Vengeance Road Page 6

  Murmurs rippled across the room and pages were flipped.

  A blue rig. This was new.

  “Thank you, Dave,” Parson said. “We’ll take a few questions now. Yes, Cathy from the Observer.”

  “Do you have more details on the blue truck?”

  “The driver is believed to have had conversations with Bernice Hogan before her disappearance. However, we have no description on the driver, or the year and model of the truck. So we’re appealing to the public.”

  “Hold on a second,” Gary Golden, a TV reporter, held up a copy of the Buffalo Sentinel. “With all due respect, seems we’re avoiding the elephant in the room. Is Detective Karl Styebeck of the Ascension Park Police Department your prime suspect? Yes or no?”

  After a chorus of throat clearing and an exchange of glances among the four police officials, Michael Brent leaned into the microphones.

  “Detective Styebeck is not the focus of this investigation.”

  “Is he now, or has he at any time, been a suspect?” Gannon said from the back.

  Heads turned to Gannon.

  “He is not the focus of this investigation,” Brent said.

  “That’s not a denial,” Kip Ramon, from the Buffalo News, said.

  “Reports suggesting Karl Styebeck is the key suspect and focus of this investigation are wrong,” Parson said.

  “Do you have other suspects? This mysterious blue truck, for instance?” That question came from Pete Martinez from the Sentinel.

  “As Dave said, we’re following nearly thirty tips and we have some promising leads.”

  “Has Karl Styebeck been ruled out?” Gannon asked.

  “We’ve answered that,” Parson said.

  “Sir,” Gannon pressed, “you have not answered that question.”

  “Has Karl Styebeck been questioned?” Golden asked.

  “We’re not going to publicly discuss all details of this case.”

  “So you have questioned him?” Golden said.

  “Next question,” Parson said, pointing to a reporter from one of the Niagara Falls news stations. “Go ahead, Loretta.”

  “Did you find any DNA, fingerprints or usable trace evidence?”

  “We’re not going to go into that here,” Parson said. “I think we’ll conclude this for now. We’ll keep you apprised of any developments.”

  Several reporters tried to get in last questions. The investigators waved them off as they gathered file folders and left the room. As the conference broke up, Martinez called to Gannon, pointing outside to talk privately.

  Martinez was a seasoned general-assignment reporter who could cover anything, a good-natured guy who got along with everyone, including Gannon. They walked alongside the building, to the rear, where they could be alone.

  “You’re playing with fire being here, being suspended and all, Jack.”

  “Guess you heard what happened?”

  “There are no secrets in a newsroom.”

  “Well, my story’s not wrong, Pete.”

  “I’m not going to judge you, buddy,” Martinez said. “Before you got here, I was talking with Golden and Ramon from the News. Seems nobody can find Styebeck. Any chance you could share any other contact data, Jack?”

  “I don’t have anything, sorry. I’m here as a freelancer.”

  “Really, for who?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Watch yourself. You’re persona non grata.” Martinez looked around, then stepped closer and dropped his voice. “Nate fully intends to run a retraction if you don’t give up your source. That’s what I’m hearing.”

  “I can’t do that, Pete.”

  Martinez’s cell phone rang. “I don’t care what you do. I’m just keeping you posted.” Martinez shook Gannon’s hand, answered his call as he headed for his car.

  Gannon reviewed his notes, considering the new lead on the blue truck as the sunlight dimmed.

  “Well, look who we have here. Mr. Jack Gannon, the legend who almost won a Pulitzer. At last we meet, in the flesh.”

  Michael Brent and Roxanne Esko were now standing next to him. He glanced around. No one else was in sight. Esko had car keys and a file folder in her hand.

  “Quite an interesting story in your paper today,” Brent said. “Unnamed sources say the darnedest things. Well, we heard something, too.”

  Gannon let Brent fill the silence.

  “We heard you got fired or something for writing fiction. Care to comment?”

  “I stand by my story. I trust my source. It’s that simple.”

  “No, it’s not,” Brent said. “Because you and your ‘source,’ whoever they are, don’t have a clue about what’s going on. You don’t know jack shit, Jack.”

  Gannon flipped to a clear page, poised his pen.

  “Why don’t you enlighten me, Investigator.”

  Brent stared at Gannon’s notebook, then at Gannon.

  “Enlighten you? I think you have a hearing problem. Seems when you called me, I told you to hold off with your little tale there, said you’d save yourself a lot of grief.”

  Gannon shrugged.

  “So, how’s that grief working out for you today, Slick?”

  Gannon didn’t answer.

  Brent’s jawline tensed, then relaxed as he stepped into Gannon’s personal space.

  “You’d better get ready for more grief,” Brent said, “because I’m going to find out who your source is, and when I do, I’m going to make sure they face the consequences of obstructing our investigation.”

  13

  Gannon left that mess with the state police behind him in Clarence and drove to the Great Lakes Truck Palace at Interstate 90 and Union Road.

  He needed to check out the revelation on the mystery rig.

  After navigating his small car through a realm of eighteen-wheelers, with their hissing brakes and diesels spewing black smoke, he parked at the office of general manager Rob Hatcher.

