Twenty-seven

Earl leaned over Zoe’s shoulder and scrutinized her phone. “That’s him, huh?”

“Yep.” She sat at the desk in the ambulance service garage and held the photo of Jason closer, so her partner could get a better look. He swiped through the series. She didn’t need to see them to know what Earl was looking at. She’d memorized each one. Jason posed on her porch—one full-length showing his handiwork and one close-up. Jason next to the barn with his arms raised triumphantly toward the new roof. A couple of selfies of the two of them, cheek-to-cheek, goofy grins on their faces.

Earl handed the phone back to her and she smiled at the third and final selfie. Jason had wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She hadn’t been quick enough to capture the kiss on the side of her face. But she felt it when she looked at the photo.

She also noticed the gleam in Jason’s eyes, emotions boiling up and threatening to spill over.

He almost looked sad.

The phone in her hand started ringing, the image replaced with the notification of an incoming call from Franklin’s secretary. “Hi, Paulette. What’s up?”

The voice on the phone sounded frantic. “It’s Franklin. He’s collapsed. They’re rushing him back to the hospital.”

“What?” Zoe glanced at the scanner. She’d tuned out the staticky chatter of calls being handled by police, fire, and the other EMS outside of their response area.

“He was here at his desk…talking to Doc about scheduling…the autopsy.” Paulette hiccupped, and Zoe realized she was sobbing.

“Is he…?” She almost asked if he was dead, but no. Paulette had already said they’d taken him to the hospital. That meant he was alive. Zoe hoped.

Earl leaned down, and Zoe tipped the phone, so he could listen in.

Paulette ignored the fragment of a question. “His color was so bad…almost gray…and I knew he probably hadn’t eaten. I went to get him some orange juice…and when I came back…” Her voice broke. “When I came back, he was on the floor. Unresponsive.”

“Orange juice?” Zoe’s mind raced back through Franklin’s symptoms. And the IV bag of half normal saline. “Is he diabetic?”

“He doesn’t want anyone to know. But, yes. They say he’s going into kidney failure and will probably need a transplant.” Paulette’s voice spiked and dissolved into sobs.

Zoe braced an elbow on the desk and buried her face in her hand. Kidney failure. She visualized Franklin, fresh out of the hospital, spending the afternoon outside, in the snow and rain and cold.

Paulette sniffed. “I’m sure he took his insulin but forgot to eat.”

“Insulin shock,” Zoe said. More dangerous than a diabetic coma.

“I called the paramedics immediately.” A long pause. “It doesn’t look good.”

Earl straightened and strode out of the door to the crew lounge.

“Zoe,” Paulette said, her voice solemn, “you need to take over again. Indefinitely.”

Zoe closed her eyes. “Did Franklin schedule the autopsy with Doc before he…” Before he collapsed.

“Doc told me to call him back after I spoke to you. He’s supposed to give a talk to a group of university students in the morning and wanted to do it tonight.”

“I’m on duty with the ambulance tonight.” Heavy approaching footsteps and the appearance of Earl with their crew chief, Tony Deluca, stopped her. “Wait. Can you hold on a minute, Paulette?”

“Okay.”

Zoe muted the call.

“If you need to go, go,” Tony said.

“But—”

“I’ll get someone to cover for you.” He managed a sad smile. “You’ll owe whoever agrees to come in. Big time.”

She nodded. “Thanks.” Unmuted the phone. “Paulette? Call Doc and tell him I’ll be at the morgue in a half hour.”

  

Pete found Baronick on the phone at the front desk of the Monongahela County Police Headquarters. From his grim expression, the call wasn’t pleasant. After telling the person on the other end to keep him posted, the detective pocketed the device.

“Franklin Marshall’s back in the hospital.”

“Oh?” Pete was only slightly surprised. The man hadn’t looked good at the crime scene.

“Collapsed in his office. Looks like Zoe’s handling O’Keefe’s autopsy tonight.”

“She’s on duty.”

Baronick shrugged. “Death waits for no one. And neither does Doc Abercrombie apparently.” He picked up a file from the counter, tipped his head toward the hallway leading to the interrogation rooms, and started walking. “How’s my sister?”

Pete fell in beside the detective. “I left the township in her capable hands.”

“How often are you gonna call and check on her?”

“I’m not. Why? Should I?”

Baronick chuckled.

“Dammit. You’re the one who referred her. If she screws up, I’m holding you accountable.” Pete was only half-kidding.

“She’s a good cop. But I’ve said it before.” Baronick aimed a finger at Pete. “If you tell her I said that, I’ll have to kill you.”

Typical sibling relationship.

