Murder on the Lunatic Fringe (Jubilant Falls Series Book 4) (12 page)

“In Brooklyn? New York?” I asked as I scribbled.

“Yes. Jerome, he is—“ Katya stifled a sob. “—was a U.S. Marshal, assigned to protect me until the trial of my husband, Kolya. I turn him in because he runs gang, he is using homeless people to commit fraud.”

“How does he do that?”

“Kolya owns medical clinics. His doctors write prescriptions for the patients Kolya men bring in every day.” Katya calmed down as she told her story. “Kolya has people like Luka round up homeless people in vans and take to clinic in New Jersey. The doctor gives them free exam then writes prescription for drugs.”

“What kind?”

“Ox-ox…” Katya’s thick accent made her stumble over the word.

“Oxycontin?”

“Yes. The people, they are addicted to these pills. They get the prescriptions filled and clinic bills Medicaid. The money comes into clinic and doctor sends it to Kolya.”

Medicaid fraud, I thought as I wrote. I’d seen some national wire stories about how the state of New Jersey was seeing a sharp increase in painkiller abuse and how the Russia mafia was connected, but I’d never printed those stories in the
Journal-Gazette
. They seemed too far away, too foreign for my readers to care about.

The articles described a scenario exactly as Katya described: mob-owned clinics run by dirty doctors who wrote prescriptions for up to thirty patients a day, most always for the highly addictive painkillers like Oxycontin or Oxycodone. The mobsters didn’t care if the clinics’ patients took the drugs themselves, or sold them to other addicts.

But the flood of drugs caused an explosion, according to New Jersey officials, in prescription drug overdoses and deaths. That didn’t matter—it was the easy money from Medicaid they were interested in. Efforts were underway to shut the clinics down, but as one clinic was closed, others often popped up.

“Where is Kolya?” I asked.

“In prison, waiting for trial. But that doesn’t mean he can’t tell the men in his gang to do something.”

“And you turned him in?”

“One of the homeless men, he got off the pills and threatened to expose Kolya and his clinics to police,” Katya’s voice dropped. “So one day, Kolya tells me to go shopping, hands me wad of money. I never really knew what Kolya did. I was young and stupid and enjoyed his money.

“‘Go get yourself something pretty. Don’t come back until dinnertime,’ he tells me. But I didn’t listen—or this man just wouldn’t die. I came home early and heard screams from the basement. Kolya was torturing the man downstairs. I saw Kolya kill him — the same way Luka killed Jerome, I know! I know!” She began to cry again.

“One more question, Katya.”

“Yes?”

“Is Bolodenka your real name?”

“No,” she whispered.

“I have to tell you, Katya, I’ve been looking into what you told me for the article.” I stopped writing and laid my hand on her shoulder. “I knew what you told me wasn’t true.”

“I had to. You understand? I had to tell those lies.”

I patted her shoulder from the back seat as Duncan pulled into the drive.

“There’s no one here!” Katya said. “I heard sirens as I ran from house. I thought marshals were coming to save me, but I was too scared to stop running.”

“Looks like Luka has disappeared,” Duncan said, shoving the gearshift into park and stepping out of the car.

“Be careful—there’s three buildings. They could be hiding on the property. The barn is big enough to pull an SUV into,” I said, handing him the flashlight as Katya and I got out. I pulled my cell phone from the back pocket of my jeans, as I held the shotgun in my other hand. “I’m calling the sheriff. If Luka is here, we’re going to need more than just this shotgun.”

One of the advantages of growing up in Plummer County was learning how to use a gun. As the daughter of a state trooper, I’d been taught early. As a farm wife, I’d shot my fair share of coyotes over the years when they’d made it into the pasture during calving season. If someone came out of the barn, I had no qualms about firing back, but the shotgun wouldn’t be any match for more than one weapon, if these guys were still on the property.

My other advantage? As the editor of the paper, I had the private numbers of the entire county’s movers and shakers—and Sheriff Judson Roarke was one of those numbers. We didn’t talk often, but I was impressed with the way he’d turned the Plummer County Sheriff’s Office into a first-rate law enforcement organization.

He picked up on the third ring.

“Hi Jud. It’s me, Penny McIntyre from the
Journal-Gazette
.”

“Hello.” Judson was remarkably alert for someone, I assumed, I’d just awakened from a sound sleep. “I know you well enough to know that this isn’t a courtesy call. What’s up?”

