That was probably what happened, I thought. But who had called them in? And why?
The scanner went silent. As long as they were on Channel Two, I couldn’t follow it —and Addison was already on the scene, anyway. The story would get covered just fine. I had other things to do. I slipped back into bed and stared at the ceiling, contemplating my actions earlier that evening.
After I’d left the sheriff’s office—and hopefully sent Elizabeth in another direction—I drove past the west side address where Benjamin Kinnon had a room.
It was one of those old motels, built in the 1920s when motor travel was new. The bricks had been painted white at some point, but the color was flaking off and the current owner hadn’t been too concerned about maintaining the property. A single light shone over a parking lot that was more packed earth and weeds than blacktop. Five rooms flanked either side of the center office, each with a bright green door and peeling white paint. The fading neon ‘Vacancy’ sign flickered irregularly in the darkened office window. I’d parked my Mustang close to the road, next to a wooden sign reading “Travel Inn Weekly Rooms” with the phone number of the office beneath. The sign was painted in matching green and white and stood in a circle of scraggly bushes.
There were only three vehicles—two pick-up trucks and a minivan—in the lot when I visited. Children’s toys leaned against the motel room front wall where the minivan was parked, so odds were, Benjamin Kinnon was in one of the rooms with a pickup parked in front. It was too dark to see the license plates.
I’d been at the Travel Inn a couple times on other stories. The place was a known flophouse for transients and drug dealers. Meth labs had been discovered in a couple rooms once or twice and another time a woman’s body was dumped in the parking lot.
I didn’t stay long. I knew I’d be back by dawn.
On my way home, I drove past Elizabeth’s and parked in the alley behind her apartment. Like my place, her home was part of a Victorian-era house that was broken down into separate residences; from the alley, I could see into her bedroom window. Her purple wig was off and she wore a vintage Lucille Ball-style head wrap to cover her naked head and a pair of black cat’s eye glasses. She was folding clothes and placing them in a box. I watched until she taped the box closed, then I went home.
Now, in the silence of my dark bedroom, my thoughts didn’t even center on the homicide at the llama farm. Addison was there—she’d get the story. I wasn’t even thinking about the man I would confront tomorrow morning, the man who probably was my father. My thoughts centered on Elizabeth.
How could I have been so stupid? I thought, as I stared at the ceiling. I missed all the signs. I’d been stupid enough to buy a ring before I ever heard her tell me she loved me. I’d never said it either, assuming that she shared what was in my heart, until the night I proposed. She’d kept me at arm’s length— I could see that now. I’d stupidly misread the trip to her parents’ house in Shaker Heights as the next step in our relationship. How stupid could I have been?
It didn’t matter now. We were through and she was leaving. In a few hours, when the sun came up, I would be sitting in the parking lot of the Travel Inn, waiting for Benjamin Kinnon.
I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
Chapter 22 Addison
Jud Roarke parked his cruiser next to my Taurus. He spoke briefly into his shoulder microphone before he stepped from the black Dodge Charger. A wave of vehicles followed behind, the driveway dust kicked up by their tires glittering in the headlights and taillights.
I waved with one hand, holding Duncan’s double-barreled shotgun in the other.
“Hi, Penny,” he said. “Wait a minute.” He stopped to speak again into his shoulder mic. “Dispatch, this is unit one—”
I cried out as somebody slammed me, face first, across the trunk of the Taurus, twisting one arm behind my back and ripping the shotgun from my hand.
“U.S. Marshal, you’re under arrest!” A man’s voice barked.
Before I could respond, I was handcuffed and pulled back upright by the back of my shirt.
“Hey, that’s my wife!” I heard Duncan cry.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. “What’s this about?”
My captor, a muscular man with a graying goatee, wore a black tee shirt beneath his Kevlar vest and a black baseball cap, both emblazoned with U.S. MARSHAL across the front. In black cargo pants and military boots, he looked about medium height; beneath the collar of his black tee shirt, I caught a glimpse of a heavy gold necklace. His automatic rifle was slung across his back and his utility belt carried enough weapons to start a coup. His badge, encased in leather, hung around his neck from a beaded metal utility chain.
Behind him, I counted five other marshals, all dressed in black like goddamned ninjas with badges, pointing their weapons at Duncan, Katya or me. Behind them were seven sheriff’s deputies—representing three-fourths of the ten that patrolled the county at night— standing tactically behind their cruiser doors, weapons drawn.
“Stand down, everybody, stand down,” Jud said, stepping between the marshals and me. His words were smooth and soothing. “Peppin, take off her cuffs. You’re in my territory now. Out here in God’s country, if I arrested everyone just because they held a gun, I’d have half to three-quarters of the county in jail at any one time.”
Peppin growled something under his breath as he spun me around to unlock my cuffs. I rubbed my wrists as I turned to face him.
“You have the honor of arresting the person who reported this crime and who also happens to be the editor of our newspaper,” Jud continued. “Addison McIntyre, I’d like to introduce you to Robert Peppin, U.S. Marshal. He’s based in the Cincinnati office.”
We reached out to shake each other’s hands, but we weren’t pleased about the introduction. Neither of us smiled.
