No Way Home

by Annette Dashofy

Wayne. Not Detective Baronick. Wayne. “Haven’t had a chance to. I’m on my way to update him now.”

  “Good. Have him report to me after your briefing.” The DA hung up without wasting his time with goodbyes.

  Pete started the engine and flipped on both the defrosters and the wipers. He pulled up the email Zoe had sent earlier and scrolled through the list of trail riders. Most of them were moms and horse-crazy kids. Baronick could have those. There was one name, though, that Pete didn’t recognize. Noah Tucker. Zoe had said he planned to board a horse there at the farm.

  Pete keyed in the phone number.

  “This is Tucker.”

  “Noah Tucker?”

  “Yes.” The word came out cautious. “Who’s this?”

  Pete identified himself. “I understand you were part of a trail ride at the Kroll farm on Sunday.”

  “Oh.” He sounded relieved. “Yeah. How can I help you, Chief?”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions about who and what you may have seen that morning. Could you meet me somewhere or come into the station?”

  “I’d be happy to, but I’m on my way to see my folks right now. I’ll be back in a couple of days if it can wait. Or I can answer your questions right now.”

  “Okay. That’ll work.” Pete settled his notebook on one knee. “What time did you arrive at the barn Sunday morning?”

  “About ten thirty or so.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “No one. I got there early so I could clean some stalls for Zoe. That’s how I’ve been paying for the use of the farm’s horses until I get one of my own.”

  Pete sat up a little straighter. Tucker was the first of the trail riders to show up. “Did you see Dale Springfield?”

  “Nope. He and his horse were already gone. That other one though…his wife’s horse? He was all lathered up and trying to tear the stall apart. I threw some more hay at him to try to calm him down.”

  Zoe had already told him about the two horses being inseparable. Pete jotted down ten thirty for his timeline. “And all of the other trail riders arrived later?”

  “Yep. A couple got there around ten forty-five, but most of ’em got there closer to eleven.”

  “Did you see anyone else around?”

  “Nope.”

  “Hear anyone mention having been there earlier and came back?”

  After a moment’s pause, Tucker said, “No. Sorry I’m not more help.”

  “That’s okay. I appreciate your time. If you think of anything else, even if it doesn’t seem like much, call me.”

  Pete started to recite his number, but Tucker stopped him. “Got it on my caller ID, Chief. And I certainly will call. I hope you catch the guy. It’s kinda scary knowing you might get gunned down just riding in the woods.”

  Pete thanked him and ended the call. As he pocketed his phone, it rang again. This time Baronick’s name appeared, no doubt calling to inform him their district attorney was impatient. Pete answered with, “I just talked to Fratini a few minutes ago. I’m on my way in to catch you up on the Springfield case.”

  “It’ll have to wait,” Baronick said, his voice as subdued as Pete had ever heard it. “We have another dead kid. And you’re really not gonna like this one.”

  Dennis McAllister had told Zoe to meet him at the San Juan Regional Medical Center near the fireplace by the café. Fireplace? The Brunswick Hospital back home boasted beautiful polished marble walls in its lobby. But a fireplace? No.

  “Oh, yeah. Wait until you see it,” Rose said when Zoe told her where her meeting with the FDMI was to take place. “I went there to visit a friend once. It looks more like a hotel than a hospital.” She tilted her head. “Come to think of it, San Juan’s Medical Center is nicer than our hotel.”

  As Rose found a parking space, Zoe gawked at the building. Her friend hadn’t been kidding. The decades-old Brunswick Hospital had been remodeled, added onto, and renovated so many times, it looked like a red brick game of Jenga gone awry. This place was an architect’s dream child.

  Rose parked the car and reached for the door handle.

  “Wait.” Zoe caught her arm. “You should stay here.”

  Rose narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  Zoe wasn’t sure. “Because Detective Morales said so” wasn’t going to carry any weight with Rose. “You’re a frantic mom. I’m a deputy coroner. I’ll be able to get more information if you aren’t there.”

