With a Vengeance (21 page)

Pete held up a finger and started counting. “Jason Dyer. Snake Sullivan. Rick Brown. Curtis Knox…”

Hector slammed both hands down on the table and leapt to his feet. “Shut the hell up.”

Pete was on his feet too. “Sit down, Hector. Now.”

He glanced at the door as if expecting an army to burst through at any moment, but he slowly lowered back into the chair.

As did Pete. “So you dropped your daughter and your ATVs off in Greene County yesterday morning?”

“Yeah. She was spending the night with this girl. I was supposed to pick her up this morning.”

“That’s where you were headed when you pulled over?”

Hector nodded. “I saw that unmarked car you had sitting by my place. Ain’t nobody’s business where I go. Or where Lucille spends her time.”

“As long as you’re both innocent of murder, that’s true.” Pete clicked his pen. “Give me an address.”

“For what?”

“Lucy’s girlfriend.”

“No. I told you, it’s—”

“Nobody’s business. I know.” Pete clicked his pen again. “And like I said, it doesn’t matter. As soon as Detective Baronick gets that warrant, we’ll be able to track her cell phone anyway. I just figured if you’re both innocent as you claim, you’d want to cooperate.”

Hector’s gaze darkened. “Cooperate? Go to hell. Get your gawddamned warrant. We got nothing to hide.”

Pete closed his notebook and rose. “We’ll see.” Because what he hadn’t told Hector was the warrant to track Lucy’s phone wasn’t the only one Baronick was requesting.

He’d also filled out an affidavit for a warrant to search the Livingston property for a thirty-ought-six hunting rifle.

Twenty-Three

Zoe whirled toward the booming voice, dragging the tarp with her. Bud Kramer glared at her from the cashier’s window. A startled Earl—and she imagined every mechanic in the place—stared at her too.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bud demanded again, speaking slowly as if she was dense.

“Um…” She glanced back at the tarp, one corner of which was still clenched in her fist. It continued to do a slow slide to the floor, revealing an ATV with cracked plastic fenders, but not a speck of dirt on it. Or its tires.

Someone came up behind her and gently tugged the tarp from her hand.

Gabe. “Don’t mind him. The boss likes to keep his toy clean, and if we don’t keep it covered, it gets coated in gook.”

His toy? “Sorry,” she said to the mechanic.

He gestured for her to rejoin Earl. A wise move.

Bud continued to glare at her as she approached. “I’m really sorry. I was looking for my truck and—”

“It’s over
there
.” Bud pointed.

“Yeah, I know. I found it, and Gabe said he hadn’t started on it—”

“So you decided to go poking around my garage?”

Considering that was exactly what she’d been doing, she couldn’t find a good excuse for it. So she apologized again.

Bud aimed a thumb at a sign tacked to a nearby post. “Can’t you read?”

Authorized Personnel Only Beyond This Point
.

Another apology seemed useless.

“I don’t usually enforce it, but my liability insurance would skyrocket if anyone got hurt monkeying around with all the tools and machinery in here.” He shook his finger at her. “Thanks to you, I may have to toughen my stance.”

Chagrined, Zoe stared at her shoes. But the sight of the quad gnawed at her. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing with an ATV?”

“I do mind,” Bud said. “I can’t exactly take a hike in the woods like I used to. That little buggy gives me back some of my freedom.”

Earl bumped her with his elbow and held out the keys to the ambulance. “We better get going.”

Good ol’ Earl, rescuing her from embarrassing herself any further. She snatched the keys and mumbled yet another apology to Bud.

Still, as she headed across the parking lot to Medic Two, she couldn’t help wondering if Pete knew about Bud Kramer’s “toy.”

One of the county officers stood outside the Livingston house with Hector, who was snarling like a wounded grizzly, while Pete and Baronick stood in the middle of the dining room.

“I’m not impressed,” Baronick said.

Pete took in the antique china cabinet filled with delicate plates and tiny cups. “What did you expect? Nazi posters on the wall?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But I expected something other than Grandma’s house.”

The detective had a point.

As far as survivalists’ residences went, so far the Livingston house appeared remarkable in that it was totally
un
remarkable. “How long has Hector’s wife been dead?” Pete wondered out loud.

“About sixteen years, I think.” Baronick scavenged through the drawers in the cabinet searching for the burner phones listed along with the thirty-ought-six hunting rifles on their warrant. “Maybe seventeen. Why?”

Pete made a slow pivot, taking in the outdated wallpaper, the sun-faded curtains, the clean but scratched dining table, and the formerly plump cushions on the chair seats. “It looks like nothing’s been updated since then.”

