Deeper Than the Dead ok-1

by Tami Hoag

  “Old enough to be my father.”

  “No, he isn’t. Your father is a fossil. Besides, you don’t even like guys your own age,” he reminded her. “May-December—no, really, May-mid-September. It’s romantic! You should totally sleep with him.”

  “I met him yesterday!”

  “Come on. Be a skank-o-potamus for once. Have some fun before Frank Farman gets you thrown in the slammer. That’s all’s I’m sayin’. You don’t have to keep him, honey, but for God’s sake, kick the tires and take a ride around the block!”

  Anne gave him a stern look. “Shut up and do NOT follow me.”

  She had to admit, as she walked toward him, the man was attractive. He needed to put on a few pounds. The gray suit was a little loose, but it draped expensively over his lanky frame, and the color complemented the steel gray in his hair and mustache.

  He was also an FBI agent using her to spy on a family via a ten-year-old boy, she reminded herself.

  “Agent—Detective—”

  “Vince,” he said, stopping just a little too close to her, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” Anne said. “We have no dismembered body parts today.”

  “I’m glad for you. How was your day?”

  “I’m planning to take up drinking—only because it’s cheaper and more socially acceptable than heroin.”

  “And legal,” he added. “Provided you don’t try to operate heavy machinery. Do you need help with that? I can drive a Volkswagen as well as anybody.”

  “Hello! Francis Goodsell. Anne’s sidekick and best friend in the whole wide world.”

  Anne felt herself blush as Franny stepped between them to shake Leone’s hand.

  Vince grinned. “Nice to meet you, Francis. Vince Leone. Anne’s would-be suitor.”

  “How have I missed seeing you around town?” Franny asked. “I know absolutely everybody worth knowing in Oak Knoll.”

  “I travel a lot,” Vince said.

  “Domestically or abroad?”

  “Franny . . . ,” Anne said through gritted teeth.

  Vince seemed happy to play along. “Both.”

  “An international man of mystery,” Franny said. “I like that. And are your intentions honorable?”

  “Franny!”

  “Absolutely.”

  Franny frowned. “Well, we’ll have to do something about that. This girl needs to have some fun.”

  Anne turned him by the shoulders and gave him a push toward the building. “Good-bye, Francis.”

  Franny grinned over his shoulder, his eyes disappearing into twin crescents above his cheeks. “Nice meeting you, Vince!”

  “Likewise.”

  He looked entirely too amused when Anne turned back to him.

  “Take a walk with me,” he said as he put his hand on the small of her back and started down the sidewalk away from the building. “I want you to show me where the kids found the body.”

  “Can’t Detective Mendez do that?”

  “He’s otherwise engaged and not nearly as pretty.”

  “What’s going on?” Anne asked, falling in step with him, ignoring the compliment. He was a natural flirt. He couldn’t help himself. “Have they found the missing woman yet?”

  The weight of his hand felt good against her back, but shouldn’t have. She wasn’t in the habit of letting people touch her, but she made no effort to stop him.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “But someone’s been arrested, right?” she asked looking up at him. “I saw that on the news this morning.”

  “Yes,” he answered, his face carefully blank.

  “But?”

  He cocked a brow at her. “I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  “Oh. But you can feel free to recruit me into it.”

  He dodged the barb. “Did you speak to the boy?”

  “Yes, and I feel like a creepy sneak, thanks for asking.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Anne.”

  “He thinks his father was home that night because they watch Cosby together. A boy and his loving, caring father sit down together and watch a wholesome family comedy.”

  “What about Mom?”

  “She has no sense of humor. But I would certainly buy her as a serial killer before her husband.”

  He chuckled at that. “I heard she was a little upset this morning.”

  “I’ve discovered this week that Janet Crane does not become a little upset.”

  “Gee, and she was so pleasant to me today. Must be my charm and stunning good looks,” he teased.

  A little smile tugged at the corner of Anne’s mouth as she looked up at him. “Must be. Here we are.”

  The area around where the body had been buried was still corralled with yellow tape. Vince ducked under it and walked into the shallow grave. He stood there for a couple of minutes, saying nothing, looking very serious as he surveyed the area for 360 degrees around the spot.

  “How well do you know this park?” he asked.

  “I grew up six blocks from here.”

  “Is there another way to get to this spot other than the way we just came?”

  “There’s a service road about twenty yards over that rise,” she said, pointing in the general direction behind him. “The sheriff’s office is maybe a quarter of a mile beyond that.”

  Even though there was probably two hours of daylight left, it was growing dark in the woods. And cold. Anne hugged herself and tried not to imagine what it would be like to have some evil monster carrying her in here to plant her body in the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” Vince said, coming back to her. He shrugged out of his suit coat and draped it around her shoulders. It swallowed her up and smelled pleasantly of sandalwood soap and man. “You’re cold. Let me get you out of here. You’ve had a long week.”

  “Yes. Starting right here.”

  “It must have been quite a shock to you.”

  “I suppose you’re used to it.”

  He shook his head. “You never get used to it. You learn to close a door on it emotionally, but it’s never easy. I don’t want it to ever be easy.”

