Annette Dashofy - Zoe Chambers 03 - Bridges Burned

by Annette Dashofy

  “No.” Mancinelli dragged the one word out into several syllables ending with an uptick, as though he were asking a question.

  Pete felt his brain cool. “Do you know who has her?”

  “I could have stopped this. I should have stopped this.” Mancinelli’s voice bubbled. He sniffed. “Tell Ashley I’m sorry and I love her.”

  “Wait. Ryan, listen to me. You said you could stop this. Then help me out. Let me come in and talk to you.” In Pete’s peripheral vision, he saw Nate wildly shaking his head. “I’ll be unarmed.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “You don’t know that.” Pete hoped.

  He could hear the man breathing. Heavy. Wet. Pete never took his eyes off the dark house, but saw flashing blue and red lights dancing across the night’s landscape. Sirens wound down and two state trooper vehicles pulled up. Additional units approached from both north and south.

  Over the sounds of slamming car doors and crackling radio transmissions, Ryan Mancinelli’s voice reached through Pete’s phone. “Just you, Chief. No guns.”

  “This is crazy.” Wayne Baronick had arrived as Pete removed his duty belt and slipped into a Kevlar vest. “You’re taking his word he doesn’t have the Farabee girl in there. Meanwhile, we do know he has at least two firearms.”

  Concealed behind his SUV, Pete checked his backup weapon strapped to his ankle and hoped Mancinelli wouldn’t frisk him. “The only person he’s interested in shooting is himself.”

  “At least let me slip around to the back of the house. He’ll never see me, but I’ll be close in case you need assistance.”

  Pete straightened. He met Baronick’s concerned gaze and nodded. “You make a move without my okay and I’ll shoot you myself.”

  “Roger that. But if I hear gunshots, all bets are off.”

  Pete grinned. “Deal.” He picked up the bullhorn. “I’m coming in.”

  Aware that a dozen or so law enforcement officers lined the edge of the road, weapons trained on the Mancinelli house, Pete approached the front porch. He watched each window for movement or a glimpse of light reflecting off a shotgun barrel. Anything to warn him if Mancinelli decided to do more than simply talk.

  With the sirens now silent, the crickets serenading the night from the woods behind the house sounded deafening. Nate had already heard Mancinelli pump a shell into the chamber, so there wouldn’t be any warning.

  He climbed the steps. Crossed the porch. Turned the knob. The unlocked door opened. “Ryan? It’s me. Pete.”

  “I’m in the kitchen.” The voice was slightly slurred, but no longer weepy.

  The first gray light of dawn filtered through the windows, offering enough illumination to allow Pete to pick his way through the entryway without tripping over the wadded throw rug. The maid clearly had not come to visit since Ashley moved out and her husband had trashed the place.

  Pete found him, as he’d said, in the kitchen. Mancinelli sat on a stool at the center island, holding up his head with one hand. The other rested on a revolver lying on the counter. A quick visual sweep revealed no other weapon. However if Pete’s count was accurate, there were two more empty whiskey bottles than there had been on his last visit.

  “Hey, Ryan,” he said, keeping his voice soft. Like they were old buddies. “Where’s the shotgun?”

  Mancinelli tipped his head. “On the couch. I unloaded it.”

  “Okay. Good.” Equally good, Mancinelli showed no interest in whether Pete had brought a concealed weapon to this little powwow. Still, the man’s hand was on the only visible gun in the room—a large-frame Smith and Wesson .45. “I don’t suppose you unloaded that one, too?”

  Without meeting Pete’s gaze, Mancinelli snorted softly. “No. I figure I still might wanna use it.”

  Not so good. Pete leaned against the kitchen island, doing his best to appear relaxed. “Let’s talk.”

  For the first time since Pete had arrived, Mancinelli looked up at him. “Is Holt dead?”

  “No.” At least not the last time he’d checked. “What happened between you two in the motel room?”

  Mancinelli blinked. “Between us? I wasn’t there.”

  “You didn’t shoot Farabee?”

  “Hell no.”

  “The gun found next to him, the gun used to shoot him, was registered to you.”

