Annette Dashofy - Zoe Chambers 03 - Bridges Burned

by Annette Dashofy

  That eyebrow shot up again, but this time in surprise. “You do?”

  She looked down at her boots. Caught her lower lip in her teeth for a moment. “You may have been right about him. I should have listened to you instead of inviting him to stay with me and Mrs. Kroll.”

  She could feel Pete watching her and looked up to see his reaction. She expected an I told you so. Or a self-satisfied smirk. Instead, he was scowling.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “I was about to say I’ve changed my mind about Farabee. I don’t think he killed Tierney. And probably not his wife either.”

  The admission startled Zoe into silence. For a moment, at least. “Why not?”

  “I don’t think the man’s a complete idiot. And he’d have to be to hide the body of a man he’d killed in his own basement.” Pete made a sour face. “Or the basement of the house where he was living at the time.”

  “What about his ball cap?”

  Pete shrugged. “I don’t have answers. Just a lot of puzzle pieces. And the ones involving Farabee don’t fit.”

  Before Zoe could add a few more spare pieces to the puzzle, the office door swung open, and Franklin Marshall breezed through. He’d shed the gloves and scrubs.

  “You missed all the fun,” he said to Pete.

  “Not all of it. Did you find anything?”

  Franklin eyed Zoe. “Perhaps she should leave before we discuss business.”

  “For crying out loud.” She planted her fists on her hips. “Do you seriously consider me a suspect?”

  “No,” both men said simultaneously.

  She raised both hands, palms up, imploring.

  The coroner rolled his eyes. Pete grinned. “What’d you find, Franklin?”

  He walked around the desk and leaned down, tapping the computer keyboard. Zoe positioned herself so she could peer over his shoulder. After a few mouse clicks, a page of photo thumbnails opened. “This body tells quite a story,” Franklin said with a tired sigh. “And it’s considerably different than that of the police report.”

  “How so?” Pete moved next to Zoe. “And in English, please.”

  Franklin enlarged one photo. He tapped the screen with his pen, indicating a greenish pattern on the torso. “This is called venous marbling. And this…” He pointed the pen at red and white mottling over the rest of the body. “This is the set livor and blanching which show the positioning of the body when he was killed.”

  Zoe’s pulse raced. “That’s not right.”

  Franklin and Pete turned to look at her.

  “He was lying on potatoes. There should be white marks on his chest and abdomen from lying face down on potatoes.”

  A smile teased Franklin’s lips. “You’re right. If he’d fallen onto those potatoes or even been placed there immediately after he was killed, the blanching and lividity would show it. This man had been on his side. The body was moved after his livor was set. Also, if I were to believe this gentleman had died where he was found, which was a cool dark basement, I’d say he’d been dead for quite some time. Perhaps a week or more.”

  Zoe nodded. “Because decomp would have been slowed down.”

  “Exactly.”

  Pete pulled out his reading glasses, settled them on his face, and took another look at the photo. “Do you have a cause of death?”

  “There was a compressed fracture to the posterior aspect of the right parietal bone.” Franklin’s fingers went to the spot on his own head. “I’d say someone struck him from behind with something smaller than a baseball bat. A pipe perhaps. And there’s something else, too.” The coroner clicked the mouse, zooming in on the photo. “See this area of blanching?”

  Zoe squinted at a whitish band circling Tierney’s midsection with a matching mark on both arms. “Was he tied up?”

  “Possibly.” Franklin winked at her. “I’ll make a coroner out of you yet.”

  A flash of pride was quickly nullified by doubt. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

  Pete either didn’t catch Franklin’s comment or pretended not to. “Do you have a time of death?”

  “Hard to say since the body was clearly moved.” Franklin lowered into his chair. “Could have been any time from last Thursday to Saturday. It would help if you knew when he was last seen.”

  “He’s been out of town on business.” Pete said. “As far as I can tell, the last time anyone saw him was last Wednesday after the explosion.”

  “I saw him on Friday.” Zoe braced for an explosion of a different sort as both men looked at her. She met Pete’s withering glare. “Right before you showed up. In fact, you just missed him.”

  “What,” Pete asked, his jaw tight, “was Stephen Tierney doing at your house?”

  “He was arguing with Holt.”

  Twenty-wo

  Pete caught Zoe by her arm. “Would you excuse us?” he said to the coroner as he escorted the woman he’d thought he knew into the hallway.

  Zoe trotted along with him, but wrenched her arm free the moment the doors closed behind them. “Ouch.” She rubbed the spot he’d been holding and glared at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you tell me Stephen Tierney was at your house?”

  “You never asked.”

  “You knew I was looking for him.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Pete started to insist she did, but the wounded look on her face stopped him, made him think. He and his men had been working the case with Wayne Baronick and the county police detectives. Zoe, however, had been out of the official loop. Pete had kept her on the outside. Holt Farabee had become a fence between them, keeping them from seeing eye-to-eye just as surely as Tierney’s fence had kept him from seeing the rural beauty around him.

  Pete reached for the spot on Zoe’s arm that he’d gripped too tight, but stopped short of touching it. “I’m sorry.”

  She continued to glare at him. “You’ve said that before.”