  Something rustled in the dead leaves that covered the floor of the woods. Anne strained to see into the gathering gloom on the far side of the grave. She thought she could almost make out a shape half-hidden by a tree trunk.

  “Somebody’s watching us,” she murmured. Probably Franny, she thought, though the feeling that crawled over her skin was creepy, and that wasn’t right.

  The somebody must have felt their stares as well. There was another rustling sound and a figure darted from behind one tree to behind another. A smallish figure. A child.

  “Dennis?” she called out, walking toward the grave. “Dennis, is that you?”

  More rustling, and the figure streaked behind another tree. Anne started to jog, Vince’s jacket slipping off her shoulders.

  “Dennis, come out! It’s all right. Come out!”

  Another flash of movement. She was picking up speed, dodging branches. Her heart was pounding out of proportion to her effort. She wanted to catch him—needed to catch him—figuratively, literally, before he got away.

  “Dennis!”

  She caught a glimpse of him, never more. He kept running. She ran harder.

  “Anne!” Vince called, gaining ground on her. “Anne, let him go!”

  It seemed everyone had let Dennis go, not for the good of Dennis, but because it was too hard to deal with him. Someone needed to hang on to him or he would truly be lost.

  “Anne!”

  The toe of her loafer stubbed an exposed root, and she found herself falling. Losing him. She hit the ground.

  “Anne!”

  Vince was beside her instantly. “Are you all right?”

  No, she thought. She began to tremble as the weight of it all settled hard on her shoulders—a rotten week culminating with the suspension of the one child
in her class who needed the most help. And that child was now running in the woods like a wild animal, haunting a gravesite where he had somehow managed to steal the finger of a dead woman.

  “Hey,” Vince said, his hands cupping her shoulders as he helped her up. “You’re shaking.”

  “I’m fine,” she murmured.

  She was fine, but tears rose in her eyes and she wished to God it was too dark for him to see them.

  “Let me take you home, honey,” he said softly, brushing leaves and twigs from her hair. “You’re exhausted.”

  His kindness was her undoing. She could be as tough as she had to be, but kindness . . . she couldn’t manage that. No matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut, the tears still came.

  “Come here,” Vince whispered. He slipped his arms around her and drew her close as carefully as if she were made of fine porcelain. “It’s all right. This shoulder has been cried on before.”

  For the first time that week Anne let go. She let the fraying ends of control slip through her fingers, and let loose the pressure that had been building and building inside her.

  She let Vince Leone hold her and cradle her head against his chest and tell her she would be all right, that she would make it through this. She took the comfort of a stranger and somehow she didn’t feel like she was free-falling. She felt . . . protected, safe. It took a moment for her to even realize what the feeling was.

  Vince came up with a pristine white handkerchief and dabbed gently at the tears on her cheeks, but he seemed in no hurry to let her go. And Anne felt in no hurry to leave.

  She tilted her chin up and looked at him, no longer caring what he saw in her eyes—sadness, vulnerability, longing. He settled his mouth on hers for a kiss that was long and deep. And when it was finished, she pressed her ear to his chest and listened to his heart beat for a long while.

  43

  “Are you and Mom getting divorced?”

  The question just came out, like a hiccup or a cough. Wendy opened her mouth and the words just tumbled out. They were in the backyard, beyond the swimming pool, away from the house where her mother was fixing dinner. Her father had picked her up at school and suggested a game of catch because they hadn’t played in a long time.

  “Because you’re never home,” she had said.

  She was tired and in a bad mood. It seemed like life was never going to be the same again since they had found the body in the park. School wasn’t the same. Tommy wasn’t the same. Nobody treated her the same. Her parents weren’t the same. It sucked.

  Her dad stopped his throwing motion as her question hit him. He looked shocked, which just went to show how oblivious adults were. Like they didn’t think their kids could hear, or that they didn’t live in the same house, or had no clue what was going on around them.

  “No,” he said, coming over to her. He tried to laugh it off—as if that question could ever have been part of a joke. “No. What would make you think that, Wendy?”

  Wendy rolled her eyes. “Dad, I’m not a baby. I know what goes on.”

  “What goes on?” he asked, sitting down on a stone bench. He pulled his fielder’s glove off and set it aside. Wendy did the same.

  “People have affairs,” she said. “I know all about it.”

  Of course, she didn’t. Not exactly. It made no sense to her. You only married someone if you loved them, and then why bother with having an affair? From what she’d seen on television it was never worth it, and everyone involved was just miserable.

  Her father scratched his head, trying to think of what to say. “Did your mother say something to you?”

  “No, because all she does anymore is cry and try not to let me know it.”

  “Honey, your mom is upset about the things that have happened this week: you finding that body, and what that Farman kid did to you—”

  “I heard you fighting,” she said, playing her big card. He couldn’t know exactly what or how much she had heard.

  He closed his eyes and sighed, leaning his forearms on his thighs and letting his hands dangle between his knees. He looked tired and maybe a little angry.

