TWENTY-SIX

Zoe’s head throbbed and her legs threatened to buckle, but the concussion was only partly to blame. Listening to Dennis Naiman, watching him melt down, had been more than she’d bargained for. When Pete gathered his folder and stood to leave the interrogation room, she collapsed into a chair she’d refused earlier.

The door to the observation room swung open, and Pete and Wayne stepped inside.

Pete took one look at her and knelt next to her. “Are you okay?”

“Just tired.” She studied his face. “I believe him. Do you?”

He shot a glance at Wayne before meeting her gaze. “Yeah. I do.”

“I’m not convinced the punk isn’t a damned good liar,” Wayne said. “And I’m sure not ready to drop homicide from the list of charges we’re bringing against these assholes.”

“You’re gonna start looking at other suspects in Oriole’s death though,” Zoe said. “Aren’t you?”

Wayne looked like he’d sucked a lemon. “I guess we have to.”

Pete climbed to his feet and faced the detective. “But let’s not release that part to the press. Let the public believe we have the killers in custody.”

Wayne scowled. “Don’t you think that could be dangerous? If the killer’s still out there, do we want the elderly to let down their guard?”

“If the killer is still out there, Oriole’s homicide may have been personal. Besides, if our killer thinks we have someone in custody for the crime, he’ll do two things.” Pete held up one finger. “He won’t risk reopening the case by harming anyone else.” Pete held up a second finger. “He might let his guard down and let something slip.”

A predatory smile crept across Wayne’s face. “I like it.”

Zoe stood and gave Pete’s shoulder a gentle jab. “Speaking of the press, you didn’t ask Naiman about Lauren Sanders.”

“No, I didn’t. But he did say his brother saw someone else.”

And he’d admitted it had been his brother who hit her. Not Lauren. However, Zoe wasn’t appeased. “Of course he did. You were putting the screws to him about leaving me there. He didn’t say whether or not he knew her. She might have been the one who warned them about me.” Zoe played out a new possible scenario. “She might have called them. You never found her cell phone, did you?”

Pete and Wayne exchanged glances.

“No,” Wayne said.

“Convenient.” Zoe poked Pete again. “You can’t check it to see who she called.”

“But,” Wayne said, “we do have the Naimans’ phones.”

Zoe caught a glimpse of a spark in Pete’s eye. “You and your county lab guys can pull the call logs from those.” His lips parted in a lopsided grin that reminded her of a wolf contemplating its prey. “And while you’re doing that, I have an idea that might yield better results.”

“Oh?” Zoe said.

“I promised Ms. Sanders a scoop. Maybe it’s time I give it to her.”

  

Douglas Naiman’s attorney had ordered his client to not answer any questions the police asked. The younger brother was nothing if not obedient where legal counsel was concerned. Pete left Wayne to oversee the booking of the two men on charges including burglary, aggravated assault, and murder. Whether or not the last one stuck remained to be seen.

Pete phoned Lauren Sanders before he left the county jail. She agreed to meet him at the Vance Township Police Station at noon. In spite of Zoe’s demands to once again be a fly on the wall, he took her home. “Get some sleep,” he told her while planting a kiss on her bandaged forehead.

Clearly the night at the hospital had taken its toll on her. She pouted, but ceased to argue once he tucked her into his recliner with one tabby in her lap, the other stretched out above her head like a furry orange hat.

“There’s another thing that really bothers me,” she said as he headed for the door.

“What’s that?”

“Their grandmother. If this rash of burglaries has been the only thing financing her stay at Golden Oaks, what’s gonna happen to her now?”

He wished he had an answer.

At the station, he removed the “Out on Patrol” sign from the door, hung up his coat, and filled the Mr. Coffee with water and Maxwell House. As the contraption gurgled and sputtered, Pete took a seat at his desk and thumbed through his notebook. Whether or not Lauren Sanders had played a part in the thefts—and especially in Zoe’s injury—was only one of his concerns. There was also Oriole Andrews’ homicide. If the Naiman brothers were as principled about doing no harm as Dennis had purported, someone else had shoved the elderly woman down her basement stairs.

Then again, Dennis admitted his brother had clobbered Zoe. It wasn’t out of the range of possibility that he was lying about Oriole. Admit to assault to deflect the suspicion of murder.

The bells on the front door jingled. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes to twelve. If nothing else, the reporter was punctual.

“Chief Adams?” Sanders called out.

He stood and stepped out into the hall. “Back here.”