“We may have a murder,” I said. “On Lunatic Fringe Farm.”

“Do you know who the victim is?”

“Jerome Johnson, the farm manager for Ekaterina Bolodenka.” I wasn’t going to go into all the details right now. “The place where those goats were tortured and killed.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“There’s a possibility the suspect may still be on the property. You might want to bring all the firepower you’ve got.”

“Got it.”

There was a scream as I disconnected. I turned to see Duncan restraining Katya as she tried to run toward the farmhouse porch, where the body of Jerome Johnson lay in a pool of his own blood and brains.

Chapter 21 Graham

I shot out of bed as the scanner on my dresser crackled to life: “All units, possible homicide at 68734 Youngstown Road. Proceed no lights, no sirens, suspects possibly still on property. Contact complainant, a Mrs. McIntyre, on scene with property owner, who speaks limited English.”

I slumped back down on the mattress, realizing, for once, I couldn’t cover this story. I was supposed to be in Indianapolis. I knew the property owner who the dispatcher was referencing had to be Katya Bolodenka. And what was Addison already doing there? Listening as each sheriff’s deputy responded, one by one, I stood and paced the bedroom.

If someone was dead on that farm, could it be Jerome Johnson? Or was it Doyle McMaster? Had he intentionally provoked a confrontation with Jerome, or had Jerome caught him trying to kill another farm animal? Was it Benny Kinnon? Was he the type to get his hands dirty? If so, had he found himself at the end of Jerome Johnson’s gun?

My pacing expanded into the living room. I wanted to grab my camera and a notebook, head out to the scene and dig into the story, but I couldn’t. As far as Addison knew, I was in Indianapolis, with my stepfather and his fake heart attack.

“Unit one on scene.” Judson Roarke’s voice came across the scanner. “Dispatch, I need you to 10-79 Dr. Bovir. I have a visual on one victim, a black male, mid-thirties.”

I stopped pacing and sighed. Dr. Bovir was the Plummer County coroner. So Jerome Johnson was dead, three days after Doyle McMaster punched him. If McMaster had anything to do with this, then Benny Kinnon also had to be involved. Roarke would want me to find that out.

“Dispatch, this is unit one—” Roarke began again. A man’s angry voice drowned out his words: “Hey, that’s my wife!” The radio cut off. There was silence for a full two minutes before Roarke returned to the radio. His tone was caustic. “Dispatch, we have a second agency on scene. All radio traffic on Channel Two.”

Channel Two was the interoperability channel, the one they used when communicating with multiple agencies, particularly state and federal ones. Why would those agencies show up at a county homicide? That didn’t make sense. Maybe it was just the state investigative agency, the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, or BCI as they were called. They had more sophisticated tools and a bigger staff for investigations and it wasn’t too uncommon for them to be called in.

That was probably what happened, I thought. But who had called them in? And why?

The scanner went silent. As long as they were on Channel Two, I couldn’t follow it —and Addison was already on the scene, anyway. The story would get covered just fine. I had other things to do. I slipped back into bed and stared at the ceiling, contemplating my actions earlier that evening.

After I’d left the sheriff’s office—and hopefully sent Elizabeth in another direction—I drove past the west side address where Benjamin Kinnon had a room.

It was one of those old motels, built in the 1920s when motor travel was new. The bricks had been painted white at some point, but the color was flaking off and the current owner hadn’t been too concerned about maintaining the property. A single light shone over a parking lot that was more packed earth and weeds than blacktop. Five rooms flanked either side of the center office, each with a bright green door and peeling white paint. The fading neon ‘Vacancy’ sign flickered irregularly in the darkened office window. I’d parked my Mustang close to the road, next to a wooden sign reading “Travel Inn Weekly Rooms” with the phone number of the office beneath. The sign was painted in matching green and white and stood in a circle of scraggly bushes.

There were only three vehicles—two pick-up trucks and a minivan—in the lot when I visited. Children’s toys leaned against the motel room front wall where the minivan was parked, so odds were, Benjamin Kinnon was in one of the rooms with a pickup parked in front. It was too dark to see the license plates.

I’d been at the Travel Inn a couple times on other stories. The place was a known flophouse for transients and drug dealers. Meth labs had been discovered in a couple rooms once or twice and another time a woman’s body was dumped in the parking lot.

