TIL DEATH

by Annette Dashofy

  The detective eyed him. “Imperatore showed his hand? To you?” Baronick set his cup down and picked up the papers. “Is he ill?”

  “Didn’t appear to be. But Dustin seems to believe I’m the person most likely to prove he’s innocent.”

  “You? You’ve been nothing but adamant about his guilt.”

  Pete gazed into his coffee. He could feel the detective watching him.

  “You have been adamant about his guilt, haven’t you? Or am I missing something?”

  “Just read the articles and give me your thoughts.”

  Baronick fell silent as he scrutinized the newspaper articles.

  The detective was right on both counts. For most of the last nine years, Pete remained unabashedly convinced that Dustin Landis murdered his wife. But Baronick was indeed missing something.

  Pete had, at one point, been equally convinced of Landis’ innocence.

  Nine

  Nine years earlier

  Pete rolled up to the modest single-story brick residence, dreading what he had to do next. The porch light was on, awaiting the return of Elizabeth Landis. A return that would never happen. Most of the house’s windows were dark, but one glowed from inside. Pete steeled himself against the task at hand and strode to the front door. Pressed the doorbell. Faint chimes echoed through the walls. A moment later, another light clicked on, and the door swung open.

  “Dustin Landis?” Pete said.

  “Yes.” The answer held an uptick as if it was a question.

  Pete identified himself. “May I come in?”

  Landis stepped aside.

  Entering, Pete noticed he and Landis were eye-to-eye, placing him at just a hair over six feet.

  “What’s this about, Chief?” Landis wore the terrified expression of a man who dreaded the answer.

  “Your wife is Elizabeth Landis?”

  “Yes.” Another uptick.

  Pete had never found an easy way to break this kind of news. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, your wife’s been killed.”

  Landis’ lips parted. He reached out to grip the back of a chair. Pete watched a parade of emotions march across the man’s face. Shock. Disbelief. Sorrow. “What happened?”

  “Perhaps you should have a seat.”

  Landis met Pete’s gaze. Gave a quick nod and lowered into the same chair he’d been clinging to.

  “Your wife was shot in her car parked in front of the fitness center at Route 15 Plaza.”

  Landis lowered his head, attempting to process the information, giving Pete time to assess the man. He wore plaid pajama bottoms. A crimson terrycloth bathrobe was knotted at a trim waist and gaped open to reveal a hint of a muscular chest.

  He was tall. Athletic-looking.

  That’s how Cheryl Vranjes had described the man running from the scene.

  “Shot?” Landis’ voice had lost its bass timbre. He lifted his face, revealing tears marring his clean-shaven cheeks. “Who? Why?”

  “I was hoping you could help me with that.” Pete looked around and spotted another chair through a doorway. He dragged it over and sat facing Landis. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”

  “You haven’t caught the guy?”

  “Not yet.”

  Landis nodded. “Then yes, of course. Whatever I can do to help.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your wife?”

  Pete caught a fleeting look in Landis’ eyes, a moment’s hesitation, from which he quickly recovered. “I’m sure she ruffled some feathers at work,” Landis said.

  Pete gave him credit for not immediately spewing the everybody-loved-her line.

  “She’s a strong independent woman. Doesn’t take bull from anyone.” Landis’ eyes widened, then filled. “I mean didn’t.” He swallowed. “Are you sure it was Elizabeth? Shouldn’t I identify the body? Maybe there’s been a mistake.”

  Pete had photographed the body, but those pictures weren’t anything he wanted to show a grieving spouse. “Her friends from the yoga class confirmed her ID. The coroner’s office will be in touch about a positive identification.”

  Landis gazed at Pete. “You have crime scene photos?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please. I need to know.” Landis held out a hand.

  “It’s not pretty.”

  “I don’t care. I need to see for myself. If it’s really her, it won’t be any easier later.”

