by John Faubion
Melissa sat, holding both arms of the chair as she lowered herself into it. The air rushed out of the cushion with a whooshing sound.
Deering said, “We know you’ve been through a difficult time—”
He caught the intensity of her glare.
“A horrible experience. I wish there were another way, but we have to ask you some questions about last night. Would that be all right with you?”
Melissa continued to direct her gaze directly into Deering’s eyes. “What happened to the girl that was there? The other one.”
Deering looked at Gorst. The man nodded, and he turned back to Melissa. “Do you know the other young lady, Ms. Montalvo?”
“No. Is she okay?”
“She is”—he shifted on his feet—“in reasonable condition. Unlike yourself, however, she was forcibly raped by her attacker.”
Deering looked down at the floor, back up to Melissa. “She is only twelve years old. She was on her way to the convenience store two blocks down when they apparently stopped and assaulted her.”
She swayed on the seat, holding the arms to keep herself steady.
“Did you catch them? The men?”
Gorst spoke. “I think we can thank you that we have one in custody. The other has not been apprehended. Not yet. But we’re confident we’ll have him soon.”
“Thanks to me?”
“Your cell phone was lying on the ground. Didn’t you dial nine-one-one?”
She remembered now. Yes, she had done that. She’d punched the buttons and laid it next to the tree before she went up into the yard.
“Yes, I recall doing it now. I’d forgotten.”
“When you are ready, sometime in the next day or so, do you think you could pick the man out in a lineup?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Her eyes went dry as she spoke. “It was dark. I didn’t see their faces. One had a white T-shirt, and the other wore dark clothes. The one with the dark clothes was hitting me. He hit me and . . .” Her voice broke.
“We have that individual in custody, I believe. He was wearing a navy blue shirt as you describe. He’s made a complaint of his own against you, but I don’t think it will come to anything.”
“He made a complaint against me? You can’t be serious.” Melissa’s eyes opened wide, incredulous.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. He is claiming that you, well”—he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness—“propositioned him, and then demanded more money.”
She couldn’t speak, sat slack-jawed, looking unbelievingly at the detective.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t be concerned. We get this kind of thing all the time. What we need to do now is go over the entire incident with you, while it is still fresh in your mind.”
Gorst took out a yellow notepad, nodded.
“Are you ready?”
But Melissa wasn’t listening. She was focused on some unseen spot on the wall. An inferno of hatred blazed inside her.
She got me beat up and accused of being a prostitute. She’ll pay for this.
“Ms. Montalvo?” He touched her arm with a fingertip. “Are you ready?”
“Oh, yes, I’m ready.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
By Any Other Name
Rachel laid a hand on Scott’s shoulder as he searched the news archives. “Have you found anything yet?”
“Aaron Getz. Look here.” He pointed to the screen, where a news article was displayed. “This was it. The same company name. He was found dead in a motel room. The police never came up with anything.”
“Does it say what he did? Locarno said he was the main software guy.”
“Here. It says he was in charge of development. That would be it.”
“So, Melissa comes in just as he—conveniently—happens to die. You can’t make a police case out of that, but knowing what we know, it sure looks suspicious. I wouldn’t put anything past that woman.”
“I’ll print this. See what you can find on the university website.” Scott sent the article to the printer, picked up the pages, and put them in a folder.
Rachel brought up the Indiana University website and clicked through the graduation records. Names and graduation dates scrolled by. Then she leaned in close, nose almost to the screen. “I’ve got it!”
Scott looked up from the road atlas spread out before him. “You found her already?”
“Melissa R. Montalvo.” She pointed at the screen. “Look at this.”
He pulled a chair over and sat beside her.
“See? Right here. Name, date, and even her hometown.”
“Blairsville, Indiana.” Scott tipped his head to one side. “Have you ever heard of it?”
Rachel brought up a map site. “It’s down on the Ohio River, just west of Madison.”
“That’s where we’re headed, then. I think once we get there we can learn a lot. I’m betting that there are going to be some things that will surprise us.”
At eleven o’clock they completed their notes and plans for the drive. “If we leave at six in the morning we can be there by nine-thirty. Are you still game?” asked Scott.
“You know I am. I feel like we’re really doing something now. Like we’re in control again.”
“We are in control. We got that back when we refocused our lives on each other.” Scott put his arms around Rachel, pulled her close to him, and buried his face in her hair. “I love you so much. I thank God for you.”
Rachel stiffened, then gradually relaxed and leaned her head back against him.
“And I love you,” she whispered. “I will never let you go.”
• • •
THE SUN WAS BRIGHT the next morning as Scott parked the car. They cruised the old town looking for a place to eat breakfast, finally settling on the Pokhagon Café on River Street. The café and the Kayak Shop were busy, even though it wasn’t yet nine in the morning.
“Doesn’t look too mysterious, does it?” asked Rachel, looking out the café window. Pedestrians were walking across the short bridge outside.
Scott scooped up the last bit of corned beef hash off his plate. “Nope. Just a normal place.”
The waitress approached with the check. “Get you two anything else? More coffee?”
“Maybe a little information. My wife might have family around here. Do you know where we could go to look up some of the old news stories and historical records?”
