With a Vengeance

by Annette Dashofy

He definitely heard no smile in her voice, however. “Have you had a chance to check into Bud’s ATV?”

  “I’m just about to talk to him.”

  “Did you know he can walk?”

  “What?”

  “I guess that’s a no. Earl told me Bud’s not completely wheelchair bound.”

  This was news to Pete. He’d never seen the man on his feet. Whatever had put him in the chair had happened before Pete moved to Monongahela County.

  When he didn’t reply right away, Zoe added, “That means he could have walked from the quad to the spot where…”

  Pete completed her sentence. “Where the killer fired the shots.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  After a pause Zoe said, “I heard you caught Hector and Lucy?” There was a hopeful uptick at the end of the question.

  “Yeah.”

  The silence on the line bore the weight of her unasked questions. Did they do it? Was it safe to go on calls?

  Pete wished like hell he had answers for her. “I’m going to talk to Bud. I’ll call you when I know anything.”

  Inside the garage, Bud was at his usual post, bent over a stack of papers. He looked up when Pete tapped the counter. “No, your cop car is not ready yet,” he grumbled. “The thing’s a mess. Gonna take us at least a week.”

  “That’s not what I’m here about.”

  “Good.” Bud glanced at his watch. “’Cause I’m about to call it a day. Quittin’ time.”

  Pete took what he hoped appeared to be a casual look around the garage—with special attention to the area in the rear. The other mechanics must have already clocked out. The place was deserted.

  “Whatcha looking for?” Bud asked.

  Pete kept his voice level. “I hear you have an ATV.”

  Bud blinked. Nodded. And aimed a thumb toward the back of the first bay. “Hang on a minute. I’ll be right out.”

  Bud spun his chair and wheeled toward the door leading to what Pete guessed was his office. A moment later, another door to Pete’s right swung open, and Bud rolled through.

  “What’s with the interest in my ATV all of a sudden?”

  That aspect of the crimes had been withheld from the public and the media. Bud’s question seemed genuine. Unless he was covering his ass.

  “We’ve had a rash of all-terrain vehicle thefts,” Pete lied.

  “You think mine’s stolen?”

  “I have to check, Bud. Just doing my job.”

  Bud performed another perfect spin in place before wheeling toward the rear of the bay. “If anyone claims I stole this one, they’re lying. I bought it used, but legal.” He continued to the back of the garage and stopped next to a tarp covering what had to be the quad in question. He grabbed the tarp and whipped it off, revealing a clean albeit battered Arctic Cat. Bud beamed at the ATV. “She ain’t pretty, but she runs like a champ.”

  Pete strolled around it, taking in the details. For long hours, he’d stared at the photos of the tire tracks. These ones looked as close to a match as any he’d seen so far. The quad didn’t have a speck of dust or mud on it. Either it hadn’t been outside lately—or it had been washed recently. He eyed a gun rack mounted on the back fender to the left of the rider’s seat. “What do you use it for?”

  “So far I’ve only had it out once to putt around a bit. But I hope to do some deer hunting this fall. I used to go out with my dad when I was a kid and with my brothers after that.” Bud slapped his leg. “Haven’t been hunting in years though, for obvious reasons. Thought this buggy might give me back some freedom.”

  “How long have you owned it?”

  “Not long. Couple weeks maybe.”

  Pete wished he’d agreed to upgrade to one of those phones with a camera that connected to the internet. He could take a photo of the tires and email it to the lab. “I’m going to get my camera from my vehicle and take some photos of it. If that’s all right with you.” He’d take the pictures anyway, but Bud’s reaction might tell him what he needed to know.

  “Sure. Whatever you want.” The words were right, but Bud’s eyes shifted as he spoke. He wasn’t as happy to help as he let on.

  Pete kept a wary eye on the garage while he walked out to his SUV. He wasn’t sure what he expected. Bud to leap from his wheelchair onto the Arctic Cat and roar away? But he could see the man sitting in his chair in the shadows, waiting.