I didn’t stay long. I knew I’d be back by dawn.

On my way home, I drove past Elizabeth’s and parked in the alley behind her apartment. Like my place, her home was part of a Victorian-era house that was broken down into separate residences; from the alley, I could see into her bedroom window. Her purple wig was off and she wore a vintage Lucille Ball-style head wrap to cover her naked head and a pair of black cat’s eye glasses. She was folding clothes and placing them in a box. I watched until she taped the box closed, then I went home.

Now, in the silence of my dark bedroom, my thoughts didn’t even center on the homicide at the llama farm. Addison was there—she’d get the story. I wasn’t even thinking about the man I would confront tomorrow morning, the man who probably was my father. My thoughts centered on Elizabeth.

How could I have been so stupid?
I thought, as I stared at the ceiling. I missed all the signs. I’d been stupid enough to buy a ring before I ever heard her tell me she loved me. I’d never said it either, assuming that she shared what was in my heart, until the night I proposed. She’d kept me at arm’s length— I could see that now. I’d stupidly misread the trip to her parents’ house in Shaker Heights as the next step in our relationship.
How stupid could I have been?

It didn’t matter now. We were through and she was leaving. In a few hours, when the sun came up, I would be sitting in the parking lot of the Travel Inn, waiting for Benjamin Kinnon.

I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

Chapter 22 Addison

Jud Roarke parked his cruiser next to my Taurus. He spoke briefly into his shoulder microphone before he stepped from the black Dodge Charger. A wave of vehicles followed behind, the driveway dust kicked up by their tires glittering in the headlights and taillights.

I waved with one hand, holding Duncan’s double-barreled shotgun in the other.

“Hi, Penny,” he said. “Wait a minute.” He stopped to speak again into his shoulder mic. “Dispatch, this is unit one—”

I cried out as somebody slammed me, face first, across the trunk of the Taurus, twisting one arm behind my back and ripping the shotgun from my hand.

“U.S. Marshal, you’re under arrest!” A man’s voice barked.

Before I could respond, I was handcuffed and pulled back upright by the back of my shirt.

“Hey, that’s my wife!”
I heard Duncan cry.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. “What’s this about?”

My captor, a muscular man with a graying goatee, wore a black tee shirt beneath his Kevlar vest and a black baseball cap, both emblazoned with U.S. MARSHAL across the front. In black cargo pants and military boots, he looked about medium height; beneath the collar of his black tee shirt, I caught a glimpse of a heavy gold necklace. His automatic rifle was slung across his back and his utility belt carried enough weapons to start a coup. His badge, encased in leather, hung around his neck from a beaded metal utility chain.

Behind him, I counted five other marshals, all dressed in black like goddamned ninjas with badges, pointing their weapons at Duncan, Katya or me. Behind them were seven sheriff’s deputies—representing three-fourths of the ten that patrolled the county at night— standing tactically behind their cruiser doors, weapons drawn.

“Stand down, everybody, stand down,” Jud said, stepping between the marshals and me. His words were smooth and soothing. “Peppin, take off her cuffs. You’re in my territory now. Out here in God’s country, if I arrested everyone just because they held a gun, I’d have half to three-quarters of the county in jail at any one time.”

Peppin growled something under his breath as he spun me around to unlock my cuffs. I rubbed my wrists as I turned to face him.

“You have the honor of arresting the person who reported this crime and who also happens to be the editor of our newspaper,” Jud continued. “Addison McIntyre, I’d like to introduce you to Robert Peppin, U.S. Marshal. He’s based in the Cincinnati office.”

We reached out to shake each other’s hands, but we weren’t pleased about the introduction. Neither of us smiled.

“Our team got a call from Ms. Bolodenka’s cell phone. There wasn’t anyone on the other end and thought it best to respond,” he said.

“So she’s in witness protection?” I asked.

“Is this on the record?” he asked.

“I am looking at the dead body of a man who had lunch at my house on Sunday,” I said. “I’m going to bet there’s been a public radio transmission about this crime, as well as a request for the coroner. Hell yes, it’s on the record.” I wanted to add, you asshole, but didn’t.

“No comment.”

“Katya’s already told me she’s in witness protection and Jerome Johnson was the marshal assigned to protect her,” I snapped. “I like to get two sources on my stories. I got confirmation from her— I just wanted it from you.”

