Vengeance Road (10 page)

H
arding Community Hall was in the heart of Ascension Park.

Inside, on the entrance walls, there were large portrait-photos of laughing babies, smiling seniors and volunteers comforting people in tragic circumstances.

Here was the work of the Street Angels Outreach Society.

A blowup of an older news picture was showcased in a glass frame. It showed Karl Styebeck in the back of an ambulance, his face masked with soot as he looked over the stretchers bearing the children he'd just rescued from a burning house.

The guy's a god here
, Gannon thought while he queued with well-attired strangers to buy tickets. He adjusted his suit, feeling his notebook and recorder in his breast pockets. He was ready to confront Styebeck with what he'd learned today.

“How many, sir?” asked the woman seated at the ticket table outside the hall's banquet room.

“Just one,” he said.

The lights were dimmed over some twenty formally set round tables that filled the room. Soft classical music mingled with cocktails and the conversations of some two hundred people.

Gannon avoided everyone, weaving through the group for half an hour until he spotted Styebeck in the distance, making his way with others to the VIP table on the riser at the head of the room.

Gannon found a seat at the far back of the hall with several older couples. He was careful not to reveal his name as they talked politics and art. No one broached the subject of Karl Styebeck, murder suspect, including Gannon.

“I'm just a writer, and like everyone else, I'm here to do my part for the cause.” He smiled over dessert as Rona Nicole, the society's president, took the podium. She began with the usual jokes and calls to applaud event organizers and catering staff.

“Before we move on to achievements and our charity auction, we're going to address something,” Nicole said. “As you know, Street Angels helps people who are facing the most difficult times in their lives. Well, now we're going to put to rest an issue that has distressed a few people in this room. I'm talking about the unfortunate events involving my fellow board member, Detective Karl Styebeck.”

Nicole smiled at Styebeck.

“I've spoken with Karl and he would like to say a few words to you.”

A quiet fell on the room, punctuated with nervous coughing and throat clearing as Styebeck leaned into the microphone and looked out to the gathering.

“Thank you, Rona. Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of my family, I want to thank everyone for their calls of support. These past forty-eight hours have been a trying time for us, to say the least.”

He glanced to his wife who blinked back tears as he continued.

“The fact is, I am assisting in the investigation of a terrible case, but I'm sure you'll appreciate that I can't say much more beyond that. However, through confusion, a painfully damaging allegation was made, one that has since been corrected. I want to apologize to the society for any undue anxiety its members may have experienced and assure you, there is a silver lining to this, as my special guest tonight will tell you. Nate.”

Styebeck turned to the end of the VIP table. Gannon craned his neck and was incredulous at what he saw.

Nate Fowler was moving to the podium
.

“Thank you, Karl. Everyone, I am Nate Fowler, managing editor of the
Buffalo Sentinel
.”

Someone booed and Fowler smiled, held up his palms in surrender.

“As you know, in the news business we're under a lot of pressure to get the story. In this case, we succumbed to it without getting the facts. In rushing to beat the competition we got it wrong. That error hurt people, but it was corrected in today's edition of my paper.”

Applause rippled around the room as Fowler continued.

“As some of you know, I sit on the boards of other charitable organizations with Karl Styebeck. I know Karl and can attest to his unimpeachable, altruistic character. Gosh, look at that inspiring news picture of Karl out front in the hall, taken by a
Sentinel
photographer, I might add.”

A few people chuckled.

“Folks, if we are to learn anything from this recent unfortunate situation, it is that anyone can find themselves in dire straits at any time. This only underscores the need for your group, the fine work it does and continues to do. So, Rona, before you move on to the auction, allow me, as a sign of good faith, on behalf of the
Buffalo Sentinel
, to present you with check for fifteen thousand dollars.”

Amid the applause and ovation, Fowler raised his voice.

“And my wife, Madeline, and I will personally add an additional five-thousand dollar-donation.”

Dumbstruck, Gannon stood with the others, not to praise what had transpired but to convince himself that he'd actually witnessed it. He couldn't believe it. Fowler had just crapped on his own paper like a guy campaigning for public favor.

For the rest of the evening, Gannon struggled to sort things out while searching for the right moment to get Styebeck alone. It came when Styebeck was making his way to the men's room. Gannon caught him before he entered.

“Detective Styebeck?”

His smile twisted into a scowl when he recognized Gannon.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I need to ask you a few questions for the record, given recent events.”

Gannon extended his small recorder and Styebeck's jaw pulsed, as if inviting Gannon to take his best shot.

“What recent events?”

“I understand there are people who witnessed you with Bernice Hogan the night before she disappeared from Niagara.”

“Look, asshole, I don't know who your sources are, but you've got things all wrong. I tried to help Bernice.”

“So you confirm you had a relationship with her?”

“I knew her and tried to help her.”

“Help her do what?”

“Get off the street. Get clean. Get a life. It's what my group does.”

“Were you with her the night she vanished?”

“Yes, I just told you, I was trying to help her.”

“Did you kill her?”

Styebeck's face was blank, void of emotion.

“No, I did not kill her. Why the hell would you even ask me that?”

