by Carol Coffey
“Hi, Irene – sorry about that. He hasn’t taken his happy pills today. Look, we only need one room but make it two single beds. He’s just told me he doesn’t want to take his eyes off me, but I don’t want to tire him out entirely. He’s getting on in years. Yes, yes, that hotel would be fine. You’re so good. Much appreciated. I owe you.”
Mendoza ended the call and smiled at her boss.
“Now – that’s how you get what you want, sarge.”
“And did you get what you wanted last night, Mendoza?”
“Yep ... and then some!” she chuckled.
There was something about her laugh that stopped Locklear staying mad for long.
“I’m glad you’re OK,” he said.
The cell rang and Locklear lifted it. It was Carter.
“Samuel Shank went into cardiac arrest a few minutes after you left. They resuscitated him until he stabilised but he had another arrest and he died half an hour ago.”
Locklear could sense a change in Carter’s voice. He sounded sad.
“Are you OK?”
“Sara Fehr passed away nine minutes ago. Exactly twenty-one minutes after Shank. Seems like she wanted to make a statement. He took her life the day she was twenty-one years of age and she held on for twenty-one minutes after he took his last breath.”
“I’m sorry, Lee.”
“Thanks, sarge. Is there any progress on the case?”
“Stoll is on the loose and she’s dangerous. And someone thrashed Mendoza’s room.”
“Are you OK?” Carter asked her anxiously.
“She’s fine – she stinks of beer but she’s fine.”
Mendoza frowned at him.
“We’re moving to a hotel – more security,” Locklear said. “Lee, do you have anywhere else for you and your family to stay until this blows over?”
Carter was silent for a moment. “Sir, my wife’s here in the hospital. Looks like she’s going to have the baby early. Dad is still in hospital and I dropped Seth to my aunt’s house.”
“OK – leave him there and don’t let anyone else know where he is, OK?”
“OK,” Carter replied weakly.
“Find somewhere to stay yourself too.”
Locklear lifted the phone and asked Lennox for an update. There was still no sign of Maguire and no car had rung in to report a sighting of Stoll’s SUV.
He made one last call. Albert Schumer answered immediately. Locklear asked if he would do one more thing for him, if he would offer Maria Whieler refuge in his home and keep her there until Stoll was apprehended. Maria did not fully understand how much of a threat she was to the Shanks or the value of what she knew. Now that Sara was dead, the Shanks no longer needed the vulnerable young woman to report on the comings and goings at Sara Fehr’s bedside and would make sure that she was not in a position to cause them any harm. Albert agreed.
Happy that Whieler would be looked after, Locklear ended the call and threw the phone at Mendoza.
“Here – call your son – tell him you’ll be home by Saturday.”
“Sarge!”
“Tell him.”
“That’s three days away!”
“If what happens next is what I think will happen, Stoll is on her way here – if she is not already in town. She knows she’s going to prison so she’s got nothing to lose. I think she plans to kill anyone she needs to – to tidy up loose ends.”
“She’ll never get away with that, sarge.”
“That’s the problem with Stoll, Mendoza. Her family have got away with murder for so long that she thinks they are invincible. She thinks she can do what she likes and that she’ll drive away from this carnage and start afresh.”
“But with what, sarge? You said it yourself. The Shanks are broke.”
Locklear inhaled deeply as he turned the car towards the station. “I don’t know yet,” he answered.
It was one of the last few pieces of the puzzle that did not fit, that was absent in fact.
There was something that did not fit about the silver box. Shank was a ruthless man yet he was brought to tears at the sight of something so worthless, so sentimental. It didn’t fit. He could feel it itch at his brain.
At the station, Locklear grouped several cops in the incident room and updated them. Maguire was missing – no one seems to know his whereabouts. His partner Jones suggested Locklear check the hot-dog stands before jumping to conclusions.
Locklear banged on the table to bring the group to order and sat on the table in the centre of the room.
“Stoll is dangerous. She is travelling with two armed men who will think nothing of putting a bullet in your chest. Wear a vest. Keep your attention up. Don’t phone anyone. Don’t warn anyone. Don’t tell your husbands or wives or your kids that you love them. I don’t want Stoll getting any notice that we are expecting her. She’s smart so she’s not going to barge in here in broad daylight. She’ll bide her time and when she gets what she wants she’ll –”
“What does she want?” another rookie interrupted.
Locklear went to the safe and took out the silver box. He held it up.
“This – this is what she wants. Now, I’ve made a promise to her grandfather that I’ll give it to her but not before I bring her in and not before she’s safely behind bars for life. Jones and Braun – I want you to take turns guarding Schumer’s house but be discreet. Mendoza and Jenkins – I want you to stay on patrol around Dayton. If you see Stoll, don’t approach her. Ring for back-up. If you see any of the Fehrs – any of them at all – bring them in for safety. I need two more patrolling Shank Creamery – no one gets in or out. I don’t care who they are or what they want – they don’t get in.”
