Dead Too Soon: A Thriller (Val Ryker series Book 3)

by Ann Voss Peterson

  “Uh… Hess? Carla? Maybe Grace?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” McGlade spread his arms open wide. “A duck!”

  “A what?”

  “I bought a duck. The amphibious vehicle kind. Remember? Boat with wheels.”

  “I thought you were working up a dossier on Carla.”

  “I have been. Stopped at the library.” He held up the book. Wisconsin Dells High School was emblazoned across the leather cover in gold.

  “A high school yearbook?” Lund said.

  “The high school yearbook from the year Carla graduated.”

  “And were you able to track down any of her classmates?”

  “I was getting to that. Then some woman named Fancy Nancy called me up. Said you gave her my number.”

  Lund face-palmed, head in hand. Served him right for trying to be funny. Now Harry had wasted his time with Nancy instead of helping them find Grace.

  Lund picked up his phone and found the next number on the list, ignoring Harry.

  It didn’t work. “Anyway, Fancy Nancy is a little shriveled for my tastes—gravity has bested her, and the old girl can tuck her ta-tas into her waistband—but she said she could find me any vehicle, anything I wanted. And she did. Just like that. It’s out in the parking lot, double parked in front of a fire hydrant.”

  “There isn’t a fire hydrant in—”

  “Wanna see it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, here, I have a picture on my phone.”

  Harry held up his cell. It showed an unflattering picture of Lund’s face, Photoshopped onto the body of Kermit the Frog.

  “It’s nice,” Lund deadpanned.

  “Wait, that isn’t it. Here.” McGlade flashed Lund another picture.

  “Yep, that’s a duck, all right. Now are you going to go—”

  “Whatcha working on there?” Harry craned his neck, perusing Lund’s lists.

  “Lists of people who won bids on old ambulances.”

  “Well, it’s important for a guy to have a hobby. Even a stupid one like that.”

  “A similar ambulance was used to abduct Grace.”

  “And you want to see if any of these ambulance owners are connected to Carla?”

  “Yes. Now can you get back to the dossier, McGlade? I have a lot of people to contact.”

  “Don’t waste your time.”

  “What?”

  “Contacting all those people. Let’s go for a duck ride.”

  “You’re an idiot, McGlade.”

  “Easy, I’m not trying to check off anything on my list with you. I was thinking you can drive while I plink some stripper. What’s a nearby lake with a lot of big waves?”

  “Dixon Hess has Grace, McGlade.”

  “Time ticking away, huh?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Then do like I said. Don’t waste it calling all those people. Just talk to Stanley Krause.”

  “Stanley Krause? Why would I only talk to him?”

  “You can talk to all of them, if you really want, but it would be a waste of time.”

  Lund studied McGlade’s expression. Dumb. Irresponsible. But underneath, there was something else. A hint of smug.

  “Why only Krause?” Lund repeated.

  McGlade’s grin widened. He plunked down the yearbook in front of Lund, and it fell open to a page showing a young Carla and a girl with short auburn hair, smiling, arms around each other, and both wearing the light blue of the Wisconsin Dells Chiefs.

  “Tammy Krause was Carla’s BFF.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Six

  Val

  Val pulled up the criminal record of the last name on her list. All the other leads had come to a dead end. Either they had no more history of working with explosives than Hess or they were still behind bars. And she didn’t hold out much hope for the last guy.

  Timothy Heimbach had been Hess’s cellmate for such a short time so long ago Val wasn’t sure it was worth the effort. But as soon as she saw his rap sheet, she changed her tune.

  Four counts of recklessly endangering safety.

  Six counts of possession of explosives.

  And, over the years, seven DUIs.

  It seemed he had been transporting explosives. Thirsty, Tim had stopped at a bar to tip back a few beers. And when he weaved his way back to where he’d parked the truck, he caught the attention of a patrol officer who arrested him as soon as Tim had started the ignition. After discovery of the cargo in the back, both Tim and the truck’s owner, a man named Paul Burke, were serving time.

