Flame Out (6 page)

On Dave's street, buds sprouted on the trees and maple helicopters rained down—everything would be green in a few days. I pulled up in front of his house and killed the engine.

“Don't,” Dave said, grabbing my hand as I started to pocket the keys. “Tonight I need to be alone.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“It's a
very
good idea,” he said. “I need to get my head straight, think a little.”

“Drink, you mean.”

“That's when I do my best thinking. Look, Lyons, tonight it's gotta be me and some Stoli and the memories of my mom. Tomorrow I'll be good old Dave again. OK?”

“OK. One condition, however.” I reached over and removed one of the bottles. “One's plenty for tonight. I don't want you doing too much damage, OK?”

He hugged me too tightly, burying his face in my shoulder, and then broke away suddenly. “You're a pal, Lyons.”

He got out of the car and walked slowly up the walk. Once he was safely inside, I made a U-turn toward the station. The room was empty except for Leslie, Lorraine's sister, who worked dispatch at night. Vera Batko's missing person file sat squarely in the middle of my desk. The chief anticipated everything.

I typed up my notes for the day, digging up the phone number and address of Dan Jaleda with plans to interview him tomorrow about who ordered the construction of that fake wall. I tucked the folder into my bag for a little bedtime reading and left. I needed to get home before my father saw the news. He had been delighted when he thought the case was closed. Now it was wide open, and the knowledge that Vera had been murdered, the crime unsolved and undiscovered, might destroy him.

“June bug!” Dad called when I walked through the door. He was playing Blue Öyster Cult, quietly so it wouldn't wake Lucy, and reading a Lawrence Block novel. The TV was on, and a picture of the factory flashed past. Was word out? Dad smiled when he saw me.

“We need to talk,” I said and flipped off the TV.

P
ROMPTLY AT 7:27 A.M., THE CORONER'S ASSISTANT WHEELED
out Vera Batko's body, draped in a sheet. The coroner, Norm Finch, wasn't due until 7:30—he liked to go to early mass—but his assistant arranged things so as not to waste even a minute of Norm's time.

“You got a file yet?” Chief Donnelly asked the young man, who shifted from one foot to the other, half in and half out of the door.

“Dr. Finch hasn't released his finding. He'll brief you at the appropriate time.” He exited before Donnelly could ask another question.

“Well, OK then,” Donnelly said to the swinging door. “I tell you, Lyons, this whole coroner thing doesn't work out, Norm's got a future as a cult leader. They would rather die than defy his authority.”

Donnelly resembled my father, a big guy fighting gravity, his shoulders sloped as muscle tone disappeared. I'd never worked a case with him—he was too busy managing up and out, conferring with the DA and negotiating budgets with the city council. Donnelly would have preferred to be on the streets—again like my father—doing real police work.

Donnelly walked over and touched the computer standing next
to the autopsy table. He ran his finger up the stem of the microphone, tapping the mouthpiece.

“I spoke to Special Agent Bascom today,” he said, still studying the device. I braced for a discussion about when I was leaving the police department.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said. I nodded.

“Why do we have a karaoke machine in the autopsy room?”

I let out the breath I'd been holding. “Autopsies are dirty work. This allows Norm to take notes without having to get gore on pen and paper. Congresswoman Brouillette arranged for a grant.”

“Huh.” Donnelly leaned back against the counter, body relaxed, scanning the room. “So Agent Bascom said he had a colleague in Phoenix visit the Carfast corporate offices who confirmed that the van found with your burn victim was rented at one of their shops.”

“He briefed me on it,” I said.

Donnelly chose his words carefully. “June, I know you can solve this case on your own. But the Hopewell Falls Police Department has successfully collaborated with the FBI, unfortunate as those circumstances were. And it's looking more and more like our burn victim crossed state lines, willingly or no. Given your proven track record with Special Agent Bascom, and Bascom's volunteering his services and the services of the Albany FBI district office, I'd like to have us collaborate again.” He gave me a half smile. “I'd partner up with you myself, but I'm a few years out of date, plus I might have to stop everything to fight with the mayor over how many pencils we're allowed to have.”

The chief went quiet, waiting for my response. I appreciated his presenting me with a choice, limited as it was. Between the budgetary pressure and the manpower shortage, how could I say no?

“That would be fine,” I said, and Donnelly let out a breath. “Although it would have been fun to work with you, plus you know the history.”

“You do have someone who's an expert on that time period sitting bored in your living room.”