  He sensed the anger in her words masked a heavy dose of disappointment. In him. He gave her an apologetic grin. “Yeah. Is it possible to say I’m sorry for saying I’m sorry?”

  The bitterness in her eyes softened, but didn’t disappear.

  He sighed. “Look. Can we sit down and talk? Preferably without arguing.”

  “Is there anything left to talk about?”

  Somehow he didn’t think she meant the homicide cases. “I hope so.”

  Zoe lowered her gaze as if searching for answers on the toes of her boots. “I’m hungry. I’m tired. I’m going home to change out of my work clothes.” She looked up at him. “Provided I’m allowed into my house.”

  “As long as you stay out of the basement.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. If you want to talk, I’ll be home.”

  “I’ll bring pizza.”

  Zoe backed up a step, studying him the way she sometimes did when they played poker. Then she turned. Over her shoulder, she said, “Extra pepperoni. And don’t forget the beer.”

  Pete kept his gaze on her ass as she swaggered away. And smiled.

  Zoe lifted the cardboard lid of the pizza box and breathed in the aroma of pepperoni, cheese, and herbs. Her stomach let out an eager rumble. She picked up a slice, flopped it onto a paper plate, and pinched the string of mozzarella tethering the wedge to the rest of the pie.

  Pete leaned against her kitchen counter. “Have you eaten today?”

  She thought about it. “No.” The cheese stretched thinner and finally broke. She dropped the savory thread onto the slice and offered the plate to Pete.

  He shook his head. “You take it.”

  She was too famished to argue. Grabbing a cold beer from the six pack, she nudged open th
e swinging door separating the kitchen and dining/living room with her hip and flopped into a chair at the table. She’d wolfed down a large portion of the wedge before Pete had a chance to join her.

  He looked at her and chuckled.

  “What?” she mumbled around the mouthful of pizza.

  Pete clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Zoe washed the not-so-ladylike bite down with a slug of beer. “I told you. I’m hungry.”

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. By the time Zoe had stuffed the crust into her mouth, her stomach had stopped complaining. She chewed slowly, wiping her fingers on a paper napkin. After swallowing, she leaned back in the chair. “I honestly didn’t know you were looking for Tierney. I’d have told you about the argument between him and Holt if I had.”

  “Tell me now.”

  She took a deep breath, thinking back to Friday. “I’d had Maddie out in the barn playing with George. The schooling pony. When we were coming back to the house, I saw Holt’s truck and a white car. He was talking to a man.” Zoe licked one finger and used it to capture a few stray crumbs on the grease-stained paper plate. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was pretty obvious Holt was pissed. I didn’t realize who the other guy was until Maddie said it was their neighbor.”

  “What else did Maddie say?”

  Zoe looked at Pete. He’d finished his slice, too, and was watching her suck the captured crumbs from her fingers. “She said her dad hated Tierney.”

  The expected outburst of “I told you so” or “I knew it,” never came. Zoe went on to tell him about the arguments Maddie had overheard between her mom and dad. “She said her dad threatened to kill Tierney.”

  Pete continued his silence. After a moment, he stood and held out a hand. “Do you want another slice?”

  Zoe handed him her plate. “Please.” She watched him disappear into the kitchen and sipped her beer while she waited for his return. Was he being deferential about the news out of respect for her feelings? She’d expected him to jump on his phone and put out a BOLO the second he’d heard about the threats. Instead, he was playing waiter.

  Pete emerged from the kitchen and set her plate piled with two more slices in front of her before sinking back into his chair. “How long was Tierney at your place?”

  Zoe picked up a wedge. “I don’t know how long he was there before Maddie and I came back from the barn. But he didn’t stay long afterwards.” She took a bite. Savored the salty tang. “And he was alive when he left.”

  Pete grinned at her snippy comment. “Did Farabee say anything to you about his visitor?”

  “I asked him about Tierney, but all Holt said was he’d stopped by to express his condolences. I didn’t believe him.”

  “Did you see Tierney after that?”

  “No.”

  “That sets time of death somewhere between Friday late afternoon and this morning.”

  The thought of the smell and the condition of Tierney’s body turned the pizza sour on her tongue. She dropped the slice on her plate. “Closer to Friday, I’d think. I’m surprised you aren’t running out of here to arrest Holt again.”

  While Zoe’s appetite may have spoiled, Pete’s seemed unaffected. He shoved half a piece into his mouth and chewed. After taking a sip of his beer and swallowing, he shook his head. “I still don’t think he did it.”

  “What? You said that before. Now I’ve told you about this animosity between him and the victim and you still don’t think he’s responsible?”

  “Do you?”

  She blew out a breath. Turned the paper plate around a couple of times, as if studying the slices from different angles might give her a clearer view of her own feelings. “I don’t know. I liked him. He seemed like a nice guy who’d lost his wife. But I’ve always had a sense he’s been hiding things, too. There’s something he’s holding back. Something…dark.” Zoe looked up at Pete. “Your turn. Why don’t you think he’s guilty?”