“What about Jolene Peller? Do you know her?”

“Who?”

“She's a former prostitute. Did the society help her leave Buffalo?”

“Maybe. We help a lot of people.”

“Did you ever meet Jolene Peller, or J.P., as she is also known?”

“I don't know where you're going with this.”

“Then I'll tell you. Women who work as prostitutes in downtown Buffalo say you are known to them.”

“So? Why would that be unusual? I'm a detective. I have informants who are hookers. Besides, we offer them support through our group. I admit knowing prostitutes. Is that headline news, Gannon?”

“But sir, they've identified you as a client, a customer with special preferences. What's your response to that?”

“It's bullshit.”

“Is it? They seem to know a lot about you, that you prefer them young, clean, and that you specify that they be shaved. And you once called yourself sick and blamed it on your father. What's up with that, Detective?”

Gannon had crossed a line. Something slithered across Styebeck's eyes.

“They're lying.”

Gannon sensed a presence and turned toward a woman standing behind him. Other people had gathered behind her, concerned.

“This is my wife, Alice. Alice, Jack Gannon from the
Sentinel
has paid us an unannounced visit and seems determined to twist fiction into fact.”

Undaunted, Gannon pressed on. “What did you say to Bernice Hogan the night before she was killed, Detective?”

Styebeck's gaze locked on Gannon.

“I think you should leave. Now.”

Styebeck's anger bored into Gannon, and for the benefit of those who were watching them, he said, “Do you believe this guy? He's supposed to be suspended. Yet he comes over here to continue to publicly humiliate me and my family. Do I have to seek a restraining order, Jack?”

After Gannon glimpsed Fowler weaving through the crowd and nearing the scene, he left, throwing a parting glance over his shoulder.

He saw Styebeck watching him, his wife rubbing his arm, while several other people stood behind them.

Gannon drove around the city analyzing his read of Karl Styebeck. Over and over, he kept coming back to that split second when something cold had flitted across the detective's eyes.

Like a secret had been revealed.

And a dark force had been unleashed.

S
tyebeck sat alone in his living room, tie undone, a glass of scotch and ice in his hand, the banquet reverberating in his head.

It had been an hour since Alice had finally gone to bed after wrestling with her anger and fear over what had happened that evening.

“I can't believe the gall of that reporter! Karl, people told me we should sue him.”

Styebeck had agreed with her, the scene had been upsetting, but sleep was the best thing for her right now, he told her.

He'd get them through this mess.

But would he?

Gannon was getting close to the truth.

The ice clinked in his glass as Styebeck sipped from it.

He had to get a handle on the situation. Alice was a loving, supportive wife. Taylor trusted and idolized him. He'd worked so hard to build a good life and he would protect it.

At any cost.

Gannon was trying to pry the lid off the casket of secrets he'd buried.

No one knew.

No one must ever know that he was living his life in a
constant battle with dark urges that arose from his past, urges that forced him to do the most despicable things with women.

Not with Alice.

Other women.

Because he paid them to satisfy the all-consuming demands of his secret compulsion. For years, he had kept it caged, but it gnawed at the edges of his control, growing intense, ravenous. His ears would ring, his head would throb, until it took over.

He would drive into the night.

Hunting.

Some women on the street were shocked by his needs, so he'd move on until he found the kind of women who could gratify him. Women who guarded secrets, especially when he paid them with extra cash, or with favors. Like, getting a pimp to back off. Or dealing with an abusive john, a crooked landlord. Or supplying drugs.

And so many times his relief gave him so much pleasure he lost consciousness.

That had been his secret life.

It worked because he was a good husband, a good father, a community hero whose group helped troubled women.

And it worked because he was a respected detective.

Often the women gave him information on a case. And that made him look good. Oh, it had worked so beautifully.

Bernice Hogan knew the real Karl Styebeck. How he missed her, sweet, sad Bernice. She guarded his secret. So did several others, including Jolene Peller.

But J.P. was strong. She'd managed to get out of the life. On the surface, Styebeck was glad. Deep down he still craved her and wasn't sure he could let her go. But he had to contend with his mixed feelings privately because J.P. had earned the right to something better.

Sure, some of them deserved it.

Some of them didn't.

Because of what they were.

Sinful whores who deserved—

Stop.

He was in trouble. Far greater trouble.

It began with the letter several months ago.

Then the phone calls started after that, long before they found Bernice.

At first they were hang-ups. Wrong numbers. The ID was always blocked. Then came the call that stopped him cold.

It came a few days before they'd found Bernice.

“Guess who, Karl?”

A call from the pit; the pit Styebeck had crawled from a lifetime ago
.

His gut twisted. Even across decades of estrangement he'd recognized his brother's voice, almost jubilant on the other end of the line. Styebeck said nothing as the feigned warmth of his brother's tone dropped several degrees.

“Did you really think that we'd never find you, Karl?”

“What do you want?”

“I've been watching you, your wife, your boy, for a spell. I know all about you. You think you're better than us. But I know what you do, Karl.”

“If you come near my family, I swear, I'll—”

“We don't care about them. You know who sent me and you know what you have to do.”