“What about Shank’s wife, sir? You want us to bring her in?”
Locklear remembered the old woman in the lace bonnet on the first morning he had arrived in Dayton. Carter had said she was a sweet lady.
“No, leave her be, but one of you swing by her house on your patrol. Stoll might have a soft spot and might want to see her grandma before she goes to prison.”
Locklear looked around the room for the cop who was due to be on desk duty that night.
“Williams – you’re here tonight, right?”
Williams nodded.
“Don’t take your eyes off this safe and no one goes near it, right?”
“OK, sarge.”
“OK, everyone get to your posts and keep in radio contact. Slightest sign of anything interesting – and I don’t care how minute it is – you call it in.”
“Call it in? Sarge, Williams is as deaf as a post. He couldn’t hear the radio if you put a siren on it!” Jones quipped.
“Huh?” Williams said.
“That’s enough!” Locklear shouted. He looked pityingly at Williams and then searched the room for an alternative. His eyes rested on Mendoza. “OK – Williams!” he said, raising his voice. “You man the reception area. Any person of interest comes in, you call me immediately. Do you understand?”
Williams nodded. “Yes, no need to shout, sarge.”
“You – stay here,” he said, looking at Mendoza. He deliberately avoided using her name. He did not want to be accused of favouritism even though that’s exactly what it was. “Answer the phones.”
“Answer the phones! Sarge – do I look like a secretary to you?”
Locklear ignored her. “Your priority is to answer the phones and guard the safe.”
“No, sarge!” Mendoza pleaded.
“That’s an order, trooper. OK – everyone out. Let’s get to it.”
Locklear waited a while longer after the cops in their patrol cars left. He stood in the incident room thinking about what he would do if he were Bethany Stoll. Stoll was, he reasoned, a pragmatic woman whose main aim would be to secure any funds she could to finance her new life. Once she had secured this, she might not bother with settling scores. Money was what the woman needed. There was no point in her trying to access the accounts at Shank Creamery. Stein had
frozen them all by court order that very day – something she would realise very soon. Hard cash, and lots of it, was what she needed and the only place he believed she would get this was by raiding the safe at Shank Creamery – if, indeed, there was a safe there at all.
As he left the station, Mendoza was still smarting at being left behind and did not say goodbye. First, he drove by Shank Creamery to see if there was any sign of Stoll and checked in with Collins and Gonzalez who were patrolling the creamery. Then he drove past Shank’s house. Every blind was pulled and the house was in darkness.
Trooper Jones walked up to the car. “She’s not here, sarge.”
Locklear’s phone rang. It was Mendoza.
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“But I thought you should know – we just got a call from Stein to say that a woman just tried to use a credit card belonging to Shank Creamery to book into a hotel in New York. The woman registered under the name of Beth Stoll.”
Locklear did not reply.
“Sarge?”
“Yes, I’m still here. It’s a trick. She wants us to think she’s there. She wants us to let our guard down.” Locklear ran his hands through his thick hair. “Ask the hotel to fax the image to the station. They probably have security cameras behind the desk. If it’s her, phone me back.”
Locklear put down the phone. He started the car up again and made his way towards the Fehr farm. He parked and stood out on the land with only the moonlight and the distant lights of Harrisonburg to light his way.
He walked up to the barn and soaked in the silence. When his eyes adjusted to the blackness, he pushed on through the dried earth beyond the barn and climbed the steep hill on the northern face of the farm. He climbed further, stopping only when his foot stood on something hard. Locklear removed his cell from his pocket and used the light from the screen to illuminate the earth beneath him. A long-handled shovel lay on the ground about a foot from a freshly dug hole. He sighed and sat down on the dirt and looked up into the brilliant night sky.
“I guess I always knew you were still around. There’s nowhere better for someone like you to hide but here. You know the woods better than anyone else. I need you to come out and talk to me. I need to tell you about Sara.”
Locklear waited but the only reply he received was the screech of an owl on the distant farm. He shivered and rubbed his tender foot, the memory of the trap resurfaced and of the vision of his mother’s face when he was in danger.
“Luke, there’s no need for you to dig anymore. The Shanks are dead – father and son. The box is not here. That’s what the Shanks have been looking for – their treasure. Turns out its nothing but a silver box full of soil from their homeland. It never was here. Grant lied to your ancestors.”
A twig snapped in the distance. Locklear turned his head and tried to follow the small echo that followed. A bird squawked, breaking his concentration. Silence followed.
“I know you didn’t kill Helena Wyss. I know you are innocent.”
Another sound, smaller, lighter, a pebble perhaps dashing its way across the ground. It landed at Locklear’s feet. He bent down and ran his hands around the earth looking for it until his fingers found the item – flat, hard, round. He stood and rubbed the smooth coin between his fingers.
