Nowhere Safe (25 page)

“Haven’t you hurt us enough?” Janet challenged them as she grabbed Chris’s arm. Her gaze raked over Wes as if he were the devil incarnate.

“Mrs. Ballonni, Chris, we just want to talk to you about Shannon Kraxberger,” September said.

Chris threw September a wild, accusatory look, but let his mother drag him inside. Janet slammed the door with a
bang.

September’s gaze then swiveled to the back of the girl who was quickly walking away from the scene at the Ballonnis.

“Jamie?” September called.

The girl hesitated, then looked over her shoulder at them.

“Chris mentioned you to me,” September said.

She stopped and turned fully around. She was pretty enough with straight dark brown hair and wide blue eyes, but she had that sullen look so often adopted by tweens. “He did?”

“He told me you were his girlfriend when I talked to him on the phone the other day.” September was moving toward the girl but Wes hung back, letting her talk to the girl without overwhelming her.

“He said he talked to the police. Janet doesn’t know.”

“I figured.”

She cocked her head to one side. “You’re kinda pretty for a cop.”

“Thanks.”

“I can’t believe Chris told you about Shannon. I mean, he knows what a sick psycho his dad was, but he won’t ever talk about it. Like never.”

“Chris knew his father was a sexual predator?” September asked.

“Well, I don’t know about that. But yeah, he knew about Shannon. And you know why? Because I’m the one who told him about her.”

Jamie tossed back her hair and warmed to her subject. “Chris’s dad was always trying to get too close. I stayed out of his way whenever I was at their house. Mostly, Chris comes over to my house. His dad just would look at me weird, y’know, and I knew what he was thinking, especially because of what Shannon told me.” She stuck her tongue out and made a gagging sound. “Shannon told me about him ’cause she knew Chris and I were friends. This was a few years ago, before we were going together. She’d gotten kinda weird and we didn’t know why. Then she told me. She was like having a real hard time because she’d always thought Chris’s dad was cool ’cause he shared his gum with her, but then once he got out of his truck and pretended to hug her but then he felt her up, and she didn’t even have
anything
up there. She tried to get away, but he stuck his hand down her pants before she could run into the house.” She made a face and shuddered. “She was really, really scared to tell her mom and dad, so she never said anything, until she finally told me. I told Chris his dad was like a sex maniac. We had this really big fight. But then Shannon’s parents were leaving and she was glad and she told me not to tell anyone else. She was kinda upset that I told Chris. After she left, Chris and I didn’t really talk about it anymore, especially after his dad died, but I always kinda thought it happened because he was a sexual predator, like you see on TV.”

September had suspected as much but hearing Jamie baldly call Ballonni a sexual predator made it very real. “Do you know of anyone else, besides Shannon, who might have had contact with Chris’s dad in that way?”

“Maybe you should ask the day-care lady,” Jamie said.

“Day-care lady?”

“The one who had the day care on the end of Shannon’s street.”

September turned to Wes, who was within earshot, and they stared at each other in mute horror.
A day care?

“Ask Shannon about her. She’ll remember.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that.”

“You won’t tell Chris that I told you all that, will you?” She darted a fearful look back at the Ballonni house. “That would really be bad.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be talking to Chris again,” September said.

They left Jamie and the Ballonnis and climbed into Wes’s SUV again. “Back to the Kraxbergers?” he asked.

“We need to talk to Shannon.”

“How are you gonna get past the mom?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll think of something on the way.”

He turned the Range Rover around as September consulted the names on the map of the mail route again. The street the Kraxbergers lived on ended in a cul-de-sac. There were two houses at the final curve. The one facing toward the north was owned by a family named Maroney; the one toward the south was owned by the Francos. She dialed the Maroneys’ number first and got voice mail. She left her name and number, then she called the second number and the Francos’ voice mail answered as well.

“Damn,” September said after she’d clicked off, not liking any of it.

“Yeah.”

When they arrived at the Kraxbergers’ again, it looked as if Mrs. Kraxberger had just picked up Shannon from a dance class as the girl was just getting out of a car, dressed in a leotard and tights with a big jacket thrown over the outfit.

Shannon glanced over at them as September and Wes got out of their vehicle. She still didn’t have much in the way of breasts and there was something very childlike about her body.

“What are you doing here again?” Mrs. Kraxberger practically screeched, grabbing hold of Shannon’s arm.

“Who are they?” Shannon asked her mother.

