Allison Campbell Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-4

by Wendy Tyson

  “So,” Mia said, deciding to trade coy for pointed, “Anything new about Tammy?”

  Jamie ran through the information he’d discovered about Tammy’s boyfriend’s father, Scott Berger—the petty crimes, the connection to Tammy’s father via the landfill.

  Mia interrupted him, “Wait a minute, Jamie. Did you say the landfill in Kremsburg?”

  YES.

  “Who owns it?”

  NICHOLAS GRETCHKO AND HIS FATHER, ANDREI GRETCHKO.

  Mia searched sideways in her mind for a connection. Why did the Kremsburg landfill ring a bell? And that name seemed familiar. An alarm went off in her head at the mere mention of the dump.

  MIA.

  Mia looked up to see Jamie staring at her, his face stern.

  “Yes?”

  DON’T WORRY ABOUT MY BROTHER. HE’S SMART AND RESOURCEFUL. AND HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG. SOON EVERYONE WILL REALIZE THAT.

  Mia stood. She walked over to the bed and held one of Jamie’s lifeless hands. His skin was dry and papery. She felt a surge of love for this boy—for, God help her, she viewed him as a boy—and wanted to keep him safe.

  “You really believe that, don’t you? That the world is just?”

  As soon as she said it, she regretted the words. Because wasn’t Jamie’s motionless body evidence that the world was a very unjust place?

  But he simply smiled.

  IT MAY TAKE A WHILE, MIA, BUT JUSTICE DOES PREVAIL. IN THE HERE AND NOW…OR THE HEREAFTER.

  When Mia got home, she gave Buddy a quick head pat and sprinted for the living room. There, against the back wall, sat an antique Mission desk and her computer. She turned the machine on and waited for it to come alive, regretting her decision not to upgrade. The damn thing was slow.

  Kremsburg Landfill.

  Gretchko. Benini.

  Two ethnic names with no obvious connection. But she couldn’t ignore that worm of doubt wiggling its way through her brain. She was missing something, some clue that existed in the farthest recesses of her memory.

  Years of image consulting, hundreds of clients. She couldn’t be expected to remember every one of them. But, damn it, she was wishing she’d taken her gingko or ginger or whatever the hell was supposed to boost memory. She felt the clock ticking on this one.

  When the computer was finally booted, Mia typed in Google and searched for “Kremsburg” and “Gretchko.” She pulled up references to the landfill, a few business-oriented links, and two or three 5-K times, races that the younger Gretchko must have participated in. Nothing ominous, and nothing that triggered her memory.

  She tried “Andrei Gretchko.” Still nothing.

  Buddy ran into the room, and Mia rubbed behind his hound ears, the way he liked it. He leaned into her and gazed at her with adoration. He’d been a stray, showing up weeks after she moved to this property, after her daughter had been killed at the hands of Mia’s drunk-driving husband. At first she’d resented the dog’s presence. Buddy needed care and attention, and she’d had little will to provide either. But now she realized that the dog had saved her life as much as she had saved his.

  “What do you think, Buddy?”

  The dog opened one eye, hoping, Mia was sure, that if he ignored her, she would keep on rubbing.

  “Andrei Gretchko? Kremsburg Landfill?” She said the names over and over to an oblivious Buddy. And that’s when it dawned on her. She stood, pulse racing, the veil of a memory hanging over her eyes like moth-eaten silk. A woman. Tall, broad, blonde. The landfill rang a bell because Mia knew the woman who had inherited the business. The only daughter of the prior owner. A woman who went by a different last name. Not Gretchko.

  Katerina Tarasoff. A former client.

  And the only child of a certain mobster.

  Vaughn and Allison reached the cabin fifteen minutes later. The trail led from the grotto, through the woods and into what once must have been a clearing, but was now so overgrown with weeds and brambles that Allison could only make out the ghostly remnants of a wooden fence and a dilapidated outhouse, a crescent moon carved high on one side. An uprooted tree crossed the trail, its roots leaving a crater-size hole in the earth. Allison stepped carefully over the trunk, making her way quietly toward the hunting cabin. Its front fascia torn and mottled so that it resembled a child’s depiction of a haunted house, the building itself teetered on the edge of viability at the back of the ragged clearing.