“Oh, he's not bored.”

This morning had already been a long one. After arriving home last night, I'd stayed up talking with my father for an hour. It had been a one-sided conversation, my father mumbling “OK” or “Hmm”—he was trying to process the fact that the body found in the barrel wasn't Luisa. When our non-conversation finished, I went upstairs and read through Vera's file. My dad's case notes were small and neat, so unlike the messages he scrawled and left on the counter, like “Gone to park” or “Need milk.” I took out my own pad and documented the names of witnesses and a timeline of Vera's disappearance. Taras had dropped her off at the Sleep-Tite factory for her shift at 9:45, wearing work coveralls. She had been spotted by several people punching in and putting her purse in a locker. After that it got sketchy: some people swore they saw her at her machine, others said she never manned her place on the assembly line, and one woman claimed she saw Vera slip out the back door halfway through her shift. I made a note of her name: Yolanda Zulitki.

I had intended to wake up early, setting my alarm for 5:30 so I could have another talk with my father before leaving. A good night's sleep would have let the bad news sink in, and he might have more questions than he had the night before. The smell of coffee woke me at 5:00.

I shuffled downstairs, still in my pajamas, and found Dad in the dining room, which was unexpected. Some people break out the fine china for holidays; we broke out this room, never using it otherwise. Dad sat at the table surrounded by papers, coffee forgotten as he rapidly jotted notes on a notepad.

He flipped a page. “I thought it would help you if I wrote up everything I remembered about the investigation into her disappearance.”

I skipped asking whether he had slept, requesting that he read me his notes.

“Vera was a little wild. I picked her up a few times for public drunkenness, delivering her back to her husband, Taras. Back then, ‘alcohol rehabilitation' was getting people home safe and pouring coffee into them. And most of those people I picked up . . . they weren't ladies.”

I raised my eyebrow at him. He protested. “No, no. I meant not women. Here you go.” Dad handed me the sheets. He had put together a list of witnesses.

I read through the names. “You have a good memory. These were all the people listed in the original file.”

“You read my old notes?” He sat up straight. “If you show them to me, it would jog my memory.”

I put my hand on his arm and glanced over his notes. “Why don't we start fresh. Tell me what comes to mind.”

“Not a whole lot. Dave was the only one who thought she was in some kind of danger . . . something not self-inflicted.” My dad sat forward, resting his arms on the oak table, which brought back a memory of sitting at the dinner table, my sister and I arguing with my mother about eating the manicotti she had “made gourmet” by adding raisins. Mom had banned Dad's notebook from the table, and he respected the letter of this law, but he got up every two minutes to go to the other room and make a note to himself.

“So I talked to the family and interviewed her co-workers until her family told us to stop. People were angry at her for running out, especially Lucas. Dave's dad, he'd given up. So we dismissed Dave's complaint, and . . . he was right the whole time.” My father stared out the window into the blackness of the backyard, and I reached over and patted his hand. He had a faraway look in his eye, and I think he was back in 1983. “I was so caught up in the Luisa Lawler case that I fell down on the job. The Luisa Lawler case made my career, got me named police chief, and I completely missed another murder.”

NORM BLEW IN AT 7:30 ON THE DOT
.

“Hello, old man,” he said, greeting the chief. “And Officer Lyons, Junior.”

As he peeled off his rain slicker and put on his lab coat, I was struck at how big he was. Even in his mid-sixties, he had power. He was the kind of guy who would go out in a bar fight or from a heart attack. My father told me stories of how Norm's family had run all the cockfights in the north end of the county from the fifties until the seventies. Even though Norm was an MD, I could believe there were cockfights in his past. The fact that he knew where the bodies were buried—or at least the chicken carcasses—made him bulletproof politically. No one was going to run against him.

“So the cause of death was a skull fracture and strangulation.” Norm washed his hands. “I can't tell if she was raped; however, she did have sexual intercourse in the hours before she died.”

I found that unbelievable. “She's been dead thirty years.”

“Vera Batko was remarkably intact, except for a crushed thorax and a smashed skull.” Labeled bone fragments lay next to her body, clumps of black hair still attached. “The body's decay ended up not polluting the hair, and we got some of our best evidence.”

“Like?”

“Carpet fibers. And paint flecks caught in the blood in her hair. Plus what wasn't there. No Tris. That drum was sealed as tight as . . . well, a drum. The tech didn't want to send them over to the labs in Albany for analysis. Said they could do it faster and better.”

