UNEASY PREY

by Annette Dashofy

  Pete struggled against smiling. “And you think I would tell you more?”

  “If I ask the right questions, yes.”

  “Sorry. I have no comment at this time.” He pinched her business card between his index and middle fingers and aimed it back at her.

  She refused to take it. “Can you at least confirm a few specifics? I understand two men in a white van claiming to be utility workers forced their way into the victim’s home several days prior to her death?”

  “Forced” wasn’t quite the right word. Oriole had invited them in. Pete suspected the reporter was baiting him into a response, and he wasn’t about to be drawn into her trap. “No comment.”

  “Oh, come on, Chief. Detective Baronick already told me that much.”

  “Then quote him. Not me.” Pete’s cell phone rang.

  “Shouldn’t you issue a warning to older residents to use caution and not open their doors to utility workers unless they show proper credentials?”

  Zoe’s name and photo appeared on screen. Pete set the reporter’s business card down on the counter. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”

  He turned and headed down the hall. The reporter’s voice trailed after him, but he answered the call and plugged his other ear so he couldn’t make out what she said.

  “Hey, Zoe. I’m glad you called.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He ducked into his office. “Your timing is perfect.”

  “You may not think so after I tell you why.”

  He froze. “Oh?”

  “I need you to come out to the farm. I think the same guys who attacked Oriole Andrews stopped here this morning. And Mrs. Kroll let one of them into the house.”

  FIVE

  Mrs. Kroll sat at her dining-room table, a sheepish grin on her face, when Pete arrived. “I wish Zoe hadn’t called you.”

  Zoe leaned in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, giving Pete a wide-eyed look of exasperation.

  “I’m glad she did,” he told the older woman. “This is serious.”

  “I know.” Mrs. Kroll may have been in her late seventies, but she sounded like a belligerent teenager.

  In a whispered exchange, as Zoe let him into the house, he’d learned Mrs. Kroll didn’t yet know about Oriole Andrews. Zoe had been afraid to break the news to her alone. Right now, Pete preferred getting as many answers from the older woman as possible before sending her into a panic. “Tell me what happened.”

  Mrs. Kroll glanced at Zoe. “Ask her.”

  “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  With a sigh, Mrs. Kroll launched into her tale of the nice young man from the water company who came to her door and was so polite.

  “Did the second man come inside at all?”

  “No. He never got out of the van.”

  That she was aware of. Pete wondered what that second person had done while the first one kept Mrs. Kroll occupied with toilet flushing. He glanced at Zoe. “Is anything missing?”

  “I had her check her cash. Nothing seems to have been taken.”

  The unspoken word “yet” hung between them.

  “And while we were waiting for you, I went outside and checked for footprints in the snow. The second guy didn’t leave the van.”

  Pete looked at Mrs. Kroll. “Did you happen to get a license number?”

  “No. I never thought anything about it until after they left. Then I got to wondering if maybe I’d done something I shouldn’t. That’s when I called Zoe.”

  “You’re here alone?”

  “Marvin’s in the hospital again. He’s supposed to be released tomorrow morning.”

  Not that an elderly man in the house would be any help against a young killer. “Can you give me a description of the men?”

  “I didn’t really see the one in the van.”

  “What about the one who came in the house?”

  “He was young.”

  “How young?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like you and Zoe.”

  Pete was forty-six. Zoe, ten years younger. “Are you sure?”

  “Not really. All you kids look young to me. I could swear my doctor can’t be more than twelve.”

  “What about his hair? His eyes?”

  “Brown hair, brown eyes.”

  “Did you notice anything about the way he spoke?”

  Mrs. Kroll gave this one some thought, but answered, “No. He sounded like anyone else. Just more polite than most.”

  Perfect. They were looking for a well-mannered male under the age of fifty—maybe—with dark hair and eyes. “Was there anything at all about him that struck you as unusual? Or noticeable? A birthmark? A tattoo?”

  “No.”

  “How about jewelry? Did he wear any rings? Or have any piercings?”

  “Not that I saw.” Mrs. Kroll scowled. “Is all this really necessary? I promise not to open the door to strangers ever again. Can’t we leave it at that?”

  Pete met Zoe’s gaze and knew she was thinking about another elderly woman. He came back to Mrs. Kroll. “I’m afraid we can’t.” He stuffed his notebook back in his pocket and knelt, taking her bony hand in his. “Listen. If anyone ever comes to your door that you don’t know, I want you to call 911 and tell them. I’ll come out, or one of my men will.”

  “I don’t want to bother you.”

  He’d had this same conversation with Oriole the day Janie had called him. “It’s not a bother. It’s our job. Any utility with a legitimate crew out or anyone who’s legally going door to door…we’ll know about them.”

  “I don’t see the need to trouble you.” She fidgeted. “Okay, I promise to call. But it really isn’t a big deal. He didn’t do anything or steal anything.”

  Pete exchanged another glance with Zoe before meeting and holding Mrs. Kroll’s gaze. “I assume you haven’t heard the news today.”

  For the first time, a look of trepidation crossed the older woman’s face. “I don’t usually turn the TV on when Marvin isn’t here. And it’s been too cold to go down to the box for the paper.”