  Pete studied the man. Landis seemed genuinely shaken by the news. The trembling voice. The tears. If he’d been the man in black running from the scene—the man who’d shot his wife in the face—his performance was Oscar-worthy. Pete tugged his phone free from his pocket and scrolled through the various shots of the parking lot, the exterior of the car, the interior, the position of the body. He’d taken several of Elizabeth’s face or what was left of it. Selecting one that showed enough of the undamaged side to allow an ID, he turned the screen toward Landis. And observed.

  Landis’ face contorted. He didn’t take his eyes from the phone, but his mouth puckered. His forehead creased and sagged. He reminded Pete of a wax figure melting from too much heat. When the rest of his face couldn’t contain the agony any longer, Landis closed his eyes, lowered his head, and wept. Great body-racking sobs.

  Pete cleared his phone’s screen and returned the device to his pocket. “I’m sorry.”

  Minutes passed, and with each one Pete grew more convinced of Landis’ sincerity. Pete imagined himself in Landis’ place. Pictured Marcy as the shooting victim instead of Elizabeth. Envisioned a law enforcement officer at his door, breaking the news to him. His wife. Dead. Felt his soul being ripped from his body. Pete blinked, his eyes suddenly hot.

  Once Landis’ weeping ceased, the grieving husband kept his head down, his shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath. At last, he sat up and met Pete’s gaze. “It’s Elizabeth. And as for who might want to do that?” He pointed toward the pocket holding Pete’s phone. “Her fellow workers might get pissed at her for being tough, but no one I know would do that.”

  “Did she have an especially bad disagreement with someone? At work or elsewhere?”

  Landis thought, shaking his head. “No. Like I said, she was tough. No nonsense. But fair. I can’t imagine anyone being that angry with her.”

  “What about you?”

  His gaze snapped up to meet Pete’s. “Me? You think I could’ve…”

  “I have to ask. It’s my job.”

  “We’ve been married a long time. I’d be lying if I told you we never disagreed about anything or never had an argument. But I loved my wife.”

  “Where were you this evening?”

  “Here. Elizabeth’s yoga night is my quiet-time-alone night.”

  “Did you talk to anyone? Anyone stop by?”

  “No.”

  “Did you order a pizza? Takeout?”

  “No. Nothing. I’ve been reading all evening.”

  Pete scribbled in his notebook. No alibi. “Is there anything at all you can tell me that might point us toward the killer?”

  This time, there was no flash of hesitation. “I wish I could.” He paused. “You might talk to her coworkers. I always joke that she spends more time with them than with me. They might be aware of something that could help. I can give you some names and phone numbers.”

  “Please.”

  Landis stood and crossed to an old-fashioned drop-front desk from which he retrieved an equally old-fashioned Rolodex. He returned, spinning through it, plucking out several cards. “Here.” He handed the cards to Pete. “Take them. Just please find the monster who killed Elizabeth.”

  Ten

  Present day

  “That’s why you believed him?” Baronick said. “Because he asked you to solve his wife’s murder?”

  The
detective’s patronizing tone bugged the hell out of Pete. “It was more of a gut thing. His reaction felt genuine.”

  “And your gut’s never been wrong before?” Baronick had the nerve to laugh.

  But he had a point. Pete’s once infamous gut had been wrong several times lately. And it had definitely been wrong back then. “You’re the one who asked for my take on the original investigation.” He nodded toward the newspaper stories Baronick had finished reading. “What do you think about those?”

  The detective skimmed through the pages again. “I admit the similarities are interesting. Could Landis have known about this guy and intentionally copied him?”

  “I don’t see how. The FBI wasn’t even onto the guy at that point.”

  Baronick rubbed his clean-shaven lip. Pete could almost see the wheels turning inside his head. Baronick lowered his hand to the pages on the desk. “I need copies of these.”

  “Nancy can make them for you.”

  “I’m going to Brunswick to speak with Landis. I want to look him in the eye as he tells his story.”

  The jingling of the bells on the front door carried back to them.

  “I’m going to work on tracking down everyone who testified in the first trial. We’ll want to re-interview them,” Pete said. “And I’ll call Franklin Marshall. Hopefully, he’ll be more coherent than he was for you.”