She strode toward him, attired in the same dark wool coat and carrying the same leather satchel as always.

Pete ushered her into his office and reclaimed his seat. She deposited the tote on the floor next to the visitor’s chair and shrugged out of the coat, revealing a navy turtleneck sweater and gray wool slacks. No jewelry. Although attractive, she did nothing to draw attention to herself. Pete suspected she could easily disappear in a crowd. Observe without being noticed.

Sanders fixed him with a displeased glare. Apparently, she didn’t appreciate him brushing her off. “If you’ve called me here to ask about Golden Oaks, I haven’t had time to look into it yet. I’ve been too busy trying to get information about the two men in the white van that crashed last night.”

“Those men are the reason I called. I can now confirm we’ve made an arrest in your Senior Killers case.”

The glower vanished. “Wonderful.” Her pen poised, she asked, “What are their names?”

“Dennis and Douglas Naiman. They’re brothers.” Pete watched for a reaction.

There wasn’t any. “Can you spell that last name please?”

If she did indeed know them, she was one hell of an actress. “N-a-i-m-a-n,” he said and then read their ages and home address to her from his own notes.

“How did you capture them?”

“Officer Nate Williams spotted the suspect vehicle driving south on Route 15 last night. When he ran the plates, they came back as belonging to a different vehicle. At that point the suspects attempted to flee and during a brief pursuit, they lost control and went off the road.” Pete detailed the injuries and subsequent arrest. He mentioned questioning the older brother, but left out the part about the denial of having killed anyone.

Sanders scribbled page after page of notes, pausing when he stopped. She eyed him. “So they confessed to killing Mrs. Andrews?”

Sanders was sharp. Pete held her gaze. “Dennis Naiman confessed to being at her house. He states Oriole Andrews was alive when they left. Which was true. She died later at the hospital from her injuries.”

The reporter jotted another page of notes before fixing him with that laser-sharp stare again. “Is there anything else?”

Pete had anticipated the question. He intentionally winced and shifted in his chair.

She leaned forward. “There is something else. Tell me.”

“Yes, there is, but it’s not for public knowledge yet.” He pretended to struggle with a decision.

Sanders kept her eager eyes on him, waiting.

He glanced toward the door—knowing full well they were alone—and then came forward, resting his arms on his desk and lowering his voice. “Can you keep this off the record for now?”

“Absolutely.” She leaned forward as well, her fingertips lightly resting on his wrist. “As long as you promise to let me know the moment I can run with it.”

“Deal.” He made a production of wrestling one more moment with the decision to blab. “We’re pretty sure they didn’t act alone.”

Her eyes widened for just a second. “Really?”

Pete nodded. “We think there’s a third person out there who helped them cover their tracks.”

He watched her mull over this tidbit. “Any idea of this third person’s identity?” she asked.

Pete freed his arm from her touch and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve already said too much. You have my word. As soon as I’m at liberty to divulge more, I’ll be in touch.”

Sanders hesitated, then closed her notebook and deposited it in her bag. “I appreciate you speaking with me, Chief. How much time can you give me to get this story out before you make an official statement?”

“Detective Baronick has a press conference planned for one. Is that enough time?”

She checked her watch. “Perfect.”

They stood and shook hands. Pete watched her scurry out and listened for the bells signaling her exit. When he knew he was alone, he once again settled into his chair to mull over what had just happened.

She’d given up nothing when he sprung the suspects’ names on her. But the “news” of a third party being involved had definitely taken her by surprise. Did she have any inkling that he believed the third person in question might be her? If she did, what would be her next move?

Pete had been thinking Zoe was way off base in her suspicions about the reporter. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  

Zoe hung up the phone after updating Rose about Sylvia’s condition and thumped the recliner into its upright position. Rose had considered making the trip back to Pennsylvania, but with Sylvia stable and resting comfortably, she elected to take a wait-and-see approach.

The gray January gloom had cleared. Jade and Merlin had bailed on her and now curled in the spots of sunshine pooling on the back of the sofa. The Steelers had a primetime game tonight so the only things on Pete’s antenna TV were infomercials.

Zoe stood, pausing to let the room stop spinning, and swore. There wouldn’t be many more days in the Krolls’ barn, and here she was, wasting a beautiful one. Stuck. Inside. Because of those punks who bashed her upside the head.