“Our team got a call from Ms. Bolodenka’s cell phone. There wasn’t anyone on the other end and thought it best to respond,” he said.
“So she’s in witness protection?” I asked.
“Is this on the record?” he asked.
“I am looking at the dead body of a man who had lunch at my house on Sunday,” I said. “I’m going to bet there’s been a public radio transmission about this crime, as well as a request for the coroner. Hell yes, it’s on the record.” I wanted to add, you asshole, but didn’t.
“No comment.”
“Katya’s already told me she’s in witness protection and Jerome Johnson was the marshal assigned to protect her,” I snapped. “I like to get two sources on my stories. I got confirmation from her— I just wanted it from you.”
Peppin shot another look at Jud, who got on his radio, his smooth tone gone.
“Dispatch, we have a second agency on scene. All radio traffic on Channel Two,” he said, sharply. He clicked off his microphone and turned angrily toward Peppin. “I was under the impression that local law enforcement was to be informed when someone in WITSEC came into their area.” Jud Roarke’s eyes were sharp enough to peel paint off a wall, even in the dead of night.
“Ms. Bolodenka’s case is extremely sensitive. We thought it best to keep to keep that information confidential,” Peppin answered.
“Are you two going to look to see if the guy who shot Jerome Johnson is still on the property or is this going to be an exercise in who has the bigger badge?” I demanded.
Jud nodded; Peppin and the other marshals raised their weapons again, along with the deputies behind them. With a wave of his arm and a few words, the men began to search the property. One deputy stayed behind with us.
Katya slumped into the back seat of the Taurus.
“You OK?” I asked, leaning into the car. Duncan stood behind me, hands stuffed in his pockets.
Tears rolled down her dusty face.
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
“Last Friday, when I showed up to do the story on you winning at the state fair, Jerome didn’t want me doing the s
tory, did he?”
Katya shook her head.
“He knew it would expose you, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “It wasn’t first time either. This farm was my last chance.”
I pushed a little harder. “Jerome was not from Ashtabula, was he? Or even Ohio?”
“No. Jerome came here from Virginia, where I was hidden before, but he wasn’t my original protector.” She sighed.
“Why did you leave Virginia?” I asked.
Katya lifted her eyes upward as the tears flowed down the side of her face. “After I left New York, Kolya was in jail, but some of his men got released on bond, I don’t know why or how. I was moved to Virginia, but I couldn’t abandon my sister Svetlana, or her husband Alexis or her baby Nadya back in Brooklyn. We were so close, Svetlana and me. I broke rules. I write to her when we got to Shenandoah Valley, then we start calling each other, once a month. I get separate cell phone number that only she has. Then somehow, Kolya’s gang hears that she’s been in touch with me and they tell him.”
“Your sister and her family didn’t die in a traffic crash in Moscow, did they?” I asked softly. “Kolya or his men killed them, didn’t he?”
Katya nodded. “It was Svetlana’s murder—and the murder of her husband and daughter— that got Kolya in trouble again, even though he was still in jail. You don’t know what it’s like having to live like this, knowing I am responsible for my own sister’s murder. I can have friends, but I can’t tell them the truth of who I am. Everything I say is story they make up for me. My husband, the man I married, he can call his family, and he can have his friends from the neighborhood visit him. But what about me? Why should I be the one who is forced to lie? Why should I live my life in secret? I am not one who did anything wrong!”
“What about your parents? Are they still alive?”
“No. My father dies of cancer when I am young, before we came to America. After he dies, my mother decides to take Svetlana and me and leave Petersburg. We go to Brighton Beach, where she has brothers, my uncles. It is there I grow up and where I meet Kolya.”
“How did you get all those animals?” Duncan asked, leaning into the car window beside me.
“When witness protection first brings me to Virginia, I am kept at farm where animals were at to begin with. The farm belonged to dentist who got into trouble. He was also placed in witness protection, but no one knew what to do with llamas and alpacas after he is gone.”
“And you did?” Duncan asked.
“No. Not any more than the marshal that protected me there. So we learn. We learn and I fall in love with them. Then Svetlana is killed and I have to leave again.”
“You couldn’t leave the llamas, though, could you?”
“No. So they find this farm here in Ohio and buy it and build the little house beside barn. They build safe room for me in attic. Then we move in late at night. Three trailers full of animals,” Katya smiled sadly at me. “Jerome, he is assigned to me and that night he comes to live in the little house. Now he is gone and I am once again alone.”
She shook her head.
“You were romantically involved with him, weren’t you?” I asked softly.
“He was in my bed when the car pulled into the driveway.”
Oh, God, this is getting more complicated by the moment, I thought. She’s not played by the rules of witness protection. She didn’t keep herself out of the spotlight, and she’s also sleeping with the marshal assigned to protect her.
I looked up to see the sheriff, Peppin and all the others coming toward us from the barn, the house and the cottage.
“All clear,” Peppin said, holstering his pistol.
Judson motioned to a white vehicle at the end of the driveway; Dr. Bovir had arrived in the coroner’s van. He would also have investigators with him who would record the crime scene details and take photographs. As they went to work, Judson motioned Duncan and me over so he and Peppin could grill us on the details of what happened. Another marshal took Katya to the back of his black Suburban.