“My sister is free,” the voice said.
Locklear remained silent. Somehow Luke Fehr knew that his sister had passed away. Whether this was because Maria Whieler had somehow got word to him or if Fehr knew by instinct that his twin had taken her last breath, Locklear didn’t know.
When he reached the roadway, Locklear sat in his car and ran the dollar coin between his fingers. He inhaled deeply and wondered what the coin meant and what Luke Fehr was trying to say.
Chapter 29
The coffee house on the highway between Harrisonburg and Dayton became Locklear’s new office for the long hard night that lay ahead. He sat in the back booth of the brightly lit house and drank two strong black coffees while taking calls from his troopers stationed along the route and from stakeouts in both towns. Not one trooper had anything to report. All quiet on the western front, as Jones put it. He made a mental note to sit the young rookie down and give him some useful advice. Humour had no place in the middle of an investigation. It lightened the mood and made troopers lose their edge. Jones would have to accept that and adjust – or find another way to earn a living.
The call from Williams to say Carter’s wife had had a baby girl and that all was fine was not the news he meant Williams to keep him up to date with, but he was happy for the trooper and knew the birth would give the man a lift on the day he had lost the love of his life.
The call from Mendoza caused him to leave his third coffee untouched and drive out of the lot like a man possessed. The security photo from the New York hotel had been faxed into the station and, according to Mendoza, was definitely Beth Stoll.
Locklear parked urgently in the station lot, blocking several cars from exiting. He looked at Williams who appeared to be sleeping at the reception desk.
“Williams!” he shouted as he passed the dozing man.
Williams opened his eyes and tried his best to pretend he had not been asleep.
“There’s no sign of anyone, sarge,” he said.
“Williams – for fuck sake stay awake! Do you understand how crucial it is that we find this woman?”
“I do, sarge. I’ve been drinking coffee all night. I don’t know how I fell asleep. Honest, sarge, it’s not like me.”
Locklear noticed William’s slurred speech. “Have you been drinking?”
“No, sarge! I don’t drink. Never have. I’m just tired.”
Locklear lifted his cell.
“Jones – come back to the station and man the desk.”
Locklear put the phone down before Jones had a chance to offer any witticism.
“Williams – when Jones gets here – go home.”
“Sir. I don’t need –”
“I said go home. You live alone?”
“With my wife.”
“Well, tell her to keep an eye on you. You feel any worse, go to the hospital. Do you hear me?”
Williams nodded.
Locklear raced to the back room where Mendoza was sitting staring at the phone. She glared at Locklear.
She stood and faced him.
“Look, sarge, I became a cop because I wanted to be out there. Out where the real work is. I didn’t sign up to sit behind a desk waiting for the phone to ring.”
“I know. I just don’t want to see your kid grow up not knowing you.”
“Fair enough, sarge, but you sent Collins and Gonzalez out and they’re female. You’ve got to stop trying to protect me. I can handle myself. I wouldn’t be in this job if I was scared.”
Locklear placed his hands on the trooper’s shoulders.
“That’s what worries me, Mendoza. The fact that you aren’t afraid. I didn’t leave you behind because you’re a woman. Your need to prove yourself is dangerous. Fear is good. Fear will stop you getting killed.”
“You’re not afraid.”
“Yes, but I’m an asshole, Mendoza.”
The trooper grinned.
“I’ve been shot twice in my career. First bullet nearly killed me. Landed me in hospital for two months followed by six months on disability. I was careful and still I got shot. It only takes one bullet to end your life. You need to be more careful, Mendoza.”
“Did they get the perp?”
“I didn’t see him – not up close anyway but I know who it was.”
“Who?”
“A guy named Nick Lombardi.”
“The guy Andrew Fehr worked for?”
“One and the same.”
“Well, then why ... I mean how do you bring yourself to speak to him?”
“Water under the bridge, Mendoza. I couldn’t prove it and I had more important business to settle with him.”
“Like?”
“T
rying to crack his heroin business. It was killing hundreds and ruining the lives of thousands more. I was one man. Do the math.”
“Did you succeed?”
“No, and that gets me more than the fact that he shot me.”
“Does he know you know it was him?”
“I doubt it.”
“Are you ever going to tell him?”
Locklear thought about this for a moment. “No. Now, are we good? Can we get back to what we should be talking about?”
“Sure.”
Locklear lifted the photo faxed over from the hotel and shook his head.
“It’s her all right, sarge.”
Locklear studied the photo which captured a side view of the woman as she stood at the hotel’s reception desk. Beth Stoll was dressed in a short business skirt. Her light-brown hair hung loose around her shoulders. Stoll appeared much paler than when he had seen her at her grandfather’s offices only days before. Locklear could see the marks on the left side of her face. The marks had probably been sustained when Helena Wyss fought for her life and were much worse than the injuries Jerome Stein had reported.