The floor stopped swaying, and she shuffled to the window, squinting like a mole used to being underground and blinded by a glimpse of the sun. Melting snow drip drip dripped from the gutters. She made a mental note to tell Pete he better check them for an ice jam or blockage that was keeping the water from making its way to the downspouts.

Which led her to wonder about the conditions at her “new” farm. Gutters. Roof damage. Leaks. More to add to her to-do list. Stuff she should be dealing with right now.

She turned. Too fast. Waited for the walls to stop moving. And headed to the kitchen.

Her mind ran on a loop. Horses. Farms. Mr. and Mrs. Kroll. Were they all right? How was Sylvia doing in the hospital? Harry…even more stuck than she was.

And Barbara. That sweet old woman with the two thugs for grandsons. What was to become of her now that they wouldn’t be paying her bills any longer?

Zoe needed to get out of the house. Out into the brisk air and the sunshine. She should go check on Sylvia. And Harry. And the Krolls. And Janie. There was too darned much to be done to be trapped inside. Her pickup was parked in Pete’s driveway. Her keys hung on a hook on the wall. But she’d been ordered not to drive, and the way her head was throbbing, it was one of the more sensible orders she’d received.

A rap at the kitchen door jarred Zoe from her fussing and fuming. She peered through the peephole to see Patsy’s face distorted by the wide-angle-view glass.

“Hey,” Zoe said as she opened the door and motioned her cousin in. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I thought you might have cabin fever.”

“You have no idea.”

Patsy glanced around the room. “Where’s Pete?”

“Working. Is everything okay at the barn?”

“Yeah. Except Windstar misses you.”

“Ha. As long as he’s getting his grain and hay, he doesn’t care who gives it to him.”

Patsy chuckled. “True.”

“Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”

Patsy stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. “No, thanks. I came by to bust you outta here.”

Zoe would have jumped up and down, but knew her head would pound like a bass drum if she did. “I’ll get my coat.”

Minutes later, she clicked the seatbelt in Patsy’s Toyota Tundra.

“Where to?” Patsy asked.

Zoe ran the list through her head again. She caught Patsy’s gaze. “My farm?”

Patsy’s expression turned pensive. “I was thinking that too. We should assess what needs to be done to make it horse-ready. We’re running out of time.” She shifted into gear and pulled onto the potholed street.

A thought struck Zoe, and tightened the fist that had been squeezing her brain. “I hope my mother doesn’t change her mind.”

“About giving you the farm? Why would she?”

“Because it’s Kimberly we’re talking about. And me.”

Patsy made a face. “You don’t give her enough credit.”

“And you give her too much. I’d list all the times my mother has let me down, but I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“From what I’ve been told, you weren’t the easiest teenager to raise either.”

“Teenager? True. But she doesn’t have much use for her grownup daughter either.”

“And when was the last time you tried to have a civil conversation with her?”

Zoe stared out the window at the passing houses. Patsy used to be her friend. Her friend. Now she’d clearly set up a tent in Kimberly’s camp. Arguing would do no good. Patsy’d been indoctrinated into Kimberly’s view of their mother-daughter relationship. “Maybe you should just take me back home.”

“What?” Patsy sounded stunned and hurt at the suggestion. “No. Don’t be silly.” She fell silent but kept driving, turning onto Route 15. A mile or so down the road, she said, “Besides, this thing with the farm isn’t just about you and her.”

It took a moment for Patsy’s meaning to sink in. “In other words, she’s giving me the farm to help you out.”

Zoe’s cousin squirmed. “No. Well, maybe. I told her about the jam we were in with the Krolls selling their place. I never asked her to help either of us. Giving you the Engle farm was her idea. And it’s you she’s deeding it to. Not me.”

Fifteen minutes later, they stood in front of the barn where they’d found the first van. Clouds were moving in again and the temperature hovered near thirty-two degrees. The partially melted snow created a slurry of water and ice. Zoe’s concerns about the gutters turned out to be warranted. She hadn’t noticed on their previous trip, but the ones on the house sagged in the middle. And the downspout on the barn was completely detached, leaving a constant flow of snowmelt trickling from the gutter into a small pond at the rear corner.

Yes, Kimberly was deeding the family farm—in all its crumbling glory—to her. Not Patsy.

Thanks, Mom.

Patsy picked her way to the fence, grabbled one of the posts, and tried to shake it. “Well, this one is solid.”

Zoe gazed across what had been the pasture. “That’s one out of how many? A hundred?”

“At least. Feel up to walking the fence line?”

No. “Sure,” she said with forced cheeriness.