  Mancinelli covered his eyes with his left hand—the right one still gripped the big revolver—and moaned. “I never should’ve let him take it.”

  “Who?” Pete put one foot up on the rung of one of the stools, bringing his backup pistol a little more in reach. “Let who take it?”

  “Holt. He doesn’t own a gun, but wanted one for this meeting. I offered to come along, but he insisted it was something he had to do by himself. So I gave him my Beretta.”

  “What meeting?”

  Mancinelli lowered his hand, but kept his gaze on the revolver. “I told him it was a bad idea. I mean, this plan of his has sucked from the start. He should’ve listened to me and stayed away from the whole mess, but he thought he could handle it. Take the guy down. Instead, his wife ends up dead. That idiot Tierney, too.” Mancinelli sniffed and swiped the back of his left hand across his nose. “Though God knows he was no great loss to humanity.”

  Pete tried to will Mancinelli into meeting his gaze. “Who are you talking about?”

  But Mancinelli didn’t seem to hear him. “This is all my fault. I’m the one who introduced them. I knew the asshole was bad news, but I didn’t know how bad. I should’ve. I should’ve insisted Holt stop this crusade of his. Now it’s too late. That bastard is gonna kill Maddie. And then Ashley.”

  Ashley?

  Mancinelli lifted the revolver. Swung the big barrel up. But not at Pete.

  Before Mancinelli could bring the muzzle to his own head, Pete reacted. Launched over the counter separating them. Grabbed Mancinelli’s right hand. And twisted.

  Just as the gun went off.

  Twenty-nine

  The concussion from the gunshot blast deafened Pete, but he could still hear the pounding of his own heart. A weeping Ryan Mancinelli sprawled on the floor among the broken glass from his rage days ago.

  Wayne Baronick kicked through the back door, his weapon ready. He looked around, his questioning gaze settled on Pete. “What happened?”

  Ears ringing, Pete read the detective’s lips and motioned for him to put his firearm away. “No one’s hurt.” His voice sounded odd. Muffled. He held up the revolver. “It discharged while I was disarming him.”

  Baronick radioed in the all clear, and Pete knelt beside Mancinelli. “Now,” Pete said, “can we talk without all the bullshit?”

  Mancinelli nodded, and Pete helped him to his feet.

  Minutes later, Pete, his hearing gradually returning, sat next to Mancinelli on the couch in the living room. Baronick leaned in the doorway, tapping notes into his phone. Nate and one of the county officers had gone through the house and reported finding nothing. Including the girl.

  “Who has Maddie?” Pete asked.

  Mancinelli started to tear up again. “It’s my fault.”

  Pete wanted to slap the man, but settled for giving his shoulder a hard shake. “I don’t care whose fault it is right now. I want to know where the girl is.”

  Mancinelli sniffed again. “I don’t know.”

  Pete must have looked as homicidal as he felt because Mancinelli held up both hands in self-defense. “I don’t know where she is. But I know who has her.”

  Pete and Baronick waited.

  “Dave Evans.”

  Pete tried to process the name. He’d heard it, but where?

  “Evans?” Baronick said, apparently also at a loss.

  Ryan Mancinelli nodded. “From Evans Land Development.”


  Pete’s hearing and brain cleared in the same moment. “Scenic Hilltop Estates.”

  Mancinelli stared at his folded hands in his lap. “I used to work for him in the early stages of the development. I’m the one who introduced Holt to him, before I found out what kind of deal it was.”

  “Deal?”

  “Evans had grand ideas of being rich and powerful. You know. Make a fortune buying up farms for next to nothing, put up big-ass houses and sell them for major bucks. The problem started when he ordered us to use cheaper materials and to complete the jobs fast, no matter what.”

  “Sounds pretty typical of those kinds of housing projects,” Baronick said.

  “Yeah. Except Evans didn’t want his developments to be thought of as chintzy.” Mancinelli shook a finger at Baronick. “In fact, he’d go ballistic if anyone used the term housing project. Too demeaning.”