  Val’s pulse quickened. Whether this guy had shared a cell with Hess for a short time or not, he seemed like a promising candidate. But with Class F felonies on his sheet, he might be still at Waupun or somewhere else in the system.

  She searched for his parole date.

  Nothing.

  She searched for his current location.

  Nothing.

  She dug deeper into his file, and there it was. The date of his death. Five days before Hess had been freed.

  Damn. All of that, and she’d gotten nowhere. She hoped Jack was having better luck with her feebie.

  Val pulled out her phone and was about to tap Jack’s number when a call came in from Lund.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “It’s not.”

  “Then you’re going to love what I have to tell you.”

  “You found something?”

  “Strangely enough, McGlade did. Right before he took off again in his duck.”

  “His duck?”

  “Don’t ask. I’ll be there in five to pick you up.” Lund hung up, leaving Val staring at her phone.

  Val called Jack. “Lund says Harry found something.”

  “Harry?”

  “Surprised?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose he has his moments,” Jack said. “If you need me, let me know. Otherwise, I’m going to stick here. I haven’t gotten very far yet. Harassment takes time to bear fruit. And I owe this guy a decade’s worth.”

  “Of fruit?”

  “Of harassment. But you’ve given me an idea.”

  When Lund’s truck pulled up in front of the station, Val ducked through the downpour and climbed into the passenger seat. “So what is this exciting McGlade discovery?”

  Lund filled Val in on Tammy Krause and her connection to Carla. “Her father bought the ambulance, along with a couple of squad cars and a fire rescue truck. He seems to be something of a collector. Name is Stanley Krause.”

  “The guy who owns the supper club?”

  “Yeah. Along with several other places. You wouldn’t believe the amount of stuff he snapped up on this auction alone. Gotta wonder if he’s starting an emergency-vehicle-themed diner or something.” He made a face. “Doesn’t seem very appetizing. But then, maybe I just have too much experience with emergency vehicles.”

  “What’s the address?”

  Lund recited the address. “It’s an upscale neighborhood outside the Dells.”

  Val called Olson. Her first question was about Ruth Steviak.

  “She’s not at her house, Val, but there’s blood.”

  “Forced entry?”

  “No. He must have talked his way in somehow. We have BOLO out on her. We’ll find her.”

  Val let out a shaky breath. “I know you will.”

  She had to believe it. The alternative was too horrible to think about. She filled Pete in on the lead Harry had uncovered.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll give the Wisconsin Dells PD a call, it’s their sandbox anyway, and tell them you’ll meet them there. Can you call me if you learn something?”

  Val smiled a little at his command of the situation. She’d never doubted Olson could do the job of chief, but she was a little proud all the same. It was also strange to have him giving her orders instead of the other way around. “Sure thing, Pete.”

  By the time Val and Lund reached the Krause house, the Wisconsin Dell
s PD was already there. An officer headed them off in the street.

  Lund rolled down the driver’s window. “This is Val Ryker, from Lake Loyal.”

  The officer peered into the car and gave Val a nod. “Chief? Honor to meet you. You were looking for Mr. Krause, right?”

  Val didn’t know why it bothered her that people called her chief when the job was no longer hers. Her predecessor was widely known as chief long after he’d retired, as if it was a lifelong appointment, and it hadn’t bothered him a lick. To her, it felt like she was perpetuating a fraud. “Call me Val. Is Mr. Krause home? I was hoping to talk to him.”

  “Yeah. That’s going to be impossible.”

  “What happened?”

  “You’ll have to ask Detective Gillespie. I’m just directing traffic. He’s waiting for you inside.”

  Val and Lund found the detective standing on the front landing sucking on a cigarette. The rain had gotten heavier again, and was now falling in a constant patter, each drop so cold they felt as if they were drilling into Val’s bones.