  “Do you know Oriole Andrews?”

  “Yes, of course. We’ve been on a number of committees together. Oh, not in recent years, but…” Mrs. Kroll’s voice trailed off and tears of apprehension welled in her rheumy eyes. “Why?”

  Zoe joined Pete at Mrs. Kroll’s side as he broke the news about Oriole’s death.

  “You think the men who were here this morning,” Mrs. Kroll said, her voice damp and choked, “killed Oriole last night?”

  “We think it’s a good possibility.”

  “Oh dear lord.” Mrs. Kroll pulled her hand free from Pete’s and rummaged through her pockets, coming up with a tissue. “Do you—do you think they might come back here?”

  “They may. Can you go stay with your son for a few days? Or can he come here?”

  “No, no, no.” Her voice was muffled through the tissue. “I’m not leaving my home so some hoodlum could come and do as he pleases. And Alexander has a job and family to deal with.”

  Zoe cleared her throat. “I’ll stay with her.”

  Mrs. Kroll turned to her, straightening in her chair. “Oh, Zoe dear. Would you? That would be wonderful.”

  Pete hadn’t anticipated this turn of events. “No.”

  Mrs. Kroll looked at him, pleading. “Oh, please. It would be like old times. Zoe’s shared my home before and we get along splendidly.”

  How the two women got along wasn’t the issue. He stood, fixed Zoe with a stern gaze, and tipped his head toward the living room.

  She excused herself from Mrs. Kroll and joined him. “She’s right. We get along well. And she’ll be more comfortable with me staying here than if she had to move out.”

  “That’s not the point, and you know it.”

 
“It’ll just be temporary. Until you catch these guys. Then I’ll be back.”

  “That’s not the point either.” Although he couldn’t help but think how hard he’d lobbied to get her to move in with him in the first place.

  She gave him that flirtatious grin that drove him crazy. “I’ll leave my cats with you as collateral.”

  “That isn’t the point,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “What’s going to stop these guys from doing to you what they did to Oriole?”

  Zoe planted her hands on her hips. “Because they’re cowards. They only prey on the elderly and the weak. You don’t see them targeting any capable adults, do you?”

  “What makes you think you’re so intimidating that you’d scare them away?”

  Any hint of that sexy grin was gone. “Hey. I ride horses. I sling hay bales. I handle pitchforks. If I can get kicked by a thousand-pound animal and come back yelling loud enough to put him in his place, I can handle some young punk who gets his jollies bullying little old ladies.”

  Pete had seen her kick some serious bad-guy ass in the past. But he’d also seen her nearly die at this very spot. “You’re not as tough as you think. I won’t have you and Mrs. Kroll becoming their next two victims.”

  Zoe’s face clouded at the suggestion that he doubted her ability to take care of herself. “She’s not going to leave her home. And I’m not leaving her alone.”

  Before the discussion could escalate into a full-fledged screaming match, Pete’s cell phone rang. Caller ID revealed the station’s number. “What?” he snapped.

  Nancy’s voice was understandably icy. “One of the crime-scene techs up at the Andrews’ house just called and asked you to respond. There’s some sort of trouble with the family.” After a pause, she added, “And you could use some work on your phone manners.”

  Pete knew he hadn’t dissuaded Zoe of her bone-headed delusions. Part two of that debate would have to wait until after he dealt with Oriole’s family.

  He was better acquainted with Marcus Baker than with Janie. At only thirteen, the kid had already tiptoed the fine line between innocent pranks and delinquent behavior, tumbling more than once to the side requiring a visit—and a stern lecture—from Pete.

  In his few encounters with Janie Baker, she’d struck him as timid. Mousey. Not homely by any means, and perhaps she might even be pretty if she made half an effort. But she tended to slouch, walking with her head down, rarely smiling. Her drab winter coat appeared decades out of style and several sizes too large, probably purchased from a secondhand store.

  When Pete arrived at Oriole’s house that afternoon, Janie behaved like the old Mad Mouse rollercoaster he remembered as a kid. As he pulled up, he caught a glimpse of her pacing outside the yellow crime-scene tape.

  The moment she spotted him, she scurried to his car. “You didn’t return my calls.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

  Dark circles framed her bloodshot eyes. “They won’t let me back in Gram’s house.”

  “They will. As soon as they’re done.” He hesitated to use the term processing the crime scene.

  Janie half turned, gazing at the old house with a look of forlorn desperation in her moist eyes. “Done?” She spun back to Pete. “They’ve been at it for hours. Gram was in the basement. I just want to go upstairs to her room to pick out—” Her voice caught and she lowered her face from his view for a moment. Once again lifting her chin, she said, “I need to choose an outfit for Gram to be buried in.”

  He patted Janie’s sloped shoulder. “Let me find out how much longer they’ll be.”

  “Thank you, Chief. I’d appreciate that.”

  She refused his offer to sit in the heated SUV, so he left her standing next to the vehicle while he ducked under the police tape and approached the house.