  The cabin was small, not much bigger than a child’s playhouse. Another uprooted tree had fallen against the roof on one side, and green moss ran a carpet-like line along the side of the debris.

  “Man,” Vaughn mumbled. “I really do not want to go in there.”

  They stayed crouched in the brush, out of the line of sight of anyone who was in the cabin. An unnecessary precaution, Allison thought, because the windows and only door were boarded shut. Unless there was a peephole, she thought. All good kidnappers need a peephole.

  Allison glanced up at the darkening sky. Considering the meandering path they had taken to reach the cabin, she didn’t think they had much time. Even if they hurried, they might not make it back to the house before night fall. And if someone was in there...well, they needed a plan.

  Although most of the windows were shuttered, the one on the right corner looked accessible. Its wooden cover was broken and hanging from two hastily-placed nails. Unless they wanted to pry the front door off, noise and all, it was the best option.

  “Come on,” Allison whispered.

  As they got close, Allison slipped her shoes off. She pointed to the narrow window opening, which sat about four feet off the ground. “Hoist me over.”

  “No way, Allison. I’ll go.” Vaughn whispered. He started to climb in, but Allison placed a hand on his chest.

  “You won’t fit without pulling more boards off and that will make noise. Let me go. I’ll be fine. Be my look-out.” When he shook his head, Allison said softly, “Francesca could be in there, Vaughn. If she is, we’re wasting time. I’ll be fine.”

  Vaughn frowned. He glanced up at the sun, now an orange ball nestled behind the trees. Finally, he said, “Fine. Hurry.” He handed Allison the flashlight. “One peep and I break in.”

  Before Vaughn could change his mind, Allison ducked through the window opening and squeezed herself through, dropping down on the other side as quietly as she could. The inside of the cabin was dark. Allison braced herself against the wall and waited for her vision to adjust to the light, alert for any sounds that would indicate movement. Other than a faint scratching noise coming from the ground near her feet, she heard nothing. A mouse?

  She forced herself to stand still. What was a tiny rodent when your feet were bare? As long as it was a tiny rodent. Stop, Al, she said to herself. Pull up those big girl panties and get a move on.

  After her sight finally adjusted to the murky light, Allison studied the room. A wreck of broken furniture and cobwebs.

  “Are you okay?” Vaughn hissed through the window opening.

  “Yes,” she whispered. She felt her way around the room, hands against cool walls, toward the doorway that led to the front portion of the small house. She gritted her teeth against the sensation of sticky cobwebs on her face and tried not to think of creepy-crawlies that hid in corners of places like this. There could be a kidnapper, and you’re worried about spiders, she thought. Sheesh, Allison.

  Momentarily disoriented, she closed her eyes and pictured the layout. From the look of the place on the outside, the cabin had two rooms and maybe a kitchen and/or a bathroom. She wouldn’t pull out the flashlight until she was sure no one else was inside.

  Her heart raced. Sweat trickled down her face and between her breasts. Allison’s bare foot touched something cold and furry. She stifled a scream, shuffled two steps to the left, and forced herself forward. The room smelled of rot. Her stomach lurched. If Franc
esca was being held captive here, she must be terrified. The thought propelled Allison forward, toward the other room.

  The door between the front and rear rooms was closed. Night was quickly closing in and Allison had to squint to see anything at all. No flashlight, though. Not yet. Her head began to pound, the pressure a vise on her forehead.

  Conscious of her own breathing, she made her way to the door. She pressed her ear up against the scarred wood, but heard no sound coming from the other side. With a deep breath, slowly, carefully, she opened the door a crack, every cell in her body bracing for an explosion of sound or violence. But there was nothing.