“You're out of your mind. I'm not like you.”

“You're one of us. It's time you admitted the truth and faced your responsibilities.”

Like a scab being pulled from an old wound, Styebeck confronted the painful memories of his family's disintegration.

“She's dying, Karl. We almost lost Belva but I saved her. You got her letter. She told you what to do. Your time is running out. Are you going to do it before it's too late? You've got twenty-four hours to give me the right answer, Karl, or I will pass judgment on one of your whores and give you a world of trouble.”

Styebeck relied on his training as a cop.

Don't panic. Assess. Act. Resolve.

He did the only safe thing he could do.

That night and the next he patrolled Niagara in a rental and kept a vigil for anything threatening the women. He talked to each of them.

No one had seen anything, other than the regular jerks.

“Oh, there's an asshole in a semi-rig, just the cab, acting a bit creepy,” one of the girls told Styebeck. “Got something on his door. Something about a sword. He was talking to Bernice last we heard.”

Alarm rang in Styebeck's ears.

Don't let it be his brother.

Styebeck had to handle this himself. He couldn't risk calling in uniforms or backup; it was all too close to home. He'd spent the night searching for Bernice, for the rig. He went down to the park by Ellicott Creek.

But he saw nothing.

He searched the surrounding forest with his flashlight.

All in vain.

Then he went home.

That's what happened.

That's what he believed had happened, wasn't it?

Because sometimes when his compulsion took control he would black out, lose track of time, suffer memory loss.

No! Not this time! That's what happened. He'd tried to help!

Then Bernice Hogan's murder hit the news.

Brent and Esko from the New York State Police had called him in for help on the Hogan murder. But Styebeck didn't trust them. He'd sensed they knew something they were holding back. And why wasn't he invited to join the task force? That's when his friends, who didn't know the truth, had stepped up. It helped, but it didn't take care of all the heat.

Now Jack Gannon was getting closer.

Then he got the call that had pushed him over the edge. It came a few days after they'd found Bernice, on the night he'd clashed with Gannon.

“Look what you did, Karl. Everybody knows now,” his brother said.

“That was you. Not me.”

“You sure about that?”

Silence passed.

“Are you going to come back to us, Karl?”

Another moment passed.

“Think it over, I'll be in touch.”

After the call, Styebeck felt the walls of his life closing in.

Brent and Esko were onto him.

Jack Gannon was onto him.

Everything he'd worked so hard to build was collapsing around him.

Styebeck froze.

A noise was coming from the back of the house, a tapping or ticking on glass. He went to his gun safe, got his Glock and slipped into the kitchen.

A man was standing in the breezeway between the kitchen and garage.
Why didn't his motion detector light this guy up?
Styebeck switched on the floodlights, opened the door and stepped out, keeping his gun at his side.

The man had his back to him and was calmly smoking a cigarette.

Styebeck took stock of his snakeskin cowboy boots and jeans. He wore a T-shirt that flattered his well-toned upper body, and a ball cap. The man stubbed his cigarette into a patio tile and turned to face his brother.

They were boys the last time they'd seen one another. They stared at each other for a long moment, taking stock of the men they'd become.

Styebeck tightened his grip on his gun.

“I told you to never come here, Orly.”

“You've grown into a disappointment, Karl,” his brother said, glancing at the gun then shaking his head. “A big disappointment.”

“I told you not to come here. Ever.”

“There's not a lot you can do now, is there?”

“It's over. I'm going to bring you in and tell them everything about where we come from and what you did.”

“What I did?” Orly laughed.

“You're sick. You need help.”

“I'm afraid it's a little more complicated than you think. You see, I took precautions in case you were planning to turn me over to your police friends. No matter what you do, you're involved now. Up to your eyeballs.” Orly stepped forward. “It's time you paid some respect, Karl. Time you own up to your responsibilities because I fixed it good.”

“There's no way you can implicate me.”

“No? Give this a whirl.” He tossed a DVD at him. “Your whore's last words. I saved them for you. Now, you give it a spin and I'll keep in touch, hero boy. Shee-it!”

Orly Styebeck's laughter faded as he sank into the darkness.

“Karl?”

Alice was approaching from the living room to the breezeway; Styebeck slipped the DVD into his pocket.

“I heard voices. Oh my God, why do you have your gun? Karl, what's going on?”

Alice's hair was messed, her eyes red rimmed, worry etched in her face as he backed her into the house soothing her.

“Who were you talking to just now?”

“It's nothing. A cat tripped the motion sensor. It's nothing. We're all on edge, Alice. Take a pill and get back to sleep, honey. I'll double-check the locks and be right up.”

She looked into the night, seeing nothing, hearing only crickets, before she returned. “Promise me you'll be right up.”

“Promise.”

Styebeck went to his study, turned on his computer and played the DVD, which displayed shaking images of a forest at night then blurry pictures of a woman.

It was difficult to distinguish what was unfolding.

But then he recognized the woman's voice as soon as she spoke.

“Mr. Styebeck, please, I beg you…oh God no…please, Karl…NO!”

It was Bernice Hogan.

In the final moments of her life.