  “There are things your mom just doesn’t understand,” he said, his tone of voice short, almost businesslike. “Things I need to do. Sometimes I have to be away. That’s just how it is. She should be used to it by now, but this week has been difficult. It’s not something you need to worry about, honey. All right?”

  Wendy wanted to say no, but she had the feeling he would get mad at her. Besides, her mother had come onto the patio to call them in for dinner.

  Tommy wandered into the small office down the hall from the family room. He liked being in this room with his father’s desk and the leather chairs. The bookshelves were full of all kinds of books. He liked to climb up and pull them out at random just to see what was inside.

  His favorite was the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Page after page, volume after volume with all the knowledge in the world practically. He would pick a letter at random and sit in the big fat leather chair in the corner and examine every page.

  His father sat at his desk now, going through the newspaper, sipping on a drink, while his mother worked in the kitchen fixing dinner.

  “What are you reading?” Tommy asked as he walked around the desk, running his finger along the carved edge.

  His father didn’t look up. “The news. You want to see? Here’s a picture of where I was this afternoon.”

  Tommy came around to his father’s side and looked at the photograph. A bunch of people standing around in a field. The headline above read: SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING OAK KNOLL WOMAN.

  “There’s Wendy’s dad,” Tommy said, putting his finger on the image of Wendy’s father in serious conversation with a blonde lady.

  “Yep.”

  “Who is that lady?”

  “That’s Jane Thomas. She runs the women’s center.”

  “Did you find the missing lady?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “She’s probably murdered,” Tommy said gravely. “That’s what serial killers do.”

  “Hopefully not,” his father said, taking a sip of his drink.

  Whiskey. Tommy liked the smell and the color of it, but he had once tasted some left in the bottom of a glass on the blotter, and it was gross. He had coughed and choked and gagged on it until he ran into the kitchen and got a drink of water.

  “Dad? Did we watch Cosby last week?”

  “Last week? I don’t remember. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Tommy said. “Miss Navarre asked me today if we were home last week on Thursday. I think we were.”

  “Why would she ask you that?”

  Tommy shrugged and winced because it still hurt his ribs to move. His attention was already on to something else. He had started to read the article about the search. He recognized the place in the picture. He and his father had gone there once to look for parts to the old Mustang convertible that sat in the garage in a million pieces. It was a cool place in a kind of a creepy way.

  “That’s a strange question,” his father said. “Did she ask the whole class?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Nope. Just me.”

  “Huh.”

  He turned and looked at his father. “Dad, I’m not going to have to go to another school, am I? I like Miss Navarre. She’s a really good teacher.”

  And pretty. And she smelled nice. And she really cared about him. But he said none of that to his father. Being married and old and all, he probably didn’t remember what it was like to like a girl.

  “No, son. Your mom was just upset about what happened yesterday. She’ll calm down.”

  How does she think I felt? Tommy wondered. His mother had been all worried about him at the emergency room after Dennis beat him up—when there were people all around making a fuss—but she hadn’t had much to say to him since then. She was too caught up being mad at people. But Tommy said none of this to his father, either.

  “I think the Dodgers’ll w
in tomorrow, don’t you?” he said instead.

  His father got up from the desk, went to the bookcase, and poured himself another drink. “I hope so.”

  “If they win tomorrow, then it’s only one more game and then they’re in the World Series!” Tommy said, thrusting his fists into the air like a champion—then quickly bringing them down because that hurt like crazy. He turned around in a couple of tight circles until he started to get dizzy.

  “I’m going to check on dinner,” his father said. He ruffled Tommy’s hair absently and walked out of the room.

  Tommy wasted no time scrambling into the big leather swiveling desk chair. Someday he would have a desk and a chair like this one, and he would do something important, like his dad.

  He went back to reading the article in the newspaper to see if his dad’s name was in it.

  Karly Nicole Vickers, 21, originally of Simi Valley, California, was last seen around 5:00 P.M. on the afternoon of Thursday, October 3, in the office of local dentist, Dr. Peter Crane . . .

  44

  It took Sharon Farman nearly five minutes to come to the door. Mendez and Hicks stood on the front steps, periodically ringing the doorbell, then knocking. They had been told at Quinn, Morgan that Mrs. Farman had stayed home for the day to look after her son. Her maroon minivan was parked in the driveway.

  “Why doesn’t the kid answer the door?” Hicks asked.

  “He’s probably chained to a radiator,” Mendez said.

  “Maybe he slit his mother’s throat and took off.”

  Mendez rang the bell again and banged his knuckles on the door.

  “Frank is going to shit a brick over this,” Hicks said.

  “We don’t have a choice. If he’s got nothing to hide, then he should shut up and let us do our jobs.”

  “Yeah. That’ll happen.”

  The door opened then. Sharon Farman had clearly been asleep. Her puffed-up hairdo was lopsided, squished flat on the right, and there were creases on her cheek. Her eyes were a little bleary. Her lipstick was smudged.

  “Mrs. Farman? Detectives Mendez and Hicks,” Mendez said, holding up his ID. “We need to ask you a few questions.”