  “I’m scared. I’m worried. And I’m determined to find my son. I am not frantic.”

  Zoe gave her a look that said, really?

  “I’m not,” Rose insisted.

  “You brought me along for a reason. Let me be the professional. Do you honestly want to hear the gory details of how Kayla died?”

  Rose mulled it over and must have seen the wisdom in Zoe’s logic. “Fine. But I’m not waiting here. You’re meeting this FDMI guy by the café, right? I’ll sit in there and have a cup of coffee. You can join me afterwards.”

  “Deal.”

  The interior of the building was as impressive as the exterior—all stone and wood and windows.

  And there really was a fireplace. In front of it, a young sandy-haired man in black jeans and a dress shirt sat at one end of a brown couch, working on a laptop.

  Zoe shooed Rose off to the café and approached the man. “Mr. McAllister?”

  He looked up with striking green eyes and blinked. “Yes. Please. Call me Mac. Everyone does. You must be…”

  She extended her hand and he took it. “Zoe Chambers.” The man had a firm but gentle grip.

  He moved over and gestured for her to sit next to him. “You’re here about the Santiago girl?”

  “Yeah. I’ve spoken with Detective Morales, and he told me how and where she was found, but nothing else.”

  Mac studied Zoe for a long moment. “You’re from Pennsylvania, right? If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your interest in this case?”

  She debated about how much she should reveal. Would he clam up if he knew her connection to Logan? But Mac appeared relaxed and curious rather than guarded. She decided to go with the whole truth. “Kayla’s missing boyfriend is like a son to me. His mom and I are here trying to find him. Maybe there’s some evidence in Kayla’s case that will point us to Logan’s whereabouts.”

  Mac offered a sad smile. “And I’ve been hoping the boyfriend could be found to offer some answers about Kayla. Looks like we both want the same thing for different reasons.”

  Everyone wanted to find Logan. Zoe feared she and Rose were the only ones who cared about finding him alive. “What can you tell me about Kayla?”

  Mac tapped the computer keys. “Did the detective tell you about the condition of the body?”

  “No.”

  Mac turned the laptop toward her, but pulled it back before she could see anything. “You aren’t squeamish, are you?”

  As long as the computer didn’t have smell-o-vision, she’d be safe. “I’m a paramedic in addition to being a deputy coroner. No, I’m not squeamish.”

  He handed over the laptop. On the screen was a photo of a young girl’s battered body lying on a rock, her clothing in tatters. Zoe winced, but clicked the mouse pad to pull up more photos. Same girl. Same location. Different angles.

  “Was she raped?” Zoe asked.

  “No.”

  She blew out a relieved sigh.

  “A good bit of the body’s condition is due to animals.”

  “Do you think she might have been killed elsewhere and something dragged her body to where it was found?”

  “Yes and no. It’s probable she was killed at a different location, but the only thing that dragged her there was human.”

  “Do you know where she was killed?”

  “We’re searching the area where the oil field work
er discovered her clothing and the drag marks. So far, we haven’t found any definitive evidence of the primary crime scene.”

  Zoe waited, hoping he’d volunteer the location. When he showed no signs of doing so, she asked, “Care to share?”

  Mac gave her a tight smile. “Sorry.”

  At least he didn’t bother to point out she was too close to the case, something she’d heard numerous times back home. “Hart Canyon?”

  His smile relaxed. “Yeah.”

  Of course, he knew—as did she since Rose had enlightened her—that didn’t narrow it down much. “You said some of the damage was done by animals. How much?”

  Mac reached over and clicked through a few more crime scene photos to a series of photos taken in the morgue. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and used it as a pointer. “These are due to animals.” He indicated the most gruesome of the girl’s injuries. Instead of the usual blood-red, these were amber.

  “Post mortem,” Zoe said.

