To Pete’s surprise, Marcus faced him. “Because of Ethan.”
“What about him?”
“I didn’t break his glasses. This time or the other times. They did it.”
“They?”
“The ones I beat up. They’re bullies. They pick on younger kids like Ethan. Push ’em around. Call ’em names. Do…other stuff to ’em. The smaller kids can’t, or won’t, fight back. So I do it for them.” Marcus lifted his chin, a look of proud defiance on his face.
Pete studied him. “And at the school gymnasium last week?”
Marcus didn’t blink. “Robert had been messin’ with a girl who didn’t want to be messed with. She came to me crying about it. So I waited for him and convinced him to leave her alone.”
Pete rubbed his forehead and the headache starting to bloom there. “You’re telling me you only beat up on bullies.”
The kid squirmed. “Yeah. I guess.” It sounded more like a question than an answer.
“What about your grandmother? Who did she bully?”
For a moment, Marcus’ expression went blank. Then his jaw dropped and he almost choked. “You think I…Hell, no. I would never…” He clamped his mouth shut. Swallowed hard. Then whispered, “I’m not saying nothing more.” Tears welled in his eyes.
Pete wasn’t sure if they were tears of grief, tears of remorse, or tears of panic. Nor was he at all sure of Marcus’s guilt. “Wise choice,” Pete said and stepped out of the car where Nate and Seth waited. “Did you reach the boy’s mother?”
“Still no answer.” Nate held up his phone. “Do you want me to keep trying?”
“No. I want you to take Junior Avenger here to the station and lock him up for now.”
“Junior who?”
“Never mind.” Pete pointed at Seth. “I’m going to drop you off so you can get your car. Go over to Oriole Andrews’ house. Bring Janie to see her son and have her arrange for an attorney.”
“Where are you going?” Seth asked.
“I’m going to interrupt a family Sunday dinner.”
THIRTY
“You didn’t count on wasting your entire day chauffeuring me around,” Zoe told Patsy as they turned up the hill toward Oriole’s house.
“I don’t mind. You needed to get out.”
“But ‘out’ doesn’t usually mean driving around in a snowstorm.”
Patsy reached up and patted her dashboard. “My trusty Tundra doesn’t mind.”
“I appreciate it. But if Janie isn’t at her grandmother’s, you can just dump me at home.”
As concerned as Zoe was about the Krolls, Janie with her unsteady hands and ashen face was the friend who had her most concerned.
She hadn’t been at her house when Patsy and Zoe stopped there. Neither was Marcus. Zoe had borrowed Patsy’s cell phone and tried to call, but no one answered.
As the Toyota pickup climbed the hill, Janie’s car became visible through the heavy snowfall, parked in front of Oriole’s house.
“Looks like you were right.” Patsy pointed. “She’s here.”
They pulled up behind the car, and Zoe noticed the glow of lights in one of the first-floor windows.
“I’m gonna drop you off and go feed the horses,” Patsy said. “I’ll be back to get you in about an hour.”
“I hate to make you drive around in this weather plus take care of the barn.”
Patsy made a face. “Look. You’re worried about your friend. You can’t reach her by phone. You’re not in any shape to do the barn work. It’s fine.”
Zoe looked toward the house. Patsy was right, of course, but she hated feeling so helpless. “Okay.” She opened the door and stepped down, sinking ankle deep in snow. “Be careful on the roads.”
Patsy reached toward her, holding out her cell phone. “Here. You might need this.”
“No way. You’re more likely to need it than I am. Besides, I’m sure Janie has her phone on her. She probably turned off the ringer or something.”
Patsy shrugged. “All right. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
Zoe slogged toward the house, but paused to watch Patsy’s taillights fade into the hazy white veil of snow. Then she trudged the rest of the way. She stopped again on the front stoop, taking a moment to listen to the silence. It was as if Mother Nature had soundproofed the entire township. There was no pitter-pat of raindrops. No traffic noise floating up from Route 15 below. Only blessed tranquility.