  Encouraged, she opened the door further. She raised the heavy flashlight, the only weapon she had, and swung the door wide, hoping like hell that Vaughn had her back.

  The room was empty.

  Allison felt first a wave of relief, then a stabbing disappointment.

  Had Francesca ever been here? It seemed like Maria was nuts after all.

  A square hole where a stove vent had once lived allowed the last remnants of daylight to seep into the room. Allison glanced around. She was facing a small area, about 10’ x 10’. Like the back room, its windows and only door were boarded up. A kitchenette had been situated against the far wall. A single set of kitchen cabinets, doors ripped off, insides empty, stood next to an old-fashioned once-white refrigerator, its hinges sagging. A gaping spot in the cabinetry, like a missing tooth, marked the spot where the stove once stood. A stained basin must have been the sink at one time. There was no faucet.

  An old metal bed frame leaned up against a filthy wall. Its mattress was on the ground, stained and torn. A single table was wedged next to the kitchen cabinet. Otherwise, the room was bare.

  Allison let out her breath. She was about to yell for Vaughn when a sound startled her. She jumped, clutching the flashlight. The sound was coming from one of the boarded up windows at the back end of the room. Vaughn coming in?

  Allison stepped gingerly across the torn wooden floor. The sound was scratchy, more like birds or rodents than a person. Allison flicked on the flashlight and ran the light along the perimeter of the board. It was nailed from the inside, but, when she looked closely, it seemed like two corners had been recently disturbed. With one finger, Allison pulled at the corner of the board. It came away easily. She did the same to the other side. The board fell sideways, exposing a small area. The stink emanating from the space made her choke.

  Allison trained her flashlight beam into the room, her heart beating wildly against her ribcage. Please don’t let it be a body, she thought. Please don’t let it be Francesca.

  “Allison!”

  She jumped, swirled around and came face-to-face with Vaughn.

  “What the hell is taking you so long? I was worried.”

  Allison nodded toward the small cubby. Vaughn moved closer. He put his hand to his mouth. “Oh, man. That stench.”

  Allison swept the flashlight across the interior. It was a bathroom, the source of the smell was a broken toilet ripped from its mooring.

  “The hole”—Vaughn pointed—“raw sewage.”

  Allison tried not to breathe in. She started to back away, then thought of those loose nails. Could someone have been using this space? For what? No person could stay in there. The smell was simply overpowering. But someone could hide something in there. A package. A small body. A clue. She decided to do one more sweep of the small room. That’s when she saw it.

  She pointed to the wall next to the broken toilet. “Look!”

  Vaughn leaned in, his hand still across his mouth and nose. In small block letters, the word “GINA” was written in blue marker. Other words, written in the same blue pen, had been smeared to illegibility. Vaughn turned, eyes wide. “Think Francesca wrote that?”

  “Maybe,” Allison said. She looked again, aiming the light directly over the word. The writing was fresh, letters painted on top of the grime.

  Allison said, “But if she did, Maria was telling the truth when she said that Francesca was being held here against her will. We need to find Maria.”

  “But why would Francesca write ‘Gina’?” Vaughn said. “What the hell does a dead woman have to do with Francesca’s disappearance? Wouldn’t you just write the name of your captor?”

  “I don’t know.” Allison took a picture of the wall with her camera phone, about all the damn thing was good for out here, and started back toward the other room and the open window. “But it certainly seems like the past is connected to the events of the present, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess,” Vaughn said. That was all he got out before the sound of approaching voices shut him up.

  Twenty-One

  The voices got louder, rising above the sound of Vaughn’s whispers and the blood rushing rapidly through Allison’s veins. It sounded like three men. Startled, Vaughn closed his mouth, eyes wide, body tensed like a wild cat sighting prey. “Come on,” he mouthed. “It’s coming from the front.”

  Allison didn’t need prodding. She flicked off the flashlight. Night was complete now, and the only solace was the glow of the moon flowing through the hole over the cabinets. Quietly, she started toward the back room, finding her way with a combination of memory and groping. Then she thought of the bathroom.