They arrived at Interview Room A, but instead of reaching for the doorknob, Baronick faced Pete and flipped open the folder. “Anderson’s attorney is in there with him.”

“I assumed as much. His wife was pretty insistent.”

Baronick handed the folder to Pete. “While I was waiting for you, I did some digging. Anderson is definitely in debt. He’s taken out two mortgages on his farm. Behind on both of them. Meanwhile, he’s making slightly more than minimum wage at the lumberyard. If he doesn’t come up with some money somewhere, he’s likely gonna lose his property. Sounds like a pretty good motive to me.”

“Now he has legal expenses.” Pete shook his head. “It’s a shame. That’s a nice farm.”

“He won’t need it. The state’ll provide his accommodations if he’s convicted.”

“I was thinking of his wife.” Linda Anderson had seemed so content when she’d welcomed Pete into her home last week. He couldn’t help but think about his discussion with Seth. The guilty weren’t the only ones who suffered the consequences of their actions.

“Maybe you can buy it for Zoe. It’s already in move-in condition. Unlike her current property.”

Pete shot him a look. He didn’t want to admit the thought had briefly crossed his mind. “I see the search didn’t produce any bloody clothing. No blood anywhere inside Anderson’s house.”

“Nope.”

“If he stabbed a man, he would be covered in blood. What’d he do with his clothes?”

“Maybe he buried them like he tried to do with the knife.”

Pete also wondered where he’d cleaned up.

And he thought about that suitcase Elaine O’Keefe had dragged out of her house.

Baronick reclaimed the file. “Let’s do this.” He pushed open the door.

Boyd Anderson lifted his head when they entered. He sat with his hands folded on top of the table. At his side, his attorney, Anthony Imperatore, had set up shop with an open leather briefcase and a legal pad and pen at the ready in front of him. He made no move to rise, but nodded politely. “Chief Adams. Detective Baronick.”

Pete extended a hand, which the lawyer grasped. They’d been on opposite sides of many cases over the years, but Pete respected Imperatore and had gone so far as recommending him a time or two. The man was tough but honest.

The detective shook hands with the lawyer too, but grudgingly. Pete took a seat across from Boyd and caught the look Baronick directed his way. The detective had wanted that spot.

Pete ignored him. “Mr. Anderson, how long have you been married?”

The question brought a look of surprise from their suspect, but Pete wanted to see the man’s reactions to the softball questions before lobbing him the tough ones.

“Twenty-one years. It’ll be twenty-two this summer.” He winced.

Pete imagined Boyd wondering if he’d be a free man for his anniversary. “And how long have you owned the farm?”

“Two years less than that.”

“Bought it as newlyweds, huh?” Pete struck a relaxed pose aimed at helping calm their suspect.

“Yeah.”

“Where are you employed?”

Boyd shot a glance at Imperatore who remained motionless but wary. “Stoneking’s Hardware and Lumber. Plus, I do whatever odd jobs I can scrounge up.”

Imperatore rapped on his legal pad with the pen. “I’d much prefer you don’t volunteer anything beyond directly answering the question,” he told his client before scowling at Pete. “You already know all of this. Why don’t you save us some time and get on with it?”

Baronick leaned forward. “You mean get on to the questions you won’t let him answer.”

The attorney lifted his chin. “We’ll see.”

“All right.” Pete reached for the folder still closed in front of the detective. “Tell me this. How does your wife feel about the possibility of losing the farm on which you’ve lived most of your married life?”

“Chief Adams,” Imperatore said with the inflection of a disapproving parent. Pete half expected him to throw in a tsk-tsk for good measure.

But the question hit its mark. Boyd flushed. “She doesn’t know. And I’d prefer it stay that way.”

“You don’t think she’d figure it out when the bank seizes the property and the sheriff serves her with an eviction notice?” Baronick asked.

“I hope it doesn’t get that far,” Boyd said, a note of panic in his voice.

The attorney clamped a hand on the man’s arm. “That’s enough, Mr. Anderson.”

“Okay, let’s try this one.” Pete flipped a page in the folder. “Where were you this morning?”

Boyd shot a nervous glance at his attorney. “I already told them. I went to Strunk’s Iron and Metal, but they were closed.”

Before the lawyer could protest, Pete asked, “And you didn’t stop anywhere else?”

“No. I came straight home.”

“Anyone see you?”

“My wife.”

“Anyone besides your wife?”

“No.”

Imperatore made a loop with his pen signaling Pete to move on.

He flipped back a few pages. “How about last Monday morning between ten and noon?”