  Pete finished his supper and wiped his fingers on a crumpled napkin. “I agree he’s hiding something. Farabee’s smart. Too smart to kill a man he clearly despises and then leave the body in his basement. And definitely too smart to kill him elsewhere and move him into his basement.”

  “You don’t think he just hid him in the potato bin until he could dump the body?”

  Pete shoved his plate to the side and leaned forward. “What was he waiting for? You were out of the house all weekend. He had ample time to dispose of the body. Besides, the CSU went over every square inch of your basement. There is no evidence indicating he was killed there.”

  Zoe leaned back. “Why would someone kill Stephen Tierney elsewhere and sneak him into my house?” The reality of the scenario destroyed what was left of her appetite. “To frame Holt?”

  “It’s one possibility.”

  “But who would want to frame Holt for murder? The only person I ever saw him angry with is dead.”

  Pete shifted back. “What do you know about Ryan Mancinelli?”

  Zoe rolled the name over in her mind. “The wreck on Friday…” The one where Pete had said he loved her and then apologized. She quickly decided the accident in front of Ryan Mancinelli’s house was a bad frame of reference. “He’s married to Jack Naeser’s daughter, right?”

  “Yeah. What else do you know about him?”

  “Not much. He’s a carpenter. Wait. Do you think there’s a connection between him and Holt because they’re both carpenters?”

  Pete shrugged. “Possibly. Did Farabee ever mention him?”

  “No. Why? What’s Ryan got to do with Stephen Tierney? Or Lillian Farabee?”

  “For starters, Ryan Mancinelli worked on the Scenic Hilltop Estates project for a couple of years.”

  Zoe’s pulse kicked up a notch. “So he knows—knew—both of them.”

  “I intend to ask him.” Pete glanced at his watch. “Which reminds me.” He pulled out his phone and scowled at the screen. “His wife was supposed to call me when he got home.”

  Zoe watched Pete key in a phone number.

  Ryan Mancinelli.

  She didn’t know him, but there was something about the name. Something she’d read or heard. Had he done work for the Krolls at some point? What was it she couldn’t put her finger on?

  Pete didn’t need to put his phone on speaker for Zoe to hear Ashley’s side of the conversation. The girl was clearly frantic. “He hasn’t come home yet. I’m afraid something’s happened to him.”

  “Don’t panic,” Pete told her. “I’ll have my men check the bars and keep an eye out for him. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” After telling her to call if Mancinelli showed, Pete hung up.

  “You think he’s been drinking?” Zoe asked.

  “Saturday night, he was passed out on his couch, surrounded by empty whiskey bottles. Yeah. I think he’s drinking.” Pete made another call, this one to Kevin, placing an unofficial BOLO on Mancinelli.

  Zoe gave up trying to force the memory out of hiding. “I still don’t see why you would think Ryan Mancinelli has anything to do with this,” she said after Pete set his phone on the table. “There were probably a hundred men who worked over there in the last few years. Do you suspect all of them?”

  “Only those with a history of handling explosives. Ryan Mancinelli was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. His wife thinks the blast last week triggered his posttraumatic stress disorder and his subsequent tumble off the AA wagon.”

  The memory jumped back into center ring, but remained veiled.

  Pete must have noticed the look on her face. “What is it?”

  She wished she knew. “I can’t quite grasp it, but I have a feeling I’ve heard something about Ryan Mancinelli before.”

  “Like w
hat?”

  She narrowed her eyes at Pete. “I told you I can’t remember.”

  He stood up. “Well, let me know if you do.” He pointed at her uneaten pizza. “Are you gonna finish that?”

  “No.” Whatever was stuck in her subconscious was screaming to be let out. “You said Ryan was what kind of specialist?”

  “EOD.” Pete scooped up his empty plate and her full one and headed for the kitchen. “Explosive Ordnance Disposal.”

  “Explosive—what?” Zoe launched out of her chair and punched through the swinging door after him. “Bombs? Ryan Mancinelli handled bombs?”

  Pete slid her uneaten pizza back into the box and deposited the paper plates in the trash can. “He handled explosives. One of the ways they get rid of bombs and suspicious packages is to blow them up.”

  “Do you think—could he have blown up Holt’s house?”

  Pete washed his hands, dried them, and turned to lean back against the sink, facing her, his expression impassive. “I haven’t ruled it out. But it’s a pretty big jump. There was no evidence of a bomb or detonating device found in the debris. All signs point to it being a gas explosion. And you don’t have to be a demolitions expert to disconnect a dryer and turn on a valve.”

  The veil blanketing Zoe’s memory lifted. “No, you don’t. But if you like fires, any old explosion would probably do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been trying to remember why Ryan Mancinelli’s name seemed so familiar. Years ago, before you moved here, Ryan was a junior firefighter on the Vance Township Fire Department. At least, he was until he got busted for starting fires just so he could go put them out.”

  The internal chatter in Pete’s mind fell deadly quiet. “Why is it I’m just now hearing about this?”

  “He was only a kid. Maybe fifteen at the time.” Zoe ran her fingers through her blond curls as if she could massage details from her scalp. “He was tried as a juvenile. As far as I know, that was the only time he was in trouble, so it’s probably not in his adult record. I’d completely forgotten about the incident.”