  Val introduced herself and Lund, only mentioning his title, and then got to the point. “Did something happen to Krause?”

  “You could say that.” Gillespie took a long drag on his cigarette.

  “He’s dead?”

  “For a while now, it seems.”

  “Can we see him?”

  “Nasty in there, but suit yourself.” He took one last puff, then stabbed out his smoke and opened the door.

  The stench almost knocked Val over. She swallowed hard, then switched to breathing through her mouth. It could have been worse. The weather had been cold, and from the feel of it, Krause didn’t keep his heat very high.

  “Did you turn down the thermostat?” she asked Gillespie.

  “Nope. Same as when we arrived. Sixty-two.”

  That seemed on the cold side, but Val knew people who chose to keep their home temperatures in that range. “Where is the body?”

  “Upstairs.”

  The three of them dried off their shoes, slipped on paper booties designed to keep investigators from tracking in from outside and contaminating potential evidence, and climbed the stairs.

  By the time Val reached the top, her good leg was trembling with the effort and her bad was somewhere between tingle and numb.

  Lund slipped a hand to the small of her back, steadying her. “Okay?”

  “A little sick to my stomach.”

  “I was talking about…”

  “The smell. I know. It’s pretty bad.”

  He nodded. “Okay. I get it. I’ll stop coddling.”

  “Make sure you breathe through your mouth when we enter the room. And if you need to step out, don’t hesitate. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Val followed the detective into a room at the end of the hall, the smell growing so strong she thought she might have to take her own advice.

  Gillespie threw open the door. “Meet Mr. Krause.”

  The body sat in a chair and slumped onto the desk, as if taking a quick nap. But even without the smell, it would be impossible to confuse him with a sleeping man.

  Decomposition had definitely set in, giving his skin a mottled yellow and gray tinge. At least where there was skin left. Most of his face and neck were covered by cigarette burns and small cuts. Moisture spread over the desk under him. And even though it was only March, Val could hear the light buzz of flies.

  “Uh, I think I need some air.” Lund left the room.

  “Firefighters,” Gillespie said, chuckling.

  Val looked away from the body, focusing on the décor, whatever it took to keep herself from having to follow Lund.

  Although the square footage and adjoining bath suggested the architect intended this to be the master bedroom, Krause did not use it for that purpose. The desk and chair where his body was propped were the only pieces of conventional furniture. The rest of the room was dedicated to toy trains.

  A maze of thin tables wound through the space, each filled with mini mountains and tiny towns. Shelves lined the walls, displaying engines and cars, broken only by one set of shuttered windows and several paintings that echoed the railroad theme.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s been here a few days,” Gillespie said.

  Reluctantly, Val turned her attention back to the corpse. “He died from the burns and cuts?”

  “Not that I can see.” Gillespie moved close, poking and prodding. “There’s blood, but most of that seems to be the ooze of decomp. No sign of an injury big enough to kill him, unless it’s underneath him. Could be heart attack. Poor bastard looks like he went through a lot.”

  “I think that would be my job.” Harlan Runk stood in the doorway. Dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls, he looked more like a north woodsman than ever. A package of candy in one hand, he plopped a gummy worm in his mouth and sucked it between his lips.

  Val braced herself. She was going to lose it for sure.

  “Heya, sweet cheeks,” he said, beaming at Val. “Seeing you twice in two days would be a treat if not for the circumstances.”

  “Hi, Harlan.”

  “Tell truth, I’m a little surprised. Heard you weren’t in the business anymore.”

  Gillespie raised a brow.

  Val had been trying to avoid the fact that she was now a civilian. She hadn’t counted on Harlan spilling the news. “I’m doing a favor for Olson. Being his eyes and ears.”

  “You have some good-lookin’ eyes and ears, that’s for sure.”

  Gillespie frowned, but to Val’s relief, he didn’t kick her out. At least not yet.