Boyd’s eyes widened, and he looked to Imperatore who’d already raised a hand. “He’s not going to answer that, gentlemen. In fact, I’m recommending he not say anything else.”

Baronick growled deep in his throat.

Pete made a show of closing the folder before leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. “Fine. Do you mind if I speculate a moment?”

Imperatore capped his pen. “You’re wasting your time, Chief.”

Pete shrugged. “It’s my time to waste. And you’re getting paid by the minute, so I don’t see what you have to complain about. Mr. Anderson, on the other hand, is footing your bill. But he’s also under arrest.”

The attorney held Pete’s gaze but didn’t speak.

“Here’s my theory.” Pete looked at Boyd. “I don’t think you killed Kristopher O’Keefe.” From the corner of Pete’s eye, he spotted Baronick’s head snap in his direction.

Imperatore also appeared interested, although mildly so. “Do tell, Chief Adams.”

“Elaine O’Keefe.” Pete said the name and let it hang there a moment.

Boyd’s jaw moved, but his lips stayed pressed closed, as if he wanted to speak but feared his attorney would bust his chops for it.

Imperatore, an old pro at the waiting game, didn’t even blink.

Pete leaned back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Elaine O’Keefe’s brother had a considerable amount of money stashed away. Money he was squandering on fine wine and other little luxuries. Or at least it was her opinion he was squandering it. Poor Elaine also happened to be married to an asshole.”

Baronick choked.

“I think Elaine wanted her inheritance sooner rather than later,” Pete said, “but she couldn’t bring herself to kill her brother. Or maybe she figured she’d be caught. After all, everyone at Golden Oaks knew her.”

Baronick pulled out his phone and started tapping.

“Elaine found out you were in desperate need of money and already had an unpleasant history with her brother, so she made you a deal. You take care of the dirty work, and she’d share her inheritance with you.”

Boyd’s eyes grew wider with each sentence, but he still kept his mouth closed.

“It was a good deal. Except—” Pete held up one finger. “Poor Elaine is still married to an asshole and now she’s only going to get a part of her brother’s money.”

The realization of where Pete was going with this must have hit Boyd. Lines creased his forehead, and his gaze shifted.

“Elaine managed to slip over to your place—or maybe she just stopped by for a neighborly visit with your wife. I understand they’d become friendly. Either way, she goes into your barn and steals your machete. Then she kills Professor O’Keefe with it and frames you.” Pete brushed his hands together as if wiping off dust. “Now the grieving widow is free of her asshole husband and she gets to keep her entire inheritance.”

Boyd had shifted forward in his seat and appeared ready to pop. However, Imperatore stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“A very interesting supposition, Chief. But there’s a problem with it. You’re still accusing my client of a murder. One he did not commit.” Emphasis on the “not.”

Before Pete had a chance to reply, Boyd swiveled toward the attorney and whispered something in his ear. Imperatore’s mouth twitched. He blocked the view with his hand and whispered into Boyd’s ear. The exchange went on, Boyd clearly excited, for several moments.

“Would you like some time alone with your client?” Pete offered. If they were hammering out a proposition for a deal, he’d gladly give them a little privacy.

Imperatore held up a finger. Wait. He finished what he was telling Boyd, who nodded sharply.

They faced Pete and Baronick across the table once more. “Understand, my client is admitting no guilt in the homicide of Mr. John Kinney, but he does want to give you one bit of information.”

Boyd came forward, placing both hands, palms down, on the table. “What you said makes sense—”

Imperatore stopped him. “Just tell them the one part I agreed to.”

Boyd nodded again. “Elaine did come over to our place yesterday to see my wife. I’m not sure what they talked about. You’ll have to ask Linda. But I can tell you Linda took her out to the barn to see the horses.”

Pete shot a glance at Baronick, who spun out of his chair while keying a number into his phone. As the detective slipped out of the room, Pete fixed their suspect with a hard stare. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

The answer came from the attorney. “No. But I want to be present when you speak to Mrs. Anderson as well.”

They’d see about that.

Pete continued to watch Boyd. “If you think of anything else—”

Imperatore slipped his legal pad into his brief case and clipped it shut. “I’ll be in touch.”

Pete picked up the folder Baronick had left behind and found the detective on his phone in the hallway. “Yes, put out a BOLO on her,” he snapped.

“What’s going on?” Pete asked as the detective jabbed at the screen.

“The widow’s gone, and she’s not answering her phone.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” I thought you had someone watching her.”

“I did.” Baronick clenched his fist so hard, Pete expected to hear the phone shatter. “They apparently weren’t watching closely enough. She checked out of the Brunswick Inn. Elaine O’Keefe is in the wind.”