  “Shit, Vaughn, we need to close that door again.”

  “I’ll get it. Just get in the back room.”

  Allison waited, her back up against the wall near the door to the rear of the cabin. Vaughn moved like a cat, gliding back to the broken board that had covered the bathroom entrance. He worked silently while Allison strained to hear what the men were discussing. Their voices were only a low murmur, though, competing with the chorus of crickets and her own barely-controlled breathing.

  Finally, Vaughn was back by her side. “I did my best. One of the nails is missing, but it should hold for now.”

  Allison nodded, aware even as she did so that he probably couldn’t see her. She led the way back through the door and into the rear room, Vaughn’s hand clasped in her own. Once in the back room, she heard the unmistakable sound of the board that covered the front door coming down. Whoever it was wasn’t worried about being heard. The boards gave way with a loud crack just as Allison and Vaughn were climbing back through the window, into the humid night air.

  Still barefoot, Allison stayed against the dilapidated cabin and made her way toward the front of the building. She could feel Vaughn behind her. From their hiding spot behind the bushes, they watched the cabin. Light glowed from flashlights bigger than their own. The men were inside the cabin, sweeping the interior with powerful beams. Allison started to move toward the light, but Vaughn put a restraining hand on Allison’s shoulder. “This way,” he whispered.

  Allison followed Vaughn, back around the rear of the cabin, through the brambles shrouding the side of the building that faced the woods, and around the side where the kitchen stove had been. There, from their perch on a small hill, they could see inside the cabin. One man was walking around the rear room, his bobbing flashlight all that was visible. The other two were standing in the middle of the front room. One was talking.

  “Oh, Lord,” Allison said.

  “Who is it?”

  “Looks like Dominic and Alex.”

  “Francesca’s nephews?”

  “The very same.”

  “Why would they be here?” Vaughn asked.

  “I don’t know. Maria said they didn’t believe her. Maybe they had second thoughts.”

  “Or they’re searching for us.”

  The thought gave Allison pause. “You’re right. Vaughn, your car is at their house. All they would have to do is ask Jackie, and she’d point them to this cabin. They know we came here. They probably saw the glow from our flashlight.”

  Vaughn took a deep breath. “Who is the third man?”

  “I don’t re
cognize him.”

  Vaughn was silent for a minute. “What do you want to do? We can make a run for it, but in the dark, without being able to use our flashlight, we could get lost.”

  “No,” Allison said. “We confront this head on.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back inside.”

  Katerina Tarasoff died six years ago, at her home in Kremsburg, surrounded by family. Mia found an obituary in a Russian-American newspaper, but it told her little other than the woman’s age at the time of death (68) and the fact that she was survived by a husband, three sons, one daughter and twelve grandchildren. No mention of the landfill. No mention of the Russian Mafia, either. But then, Mia mused, there never is.

  Mia was sitting in her living room, Buddy at her feet, reading the obituary online. Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, all that was left, a thin orange line, helpless against the pressing darkness.

  The chickens had been tended to and the sheep were in the barn for the night. Mia toyed with what her next step should be. She still hadn’t heard from Allison or Vaughn, and Jason hadn’t called her back.

  Mia printed off the information she’d found on the Internet. The location of the landfill, the number for its corporate offices. And a series of articles tracking the history of the Mob in Scranton, including a statement by one local official that after the death of Vladimir Tarasoff, Katerina’s father, the Mob’s connection to the region had died, too.

  It certainly seemed like the family kept a lower profile these days. Katerina’s oldest son, Nicholas, along with his father, Andrei, ran the family business. The rest of Katerina’s children had moved away. The daughter lived in New York City, one son was living in California and the youngest, Benjamin, resided near Allentown, Pennsylvania with his wife, where he was a professor of engineering. She’d make a visit to his university tomorrow morning. Maybe Mr. Benjamin Gretchko could shed some light on the true nature of his father’s business.