  As Pete dug through the canvas bag that held his evidence collecting supplies, he placed a quick call to Baronick and learned the officer transporting Lucy was still about forty-five minutes away. Baronick chuckled when Pete asked if the officer had reported any trouble with the girl.

  Back inside the garage, Pete adjusted the camera to take close-up shots and snapped photos of all four tires, making notes to label each frame. If the photos matched, he’d confiscate the quad and do more definitive testing. But his gut was at full alert.

  “Tell me something,” Pete said, keeping his tone conversational. “What happened to put you in that contraption?”

  Bud chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “I broke my back…boogie boarding.”

  Pete lowered the camera and turned to see if the man was joking. “Boogie boarding?”

  Bud scratched his head. “I know, I know. Damned stupid thing for an old man to do. We were on vacation in Hawaii with the kids, and I got goaded into it. Gotta admit it was a blast. Right up until a wave got the better of me.”

  “I didn’t know you had kids.” Pete didn’t know Bud had a wife either.

  Bud’s smile faded. “Two boys. Ain’t seen them in years.”

  Pete waited for him to elaborate, but Bud lowered his head and rubbed one leg as if massaging a cramp. “So you haven’t been able to walk since the accident?”

  Bud straightened, but kept his gaze on the quad. “No.”

  Again, he didn’t seem willing to explain further, and Pete decided pressing him—now—wouldn’t accomplish much. Powering down the camera, Pete said, “That should do it. I’ll let you know when we clear you.” Or when they didn’t.

  Bud still avoided eye contact, but nodded. “You know your way out.”

  Pete slid behind the wheel of his Edge, setting the camera on the passenger seat. As he keyed Kevin’s number into his phone, he watched the large garage door close.

  “Where are you?” Pete asked when his officer picked up.

  “Keeping an eye on Snake Sullivan.”

  “Is he doing anything?”

  “Last time I cruised by, he was sitting on his porch with a six-pack. Only it’s down to a three-pack.”

  Pete weighed the decision to pull Kevin off babysitting duties with Sullivan. It wasn’t much of a choice. “Forget him. I need your eyes on Bud Kramer.”

  The call went silent for a moment before Kevin replied, “Bud Kramer? The paralyzed guy who owns the garage?”

  “You know any other Bud Kramers?”

  “Well, no.”

  It was Pete’s turn to be silent. If Kevin came back with another stupid question, he’d have the young cop on desk duty. Including janitorial chores like scrubbing the toilet.

  As if reading Pete’s thoughts, Kevin said, “I’m on my way, Chief.”

  The call came in from county for a ninety-year-old female who was unresponsive, but still breathing. Nothing at all suspicious. Except for the location. A house on a lonely stretch of country road with no neighbors in close proximity.

  “I hate being scared of doing our job,” Tony grumbled. He and his partner were up for the call.

  Zoe manned the radio and handed him the note on which she’d scrawled the address. “I’ll call for police backup.”

  Tony waved her off. “I’m sure it’ll be safe. If things look suspici
ous when we get there, I’ll phone you and then you can call in the troops.”

  “If things look suspicious,” she called after him as they headed out the door, “stay in the unit until the police get there.”

  Earl appeared in the doorway from the back. “I have to agree with him. I’m sick of being scared to do my job.”

  “They have both the Livingstons in custody, and Pete’s checking on Bud Kramer. One of them has to be the shooter, so I think we’re okay.” She hoped.

  “And yet you want to call for police backup for a routine medical emergency.”

  Zoe didn’t reply. While it was true she hoped they were safe with the three main suspects under scrutiny, she wouldn’t completely relax until Pete told her they had their man. Or girl.

  “Control, this is Medic One, en route,” Tracy’s voice came over the radio.

  “Ten four, Medic One,” the EOC dispatcher responded and gave the time. “Eighteen twenty-six.”