“Can they?” Chief Donnelly asked.

“I assume so. It's not my responsibility to make sure they do their job, and I've found they're resistant to correction.”

“Ms. Lin, I take it?” Chief Donnelly said.

“Oh, yes. She doesn't take criticism, but of course, there's rarely a need for it.”

Dismissed by Norm, the chief reluctantly returned to the station for a press conference, and I went to Dave's, buying him a coffee and
a raspberry-filled donut to soak up the alcohol. I rang his bell twice, the chimes echoing through his old Victorian, but he didn't answer. I wrote him a note: “Thinking of you, call when you recover from the bottle of Stoli,” and put the coffee and donut next to his door.

I arrived at the station to find the press clustered in the lobby, amiably chatting with Lorraine. The reporter from the
Troy Record
waved, and several of the reporters called to me—my last case had put us on a first-name basis, unfortunately. The chief's door opened, and he peeked around the corner and then ducked back, out of the sight line of the press, and frantically waved me over.

“Wrangle Batko for me, will you?” Dave sat in one of the chief's visitor's chairs, his feet on the desk. “I'll illuminate the fourth estate on recent developments.”

Dave appeared incredibly fit for someone who had spent the night drinking himself unconscious. He strained for a smile, too wide and almost painful.

“Hello, Lyons.”

“Dave, you shouldn't be here.”

“When we have two cases to solve? How could I leave now?”

“You should try the window if you want to avoid the press.”

“Before I give you a present, Lyons?” He held a slip of paper in front of him, waving it back and forth. “I put together a list of Mom's known associates.”

I reached for the paper, and he pulled it behind his back. I was trying to be kind, but he needed to leave—right now. In the same firm tone I used on Lucy that time she tried to coax a wild rabbit into the house using a trail of carrots, I said, “Dave, it's been one day. Go spend time with your brother, your aunt.” I rested my hand on his shoulder. “Let me take care of everything for you.”

“I can—”

Outside, the press got loud, calling out “Chief! Chief!” I used the distraction to grab the paper. He jumped up, ready to make a grab for it, when the door opened. It was my father.

Dave stopped his assault, walking toward my father. “Chief Lyons. You're here.”

My dad threw an arm over Dave's shoulder, quite a display for a man who was more of a handshake kind of guy.

My dad held out a Price Chopper bag, an apple crushing a sandwich through the plastic. “June forgot her lunch.”

In no universe would I expect my father to bring me lunch. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he raised one right back.

“Dave needs lunch. Or maybe breakfast,” I said. “Why don't you two get something to eat?”

Chief Donnelly returned. He didn't come in, holding the door open. “You need to leave, Batko. You too, Gordon. We'll take your statements later.”

“Like we're nothing more than witnesses,” Dave said.

“You're so much more than that, which is why you can't be here.” Donnelly waved them out. “Go home.”

Dave was holding fast, but Dad relented.

“C'mon, Dave. Lemme buy you a pancake.” Dad guided Dave to the door. “Between the two of us, I bet we can come up with some new leads.”

Donnelly shut the door behind them, walked behind the desk and made a call.

“All clear,” he said and hung up.

I dropped into his guest chair. “That was cryptic. Who'd you call?”

“Special Agent Bascom. I told him to wait outside until Batko hit the road. Didn't want Dave to feel shoved out the door.” Personally I would have called it dragging rather than shoving, but I did want to be sensitive to Dave's feelings. “I give Dave and your dad twenty-four hours before they're trying to solve this case, so you two should move forward with, what's the phrase? All deliberate speed.”

“I'm ready when you are,” Hale said, coming in and shaking Donnelly's hand.

I explained to the two men that I planned to revisit any of the
witnesses from Vera's original missing person investigation who were still alive, plus two additional people Dave had identified on the list I stole from him. Dan Jaleda, who helped brick in Vera back in 1983, was my priority, but calls to his office implied he would be out until late this afternoon. We had more than enough to do until then.

I wanted to add one more interview to this group, the most important person: my chief suspect. “Can we arrange a visit with Bernie Lawler in prison?”

“I'll call Defoe,” the chief said. “With such a press heavy case, our illustrious DA will be put out if we don't include him.”

Oh, joy. Jerry Defoe. While Jerry had stopped actively trying to undermine me after our success on our last case together, we were far from friendly. The chief read my mind.

“You don't want to be here when Jerry arrives. Get out there and do some police work.”