“We’re detectives with the Laurelton Police Department,” September said loudly as Shannon’s mother was hustling her up the front steps to the door. “We wanted to talk to you and your mother about Mr. Ballonni.” September knew she was stepping over the line a bit, engaging the minor without her parent’s permission, but she honestly didn’t much care.

“Get out of here!” Mrs. Kraxberger yelled at them.

Wes said in a calm voice, “We’re trying to solve a homicide and could use some help.”

“Don’t talk to them,” she told her daughter.

Shannon glanced over at September, who said, “We just talked to Jamie.”

Shannon’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

“Who?” her mother demanded. “Leave her alone!”

“She said there was a day care at the end of your street,” September pressed, as Wes said for her ears only, “Careful with mother bear.”

“I’m calling your superiors!” Mrs. Kraxberger opened the door and tried to pull Shannon into the house, but the girl shook herself free.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she called down to September. “Mr. Ballonni?”

“Yes,” September said.

“Do you know what he did to me?”

“Yes,” September said again.

“Shannon!” her mother cried, appalled.

“The day-care lady was Mrs. Vasquez,” Shannon said. “I think she moved because of him, too. You should talk to her.”

“Shannon,” her mother said again.

“Thank you, Shannon,” September told her.

The girl nodded gravely. “He was a sick man. That’s why he killed himself.”

Mrs. Kraxberger had had enough. This time she managed to yank her daughter inside and slam the door.

“Or, that’s why somebody killed him,” Wes said, speaking September’s thoughts.

“Who do you think this Mrs. Vasquez is?” she asked. “It’s not a name on either of the houses at the end of Fir Court, the Kraxbergers’ street.”

“Maybe it’s a different house?”

“Or, one of them’s a rental?”

She was silent as they drove toward the Kraxbergers’ old neighborhood.

“What’re you thinking?” he asked her.

“My brother, March, has a ten-year-old daughter, Evie. A lot of times March works at my father’s house and he often brings Evie. Stefan lived there for years.”

“Oh.”

September exhaled heavily. “Maybe I’m borrowing trouble.”

More silence as they drove away, then Wes said, “Maybe you should talk to your niece.”

“Maybe I will,” she said solemnly. She glanced at the time. It was after five.

Fir Court was a dead end that went for several blocks and then jogged at an angle into the cul-de-sac. They drove past the old Kraxberger home, now owned by a family named Cordelle, according to the name on the mailbox, and then took a right into the cul-de-sac. The house toward the south, the Franco’s, had aging plastic play equipment in the backyard, faded from the elements, along with a swing set and slide.

They chose it first. Wes knocked on the door and there was a sudden gallop of feet from inside and then a boy of about ten opened the door.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” September answered. “Is your mom, or dad, home?”

“Mom’s upstairs. I’ll go get her. Mom!” he yelled, running back up the stairs he’d obviously just run down, leaving the door wide open.

A few minutes later a woman rushed down, shooting a damning look up at her son. “Carl, the
door!
” she yelled in a reminding tone. Flustered, she asked September and Wes, “Yes?” Her hand was on the door as if she were about to slam it in their faces.

September had had enough of that for one day. Pulling out her identification, she introduced Wes and herself, and asked, “Are you Mrs. Vasquez?”

“Heavens, no. She moved away years ago. We rented the place from the Francos after her. I’m Karen Webster. Did she—why are you looking for her?”

“Do you know her new address?” September asked.

“No, but she moved to the east side of the river. Still has her business, though, I think. Calls it Tiny Tots Care.”

“You don’t know why she moved, do you?” September tried.

“She didn’t like that mailman. That’s what the owners of the house told me. Left right before he killed himself.”

“Mom!” came from up above.

“She left the play structures behind and that’s what sold us on this place,” Karen said. Then, “What, Carl?”

“Come upstairs now!”

Ignoring him, she asked, “Is there some problem with her?”

“No. Thank you,” September said, and she and Wes left as Carl yelled, “Right now, Mom!” and Karen Webster shut the door, but not before they heard her scream, “Just hold your horses!”

Wes asked September, “What now?”

“It’s after six. I don’t have time to go to the east side and find Mrs. Vasquez. I have to meet Maharis.”

“I’ll drop you off at your car and look into Tiny Tots Care.”

September nodded. “Marnie Dramur and LeeAnn Walters live a couple of blocks over on Candlewood, the same street as the Bernsteins.”

“You want to stop in?”