  “I’ll help you if I can. A crying shame about that girl,” Hatcher had said on the phone.

  Gannon knew him from earlier stories he’d written on a couple of bad wrecks and had called him after the news conference.

  Now, with Gannon watching him, Hatcher clicked his pen repeatedly as he gazed upon Bernice Hogan’s picture in the Sentinel, which was spread across his service counter.

  “So, you really think a cop did it?”

  “He’s a suspect.”

  “Well, two state police investigators came in three days ago, maybe four. They asked us to help them locate a blue truck.”

  “Did they say why?”

  “Naw, they didn’t provide much information.”

  “Did they ask you anything about this guy?” Gannon tapped the paper on Karl Styebeck’s face.

  “Nope.”

  “What did they say about the blue rig?”

  “All they said was that the truck had unique writing and art on the doors.”

  “What kind? Did they give you any more details, like a plate?”

  Hatcher shrugged.

  “They didn’t specify. They asked us to alert them if we saw a rig fitting that description.”

  “That’s a pretty general description.”

  “I know.”

  Hatcher chuckled and nodded to the lot.

  “We’ve got forty acres out there, partner. We run one of the largest operations in western New York. Seven or eight hundred trucks pass through here every twenty-four hours. Finding that rig is like finding a needle in a haystack. But the word’s gone out.”

  “Will you call me if something breaks on this?”

  “I can do that.”

  Gannon left the Truck Palace and spent the rest of the day working the street for data. He went to downtown coffee shops, hotel lobbies and taxi stands and talked to waitresses, doormen and cabdrivers for anything new on Bernice Hogan’s murder.

  At one point, Adell Clark sent him a text message.

  FYI: Crime scene should be released by tonigh
t.

  Could be something for later, he thought as he entered Kupinski’s Diner. Stan Kupinski, a former navy cook, ran a twenty-four-hour greasy spoon off Niagara that was a favorite of blue-collar workers and street types.

  The smells of frying bacon and coffee greeted Gannon as he slid into a vinyl booth. He took stock of the checkered floor, the chrome stools at the worn counter with take-out containers towering to the ceiling.

  He ordered a club sandwich and in no time at all Kupinski tapped a bell with his spatula, then left a heaping plate of food at the pick-up window. Lotta, the ample waitress—regulars called her Whole Lotta—set Gannon’s food before him. He invited her to sit at his booth and talk about the murder. Since she needed to take a load off, she agreed.

  “As a matter of fact, darlin’, I did hear things about that little girl, Bernice,” Lotta said. “I heard she and some other girl got into a little spat the last night anyone saw her.”

  Gannon’s eyebrows climbed and he got out his notebook.

  “Any idea what they fought about?”

  “Maybe leaving, or something,” Lotta said then stole a fry.

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Police didn’t come in here asking, like you.”

  “You know who the other girl is?”

  Lotta’s earrings swung when she shook her head.

  “I can ask around,” she said.

  “Thanks—” Gannon put a five-dollar tip in Lotta’s hand “—because I’d like to find her.”

  It was getting late but Gannon would try one more thing.

  Experience from working on investigative stories had taught him that you should always keep tabs on your subject. It could yield a break, he thought as he headed to Ascension Park and Karl Styebeck’s street.

  Styebeck’s house was a well-kept colonial with a two-car garage. It sat far back from the street, deep into the lot as if isolated within the neighborhood.

  Gannon parked several doors away and watched it from his rearview mirror as he considered the story.

  Why did the police consider Styebeck a suspect behind closed doors while not confirming it publicly? Where was the pressure to discredit his story coming from?

  Was this the home of a monster?

  Hold on.

  The garage door was lifting as Karl Styebeck got into one of the two cars a dark sedan alone, then drove out.

  Gannon started his Vibe’s engine and followed him from a distance.

  14

  After leaving his house, Karl Styebeck waited at a traffic light, determined to fight his way out of this crisis.

  Everything was on the line.

  Jack Gannon’s story in that morning’s Sentinel had exploded in his home, claiming his wife and son as collateral damage.

  Alice had buried her face in her hands

  “Oh my God, Karl! This can’t be happening!”

  Taylor, his twelve-year-old son, was scared. “Why is Mom crying, Dad?”

  Styebeck struggled to explain the story.

  “It’s wrong,” he’d told them. “This guy, Gannon, screwed up. I’m helping with the investigation. His information is dead wrong. I’m going to straighten this out, okay?”

  That seemed good enough for Taylor, who worshipped his dad. Still, Alice kept him home from school, and later she pulled Styebeck aside.

  “Is this story true?” She glared at him. “We’ve had strange phone calls the last few weeks. You’ve been on edge and moody lately, tossing in your sleep. You tell me right now if you had anything to do with this girl’s murder! You tell me, Karl!”

  What could he say?

  He stood before his wife, trying not to remember what he was and what he had come from.

  “I swear to you, I did not kill that woman.”

  Alice’s eyes searched his for a trace of deception until she was satisfied there was none.