Until a shriek from behind the door shattered the stillness.
Trout’s daughter, one Betsy Malone, lived in a large brick home surrounded by a planned community of other large brick homes about fifteen miles from Dillard in a neighboring township. Pete noticed several of the yards still displayed Christmas decorations and lights. One sported a deflated jolly old elf and his reindeer, half covered with snow. It looked like a holiday homicide. Dead Santa and Rudolph, sprawled on a residential lawn.
At least the St. Nick slaying happened outside of Pete’s jurisdiction.
Two doors down, he matched the numbers on the mailbox with the address he’d jotted down. This was it.
There were no dead inflatables in the yard.
He made his way up the salted sidewalk and rang the bell. A dour-looking woman with perfectly styled and dyed blonde hair opened the door.
“Yes?”
Pete held up his badge and introduced himself. “Is your father Alfred Troutman?”
“Yes?” In spite of it being an answer, she still made it sound like a question.
“Is he here?”
An assortment of emotions paraded across the woman’s face, none of them pleasant. “No. He’s not.”
The wind was starting to pick up, swirling the snow. “Do you mind if I come inside for a moment?”
The request appeared to startle her. “Oh. Of course.” She stepped aside to let him enter and then pushed the door closed.
“Are you expecting your father?” Pete removed his hat, careful to contain the dripping snow to the welcome mat. “I was told he usually comes here for Sunday dinner.”
Her expression turned sour. “Yes, he usually does. Yes, we were expecting him.”
“Were?”
“My husband drove over to pick him up, but he wasn’t there. He’s not answering his phone either.”
Pete thought of the wicked weather—an old man missing in a winter storm. “Excuse me for saying, but you don’t appear concerned.”
“Concerned?” She choked a laugh. “My father is notorious for doing what he damned well pleases whether I’m ‘concerned’ or not.”
“I just mean, the elderly do sometimes wander off. If he’s outside, missing, in this stuff…” Pete shot a glance toward the door. “…I need to get a team out there searching for him.”
Betsy dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “He’s fine.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Because he’s my father. He puts on a show of being incompetent, but trust me. He can fare better than anyone I know. He takes great joy in messing up my plans. What I want doesn’t matter to him. Never has.”
Pete had a feeling he’d walked into an episode of Dr. Phil. He tried to imagine Nadine being so indifferent about Harry and couldn’t. But once again, here he was, comparing his father to Trout. Nevertheless, Pete intended to find the missing man, whether the daughter cared or not. “Thank you for your time.” He moved to put his hat back on.
Betsy jabbed his chest with one manicured finger. “Do you know what my father had the nerve to do?”
“No, ma’am.” But Pete suspected he was about to find out.
“He pawned my late mother’s necklace. The one she’d promised to me.”
“He…pawned it?”
“Yes.” Her shoulders rose and fell with a haughty breath. “I’ve been t
elling him for a while that I wanted it. That Mother told me it was to come to me after she passed. At first he said he couldn’t part with her things yet. Which was fine. I’m not heartless.”
The jury was still out on that one.
“But I told him I wanted to wear it to a New Year’s Eve party and that’s when he told me he didn’t have it. Can you believe it? He hocked a family heirloom. I told him to get it back. I’d pay whatever he owed. I just want my necklace.” She poked Pete again. “When you find him, you tell him to get it back or…or I’ll have you arrest him.”
There was so much wrong with this woman’s rant that Pete had no idea how to respond. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “If I find him.” Pete emphasized the “if” to see how the woman reacted.
She didn’t.
Back in his car, Pete mulled over the pawned necklace story. Betsy Malone might be a shrew, but what if her father had given her just cause? Pete had come to doubt the legitimacy of Trout’s bewilderment. He’d been lurking around Oriole’s house. Why? To cover up evidence of his crime?
