by Mary Maxwell
“Can I call you back? It’s getting ready to—”
There was a sharp click before Trent was replaced by silence. I smiled, shook my head and left the phone on the counter while I went into the living room to turn on the television. A split second later, I heard Dina Kincaid’s voice as the screen filled with a static shot of an ambulance, two patrol cars and Trent’s SUV in the driveway at Vito’s house.
“At this point,” Dina was saying, “we’re treating it as a suspicious disappearance. We obviously can’t release details of our investigation, but we are asking the public to call our tip line if they saw anything in the vicinity this afternoon or have information about Mr. Marclay that will help us find him.”
The reporter asked about witnesses, but Dina repeated her comment about the sensitivity of ongoing investigations. When the fresh-faced broadcaster attempted to ask his question in a slightly different manner, Dina smiled and thanked him for his interest before stepping away from the camera.
During the rest of the report from Crescent Creek, the television screen filled with picturesque shots of the downtown business district, the gazebo in Aurora Ridge Park and a montage of local landmarks that included a nice glimpse of Sky High Pies. As the montage ended and the reporter reappeared, my phone chirped in the kitchen.
“Hey,” Trent said when I answered. “Did you see the report by any chance?”
“I did. Dina looked great.”
“Yeah, she did. But the guy was a bonehead.”
“He was just doing his job,” I said.
Trent grunted. “I suppose, but I’ll never understand why they keep asking the same thing over and over once they’re told that it’s an ongoing investigation.”
“Because they’re persistent and intrepid,” I suggested.
“More like stubborn and entitled,” Trent said.
I waited while he delivered his standard diatribe about the media before he asked why I’d called earlier.
“Probably just so I could hear your cheerful, upbeat voice,” I joked.
He muttered and cursed before threatening to hang up.
“No, wait! Hang on, big guy. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Okay,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
“I was curious about something,” I said. “Did Pia mention any details about the car that was in the driveway when she arrived?”
“The silver sports car?” he asked.
“Yes. You said it was on her Instagram, but she didn’t say a word about it to me.”
“Probably the shock,” Trent speculated. “Pia told Dina later that she heard a door slam and a car screech away when she was still standing in Vito’s living room staring at the blood. Since we found his BMW in the garage, she must’ve heard the Aston Martin leaving. But there’s obviously no way to know who was behind the wheel.”
“Okay,” I said. “There was also something I wanted to share with you about Eva King.”
“What about her?” he said.
“My neighbor overheard a couple of—”
“Viveca England?” Trent interrupted.
“Yes, that’s the one. She was in the hardware store and heard two people talking about Eva King.”
“How did that come up with Viv?”
“We met for dinner at Cactus Moon and I told her about what happened at Vito Marclay’s place.”
“You guys have a nice evening?” Trent asked.
“I suppose. We talked about her new business, and I was—”
“What else did she say about Eva King?”
“That was it,” I said. “She heard a couple of people mention the same name. Has anyone else reported that? Since the buzz about Eva is going around town, I thought maybe someone else heard the same conversation.”
“Haven’t heard anything yet,” Trent answered. “But this is already sounding like a strange case. Between what Pia told Dina in the interrogation room and someone giving the name of a dead girl on a 911 call, this thing doesn’t sound like a simple crime of passion.”
“Why not?”
He scoffed. “That’s for me to know,” he said. “And for you to find out.”
I waited.
“Because I can’t discuss it with you,” Trent continued a moment later. “Conflict of interest and all that.”
“I get it,” I said. “But I’d like to help my friend.”
“Which one?” he asked.
“Pia Lincoln, of course. Who else would I be talking about?”
“How should I know, Katie. You’re friends with everybody in town.”
“Well, we were…” I decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. Trent was in a grouchy mood and it was late. “Anyway, thanks for calling back. I hope you—”
“That’s it?” he said sharply. “You’re just going to throw in the towel?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You usually keep digging, Katie. Asking questions and snooping around and trying to figure out the whole whodunit thing.”
“Who’s to say that I won’t?” I snickered softly. “It’s still early days here, right?”
He mumbled something off-color.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry, Katie. I just…” There was something different in his voice, a faint sorrow that didn’t fit with his gruff declarations a moment before. “Never mind, okay? I should get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”
“Wait,” I said. “What’s wrong? You sound pretty down all of a sudden.”
He cleared his throat, but didn’t respond.
“Trent?”
Again, nothing.
“Is Deputy Chief Walsh grumpy-wumpy?” I said, doing my best to sound like Miss Piggy after too much coffee.
“What’s wrong with your voice?” he asked.
“I was trying to make you laugh,” I said quietly. “What’s going on?”
“Eh, it’s nothing,” he mumbled.
“That’s a bunch of bull hockey,” I said. “We’ve been friends for, like, a million years. I know when you’re up, Trent. And I definitely know when you’re down.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And right now,” I continued, “you’re down. Tell me everything, big guy. Why do you suddenly sound so morose?”
“I don’t know what that is, Katie.”