Baronick turned away from the china cabinet and scanned the rest of the room. “You might be right.”

Pete adjusted his gloves. “On the other hand, maybe even survivalists keep their weapons somewhere other than near the food.”

“Speaking of…” Baronick gestured back toward the kitchen, where they’d found nothing more incriminating than a paring knife. “Was I the only one expecting to find MREs instead of Cheerios?”

“I suspect he’d save the packaged military grub for emergencies and keep it stashed in a bomb shelter under the house,” Pete said, only half joking. “Let’s keep going.”

They moved together into the living room, which was as dated and as normal as the dining room and kitchen. Drawers and nooks in the end tables and curio cabinet revealed nothing of interest. A few discolored photographs showing a smiling family—a pretty young woman with a strong resemblance to Lucy, a grinning twentyish version of Hector, and a tiny dark-haired sprite of a girl with a button nose and a ponytail—decorated tabletops and a mantle.

A carpeted staircase led upward. Baronick opened a door under the stairs and looked down into the darkened cellar. “You wanna split up? I’ll take the basement. You check upstairs.”

Pete headed for the stairs to the second floor without responding.

The first room he encountered matched the style of the rest of the house. Double bed with a dingy chenille spread. Bureau. Chest of drawers. Two nightstands. And a closet. He started with a nightstand and was surprised to find the first one empty. The bureau was a combination of empty drawers and others containing women’s clothing. Not modern like Lucy would wear. Pete was no expert in women’s styles, but he guessed these to be at least twenty years old.

Hector’s wife’s things. Same with the chest of drawers. The second nightstand contained a few pieces of cheap jewelry, a couple bottles of lotions, and a hairbrush.

Pete opened the closet. Decades-old women’s dresses, blouses, and slacks hung on one end of a pipe. The other end was empty. Shoeboxes were stacked neatly along one side. He knelt down and started going through them. Sandals. High heels. Sneakers. All women’s styles. None modern.

Neither Hector nor Lucy had ever had the heart to toss these things. Nor had they hidden any prepaid phones among the vintage fashions.

Pete moved down the hall to the next closed door and pushed it open. Rumpled clothing, much of it camo, lay in piles on the floor and strewn on chairs. The bed wasn’t made and didn’t look like it had been in recent months. A muzzleloader was prominently displayed over a window with a shooting pouch and powder horn draped over the pegs supporting the rifle. Original or reproduction? Pete would look at it closer when he had a chance. It wasn’t their murder weapon, so his curiosity had to wait.

Assorted boxes of ammunition sat on a dresser, some boxes closed, some open with shells scattered. Small caliber, probably used to shoot groundhogs around the house.

But the gadget, which at first glance might have appeared to be a walkie-talkie, perched atop a chest of drawers was what drew Pete’s interest.

A handheld police scanner.

“Bingo,” he said to the empty room.

A thorough search of Hector’s room revealed nothing else of importance. No thirty-caliber ammo. No burner phones. No hunting rifle hidden under the mattress. Just the scanner, from which he could have tracked who was on duty and responding to calls.

A small bathroom in need of an update yielded nothing either. One room remained.

Pete opened the door to an assault of pink. And lace. Unlike her father’s room, Lucy’s was neat and tidy. The bed was made. All of her clothes had been hung up or folded in drawers. A corner shelving unit displaying framed photos and a number of trophies and ribbons. Pete crossed to it for a closer look.

The trophies—he counted fourteen of them—were topped with golden figures holding a rifle, similar figures with a handgun, or a sporting clay with a set of shotgun shells. Pete removed his reading glasses from his pocket and slipped them on his face. The small engraved plaques on the bases came into focus. Different shooting competitions, different dates. Same winner’s name. Lucy Livingston.

Three of the trophies were for championship sharpshooter awards.

“Wow,” Baronick said from behind him.

Pete flinched. Damn it. He hated when the detective sneaked up on him like that.

“I guess the girl can shoot.”

“I already figured that much.”

Baronick crooked a finger. “You might want to come downstairs and see what I found.”

Pete followed him into the basement. Steel shelves lined the block walls and held dozens of jugs of water, what had to be several months’ worth of assorted canned foods, and large tins with the lids popped open—probably the detective’s doing—containing sacks of flour and sugar. Cardboard cases marked “Meal, Ready-To-Eat” filled another set of shelves.

Baronick pointed at them, grinning proudly. “I knew there would be MREs.”

Seven five-gallon gasoline cans sat against the opposite wall. Pete had expected more. Maybe Hector had a buried gas tank somewhere on the property.

“This is what you wanted me to see?” Pete asked.