  A dozen questions crammed Pete’s mind, but Mancinelli was on a roll.

  “Holt had always wanted to build his dream house. Something to show off his skills as a carpenter. But he couldn’t afford it. When Evans offered him one of the existing houses on the hill, Holt figured it beat the run-down double-wide he’d been renting.” Mancinelli ran a hand across his lips. “Could I get some water?”

  Pete raised an eyebrow at Baronick.

  “Do I look like a waiter?”

  Pete gave the detective a look.

  “Fine.” Baronick disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Go on,” Pete told Mancinelli.

  “It didn’t take long for Holt to discover he was expected to cut corners in his work, and his own house had been built with substandard materials. He complained to Evans, who is the king of apologies and excuses. Evans promised to have everything made right. Which, of course, he didn’t. So Holt started remodeling his place. Tearing out the shit and putting in quality stuff.”

  Baronick returned and handed a glass to Mancinelli. The detective turned to Pete. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, his voice oozing with sarcasm.

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  Grumbling, Baronick returned to the doorway. Pete urged Mancinelli on.

  He leaned forward, a light in his eyes. “In order to do all this remodeling, Holt had to post building permits. His neighbors on the hill saw them and started asking questions. Especially Stephen Tierney. Holt told them what he was finding. The house had been built using two-by-eights for joists instead of two-by-tens. And instead of using sixteen-inch center for the walls, they’d used twenty-four. Insulation was at a minimum. And don’t get me started on the cheap shingles used on the roof. Anyhow, next thing Holt knows, Evans is pounding on his door, furious that he’s daring to demean Evans’ good reputation. Threatened to sue him for slander if he kept it up.”

  Mancinelli sipped at the water. From his expression, Pete suspected he wished it was something much stronger.

  “Holt’s complaints started putting a crimp in Evans’ plans. Folks backed out on deals to buy lots. Others complained to the bank.”

  Baronick cleared his throat. “Speaking of the bank, wouldn’t they come down hard on Evans for using substandard building materials?”

  “They would,” Pete answered for Mancinelli, sensing where this was going. “Except Stephen Tierney was Dave Evans’ liaison with the bank.”

  Mancinelli’s eyes brightened. “Right. Evans promised to give Tierney’s house a complete upgrade if he kept a lid on Holt’s claims. And when Holt didn’t back down, Evans fired him and had him blacklisted so he couldn’t get work.”

  “As a result, he fell behind in house payments and was evicted.”

  “Exactly. Holt tried to get Tierney to help him out with the bank, but he refused.”

  “Because Evans had promised to fix his house.”

  “More than that. Holt found out Evans promised to move Tierney into Holt’s house.”

  Baronick looked up from his notes. “I imagine Farabee’s house was pretty nice by now since he’d been upgrading things on his own.”

  “You got it.” Mancinelli nodded. “Holt was getting desperate. He’d lost his house, couldn’t get a decent job, his marriage was in rough shape. He decided he was going to take Evans down. He planned to go to the township supervisors and report him. Have all his permits pulled. Remember I said Evans was the king of apologies and excuses? Well, he’s the emperor of threats. First he threatened to sue Holt for slander—”

  “But it’s not slander if it’s true,” Baronick said.

  “Which is what Holt told him. So Evans got ugly.” Mancinelli drained his water glass. When he continued, his voice had deepened. “He promised Holt would regret making trouble. Said if he lost his business, Holt would lose a helluva lot more. The next day…”

  Pete’s jaw ached. “The explosion?”

  Mancinelli stared at his empty glass. “Yeah.”

  Baronick swore under his breath.

  Pete jotted a note to himself. Look into the source of the phone call luring Holt away from his house the morning of the explosion. “Why didn’t Holt tell us about all of this back then instead of letting us accuse him of killing his wife?”

  Mancinelli’s mouth drew into a thin, tight line. “Because Lillian wasn’t the only thing Holt had to lose.”

  Pete’s grip on his pen tightened. “Maddie.”

  “Yeah.”

  The son of a bitch had been threatening to harm the girl all along.

  Baronick rubbed his upper lip. “Why kill Tierney?”