  “Right.” He pointed at several smaller, less jagged, and very red lacerations. “Those were done by a human.”

  She looked over at Mac. “Knife wounds?”

  “Yes. She was stabbed three times in the abdomen.” He clicked to more pictures. “Twice in the back.” Another click.

  This photo drew a groan from Zoe.

  “And this is the one we’re listing as cause of death.”

  A deep red gash across her throat.

  Mac eyed her. “I thought you said you weren’t squeamish.”

  “I’m not. It’s not the pictures or even the condition of the body. It’s…” She took a breath to clear her thoughts and to find the words. “I met her parents yesterday. Logan was in love with her. She’s not just another patient or victim.”

  “This one’s personal.”

  “Yeah.” Not that Kayla Santiago was the first personal case for Zoe, but there was more to it. More than she was willing to share with a stranger. She knew Logan hadn’t done this. But had he witnessed it?

  Or had a similar fate befallen him?

  Fourteen

  Baronick hadn’t been kidding when he said Pete wasn’t going to like this one. Another dead kid in Vance Township was bad enough. But the address Baronick gave was one street over from Pete’s home. The small one-story had been vacant for over a year. An orange For Sale by Owner sign with a nearly illegible phone number printed on it had been flattened at some point by a drunk driver.

  Pete parked in his own driveway since county and state police vehicles blocked the narrow street and approached the house on foot. Baronick and two other county detectives conferred inside the open front door. Beyond the trio, the crime scene techs worked around a body sprawled on a dusty sofa. A uniformed officer stood off to one side, his phone pressed to his ear. Baronick looked in Pete’s direction and excused himself.

  The detective lacked his usual joie de vivre. In fact, he looked more tightly strung than Pete had ever seen him. “Gives a whole new meaning to hitting too close to home, doesn’t it?” the detective said.

  Pete grunted. Not only did he have a deceased kid a stone’s throw from his front door, he’d had a drug house there for hell only knew how long. “Do we have an ID on the victim?”

  Baronick’s jaw tightened even more. “Yeah. But I didn’t need to check his wallet for it.”

  “You know him?”

  “You could say that.” Baronick gestured toward the couch and the young man on it. “Nick Greenslate.”

  Pete ran the name through his memory. “Shannon Vincenti’s old boyfriend?”

  “And supplier.” Baronick muttered a few choice expletives. “The task force has been watching him for over a year, hoping he’d lead us to his distributor. I had a feeling we were getting close, and now this.”

  Pete stepped over a cluster of trash in the middle of the floor to get a closer look at the body. Most of the paraphernalia surrounding it matched the previous scenes. The pipe was made of slightly different and creative material. This one looked like an old car antenna.

  How had this gone on under his own nose?

  “Looks like another heroin and meth combo,” Baronick said. “I’m going to stop at the lab when we’re done here and prod them to expedite the toxicology. I want to know exactly what’s killing these kids.”

  “Any leads on the Wolf Man that Courtney Dinsmore mentioned?”

  “Not yet.”

  The uniformed county officer who’d been on his phone approached them. “Detective Baronick? I got an ID on the caller who phoned this in.”

  “That was fast,” the detective said.

  The officer grew a little taller and grinned. “I cashed in a favor.”

  “What’s the name?” Pete asked.

  The officer turned to him. “It’s a cell phone registered to an Anthony Vincenti.”

  Pete and Baronick repeated the name in a duet of shock.

  “Tony Vincenti?” Pete said. “Shannon’s father?”

  The detective’s eyes gleamed. “We might not have an accidental overdose this time.”

  Pete hated to agree with him. He hated the idea of arresting a grieving father even more.

  By the time Pete and Baronick arrived in Elm Creek, the snow showers had turned into windblown flurries. If the road crews didn’t get out there soon, Pete feared a long night of responding to cars in ditches.

  The small lot in front of Vincenti’s Market stood vacant. A sign on the front door stated they were closed due to a death in the family. And now Pete was about to deal them another blow.