  Before he reached the front porch, the door opened and one of the techs stepped out carrying a brown paper bag. Instead of moving aside, the tech blocked Pete’s way. “Chief Adams, I’m glad to see you.” The tech glanced past Pete and made a face. “That woman out there has been driving us nuts.”

  “She’s the victim’s granddaughter. More than that, she’s been the victim’s caregiver for as long as I’ve known them. Cut her some slack, okay?”

  The tech bristled. “You can’t mean let her inside before we’re finished processing.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Okay. Because that seems to be what she wants.”

  “I’m sure she’s overwhelmed with final arrangements and isn’t thinking about what we, as law enforcement, have to do.” Pete offered the young tech a knowing smile. “We need to have some compassion for the living while seeking justice for the deceased.”

  The tech’s hard scowl softened. “You’re right. But I still can’t let her contaminate my crime scene.”

  “I agree. Just remember, our crime scene was her home. How much longer until you finish up?”

  “We’re almost done. Shouldn’t be more than another twenty or thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll let her know. By the way, did you find anything?”

  “Nothing that jumps out at us. No signs of forced entry. Possible evidence of a struggle in the one bedroom where the old lady slept.”

  Pete winced at “old lady.” This kid needed people skills if he ever hoped to work with the public. “A struggle in the bedroom?”

  “Or maybe she just fell out of bed. It’s hard to judge at this point.”

  Pete thanked the tech and returned to Janie, who was holding her collar up to her ears against the breeze.

  “They’ll be another twenty or thirty minutes.”

  Her pained expression told of her displeasure.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  The distraction worked. She blinked and her face softened. “What?”

  “Go through the house as soon as you get a chance and let me know if anything’s missing.”

  “You think whoever pushed Gram down the stairs robbed her too?”

  “It’s very possible.”

  “She didn’t have much worth stealing.” Janie gazed wistfully at the old house. “But I’ll do my best.”

  Pete touched her shoulder. “Good girl. Now why don’t you go home and warm up until they finish.”

  She watched the young tech with the brown bag cross the yard to their van. “Thank you, Chief. But I’ll wait here.” She looked up and met Pete’s gaze. “Gram may be gone, but this is still her house. And her stuff. You know?”

  Pete found himself thinking of Harry being moved from their family home into Nadine’s house and now to an assisted-living facility, leaving his stuff—and what memories he had left—behind. If only he’d been as fortunate as Oriole, living and eventually dying at home. “Yeah,” Pete said. “I know.”

  Zoe parked her battered Chevy pickup—the one Pete had been trying for months to get her to sell—in her old spot on the hillside above the Kroll house. She slid down, dragged the laundry basket full of her things across from the passenger side, and braced it against one hip while she slammed the door. Pete would be furious when he learned she’d gone home, packed, and moved in with Mrs. Kroll against his wishes, but he’d have to get over it.

  Gazing at the modular home, Zoe remembered a very different structure. The massive farmhouse in which she’d once lived. She looked down at the basket containing some jeans and sweatshirts, a uniform for her next shift, and her toiletries. She’d left here last summer with nothing but the sooty clothes on her back. And the cats.

  The throaty rumble of an engine drew her out of her memories. A white Toyota Tundra crawled up the slippery farm lane from Route 15. Zoe lugged her laundry basket to the rear of her pickup and waited. The Toyota swung off the lane and stopped.

  The driver’s window powered down, revealing a smiling, sun-tanned Pat
sy Greene. “What’s going on? You moving back in?” Her tone was joking.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  Patsy’s smile turned to shock. “Why? Oh, don’t tell me you and Pete—?”

  “We’re fine.” Better than fine most days, but Zoe didn’t care to discuss their current disagreement with Patsy. “I’m just going to stay with Mrs. Kroll a few days.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s good. When did you get back from Florida?”

  “Late yesterday. This is the first time I’ve been able to get over here. Are the horses all right?” Patsy’s cautious tone told Zoe she was still seeking the rationale for the move back to the farm.

  Zoe assured her all was well. “Have you heard the news? About Oriole Andrews?”

  “Yeah. Horrible. That poor woman.”

  “Then you know they suspect a home invasion.”

  “By con artists pretending to be water-company employees. Yeah.”

  Zoe explained how the same guys paid a visit to Mrs. Kroll that morning.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  Zoe shook her head. “Wish I was.”

  “That’s why you’re moving back in with her.” Patsy reached down to tinker with something on her instrument panel. “By the way, have you heard from Kimberly?”

  Zoe shifted the laundry basket to her other hip. “No. Why would I hear from my mother?”

  “I’m surprised. I’d have thought she would have called you by now.”

  “I don’t know why you’re surprised.” Zoe and her mother had never been on good terms, but they hadn’t spoken at all since last June. While Zoe didn’t really miss the contact with Kimberly, she ached over the lost connection with her stepdad.

  Patsy gave up on whatever setting she was trying to adjust. “We had a long talk about you. In fact, several.”

  The revelation that her mother gave Zoe more than a passing thought boggled her mind. “Should I hire an attorney?” She was only half joking.

  “What? No. Seriously. Your mother wants to reach out to you. To make amends.”

  “Okay.” Zoe dragged the word out. Kimberly? Making amends? Not likely. “Whatever you say.”