He’d likely been aware that someone had been plundering naïve senior citizens in the county. He’d also been aware they’d paid Oriole a visit earlier. Was the old man so down on his luck that not only would he pawn his late wife’s jewelry, but also steal from the woman he claimed to care about?
Pete swore at himself for not seeing it sooner.
Nate and Seth were tied up reuniting Marcus with his mother, so Pete punched in another number on his phone.
“It’s Sunday. Don’t you take a day off?” Baronick said, bypassing all standard greetings.
“I need you and your county boys to help me track down Oriole Andrews’ killer.”
“You still think we don’t already have them?”
“The Naimans may be responsible for the rash of recent burglaries and for assault.” They weren’t getting off the hook for Zoe’s concussion. “But I don’t believe they shoved Oriole down those stairs.”
“All right. So who are we looking for now?”
Pete dropped the shifter into drive. “Alfred Troutman.”
The scream had come from Janie. Of that, Zoe was certain. Had Oriole’s killer come back to the scene of his crime? Panicked, Zoe’s hand went to her pocket where her phone should be. Only it wasn’t. She spun toward the road, hoping to catch Patsy. But the Tundra was long gone.
Zoe tried the doorknob. It turned, and the door clicked open. Inhaling, she tamped down her fear and charged in.
Janie, hands extended out to the side, had her back to the entryway, but wheeled toward Zoe. Standing near the dining room table, Trout clutched a small handgun. His eyes were nearly as wide and frantic as Janie’s.
Zoe froze, thoughts tumbling through her head. Why hadn’t she accepted the phone Patsy had offered? But even if she had, she couldn’t very well ask Trout to hold on a minute while she called Pete. “Wha—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and tried again. “What’s going on?”
Janie took a gliding step to one side, keeping her hands raised.
Trout waved the gun at her. “You stop right there.”
Janie obeyed, stiffening.
Zoe realized she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly. “Mr. Troutman, whatever’s going on here, you don’t need that gun.”
He gestured at Janie with it. “Yes, I do. She’s crazy.”
“I’m not the crazy one.” Janie said, her voice shrill. “You are.”
“Let’s just keep calm. Okay?” Zoe took a closer look at Trout, his hand, and the gun in it. Small, but deadly. A revolver. And the old man’s finger rested on the trigger. Keeping her voice low, she said, “Mr. Troutman, why don’t you put the gun down so we can talk.”
He glanced at her, but kept the weapon trained on Janie. “No.” His gaze settled on Janie again. “I just want what’s mine.”
“It’s not yours,” Janie said, her tone snippy for someone staring into the mouth of a gun. “You gave it to my grandmother.”
“Yes, but I need it back now.”
Zoe struggled to understand the argument. “The gun?”
“The necklace.” Trout tipped his head toward the dining table in the middle of the room, but kept his focus on Janie.
Zoe risked looking away from the gun to the table. She hadn’t noticed before, but an off-white tablecloth covered a lumpy mound. Of what, she couldn’t tell. But there was definitely more than a necklace under there. “What necklace?”
“It belonged to my late wife,” he said. “Had been in her family for generations. Oriole had admired it, so I gave it to her.”
“See?” Janie flicked a finger in his direction. “That’s what I said. He gave it to Grandma. I’m her sole heir, so it’s mine now.”
The photo. The one Zoe and Sylvia and found in the box. The newer picture of Oriole wearing that lovely vintage necklace. “That’s what this is all about? A necklace?”
Tears gleamed in the old man’s eyes. “I wanted Oriole to have it. But my daughter raised a stink over it. Insisted I get it back.”
Zoe tried to make sense of what she was hearing. Of what she was seeing. Trout wanted the necklace back. Oriole refused to return it. They’d fought. And she’d ended up in a heap at the bottom of the basement stairs?
“I got tired of Betsy haranguing me so I told her I’d sold it,” Trout said with a self-satisfied nod of his head. He ran his free hand across his eyes and sniffed. “But then Oriole died, so I figured I’d get the necklace back and give it to Betsy just to shut her up.” He looked at Zoe, but kept the gun on Janie. “I came over afterwards to get it, but it wasn’t in her jewelry box.”