  Baronick stood, gathering the crumpled pages. “I’ll stop at the front and ask Nancy to copy these. Then I’ll check in with you this afternoon.”

  At the doorway, the detective nearly collided with a young woman wearing a dark suit.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said with his usual slightly flirtatious lilt.

  She didn’t react. Didn’t crack a smile. “Special Agent Felicia Graley.” The woman drew her coat aside to reveal a badge. “FBI. I’m here to see Chief Pete Adams.”

  He rose and circled his desk. “That would be me.” As she shook his hand—damn, she had a hell of a grip—Pete tipped his head at Baronick and introduced him. “You’re here about the serial killer case?”

  “The Deserted Lot Killer. Yes.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d named him.”

  Graley shrugged. “I didn’t.”

  Baronick cleared his throat. “I’m gonna go talk to Landis. Nice meeting you, Special Agent.”

  Once the detective left, Pete offered the now-empty guest chair to Graley and reclaimed his seat behind his desk. The FBI agent wore her brunette hair in a tight, all-business bun giving her a harsh schoolmarm air. Her stern expression didn’t help. But Pete suspected if the petite young woman let her hair down—literally—she’d be a stunner.

  He had a feeling she was silently sizing him up at the same time.

  She retrieved a notebook and pen from her coat pocket. “Special Agent McCoy asked me to speak with you.” Her tone hinted that she was doing McCoy a huge favor. “He mentioned you might have a murder weapon in evidence that could’ve been used by DLK.”

  “DL—” Deserted Lot Killer. Right. All of law enforcement loved their acronyms, but the FBI took it to a whole other level. “That’s partially right.” Pete gave her a brief rundown of the Landis case. “The gun used to kill his wife is still in evidence in Brunswick. Not here.”

  “I’ll need to see it and any other evidence on this homicide. I understand you were first on the scene?”

  “I was.”

  Graley touched the pen to the page. “Take me through it.”

  A frigid rain fell as Zoe made her way from the parking lot into the Marshall Funeral Home. She almost wished it would turn to snow. Until she realized her wedding was only ten days away. Whose brilliant idea was it to get married on Valentine’s Day when the odds were good the weather would be horrible?

  If there was a bright spot, it was the trip to Florida for their honeymoon. Ten days until the wedding. Eleven days until she and Pete stepped off a plane into sunshine and warmth.

  Zoe entered through the rear basement door, her regular practice to avoid the most potent of the floral arrangement aromas. She’d gotten used to the stench of autopsy. But the smell of funeral flowers affected her on a more visceral level, sending her back to losing her dad. Nearly thirty years later, she still couldn’t shake it.

  Paulette waited for her just inside, hands folded, a strained look on her round face.

  “What’s wrong?” Zoe’s mind leaped to the obvious. “Oh my God. Franklin?”

  Paulette’s eyes widened. “No. Gosh, no. He’s fine.” She shot a look toward the stairs leading to the main level. “You have someone waiting to see you.”

  Zoe’s mind continued filling in the gaps. Loretta again? Or Dr. Davis? “Who?”

  “Julia Wagner. Gina Wagner’s mother.”

  Zoe’s stomach lurched. One thing she hadn’t had to deal with as a paramedic—at least not much—was bereaved family members. “Where is she now?”

  “In my office upstairs.”

  “Tell her I’ll be right there.”

  Paulette scurried away, leaving Zoe to gather her wits. She entered Franklin’s office and slipped out of her coat, which she hung in the closet. Tugging her sweater down over the waist of her dark jeans, Zoe headed into the hall and up the staircase.

  A slump-shouldered woman waited alone in the small office Paulette usually occupied.

  “Mrs. Wagner,” Zoe said from the doorway.

  The woman lifted her head and stood.

  Zoe gently clasped her hand, gestured for her to reclaim her seat, then circled the desk to take Paulette’s chair. “How can I help you?”

  “What can you tell me about my daughter’s case?” Mrs. Wagner asked, her voice little more than a squeak.