  Mancinelli set the glass down next to one of the empty whiskey bottles. “I don’t know for sure, but I have a pretty good idea. Evans had been controlling Tierney with the promise of giving him Holt’s house.”

  Pete shook his head in amazement. “But then Evans blew it up, which probably didn’t sit well with Tierney. He might have threatened to reveal what he knew, so Evans shut him up permanently and planted the body in the Krolls’ basement to throw suspicion on Farabee.”

  “Plus it let Holt know how close Evans could really get to him,” Mancinelli said. “And to Maddie.”

  It made sense.

  “That’s when Farabee moved out.” Pete wondered if part of Farabee’s leaving was to put distance between him and Zoe to protect her. If that were the case, Pete owed the man a debt of gratitude. She’d been in danger all right. But not because a killer was in the house. Holt was a target, not the murderer.

  “Holt knew he had to do something drastic to catch Evans before anyone else got hurt. So he borrowed my gun.”

  Baronick scowled. “He planned to kill Evans?”

  “No. The gun was for protection. Holt’s plan was to meet with Evans and aggravate him into telling everything he’d done while Holt recorded it.”

  “Recorded? With what?”

  “His cell phone.”

  “There was no cell phone at the scene,” Baronick said.

  “Evans must have figured out what he was doing,” Mancinelli said. “That’s when things probably went sour. Evans shot Holt. Took the cell phone. And went after Maddie.”

  “Which explains how Evans knew where to find Maddie, too,” Pete said. “If Evans had Farabee’s phone, he had all his contacts. Wouldn’t take a genius to track down the girl’s babysitter.”

  Mancinelli fidgeted with his wedding band. “Evans is sheer evil. You have to keep him away from Ashley.”

  He’d mentioned his wife earlier, prior to the gun going off. “Why Ashley?” Pete asked.

  Mancinelli looked like a man whose world was on the verge of collapse. “Because Evans didn’t just threaten Holt and his family. Why do you think I’ve never said anything about any of this? Why do you think I came to your station and told you all that crap about Holt killing Lill? I had no choice. Evans said he’d kill Ashley if I did
n’t help him frame Holt. Now...if he finds out I’ve talked to you…” Mancinelli doubled over, moaning.

  Pete’s head throbbed. “We’re going to get this guy, Ryan. He’s not going to have a chance to hurt Ashley.”

  “Hey, Pete.” Baronick’s brows were furrowed. “If Evans thought Holt was dead, why bother with the girl?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know if Farabee was dead. Or maybe Maddie knows something about it all and he wants to shut her up.” Pete rubbed the ache in his forehead. “I just hope to heaven it’s the first, because if that’s the case, she’s an insurance policy.”

  “And if it’s the other,” Baronick said, finishing Pete’s thought, “she’s a liability.”

  “And he’s probably already killed her. We have to operate on the assumption she’s still alive.” Pete put a hand on Mancinelli’s knee and squeezed. Hard. “Where would Evans take her?”

  “I wish I knew. I don’t.”

  “Think. You worked for the man. You might know more than you realize.”

  Mancinelli wiped a hand across his mouth. “Well…he does have his construction office outside of Dillard. He stores his big machinery there.”

  Of course. Pete should have thought of it sooner. “And he keeps a bunch of construction trailers parked at the back of the property.”

  Quarter after eight in the morning and already the temperature was inching well into the seventies with oppressive humidity. Zoe slid down from her pickup’s air conditioned cab, exhausted from a sleepless night and wired from too much caffeine.

  Once Medic One had returned to the garage, Zoe had stretched out in her bunk only to stare at the bottom of the one above her. As if Holt getting shot and Maddie missing wasn’t enough to play on her mind, Sylvia’s visit nagged at her.

  Dave Evans had stopped at the farm to see Mrs. Kroll on Saturday while Sylvia had been watching Maddie. The man sure was persistent. But he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. Once he finally tracked Mrs. Kroll down, he’d convinced her to sell.

  Zoe knew she hadn’t liked him since the day he’d interrupted her out in the barn.