Janie slid one foot toward the table. Eased in that direction. Slid the other foot under her. Zoe held the old man’s gaze, hoping to keep him from noticing, although she had no idea what Janie had in mind.
“I knew she was searching the house too.” Trout waved the gun at the spot where Janie had been, unaware that she’d moved. “And I knew if she found the necklace before I did, I’d never get it back. I guess I was right.” He turned toward Janie, only then realizing she’d moved. “Hey.”
Before he could bring the gun around, Janie lunged for him.
Zoe followed her lead and leapt forward. Grabbed for the gun. The old man yelped. He raised both arms overhead, the revolver still clutched in his hands. Zoe reached up. Latched onto one arm. Janie clung to his other arm. For an old guy, he was strong, but the two women managed to throw him off balance. He staggered and lurched toward Zoe. For a second, she thought he was going to crash down on top of her.
The gun came loose from his grip. Zoe sensed it sail past her head. She sagged from his weight. Wheeled.
Any other day, she probably could have righted herself. But the concussion sent the room spinning. Or maybe she was the one spinning. Either way, she slammed into the floor, pain searing through her hip and elbow.
Trout hit the ground next to her with a grunt. Janie still had her arms around him. The bandanna she’d been wearing flew off, leaving her hair askew.
The gun.
Zoe twisted, ignoring the pain, and spotted the small revolver a few feet away. She scrambled toward it and scooped it up.
“No,” Trout moaned. “No, no, no.”
She managed to get her knees under her. Hugging the gun to her chest, she rose to kneeling.
“Are you okay?” Janie squatted next to her, resting a hand on her back.
“I think so. You?”
“Yeah. Give me the gun and let me help you up.”
Zoe looked over at Trout. Sprawled on the floor groaning, he seemed like the harmless old man she’d always thought he was.
“No,” he groaned.
Her head throbbed and her vision blurred. “Here.” She held the revolver out to Janie.
“You don’t look so good,” she
said, taking the gun with one hand, offering the other to Zoe.
“Hitting the floor probably wasn’t what the doctor meant by taking it easy.” With Janie’s help, Zoe climbed to her feet, pressing a hand to her spinning head. “I think I need some air. I’ll be fine.”
She staggered toward the door. The cold would feel good on her face and in her lungs. Behind her, she heard Trout call out again, “No!”
Zoe turned in time to see Janie, standing over the old man. She lifted the gun. Pointed it at him. And squeezed the trigger.
THIRTY-ONE
The snowstorm had let up, now looking more like the inside of a snow globe than a blizzard. Pete hung up his mic after radioing in an official BOLO for Trout and debating his next stop. The old man wasn’t at home and wasn’t at his daughter’s. Where else could he be?
Oriole’s. Of course.
The fact that Pete had taken the key from him meant nothing. The old reprobate probably had a duplicate.
The road back to Vance Township was a slippery mess. Pete dug his phone from his jacket pocket to call Seth. He should have arrived at Oriole’s house to pick up Janie a half hour or so ago. Before he could punch in the number, the phone rang in his hand, and Seth’s name came up on the screen.
“Is Troutman there?” Pete asked.
“I don’t know.” Seth sounded winded. “I just arrived at Mrs. Andrews’ place. A motorist ran off the road, and I stopped to help.”
Pete wasn’t surprised. “Troutman might—”
“Chief, there was a shot fired.”
Now Pete was surprised. “Where?”
“I think from inside the house. I’d just pulled up and was getting out of my vehicle when I heard it.”
Slippery roads be damned. Pete flipped on his lights and sirens, jamming the gas pedal to the floor. “Stay in your vehicle. Radio for backup and wait until it arrives. Do you hear me?”
“Roger that, Chief. Uh. Janie Baker’s car is parked here.”
UNEASY PREY Page 27