  Zoe squirmed. Should she reply she’d been present at the autopsy and wrote up the notes from it? Or was that too clinical, too harsh? What mother wants to think about her child laid open in the morgue?

  “Can you tell me anything about what happened? Why she…died?”

  Zoe lowered her eyes to her hands clasped on the desk. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much.” She met the mother’s gaze. “Yet. About all we’ve discovered is what didn’t cause her death. We hope the lab can give us some more definitive answers.”

  “The lab?”

  “Bloodwork.” Zoe studied Mrs. Wagner’s face. She appeared puzzled. “Did Gina take any medication that you’re aware of?”

  “No. I mean, she took a vitamin every morning. And an occasional Tylenol or over-the-counter cold medicine. But she didn’t have any prescriptions.”

  The mention of acetaminophen sparked Zoe’s interest, although there’d been no sign of liver damage, which an overdose of the stuff might have caused. “Had she taken either Tylenol or cold meds recently?”

  Mrs. Wagner bit her lip, thinking. “Not that I saw, but she could’ve taken something at work.”

  “Where did she work?”

  “Here in town at Langley’s Dress Shop on Main Street.”

  Zoe plucked a pen from the cup on Paulette’s desk and scribbled the store’s name on a notepad next to the phone. She looked at Mrs. Wagner, judging how open she might be to questions about her daughter’s death. The police weren’t investigating it. Someone needed to find answers. “You mentioned the other night that Gina wasn’t feeling well.”

  “That’s correct. Monday evening, she came home from work and said she might be coming down with something. I told her to get some rest while I finished fixing supper. She went into her room and closed the door. I thought she was napping.” Mrs. Wagner’s voice grew thin and trailed off, punctuated with a sob.

  Zoe looked around, spotted the box of tissues on a table a few feet away, and leaned over to grab it and place them in front of Gina’s mother. “I’m sorry.”

  “No.” Mrs. Wagner plucked a couple of tissues and dabbed her nose and eye
s. “It’s okay. I want to know why Gina…why she’s gone.”

  “You’re okay with answering a few questions?”

  “Yes. Please. Ask.”

  Zoe’s mind raced through the possibilities. “Had she been sick prior to Monday?”

  “No. In fact, we’d been joking last week how we’d both made it this far through the winter without so much as a cold. When she came home that evening, I thought she must have caught the flu that’s going around.” Mrs. Wagner looked at Zoe, eyes imploring. “Could that be it? I know people sometimes die from the flu.”

  But not usually otherwise healthy people. The flu. Carbon monoxide poisoning mimicked the flu, but there had been none of the signs. No cherry lips or cheeks. And her lungs had been clear. “You said you’ve been fine?”

  “Yes. Not a sniffle.”

  “Do you think it’d be okay if I talked to her coworkers?”

  “Please. I’m sure they’d be glad to help any way they can.”

  The phone on the desk rang. Zoe looked at it and the blinking light next to “line one.” Should she pick up? But the ringing cut off and the light stayed on. Paulette had answered from another extension. Bringing her focus back to Mrs. Wagner, Zoe asked, “Did Gina have any history of illness? Any past problems with her health?”

  “You mean, like cancer?”

  There had been no surgical scars, no sign of damage to any of the internal organs. Zoe shrugged. “Anything.”

  “No. Not since she was a kid. She’d had all the usual childhood bugs. A series of ear infections.” Mrs. Wagner’s forehead furrowed in thought. “Other than an occasional cold, as an adult, she’s been healthy. She takes care of herself.” Mrs. Wagner winced. “Took care of herself. Her kids. And her father and me. She always made sure I took my meds and drank enough water.”

  “What meds are you on?”

  “Something for high blood pressure—”

  Before Gina’s mother could say more, Paulette appeared in the doorway, her face damp with tears. Zoe leapt to her feet. “What’s wrong?”

  Paulette glanced at Mrs. Wagner. “I’m sorry to interrupt.” She brought her gaze back to Zoe, obviously struggling to hold it together. And failing. “The hospital just called. Franklin went into cardiac arrest again. He died five minutes ago.”