attending local meetings like the one on Monday night. Has anyone in the audiences given you the impression they might resort to violence to stop the opposition?”

  Bodine took a long swig from whatever was in his cup and then added it to the paper bag. “Mostly the folks who act like they wanna kill someone are the ones on Springfield’s side. I’ve worried about my own skin a time or two. Like that guy at the supervisors’ meeting.”

  “The one in the fluorescent green sweatshirt?” Pete had all but forgotten about him.

  “Yeah.” Bodine snorted. “That gentleman gave a fine example of calm and thoughtful debate.”

  “Who was he, anyway?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Pete made a note to ask around. He gave Bodine a tight smile. “Back to the other side of the issue. Has anyone seemed so desperate for the potential lease money that they might have threatened Springfield if he didn’t ease off?”

  The gas company man ran a hand across his mouth. “Well, I hate to say it, but there are a pair of landowners who’ve been—you might say—courtin’ me pretty hot and heavy. They really want their piece of the pie, ya know? I think they might’ve been putting some pressure on the local politicians to vote their way. Or else.”

  There was that or else comment again. “Who?”

  “Now, Chief, I don’t wanna be pointin’ fingers at anyone. That’s bad for business too.”

  “I won’t tell them where I got their names. But I do need to check them out.”

  Bodine shifted in his seat. “They’re neighbors and between the two of ’em, they own probably the biggest block of acreage in Vance Township.”

  “Names, Mr. Bodine. Give me names.”

  “Leroy Moore,” he said reluctantly. “And Marvin Kroll.”

  Twelve

  Detective Miguel Morales greeted Zoe and introduced himself to Rose before ushering them into a meeting room. Rose’s anxiety had reached a palpable level. Zoe feared her friend might end up in a much smaller and less comfortable space if she didn’t get some answers.

  “Can I get either of you ladies anything? Coffee? Water?” the dark-haired detective asked.

  Zoe was about to accept a cup of caffeine, but Rose interrupted. “All I want is my boy. What are you doing to find him?”

  Morales leaned back in his chair and crossed an ankle over a knee. “Locating your son is a top priority, ma’am. I’m glad you’re here. Perhaps you can help.”

  The detective’s relaxed manner and
calming voice succeeded in lowering Rose’s angst level from a boil to a simmer. “What can I do?”

  “I understand you lived here for a time this summer. Would you happen to know where your son liked to hang out? Who his friends are?”

  “Mostly he spent all his time with his girlfriend.”

  “Kayla Santiago?”

  “Yeah.”

  Morales kept a steady gaze on Rose while tapping out a beat with his pen on the table. “Unfortunately, Miss Santiago isn’t able to tell us anything.”

  The comment stung Zoe. She could only imagine how badly it hurt Rose. “That was uncalled for, Detective,” Zoe said.

  He stopped drumming and lowered his gaze a moment. “You’re right. It’s been a rough couple of days. I apologize.”

  Zoe had been on the verge of disliking the man, but decided to give him another chance. She’d snapped out an inappropriate comment a time or two herself.

  He turned his gaze back on Rose. “What I should have said is her parents haven’t given us much to work with on the subject of your son.”

  Zoe didn’t have to wonder what they’d told the deputies. Remembering the conversation she’d had with the Santiagos yesterday, she knew for a fact Detective Morales had given Logan’s disappearance “top priority” for only one reason. Rose’s son was a prime suspect in Kayla’s homicide.

  “I don’t understand their attitude,” Rose said, her voice uneven. “Before I left in September, they adored Logan and totally approved of the relationship between him and Kayla. More than I did, actually.”

  “You didn’t like the girl?”

  “No. I mean yes. I liked her quite a bit. I just thought they were too young, and I didn’t like the idea of Logan living in the same house as his girlfriend. But Juan—Mr. Santiago—assured me he and his wife would keep a close eye on the two. And on Logan. I never would’ve permitted him to stay otherwise.”

  “Your son is eighteen, correct? Legally, he didn’t need your permission.”

  Rose sighed. “Of which he constantly reminded me. But trust me. If I had insisted he come home with us, he’d have done it.”

  Zoe knew her friend believed what she was saying. As a mother, she had to believe her child would obey. But Zoe wasn’t so sure. Logan had reached an age where he was testing his wings and his mother’s hold on him. No, if he was determined to stay, nothing Rose could say or do would’ve stopped him.

  Zoe caught Morales watching her and had an unnerving sense that he was reading her thoughts, same as she often felt around Pete. She looked away.

  “So you left your son in the Santiagos’ care,” Morales said to Rose. “You must have trusted them.”

  “I did. Juan even got Logan a job in the oil fields.” Rose brightened as if she’d thought of something. “You asked about his friends. I’m sure he’s made friends with some of the guys he worked with.”

  “I’ve already spoken with his coworkers. Apparently he didn’t spend a lot of his down time with them. I’d hoped you could point me toward other friends outside of his work situation.”

  “I…don’t know. He used to play basketball with some of the boys near our house.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Ruins Road Park across from the Aztec Ruins.”

  Morales made a note. “That’s all you know about his friends?”

  He may not have sounded accusatory, but Zoe knew that’s how Rose would take it. Zoe also knew of someone who might have some knowledge of Logan’s friends. Allison. She leaned forward and opened her mouth, but Rose placed a hand on Zoe’s knee and squeezed. Hard. Zoe winced and shot a what-the-hell look at her friend. But Rose’s clenched jaw and quick headshake silenced her.