  As the hours passed, her fears were somewhat mitigated by the steady flow of friends calling and e-mailing their support, especially the volunteers with Styebeck’s charity and outreach groups.

  And the fact that the state police challenged the accuracy of Gannon’s story at a news conference that morning had helped. Styebeck’s lieutenant got behind him after calling to say, “Somebody got their wires crossed. Hang in there, Karl.”

  The police union offered legal help, which he declined. It wasn’t needed. He’d booked off several days of saved vacation.

  He’d take care of this himself. His way.

  Night had fallen now as he cut across the city to his destination in the Delaware district. It was one of Buffalo’s most prestigious communities, an area of mansions built in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

  He went to the side door of a grand Victorian home and rang the bell. The door was opened by Nate Fowler.

  “Thank you for seeing me privately, Nate.”

  “Certainly, please come in. Right this way.” Fowler led him to a room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a fireplace and a grandfather clock. “Can I get you a coffee or anything?”

  “No, thank you, this won’t take long.”

  “I want to assure you that nothing you say leaves this room.”

  “As I mentioned in my call this morning, your reporter, Gannon, ambushed me. I tried to reach you before the story ran.”

  “I was traveling. It was unfortunate for both of us. My apologies.”

  “This story has hurt me and my family, Nate.”

  “I understand, given your outstanding reputation.”

  “As you know, I have confidential informants on the street. Rumors get started and make their way into investigations. Things get misconstrued, things get leaked and fiction becomes fact. The truth is, I’m assisting the state police with the Hogan homicide. I can understand how a reporter trying to find a good story could get carried away.”

  “It happens, yes.”

  “I want you to know I had nothing to do with the homicide. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Today the New York State Police publicly disputed our report on you. And given the circumstances under which our story made it into print, I think a full retraction and apology is necessary.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Additionally, we’ll find the source of this injurious information. I trust that would be useful to you?”

  Relief spread across Styebeck’s face.

  “That would be helpful.”

  “You don’t deserve this, Karl. You’re a hero in the eyes of this community. A great number of people admire you. I enjoy the charity work we do together and want to maintain our relationship.”

  As Styebeck stood to leave, his attention went to the woman who’d entered the room.

  “Karl, this is my wife, Madeline, with the State Attorney General’s Office.”

  “Yes, we’ve met at functions.” Styebeck shook her hand.

  “Maddy,” Fowler said, “I was just telling Karl how I value our relationship.”

  “He thinks the world of you, Detective.” She smiled. “Did he tell you he’s willing to underscore that point at your fund-raiser this week?”

  “No. That would be appreciated.”

  “In fact—” Fowler put his hand on Styebeck’s shoulder as they walked to the door “—and this is confidential, please. But I’m considering a run for public office and would like to know that I can count on your support.”

  “I see…” Styebeck hesitated. “I don’t really get involved in politics.”

  “I understand completely, Karl,” Fowler said. “Not asking you to do or say anything. Just think about it. Besides, I’m taking steps to ensure this unfortunate matter will blow over.”

  “I need for that to happen.”

  “Now,” Fowler said, “I know it seems the obvious move for me would be to fire Jack Gannon.”

  “I didn’t want to raise that, or my legal options, here.”

  “Right. Just so you’re aware, I can’t fire him. Gannon’s Pulitzer caliber, one of my best reporters. I almost
lost him once. And while he’s a zealous crusader, the fallout at the paper if I terminated him now would cause me too much grief with the news guild, just as we’re positioning to sell the paper. That’s confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve pulled Gannon off this story and suspended him. One wrong move on his part and he’s gone. That should keep him out of your business. How’s that sound, Karl?”

  “That sound’s fine, Nate.”

  The men shook hands at the door then Styebeck got into his car.

  Unseen, in the park across the street, Jack Gannon watched Styebeck leave Nate Fowler’s house.

  15

  Gannon couldn’t believe this.

  Why was Karl Styebeck visiting Nate Fowler?

  He doubted they were discussing their charity work.

  Gannon walked from the park to his car then roamed the city, chewing on what he’d just witnessed, wondering where, or if, it fit with the latest aspects of the story. There was the mystery truck, the argument Bernice Hogan had had with another woman before she vanished, and the state police discrediting his reporting on Styebeck.

  And now Styebeck pays Fowler a late-night visit.

  Piece by piece a picture was emerging. Something large was percolating beneath the surface, but he didn’t know what it was.

  Was a cop suspected of murder being protected?

  All right, better let things simmer, he told himself as he got to Cheektowaga, one of Buffalo’s first suburbs. He lived in Cleveland Hill, a working- and middle-class neighborhood of proud, flag-on-the-porch homes built after the Second World War.

  Mostly Polish-American families lived here, going back two and three generations. But he hadn’t gone very far either. He’d grown up on the fringes of Cleveland Hill, near the Heights, a rougher district.

  Buffalo was his home. A place he loved.

  It was also his prison, he thought as he pulled into a parking space at the building where he lived, a tired-looking apartment complex built in the 1960s. He grabbed his bag, got his mail and took the elevator to the sixteenth floor.