  “So who’s the body?” Harlan asked, not that he was looking at the body. He went straight from flirting with Val to turning a full circle, gaping at the trains ringing the room. “And more importantly, when’s the estate sale?”

  Val had forgotten that Harlan was a bit of an electric train hobbyist himself. When Val had first met him, he’d had so many toy trains running around his office that one of his assistant coroners had lodged an official complaint.

  “Our victim is the homeowner,” Gillespie answered. “Name is Stanley Krause.”

  “Krause… Krause… He owns the supper club, right?”

  “In Lake Loyal?” Gillespie nodded. “Believe so. Bought it a couple of years back.”

  “Well, that makes sense.”

  Val frowned. “What does?”

  “Owner of the supper club was planning to convert the old Baraboo depot to a restaurant. Circus train themed, ya know? Ringling Brothers Circus started in Baraboo.” Harlan looked around the room once again, then stared at Val. “This is the Dells.”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Though I’m always glad to see you, it’s not your jurisdiction, butterlips, Olson’s eyes and ears or not.”

  “It would be mine,” Gillespie said. “But you can skip the cute nicknames for me. Please.”

  Harlan didn’t seem to hear the detective, he just kept staring at Val.

  “What is it, Harlan?”

  “You wouldn’t be here because this is tied to Hess, would you?”

  A frisson ran up Val’s spine. “Do you know something?”

  “Not about Hess. Not exactly.”

  “About Carla.”

  Harlan nodded.

  The old coot had had a brief flirtation with Carla. At least that’s what he’d thought it was. He was even planning to ask her out. In reality, she wasn’t after Harlan at all. Carla preferred the location of the morgue, right next door to the county jail. More specifically, right outside a window in Hess’s cell, where she could send messages to the inmate.

  “Carla was friends with Krause’s daughter in high school.”

  Harlan nodded. “They’re still friends, according to Carla.”

  “Carla mentioned Tammy?”

  “Just that she was a friend, and her father was planning to turn the Baraboo train station into a café.”

  “The train station?”
Gillespie said. “That place is all boarded up. Cinder blocks blocking the windows. Used for storage, I thought. That whole area of town is pretty deserted.”

  Val had already pulled her phone from her pocket and started for the door. “Which makes it the perfect place for a wanted fugitive to hide.”

  Carla

  Carla had a headache.

  It could be because she hadn’t slept much last night and had to get up early to reach Ruth Steviak’s house before the woman left for work.

  It could be that the past week of being a fugitive was starting to take a toll on her.

  But she was pretty sure it was the screaming.

  The Steviak woman hadn’t given them the address for the family who had Ethan. Not right away. All Carla could figure was that she thought she was being brave. The self-sacrificing do-gooder.

  Idiot.

  Of course, the woman ended up telling Dixon everything in the end, even things he’d never asked about. But she’d done it at decibel levels so high Carla would probably need hearing aids before she turned forty.

  Dixon turned at the old train depot, and Carla scrambled out of the police car and pulled the key from her pocket. She unlocked the overhead door and rolled it up, gritting her teeth against the sharp pain in her shoulder. Dixon pulled in, and she lowered the door.

  When he climbed out of the car, he was frowning.

  Carla’s pulse leaped into double time. “What?”

  Dixon shot her an annoyed glare. “A police call on the scanner.”

  “They heard her screaming?”

  “Suspicious death. Wisconsin Dells.”

  Carla was sure it had been about the social worker. Police getting calls from neighbors who heard screaming, neighbors who should be at work. She’d forgotten about the Dells.

  The Steviak woman was unlucky. Her job put her between Dixon and their son. Carla even felt bad for her if she thought about it too much.

  Krause was different.

  Krause had deserved every cut. For what he’d done to her. For what he’d done to his own foster daughter, Tammy. All back when they were too young to do anything about it and too afraid to tell.

  The old pervert.

  Now Carla had her justice, and Tammy would get the inheritance Krause was set to blow on old trucks and abandoned train stations. A gift from Dixon.