“Not quite.” Baronick headed farther back into the cellar, ducking through a doorway. “Watch your head.”

Pete followed the detective, avoiding the low clearance. Inside, a series of fluorescent light fixtures illuminated the room. The elaborate workbench and tool display forced Pete to tamp down a rush of jealousy. A deconstructed shotgun occupied a portion of the bench. Reloading supplies took up the remainder.

A trio of mammoth gun safes stood in formation against the wall opposite the work area. He blew a soft whistle of appreciation.

“What do you want to bet there’s a thirty-ought-six in one of those?” Baronick asked.

Pete wasn’t about to take that bet. “Have you found anything else?”

“Isn’t this enough?”

Pete shot a look at the detective.

Baronick aimed a thumb at the storage cabinets over the workbench. “I haven’t finished searching those yet.”

“You keep looking.” Pete turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside to talk Hector Livingston into coughing up the combinations. Unless you plan on testing your safe-cracking skills.”

As soon as Pete hit the top of the basement steps, his phone chimed. A check of the screen revealed he’d missed a call. Apparently there was no cell service in Hector’s basement. Pete pulled up details of the missed call, hoping it was from the officers tracking down the Livingston girl. Instead, it was from Zoe. As much as he loved hearing her voice, right now he didn’t have time. He needed to catch the shooter who was putting her in harm’s way.

If he hadn’t already.

He found Hector as he’d left him, standing in the shady backyard, his face ominous and still, like the sky just before the arrival of a storm. The Monongahela County uniformed officer assigned to keep watch over their suspect acknowledged Pete with a nod.

“Nice workbench you’ve got downstairs,” Pete said.

Hector glared at him in silence.

Pete’s phone chimed again.

Still hoping for word on Lucy, he checked it, but found a text from Zoe instead. He pocketed the phone without reading the message. “I need the combinations for your gun safes.”

Hector responded with a disdainful suggestion that Pete do something which was physically impossible.

Pete studied the man. His eyes. His face. His stance. This was no cocky young thug. Nor was he a fool. No. This was a fiercely private man who believed in personal freedom. He was a father who loved his daughter, crazy or not, more than life.

But was he a killer?

“Look, Hector, I understand you hate having us here. To be honest, I’d rather not tear up your house and go through your stuff either. You could save us both a lot of grief by being straight with me.”

A muscle in the man’s jaw twitched. But he didn’t tell Pete to go to hell.

“I
am
going to put an end to this killing with or without your help. If your daughter is involved in any way, I will stop her. No matter what.” Pete let the full meaning of his words sink in before continuing. “If she’s the one I’m after, and if you want to keep her alive, you need to help me stop her before it’s too late.”

Panic flickered in Hector’s eyes. He looked away, his jaw tense. When he brought his gaze back to Pete, the mask was once again firmly in place. Yet the hostility seemed less intense. “Lucille didn’t do this.”

Pete folded his arms. “Did you?”

“No.”

“Then prove it. Give me the combinations to your gun safes.”

“You won’t find anything to tie either of us to the shootings.” Hector jutted his jaw. “Unless you plant it.”

Pete suspected Hector was baiting him. “You’ll have to take my word on that.”

“Why should I?”

Pete leaned in a little closer. Lowered his voice. “Because deep down, I think we’re on the same side. You used to be a firefighter. Life dealt you a damned lousy hand. In similar circumstances, I might have reacted the same as you. But you’ve been on the line of fire. You know what it takes to do the job. I don’t think you could kill your own kind. And even if you could, I don’t think you’re coward enough to do it from a distance.”

Pete wasn’t sure he believed a word he was telling Hector. But he could tell the man was giving his words serious thought.

“If you didn’t do this, and if your daughter didn’t, then a killer is still out there ready to strike again, I’m wasting valuable time tearing your house apart, and another man or woman on the front line might die because of it.”

Hector’s gaze had shifted to one side. His lower lip pressed the upper one into an inverted U.

“The combinations,” Pete said.

Hector deflated. Rheumy eyes met Pete’s. “You got something to write on?”

Pete watched as a trio of county officers each carried two hunting rifles—thirty-ought-sixes—from the Livingston house. Hector had been moved to the backseat of one of the county cars. For once, Pete didn’t give a damn about turning the case over to Baronick and his men. Their ballistics lab would make quick work of matching one of the half dozen weapons to the brass they had in evidence.

Or clearing them.

Let the county boys do the lab work. Pete intended to be the one to catch the killer.

Baronick appeared at the back door, spotted Pete, and jogged down the steps and across the yard to him. “We’ve got her,” the detective said.

“Lucy?”

“Yep. Just got a call. She’s in custody.”