Peppin shot another look at Jud, who got on his radio, his smooth tone gone.

“Dispatch, we have a second agency on scene. All radio traffic on Channel Two,” he said, sharply. He clicked off his microphone and turned angrily toward Peppin. “I was under the impression that local law enforcement was to be informed when someone in WITSEC came into their area.” Jud Roarke’s eyes were sharp enough to peel paint off a wall, even in the dead of night.

“Ms. Bolodenka’s case is extremely sensitive. We thought it best to keep to keep that information confidential,” Peppin answered.

“Are you two going to look to see if the guy who shot Jerome Johnson is still on the property or is this going to be an exercise in who has the bigger badge?” I demanded.

Jud nodded; Peppin and the other marshals raised their weapons again, along with the deputies behind them. With a wave of his arm and a few words, the men began to search the property. One deputy stayed behind with us.

Katya slumped into the back seat of the Taurus.

“You OK?” I asked, leaning into the car. Duncan stood behind me, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Tears rolled down her dusty face.

“No,” she whispered. “No.”

“Last Friday, when I showed up to do the story on you winning at the state fair, Jerome didn’t want me doing the story, did he?”

Katya shook her head.

“He knew it would expose you, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It wasn’t first time either. This farm was my last chance.”

I pushed a little harder. “Jerome was not from Ashtabula, was he? Or even Ohio?”

“No. Jerome came here from Virginia, where I was hidden before, but he wasn’t my original protector.” She sighed.

“Why did you leave Virginia?” I asked.

Katya lifted her eyes upward as the tears flowed down the side of her face. “After I left New York, Kolya was in jail, but some of his men got released on bond, I don’t know why or how. I was moved to Virginia, but I couldn’t abandon my sister Svetlana, or her husband Alexis or her baby Nadya back in Brooklyn. We were so close, Svetlana and me. I broke rules. I write to her when we got to Shenandoah Valley, then we start calling each other, once a month. I get separate cell phone number that only she has. Then somehow, Kolya’s gang hears that she’s been in touch with me and they tell him.”

“Your sister and her family didn’t die in a traffic crash in Moscow, did they?” I asked softly. “Kolya or his men killed them, didn’t he?”

Katya nodded. “It was Svetlana’s murder—and the murder of her husband and daughter— that got Kolya in trouble again, even though he was still in jail. You don’t know what it’s like having to live like this, knowing I am responsible for my own sister’s murder. I can have friends, but I can’t tell them the truth of who I am. Everything I say is story they make up for me. My husband, the man I married, he can call his family, and he can have his friends from the neighborhood visit him.
But what about me?
Why should I be the one who is forced to lie? Why should I live my life in secret? I am not one who did anything wrong!”

“What about your parents? Are they still alive?”

“No. My father dies of cancer when I am young, before we came to America. After he dies, my mother decides to take Svetlana and me and leave Petersburg. We go to Brighton Beach, where she has brothers, my uncles. It is there I grow up and where I meet Kolya.”

“How did you get all those animals?” Duncan asked, leaning into the car window beside me.

“When witness protection first brings me to Virginia, I am kept at farm where animals were at to begin with. The farm belonged to dentist who got into trouble. He was also placed in witness protection, but no one knew what to do with llamas and alpacas after he is gone.”

“And you did?” Duncan asked.

“No. Not any more than the marshal that protected me there. So we learn. We learn and I fall in love with them. Then Svetlana is killed and I have to leave again.”

“You couldn’t leave the llamas, though, could you?”

“No. So they find this farm here in Ohio and buy it and build the little house beside barn. They build safe room for me in attic. Then we move in late at night. Three trailers full of animals,” Katya smiled sadly at me. “Jerome, he is assigned to me and that night he comes to live in the little house. Now he is gone and I am once again alone.”

She shook her head.

“You were romantically involved with him, weren’t you?” I asked softly.

“He was in my bed when the car pulled into the driveway.”

Oh, God, this is getting more complicated by the moment,
I thought. She’s not played by the rules of witness protection. She didn’t keep herself out of the spotlight, and she’s also sleeping with the marshal assigned to protect her.

I looked up to see the sheriff, Peppin and all the others coming toward us from the barn, the house and the cottage.

“All clear,” Peppin said, holstering his pistol.