“So, Mrs. McIntyre, you want to tell me what you know?” Peppin asked. “I don’t care what your sheriff buddy says, you’re a suspect until I say you’re not.”
Duncan and I started at the beginning, with the original story on the tapestry, to how Duncan had stood up for Jerome at the feed store, how they’d come over for lunch on Sunday and how I’d heard from Graham Kinnon about the animals being killed. He didn’t need to know Gary McGinnis and I had just about figured out everything we’d been told was a cover of some kind. Judson corroborated the story about the dead animals.
“That was probably a warning—” Peppin began.
“But from who? McMaster or the Russians?” Judson interjected.
Peppin shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s not safe for her to be here now.”
“The man who killed Jerome was named Luka, Katya told me,” I said.
“So the Russians found her.” Peppin shot me another nasty look.
I shrugged. Nobody was going to accuse me of keeping information from law enforcement.
Dr. Bovir approached, with Jerome’s badge and Ohio driver’s license on his clipboard. Judson waved him into our circle. Bovir handed the badge and the license to the sheriff before he spoke. I caught a glimpse of his license as it passed from hand to hand. If it was a fake like Gary thought it was, it was a good one.
“Your victim died of a single gun shot at close range to the back of the head,” Bovir said solemnly.
“Any shell casings?” Jud asked.
Bovir held up an empty shell casing balanced on the end of his pen. “Investigators are picking these up now. This looks like an automatic weapon of some sort.”
“Not a double-barreled shotgun?” I asked sarcastically, shooting a nasty look at Peppin.
“No,” Bovir answered. “But there is also some other evidence—I would rather not go into that in the presence of the press.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
Duncan looked to the east, where the sun was beginning to come up.
“Do you still need us here?” he asked. “I got Holsteins to milk.”
Judson shook his head. “No. You guys go on home.”
“Just don’t leave town. Until further notice, you’re still a suspect to me,” Peppin said.
Roarke rolled his eyes.
“Thanks,” I said. “What about Katya?”
“She stays with me,” Peppin said.
“What about the animals?” I asked. “Who’s going to feed them?”
“You don’t need to worry about that. We’ll take care of them,” he said.
“Tell her I’ll be back to check on her later this afternoon,” I said, walking toward my car.
“I think you’ve done enough, Mrs. McIntyre,” he said.
I started to spin around on my heel, but Duncan grabbed my elbow.
“Keep walking Penny, just keep walking,” he whispered.
We got in the car and drove back down toward the road, where television station remote trucks were beginning to gather. A female deputy sat inside a sheriff’s cruiser, parked across the driveway entrance.
The story would be fodder for their morning newscasts, if Judson came out to talk to them.
If not, they would be forced to cool their heels and babble conjecture and possibilities through their segments until they got confirmation of anything.
The investigation could take several hours; the most they would have would be when the sun came up and they got shots of the cruisers and the coroner’s van. I could have my story—the complete story—done and up on the website before that. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea—TV could have it then before my paper hit the streets.
The wild card would be Peppin. Would he speak to them before Roarke? What would he say, outside of ‘no comment?’ That would make my decision. If he said anything beyond ‘no comment,’ I’d be forced to put the story on the website. If he didn’t I could hold it off the
web until the presses ran.
I stared straight ahead as TV reporters, mikes in hand, some with cameras on their shoulders, approached the car, pummeling us with questions through the car windows.
“What’s happened in there?”
“Can you tell us anything?”
“Why is the coroner’s van on scene?”
“Do you know who lives there?”
“How many victims are there?”
Fortunately, none of them recognized me. If they had, it would have been ugly— there would have been allegations that I got preferential treatment over and above other news outlets on the scene. That would have made my life a living hell—and made the crime scene investigation rough. I didn’t want to explain how and why the property owner showed up at my house to tell me about a murder—at least until I had the chance to put it on the front page.
Hopefully no one at the TV station would see the video and recognize me.
God knows how Earlene would deal with it.
I began to consider how to place the story on the front page as Duncan nosed the Taurus through the reporters and onto the road. I didn’t have any photos, but that was OK. There were shots from the original story I’d done on the tapestry, but they weren’t relevant; there were no photos of Jerome. Maybe Gary would get me Jerome’s BMV photo—I could always ask. What would my headline be? What else did I have for page one?
Shit, I thought to myself. I wish I could count on Graham right now. He’s in Indianapolis. Well, I’ve at least got Marcus I can lean on. I’ll have him get the other police reports from Gary and have Elizabeth check on the court records. What other local stories do I have in the can, ready to go?
I jerked forward in my seat as Duncan slammed on the brakes.
“Do you not hear me?” Duncan asked.
“Huh?” I cleared my head with a sharp shake.
“I’ve asked you three times,” Duncan began. “I know you, Penny. You’re the only one who knows this entire story and you’re dying to get to the paper. You want me just to take you straight there? I could have Isabella help with milking this morning. We can drop your car off later.”
Murder on the Lunatic Fringe (Jubilant Falls Series Book 4) Page 12