What she wanted to do was get to the hospital, but she could see her time slipping away. Maybe it was better, anyway. Once she got these interviews out of the way, she could go to the hospital and stay all night, if they let her. “Hell, we’re here. Maharis can wait,” she said.

Wes quickly drove to the first house—the Walters’—but no one was home. The Dramurs’ home was around the corner and the lights were on, so they parked in front of the modest ranch style house with its wrought iron fence and walked up the drive together. Once again, Wes knocked on the door. It took a while before it was opened by a harried woman wiping her hands on a towel.

“Yes?” she asked suspiciously, then held the hand with the towel to her chest in surprise when she realized they were officers.

“Are you Marnie Dramur?”

“Y-e-e-s-s-s . . .”

September explained that they were looking into Christopher Ballonni’s death and brought up Rhoda Bernstein’s complaint against him. Marnie’s lips tightened in disapproval. “I never agreed with Rhoda. She told you that, didn’t she? She always thought her Missy was so perfect that no man could look at her without desiring her, and my God, she was just a kid. It was sick. Ask LeeAnn about Rhoda, if you don’t believe me. LeeAnn Walters. Lives right around there.” She pointed to the corner they’d just driven around. “She’ll tell you.” She pressed her lips together. “Chris Ballonni was our mailman for years. Rhoda made that complaint and then he committed suicide. What does that tell you?”

“We don’t believe it was a suicide,” Wes said, and she gave him the elevator eyes, assessing him.

“There was a similar staging of the crime last week,” September said.

“I saw that, but you know, you just give somebody an idea, and the next thing you know, they’re doing it, too.” She sniffed.

“Evidence suggests the same person is responsible for both crimes,” September said.

“What are you saying? That Christopher Ballonni was murdered?” She looked from Wes to September as if they were both bonkers.

“We’ve already spoken to a family named Kraxberger who lived along your route and whose daughter was inappropriately approached by Ballonni. We believe he was targeting girls, not boys.”

“You’re saying Rhoda Bernstein was
right?
”

“Could you think of anything, any other girl who might have lived along the route and who may have been approached by Ballonni?” she asked.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. No. There was—I don’t know anyone. I just know LeeAnn and . . . well . . . we have boys, so . . . no.” She paused, wrapping and unwrapping the towel over her hands. “But there was that day care, of sorts, I suppose.”

“Tiny Tots Care. Run by Mrs. Vasquez?” September asked.

“You know it. Yes. But she moved a while back.” She shook her head. “Oh, God, is that why?”

“Not that we know of,” September said truthfully.

“Oh, my
God,
” she said again.

“Thank you,” Wes said, effectively cutting her off.

They left her standing at the door, watching them walk across the street and get into Wes’s Range Rover again. He drove September to her car and then they said good-bye to each other and he went back into the station. For a moment September debated on taking a quick trip to the hospital but it was almost six already, so she texted Maharis and said she was on her way, then called the hospital again to learn if there was any change, which there wasn’t.

Depressed, she arrived at Gulliver’s at six-thirty to find that Maharis hadn’t showed yet. The bar was fairly quiet with only a few patrons leftover from happy hour. When September entered she watched several departing customers pat the suit of armor by the door—a tradition for good luck—and she did the same, touching the knight’s cool metal visor. She could use some good luck and so could Jake.

Sidling up to the bar, she dropped her messenger bag on the smooth, laminated wood surface. Her gun was inside the bag, not at her hip, but her ID was in her pocket and she flipped it out for the woman bartender to see.

“I’m looking for Mark,” September told her.

“Bartender Mark or Waiter Mark?” she asked.

“Bartender Mark.”

“He’s around.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Probably on break. I’ll go find him after I serve these people.”

These people were a man and woman sitting at the bar, facing each other and rubbing each other’s thighs. The bartender handed them each a drink, what looked like a cosmo for her and a glass of straight Glenfiddich for him, then she lifted up a section of the bar and turned through a door into the kitchen area. A few minutes later a serious young man came out to where September was standing and introduced himself as Mark Newsome as she showed him her identification.

“I remember you,” he said, looking past her. “You came in with your partner and talked to Mark Withecomb about Emmy Decatur.”

“Waiter Mark.”

“Yeah, Waiter Mark.”

“I have a new partner.” September answered his unspoken question. “He’s on his way.”

“Did you want Withecomb?”

“Actually I wanted to talk to you. You were working last Thursday night?”