  “Do you know where they live?” Baronick asked.

  “Yeah.” Pete eased the SUV along Elm Creek’s narrow and slick Main Street and made a cautious turn at the first left followed by another left into an unshoveled driveway. Lights blazed from every window of the split-entry house. “Looks like they’re home.”

  Baronick shifted in his seat and gazed across the two snow-covered lawns between the Vincentis’ home and their store. “Must be nice to be able to walk to work.”

  Pete climbed out and pulled his collar up to ward off the icy pellets. The detective followed him to the front door.

  Bonnie Vincenti, looking older and smaller than she had a mere three days ago, answered the doorbell. “Chief?” She moved aside, allowing them to step onto the landing and a heavy mat perfect for catching snow and mud. “Have you found the man responsible for our daughter’s death?”

  “Not exactly.” Pete introduced Baronick as he stomped the snow from his boots. “We need to speak with your husband.”

  She appeared ready to question him, but after eyeing both officers, she motioned toward the set of steps leading downward. “He’s in the family room. Right this way.”

  The so-called family room looked more like the quintessential man cave. A large screen TV—Pete wasn’t sure if it was a seventy-five or an eighty-five-inch screen—was tuned to some bizarre reality show with the sound muted. A long L-shaped brown leather sectional complete with cup holders looked perfect for football parties or movie nights with friends. However, at the moment, it was empty. Tony Vincenti occupied a matching leather recliner, feet raised, eyes closed.

  His wife stopped the officers and whispered, “This is the first I’ve seen him sleep in days. Do you have to talk to him now?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Pete said.

  She nodded sadly and crossed to the chair, touching her husband’s arm. He jolted awake as if she’d jabbed him with a cattle prod. She apologized. “Chief Adams and a county detective are here to talk to you.”

  Tony blinked, running a hand across his mouth. He lowered the footrest and gestured at the couch. “Have a seat.”

  “Can I get you something?” Bonnie moved toward an unlit bar behind them. “Oh, I know you’re on duty. I meant water. Or a pop?”

  “No,
thank you.” If she’d had to go upstairs for it, Pete might have accepted just to get her out of the room without having to come flat out and ask. As it was, she stood there, hands folded.

  Baronick shot a knowing glance at him and moved toward the woman. “Ma’am, while Chief Adams is speaking with your husband, I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. Upstairs.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  As the detective followed Bonnie up the steps, Pete took the seat Tony had offered.

  “Did you find out who gave my girl those drugs?”

  Pete studied the man. From the creases in Tony’s forehead and exhaustion heavy in his eyes, to his slouched posture, arms resting at his side, and knees splayed, he showed no evidence of trying to conceal anything. “No, we haven’t. I hoped you could help us out by answering a few questions.”

  “Of course. If I can.”

  “Have you ever heard the name Wolfie or Wolf Man?”

  Tony fixed Pete with a tired, puzzled stare. “You mean that disc jockey guy with the gruff voice from when I was a kid?”

  “No.” Pete chuckled. “This would be someone younger using Wolfie or Wolf Man as a nickname.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Pete made a note. “How about Michael Liggett?”

  “Wasn’t he the kid in the newspaper this morning? He died of an OD too, didn’t he?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Same as my girl?”

  “So it would seem.”

  Tony swore, his eyes moistening. He swiped the unshed tears with one big paw.

  “He’s also the one who called 911 for Shannon.”

  “Oh?” Tony lifted his chin. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that. Grateful that he tried to help? Mad that maybe he could have done more? Or happy he’s dead because he might have been the one supplying her with the stuff in the first place?”

  “Do you remember Shannon mentioning him?”

  Tony considered the question for a long moment before shaking his head. “No.”

  Pete made another note. He kept his head down, but lifted his gaze to watch the man’s reaction when he asked, “How about Nick Greenslate?”