“Morose? It’s you right now—glum, gloomy, depressed.”
“I’m not depressed,” he said after a few moments of silence. “It’s just that…well, every now and then, when we’re talking or laughing or whatever, I feel bad about what I did back in high school.”
I’d heard the confession before, usually when he was exhausted from a series of sleepless nights or snockered from one too many beers.
“Is that all?” I said, trying to sound fizzy and cheerful. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Trent. We were kids. You fell out of love with me and into love with Dina. It’s what can happen at wild parties fueled by booze and hormones.”
“Yeah, but I still feel bad,” he grumbled. “I was a jerk back then.”
“You won’t hear me arguing differently,” I said. “But it’s in the past, okay? You need to let it go and move on.”
“I guess you’re right, Katie.”
I chuckled. “I know that I’m right,” I said. “Now, you should get some shuteye. Sleep well, Deputy Chief Walsh.”
“You, too,” he said, sounding a bit less mournful. “I’ll talk to you later.”
CHAPTER 11
The phone was loud and jarring when it rang during the middle of the night. I fumbled for it on the bedside table and answered without checking the screen.
“Katie?”
I didn’t recognize the voice, so I mumbled something.
“You were probably sleeping,” the caller said. “I’m really sorry to wake you up, but—”
“Who is this?” I asked, surfacing from the gauzy depths of a fading dream.
“It’s Pia.”
I reached over and turned on the lamp. Then I pushed
myself into a sitting position against the pillows.
“Okay. What’s…what time is it?”
“Two-fifteen,” she said. “And I’m sorry. But I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Vito,” she said breathlessly. “He’s here.”
“At your house?”
“Yes. He was here when I got back from the police station.”
Pia’s announcement left me momentarily speechless. Despite the haze of slumber and the bewildering surprise of a startling phone call in the middle of the night, I tried to connect the shards of information: Pia Lincoln, two in the morning, Vito, police station. Who was Vito and why was she calling to tell me that—
“Oh, my word!” I blurted, suddenly wide awake as a shot of adrenaline sent my sluggish brain spinning. “Is he okay?”
“He was covered in blood,” she said, her voice dropping in volume. “He kept mumbling something about a fight at his house and some guys taking him to a motel room, but he got away and used one of their cars.”
“Do you know who did this?” I asked. “Or why they targeted Vito?”
Pia sighed. “It’s got something to do with a scam, Katie. I guess they’ve been planning it for months. And Vito was ready to go through with it until he and I met. I guess that he told the other people that he was pulling out because he wanted to stay here in Crescent Creek.”
“What was the scam?”
“Something to do with old paintings,” Pia said.
“And who was involved?” I asked.
She exhaled again, sounding frazzled and weary. “I know them, Katie. And so do you.”
Her answer left me speechless. As I processed the reply, Pia continued relaying what had happened in the moments after Vito turned up on her doorstep.
“I keep trying to get him to calm down, but he insists that Phil Bickerton is involved and a woman and her son from New York named…” She stopped in midstream. “Katie? Someone’s at the door. I just had to—”
The call dropped as I waited for her to finish the thought.
My mind skittered wildly. Pia Lincoln, whispering and frightened, Vito turns up out of the blue, someone at the door in the middle of the night.
I quickly dialed her number and listened, counting the seemingly endless series of rings: seven, eight, nine, ten—
“You’ve reached the voicemail of Pia Lincoln,” I heard as the call was automatically transferred. “I’m either away from my desk or assisting clients. Please leave a message and I’ll be back in touch as soon as possible. Thanks for calling and have a gourmet day!”
An eternity passed as I waited for the loud metallic tone to signal the start of the recording. Once it sounded, I left a rushed, breathless message, asking her to call me back.
I held the phone in my hand and sat in bed for a few tense minutes. Then I repeated the process: dialing her number, listening to her outgoing message, recording another request for her to call me.
“Okay,” I said once the phone was back on the nightstand. “What are we going to do?”
I quickly ran through the options. I could wait for Pia to return the call. I could jump in the car and drive over to her house. Or I could—
“911,” I said grabbing the phone again.
I punched the three digits and waited.
“Police Dispatch,” a man said calmly when the call connected. “What’s the exact location of your emergency?”
“This is Kate Reed,” I said. “Can you send a car to Pia Lincoln’s house? It’s at the intersection of Verbena and Northfield.”
“Are you at the location, Miss Reed?”
“No, Pia just called me from there. I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but she didn’t sound right and…” My mind scrambled through a series of fractured thoughts about Pia, and whether or not the emergency operator would be aware of what had happened at Vito Marclay’s house the previous afternoon. “Can you please send a car?” I said again. “I’m going to drive over myself, but I wanted to let you guys know because of—”
“I don’t know if you going over there is a good idea,” he cut in. “If, that is, you have concerns about Miss Lincoln’s safety.”
His words of caution were lost in the frantic images crashing through my mind.
“Are you sending a car?” I demanded.
“Yes,” the man said. “But before you—”
“Thank you so much!” I blurted. “Would you let them know that I’m on my way?”