  The move had been quick and subtle, but Zoe suspected Morales hadn’t missed it.

  “I’m afraid we weren’t here long enough for him to make a lot of friends. At least before I went back east,” Rose told the detective. “But if I think of anyone who might help, I’ll call you immediately. Now. You never answered my first question. What are you doing to find my boy?”

  Morales remained as relaxed as he’d been from the moment he’d taken his seat. “We’ve put out a BOLO on him. That means be on the lookout—”

  “I know what it means,” Rose snapped. “What else? Dogs? Helicopters? I saw you have one parked out back.”

  He smiled, a genuine-looking warm smile. The first sign of emotion Zoe had spotted in the man. “You’re observant,” he said. “And you seem to know your way around an investigation.”

  Rose appeared as startled by the change as Zoe did. “I—she—yeah, a little.”

  Morales nodded. “All right. We can’t use dogs or the helicopter without some idea of where to start. We’ve pinged his cell phone to no avail. It’s either dead or the battery’s been removed. We have his photo out on our social media pages, hoping someone spots him. Believe me, Mrs. Bassi, we will find him.”

  Rose’s eyes suddenly glistened. “But he might be out there somewhere, hurt.”

  The detective pushed back his chair and stood. “We’ll find him,” he repeated, his voice kinder than it had been. “Try not to worry. I know that’s not an easy thing to do. I have a daughter, and I know how agonized I’d be if she went missing.” He came around the table and put a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “Go back to your hotel room and try to get some rest. I’ll call you the moment we know anything.”

  She climbed to her feet. From the look on her face, Zoe knew there was no way Rose was going back to their hotel, nor did she plan to rest. Not until she got her hands on Logan.

  Zoe stood. “Come on,” she told her friend. “He’s right. Let’s go.”

  Rose met Zoe’s gaze and a fleeting silent conversation passed between them. “Okay,” Rose said and moved toward the door.

  “Ms. Chambers,” Morales called after them, “if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with you.”

  Zoe stopped and both she and Rose turned to look at him.

  Morales smiled at Rose, but not the warm, genuine one he’d used earlier. “I’ll only keep her a minute, Mrs. Bassi.”

  “I’ll be out in the car,” Rose said to Zoe. Her tone, however, said much more. I want to know everything you talk about with him.

  Once Rose was out of the room and the door closed, Morales fixed his poker-faced stare on Zoe. “I spoke with Franklin Marshall, Monongahela County Coroner.”

  She stiffened. Crap. The detective had checked out her story.

  If Morales noticed her flash of panic—and she felt certain he had—he didn’t let on. “Mr. Marshall spoke very highly of you.”

  Spoke highly. Yes. But did he also tell the detective that she was investigating completely on her own out there?

  “He expressed his gratitude for our cooperation in allowing you access to this case.”

  He did? Zoe swallowed. She owed Franklin. Big time.

  Morales leaned back in his chair. “Have you been in touch with Dennis McAllister yet?”

  “He returned my call this morning. I’m meeting him after lunch.”

  “Good. I was going to give you his number if you hadn’t.”

  Zoe released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Detective Morales was trying to be helpful. Okay, maybe she could lay her cards on the table. “You think Logan might be involved in Kayla’s homicide, don’t you?”

  A flicker of a smile crossed his face. “That’s not something I’m comfortable admitting in front of his mom.”

  “Good idea. She’d go all mother bear on you. But I have to tell you, I’ve known the kid all his life. He’s not involved.”

  The smile turned sad. “You have to believe that. I understand.”

  “And you have to do your job and look at all the angles.”

  Morales came forward, resting his forearms on the table—a move Zoe had seen
Pete make many times.

  “There’s another angle neither of you want to consider,” the detective said.

  The air suddenly seemed to have been sucked out of the room. “That he might be dead.”

  “Yes.”

  She knew it was a very real possibility, but having Morales validate her fears carved a hole in her heart. It also offered an opening to ask some questions no one had answered yet. “Can you tell me about Kayla’s homicide?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything. Anything. No one has told us squat.”

  “All right.” Morales leaned back again. “On Sunday an oil field worker found some articles of clothing and some drag marks.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Hart Canyon. He followed the drag marks, saw a pair of legs sticking out from some dead-and-down cedar. He backed off and called it in. Our deputies went out to the location, followed the same path to preserve any evidence, and discovered a deceased female.”

  “Kayla Santiago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Cause of death?”

  The faint smile reappeared. “You’re meeting with the FDMI. I’ll let him give you those details. You’re not taking your friend along, are you?”

  “Uh, yeah. I don’t know my way around.”

  “Leave her in the car.”

  Zoe didn’t like the sound of that, but the detective was being forthcoming, and she didn’t want to do anything to lose his cooperation. “Okay.”

  Morales climbed to his feet, pocketing his notebook. The meeting was over. At least in his mind.

  “Detective, do you have anything at all on Logan’s possible whereabouts? Something you didn’t want to mention to his mother?”

  His face was again unreadable. “You’re her friend. If there was, I wouldn’t tell you either. I’m sure you’d feel obligated to pass it along.”

  “You’d be surprised how much information I keep from Rose. I know how impulsive she can be where her kids are concerned. I wouldn’t want her doing anything that might interfere with the investigation. Like I said, I know Logan isn’t involved, but I also know you have to do your thing and prove it for yourself. Besides, I don’t like to worry her unnecessarily.”