She turned the breakfast check facedown on the table. “What you need to do is get over to the old Blairsville Voice office. Harold Ranger still works in there. You can see all the old papers.” She pointed down the road. “Just walk across the bridge over there. It’s on the other side of the street.”
The Voice was across from the Sunoco station, two blocks east. Scott held Rachel’s hand as they walked across the short bridge. Her hand was warm in his. “Are you ready to play detective?”
“Just remember to call me Lucy, okay? I’m here checking on my family history.”
The old storefront had a single, large plate glass window, cracked through in one corner. The words Blairsville Voice were still stenciled in an arc of red letters across the center of the glass.
Scott turned the brass knob on the door. “Locked.” He shaded his eyes from the sun, and bent over to look in closer. Two eyes looked back at him. He jumped back.
The doorknob rattled and the door swung inward. A wizened old man’s face stared back at him. “Help you folks?”
Scott caught his breath as Rachel laughed softly behind him. “Yes, sir. Is this still the office for the Blairsville Voice?”
“Only one we got. But we don’t print the paper no more. You folks are welcome to come in, though. I don’t get many visitors.” He opened the door wider. Scott stepped through and Rachel followed. The room was dim, the walls taken up with shelves reaching to the top of the tin ceiling, which were filled with large, dusty green binders. An ashtray and some of the binders lay in disarray on an old conference t
able that sat in the middle of the room.
“This is it.” The old man swept his hand around the room. “The Blairsville Voice, from 1886 right up to the last day. That was last year, Fourth of July.” He turned and made his way to an old, wooden office chair. Dust spiraled around his feet as he sat down. “My name’s Harold Ranger. Thirty years ago I used to run our Linotype machine. What can I do for you?”
Ranger indicated two empty seats beside the conference table. Scott pulled one chair out for Rachel and took the second for himself. “We’d like to look at some of the issues for the year or two prior to when you stopped publication. We’re doing some research.”
“What kind of research, son?” Ranger raised an eyebrow and squinted at Scott. “I don’t think you’re from around here, are you?”
Rachel spoke. “No, sir. But my family was originally from here.”
Ranger turned his face toward her.
“I’m trying to gather information on my family history. People told us this is the place to come and that you were the man to see.”
He settled back in his chair, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Well, that’s prob’ly right. Anybody wants to know anything about this area, this is where you come.”
He sat back. “What’s the family name?”
“Montalvo. It’s Italian.”
“Oh, that it is. Lots of Italians around here. Are you any relation to the Montalvos up the hill towards Blake Cemetery?”
“I don’t know. I guess I could be. Who are they?”
“Well, I guess I prob’ly said that wrong. It’s not Montalvos anymore, like with an s on the end. There’s only one left up there now. She lives up there alone. Sound like what you’re looking for?”
Rachel and Scott exchanged glances. “Sure, I’m interested in anything you’ve got. Up where?” asked Scott.
The old man didn’t answer, just sat in place, his eyes flicking back and forth between the couple before him.
“Sir?” Scott began.
Ranger stood up, turned, and walked back to the door. Without hesitation he opened it wide and stepped back.
“You two come back after lunch. Maybe I’ll have something, maybe not.”
“Mr. Ranger, I . . .”
Rachel pulled on Scott’s sleeve.
“We’ll be back, Mr. Ranger,” said Rachel. “Thank you so much for your time.”
Outside, Scott followed Rachel as she turned right and started walking down the street. “What happened in there?”
“He wasn’t sure about us. Give him some time. He said after lunch, and that’s what we’ll do,” said Rachel.
He didn’t like waiting. “Maybe we should try to find that cemetery.”
“No, we’ll just be patient. Go to the library, whatever.”
She stopped, turned her face up to his. “That man knows something, and I think he wants to tell us. Just give him some time to convince himself that it’s okay for him to do it.”
• • •
AT ONE-THIRTY they found the door to the Blairsville Voice already ajar. Scott pushed it open to find the old man slumped back in an oilskin chair.
Ranger lifted himself out of the chair and shuffled over to the shelves. He pulled down a large volume and examined the label on the cover. “You’ll find what you need here, I think. Fourteen years ago.”
The book hit the table in an expanding cloud of dust. “Sorry about that. Not much of a housekeeper.” He coughed. “Dust is gonna kill me if I don’t get it first.”
He leafed through the pages of newsprint in the book until he found what he was looking for. “Lady, I hope this part isn’t about your family. We was all pretty shook up when this happened.” He stepped aside.
The article title was “Double Homicide.” In smaller text beneath it was “First Double Murder in a Century.” A picture of a weeping woman getting into a police car was on the right.
Scott stiffened. “Oh, wow. I see what you mean. A double murder.”
“Yep. Never arrested nobody, neither. Nothing like that happened before or since. Left that woman up on the hill a widow.”
“Look at this.” Scott pointed out the names. “They’re all named Montalvo.”
Rachel looked at the yellowing paper. “So this man, Anthony Montalvo, was stabbed to death? And his wife too?”