  “I’m gonna call Pete,” Zoe said.

  Earl crossed to the bench in front of the window and flopped onto it. “If it’ll put your mind at ease.”

  She keyed Pete’s number on her cell phone. He answered on the second ring. “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “They’re just pulling in with Lucy.”

  “Anything on Bud Kramer?”

  “I sent photos of his tire treads to the county lab. Haven’t heard back from them yet.” He sounded busy. Which, of course, he was.

  “The reason I’m calling—”

  Before she could tell him about the unresponsive woman, the county dispatcher came on the radio. “Medic One, this is Control. Return to base. Repeat, return to base. Caller reports his mother has regained consciousness and refuses medical help.”

  Zoe blew out a relieved sigh.

  “Hello?” Pete said over the phone. “Zoe?”

  “Sorry. False alarm,” she told him. “We’re all a little jumpy around here.”

  He chuckled. “Roger that.”

  In the background, she could hear Lucy Livingston screeching at the top of her lungs. “I guess your suspect has arrived. I’ll let you go.”

  “Thanks a lot,” he said sarcastically.

  The radio crackled. “Medic One returning to base.”

  As Zoe ended the call, Earl rose and patted her shoulder.

  “Better safe than sorry,” he said as he headed for the lounge.

  She leaned back in her chair. Maybe she was just paranoid. Maybe the killer was in custody and the nightmare of the last few days was over.

  Except Pete hadn’t mentioned arresting Bud Kramer. Yet.

  Twenty-Five

  “Get your hands off me, you moron!”

  Lucy Livingston reminded Pete of a Chihuahua. All teeth and bark and no idea of how small she really was.

  Or how much trouble she was in.

  Two county uniforms each had one of her arms and “escorted” her into the Vance Township interrogation room, her feet barely touching the ground but flailing and back-pedaling the whole trip down the hallway.

  From the holding cell farther back in the building, Hector bellowed, “She didn’t do anything!”

  “Daddy?” she cried out as the officers shoved her through the interrogation room door and closed it, cutting off her tirade.

  Hector, however, continued to roar. “Pete Adams. I want to talk to you.”

  Baronick had trailed in behind his officers and their suspect and stood at the front door, grinning like that damned Cheshire Cat. “I offered to keep her at County HQ along with the two quads we brought in. You insisted we bring her here.”

  “You can have her back when I’m done with her.” Pete grabbed a folder from the desk in the front office, headed for the interrogation room, and called over his shoulder, “You coming?”

  Baronick fell into step behind him. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “Adams,” Hector shouted from the back again. “Get your ass back here. I need to talk to you.”

  “Since you asked so nicely,” Pete muttered to himself. He opened the door to the interrogation room and found the two county officers looming over a seated and subdued Lucy Livingston. He wondered what they’d done to shut her up, but whatever it was, she didn’t appear physically injured. Nodding to the officers, he said, “Go tell her father I’ll be there when I’m done speaking with his charming daughter.”

  Once Baronick and Pete were alone with the girl, she thumped her handcuffed fists on the table. “Oh, wonderful. I’ve traded one set of Neanderthals for another. Get these things off me.”

  Pete eased into the chair across from her, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I hear you tried to kick out the windows in the back of the squad car.”

  Lucy held up her bound hands. “Because of these. If they hadn’t put these on, I’d have pounded the windows out with my fists.”

  “You’re not making much of a case for yourself.”

  She slumped back and blew a disgusted breath that made her dark bangs float up and settle again on her forehead.

  Pete clicked on his recorder and read the Miranda rights to her. “Do you understand?” he asked.

  “Of course I understand. I’m not an idiot.”

  Baronick snorted, but covered by coughing into his hand.

  Lucy twisted toward him. “Don’t you dare laugh at me. What’s your IQ?” She thrust out her chest. “Mine’s 168.”

  Pete had serious doubts. After all, her lips were moving. But he needed to get information from this girl and arguing with her wasn’t the way to do it. “Impressive. Now if you’ll promise to act civil, I’ll take those cuffs off.”