“Miss Reed?”
I considered replying, but didn’t want to take the time. As I clicked off the phone and rushed to the closet, I remembered something Nana Reed said on more than one occasion when I followed her around the Sky High kitchen.
“When life presents difficult choices and truly tight spots,” she’d tell me, “it’s sometimes better to beg for forgiveness after the fact than to ask for permission ahead of time.”
CHAPTER 12
The headlights of my car sliced through the gloom, bright beams illuminating the two-lane ribbon of pavement. As I raced to Pia’s house, my mind rushed through a series of possible explanations for the scenario that my friend had described.
Was Vito hurt? Why had he suddenly turned up? Had he provided an explanation for the strange scene she discovered at his house?
In twenty-four hours, Pia’s life had been completely upended, flipping from order and meticulousness into a pair of baffling, chaotic incidents. As I came around the corner about a block from her house, I saw the pulsing strobes on a pair of CCPD patrol cars. One was in the street, the driver’s door open and the interior glowing from the overhead light. The other sedan was angled across the end of the driveway. As I parked at the curb, I caught a glimpse of a third vehicle near the house.
It was a two-door silver sports car, sleek and gleaming in the dual lights mounted above Pia’s garage. I wondered for a moment if it was the Aston Martin that she’d posted the day before on her Instagram. But before I could walk up the drive for a closer look, a voice came from the shadows.
“Can I help you?”
It was Amanda Crane, looking crisp in her dark blue uniform pants and white shirt. She walked briskly across the sloping lawn, one hand on her service revolver until I moved into the puddle of light from a streetlamp. She smiled when she saw my face and told me that Dina Kincaid and a couple of other officers were inside talking to one of the neighbors.
“Is Pia here?” I asked.
Amanda shook her head. “She and the Volvo are gone, but we had a call from Cal at the Exxon over on Gilpin. He thinks that he saw Pia and some guy drive past his gas station about twenty minutes ago.”
“How did Calvin hear about what was going on over here?” I asked.
Amanda smiled. “He’s got a scanner,” she explained. “He’s also got a soft spot for Pia. She organized his daughter’s high school graduation party for free after Leslie’s accident.”
I’d donated cupcakes and cookies for the event, so I was familiar with Pia’s generosity. Calvin Brewster and his wife had been planning a lavish celebration for their eldest daughter when Leslie’s car hit a patch of gravel on a winding road and she ended up in the hospital with extensive injuries. The party was postponed for several months as Leslie recuperated. During that time, Pia solicited donations from local businesses so that Cal and Leslie’s daughter could have a wonderful graduation bash once her mother had recovered enough to attend.
“I remember,” I said. “That was such a happy day.”
Amanda nodded over her shoulder toward the house. “I heard that Pia called you before all of this went down.”
“Yeah. I was asleep, so it’s a little fuzzy. But she told me that Vito Marclay was here.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that the guy from yesterday?” she said. “The home invasion or robbery?”
“I don’t know how Trent and Dina are classifying it,” I answered. “But he’s the guy. Pia stopped by to s
ee Vito yesterday afternoon and found the house in disarray.”
“And blood on the living room floor,” Amanda said in a somber tone. “I saw the photos from the scene.” She shifted her stance. “Does Dina know you were coming?”
I shook my head. “No, it was more…well, I suppose it was more instinct and my own curiosity. I’m not sure why Pia called me instead of you guys.”
Amanda smiled. “People trust you, Katie. You make them feel safe.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed by the comment. “But Pia sounded pretty terrified, so I think she—”
“Hang on a sec,” Amanda interrupted. “Do you want me to run inside and let Dina know that you’re here?”
“Do you mind?”
She shook her head and asked me to wait before walking toward the house. After I watched her disappear inside, my gaze wandered to the silver car in the driveway. I moved closer for a better look at the back, noticing the Colorado plate inside a silver frame. I quickly pulled out my phone and took a picture of the tag, making sure the name of the dealership on the frame was clearly visible: LUXURY BY KENTON. Then I stepped around and peered into the car.
There was a leather jacket on the front passenger seat along with a pack of cigarettes, a few paper napkins and a crumpled carryout sack from Burger & Brew. With the exception of a large white umbrella, the backseat was neat and tidy.
“Nice ride,” I said to myself. “A little rich for my taste, but perfect for somebody with money to burn.”
After inspecting the car for a few more minutes, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through emails. It was a habit whenever I was waiting for something, but it also kept me rooted in the normalcy of daily life. Studying the collection of notes and invoices and links to funny cat videos on YouTube from my mother helped me feel less jumpy about the situation with Pia and Vito Marclay.
I was scanning a long missive from my sister when I heard the scuffle of footsteps on the driveway. It was Amanda, looking apprehensive and tense.
“Well, that was fun,” she said.
I smiled warily. “Everything okay?”
“Not really,” she answered. “Right before I got Dina’s attention, she’d heard that Pia’s car was found in the alley behind Erin Rosso’s hair salon.”