The old man stirred. “Wait a minute. They wasn’t married. Just had the same last name. Tony Montalvo was married to the lady up there on the hill, but that day—it was close on to the end of spring that year—he was at his brother Ed’s house out the other end of town.
“It was Ed’s wife died with Tony. Somebody killed them both. Stabbed ’em.”
Rachel twitched. A shiver ran through her body. “That’s so awful.”
“Who did it?” asked Scott, eyes questioning.
“Never knew for sure. Ed killed hisself later on. After he did that, most people figured it was him what killed everybody. But Tony’s wife, why, like I say, she still lives up there in the same old house, all by herself. Never got married again. They never had any kids or nothin’. Just lives all alone.” He looked wistful.
Rachel asked, “Mr. Ranger, so you’re saying that this lady is the only survivor of all that? No children or anyone else left?”
“Oh, there was one. The other family, the one across town? Where the dead woman was from. Ed and her had a daughter. Don’t know what ever became of her. I think she left before her father died. Haven’t heard nothin’ about the daughter for years.”
Scott and Rachel caught and held each other’s eyes, then Scott asked, “Do you remember her name, Mr. Ranger?”
“Rose. Her name’s Rose. She just lives up there all by herself.”
“No, Mr. Ranger, I mean the daughter. The one from the other family across town. Do you remember the daughter’s name?”
Ranger twisted up his face in concentration. He was saying something under his breath—“ . . . issa, isha, issa.” Then he shook his head. “I don’t remember, rightly. Maybe it’ll come to me. Rose’ll know. You ask her.”
Five minutes later, Scott turned up North Street.
“From Ranger’s directions, we ought to be there in two minutes or less.” He negotiated a left turn. “That street up there should be Willis. Blake Cemetery and the house ought to be at the end of the road.”
“What are we going to say, Scott? What if she doesn’t want to talk to us? Then where are we?”
“We’ll be in the same spot we were an hour ago.” He grinned at her. “And we keep making good progress.”
“It’s all so creepy. I mean, could she have something to do with the deaths of those people?”
Scott slowed, seeing kids’ toys near the roadside. “I don’t know. But if I were going to bet, I’d say we found our girl. She appears to have a violent history.” As he said the words, he felt a sting of guilt. I’m your girl. That’s what she’d said.
Willis was a dead end. He drove the Taurus to the end of the road, where a wooden power line pole blocked any further progress. A white wooden sign hung off a four-by-four frame with painted blue lettering: “BLAKE CEMETERY.”
“We’re here.”
• • •
THE HOUSE, a low, gray ranch with blue trim, was on the north side of the road. A yellow garden hose lay outside on the grass next to two cushioned lawn chairs.
“Could this be the place? Look at the two chairs, and there’s a lawn swing at the other end of the yard. That seems strange.”
Scott clucked his tongue. “Three twenty-one Willis. This is right. But I see what you mean. If she’s alone, why two chairs?”
They parked along the edge of the road in front of the home.
Scott knocked on the storm door. The inner door was open, but the glare on the glass kept him from seeing anything inside.
A coarse woman’s voice called out, “Who’s there?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Montalvo. Can my wife and I speak with you for a minute?”
From so
mewhere within the gloom of the house, a slender woman in a dark cotton dress stepped close to the glass door. Her hair was gray, streaked with black. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Mrs. Montalvo, My name is Gary, and this is my wife, Lucy. We’re doing some research on our family history. Harold Ranger down at the Blairsville Voice said we should come up and talk to you.”
“I know, I know.” She came up close to the door, eyes narrowing as she peered through the glass. “You the ones Harold called about. From the Voice.”
“Yes, ma’am. He thought we should talk with you.”
“Well, you can’t come in. Why would he send you up here? You know, they don’t even print the Voice anymore.” She crossed her arms in front of her and took a step back. “So what do you want?”
“Mrs. Montalvo?” Rachel pressed her face up closer to the door. “We’d really like to talk to you.” She turned and pointed to the lawn chairs outside. “Could we sit in those beautiful lawn chairs and talk for a few minutes? You have such a lovely home, and it all looks so welcoming.”
“Outside? Okay, maybe.” She pushed the door open and stepped outside, pulling her dress together at her neck. “Only got two chairs, though.” She turned her head back up to Rachel. “Lucy? Your name’s Lucy? Lucy what?”
“It used to be Montalvo. But just call me Lucy, okay?”
Scott reached for the woman’s elbow to help her across the lawn, but she pushed his hand away. “Don’t need your help.” She walked to the end of the house, where the two padded lawn chairs were. She sat down, and pointed Rachel to the other chair. Scott squatted down on the soft grass next to Rachel.
“This is a beautiful yard, Mrs. Montalvo,” said Rachel. “I imagine you love being down here at the end of the road without a lot of traffic.”
“It’s pretty nice, all right. Marie from across the street comes over and we sit here and talk about things. Marie’s alone too, you know.”
She pointed to a large locust tree in the center of the yard. “See that tree? My Tony planted that back in 1963 when we first moved up here on the hill. Tony was my husband. My name’s Rose.”
Scott scrutinized her as she spoke. She was thin, wiry. He glanced around the yard, noting the landscaping. She was not a weak woman.