  Her lower lip trembled, but she extended her arms toward him. “I promise.”

  He unlocked and removed the cuffs, and she massaged her wrists. She did not, however, thank him.

  “All right,” Pete said, opening the folder. “Let’s get this over with so you can get out of here.” He didn’t mention out of here might mean into county lockup. “Where have you been the last few evenings?”

  “I was at my friend’s house down in Waynesburg last night. Just ask your storm troopers. They picked me up there.”

  “What about the three evenings before that? Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.”

  “I was at home.”

  “Really? As early as six o’clock?”

  Her lips weren’t moving, but her mind clearly was. After several long moments of silence, she crossed her arms. “I’m invoking my right to remain silent.”

  “Invoking,” Baronick echoed. “Maybe she really does have an IQ of 158.”

  “One-sixty-eight,” she snapped.

  “Excuse me,” Baronick said, doing vocal loopty-loops with the word excuse.

  Pete glared at the detective. “Do I have to separate you two?”

  “Please,” Lucy said.

  Baronick held up both hands in surrender, but he stayed in the room.

  Pete removed a trio of photographs they’d taken in Lucy’s bedroom and spread them in front of her. “You have a nice set of trophies there.”

  She glanced at the photos and then looked at Pete, her lips pressed into a tight thin line.

  “I understand both you and your father are champion sharpshooters. Avid hunters too. So you know the area pretty well.”

  “I’m not talking to you.” Lucy was definitely her father’s daughter.

  Pete withdrew another set of photos from the folder and set them in front of her one at a time. “Curtis Knox. He broke off your engagement well before you admitted to it. Now he’s in the hospital.” Pete laid down another photo, this one from Barry Dickson’s autopsy.

  Lucy winced and looked away.

  “Barry Dickson. Curtis’s partner. Did he just get in the way of your shot? Or were you angry bec
ause he helped convince Curtis to dump you?”

  She swallowed hard and kept her gaze aimed at a corner of the ceiling.

  Pete set down another autopsy photo. “Jason Dyer. Another ex-boyfriend of yours. Also shot from long distance. Imagine that.”

  A cell phone rang—not Pete’s. Baronick dug his phone from his pocket and checked the caller ID. “Excuse me,” he said, and ducked out of the room.

  Pete tapped the photo of Jason. The girl would look at her handiwork whether she wanted to or not.

  Lucy sniffed, but kept her eyes averted. Pete slammed his palm down on the table. She flinched. “Look at the damn picture, Lucy.”

  Trembling, she took a quick glimpse toward it and looked away again.

  Pete leaned toward her. “What about Rick Brown?”

  The name brought her gaze back to his, her eyes wide and damp.

  “He’s dead too. Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “Snake,” she said.

  Snake? For a moment Pete wondered if she’d done something to him too. Or had Snake been responsible for Brown’s death?

  “I want to call Snake. His uncle’s a lawyer, and I want him to represent me. I’m not talking to you any more without an attorney present.”

  The door swung open, and Baronick stepped inside, a strange look on his face. “I need to speak with you.”

  Pete gathered the photos and tucked them inside the folder. “Wait here,” he told the girl. “I’ll have someone bring you a phone.”

  In the hallway with the door again closed, Baronick asked, “Did she tell you anything?”

  “Just that she wants Snake’s uncle as her attorney.”

  Baronick nodded. “Figures. That was the lab on the phone.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing from ballistics on the Livingstons’ guns yet, but their ATVs definitely don’t match our tire marks.”

  Not what Pete wanted to hear. “Damn it.”

  “That’s not all. One of our detectives did a follow-up interview with the owner of the stolen Chevy Cavalier.”

  “Jack Utah,” Pete said. The hoarder.

  “Yeah. Turns out he had the car serviced recently.” Baronick paused. “At Bud Kramer’s Garage.”