Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (29 page)

Zoe peeked in yet another patient room. Both TVs on. Both patients in bed, sleeping. No visitors. No Harry.

This was all her fault. She was supposed to keep an eye on him. Everyone knew his tendency to wander off.

She moved to the next, her heart pounding harder than if she’d run a marathon instead of simply race-walking up and down the fourth floor hallways. One last room. No sign of Harry there either. She took off, sprinting around the corner, pausing for the automatic doors to swing open.

Zoe plunged through and pulled up short before colliding with Pete and Baronick.

The detective caught her by the shoulders. “Slow down there.”

Pete nudged him aside. “I guess I don’t have to ask if you’ve found Harry.”

The weight of failing Pete crushed down on her. “Not yet. But I have Patsy Greene and Alexander Kroll checking the other wings on this floor. Mrs. Kroll is checking in ICU.”

Baronick pulled out his cell phone. “I’ll call security.”

“I already did. They’re on their way.” She studied Pete. Stress showed through his poker face veneer. How could she ask about her own father when she’d just misplaced his?

“Harry does this all the time,” Pete said, his voice soothing. “He’ll turn up any minute now, wondering what all the fuss is about.”

She hoped so. God, she hoped so.

Baronick cleared his throat. “I think I’ll go call security
again
.” He fingered his phone as he walked away.

Pete moved closer to her. “Zoe, the autopsy’s been completed.”

“I assumed as much.” The questions she needed to ask were stuck. Pete had answers. But did she want to hear them? “And?”

“You know the standard line about ongoing cases and waiting for the lab to confirm results.” Pete paused. “But dental records matched. The body in the casket is definitely your father.”

The hospital hallway—the entire world—tilted. Zoe closed her eyes for a moment, but that only made it worse. Pete grabbed her by the arms. Kept her from spinning off into oblivion. He drew her against his chest. She leaned there trying to remember how to breathe.

Her father...her dad...was gone. For good. He hadn’t run off. He hadn’t entered the witness protection program. He hadn’t disappeared in order to protect her. He was dead.

As she struggled to process reality, she realized Pete wasn’t so much holding her in his arms as he was bracing her.

There was more.

Zoe eased back. “What else?”

He released her arms, taking her hands instead. “Abercrombie found a bullet. Baronick’ll take it to the county lab.”

Another bullet. Not only was her dad dead, he’d been murdered. “It’s going to match, you know.”

“That’s what I figure.”

The world around her that a moment ago had been whirling out of control became very still and focused. “You go with Baronick. Do what you need to do to track down who—whoever killed my father. Don’t worry about Harry. I’ll find him.”

Pete tipped his head, eyeing her.

“You asked me to trust you. Now I’m asking you to trust me. I’ll find Harry. I promise.”

After Pete and Baronick left, Zoe headed back to her headquarters of search operations—the ICU waiting room.

Alexander Kroll shrugged and held up his hands. “I checked every men’s room on this floor. He wasn’t in any of them.”

What if something had happened to Harry? She’d lost him.
She
had. And she knew what it was like to lose—really lose—a father. She wouldn’t let Pete go through that. Not yet. Not like this. She’d given him her word.

Mrs. Kroll wrung her hands as if applying lotion. “I spoke with the nurses in ICU. No one has seen him.”

A rapid
thud thud thud
of footfalls in the hall grew louder, and Patsy skidded around the bend into the room. “I looked in every room in the south wing.” She paused, breathing hard. “All the storage and linen closets are locked with keypads, so he couldn’t get in them. I checked both the men’s and the women’s restrooms. And none of the staff have seen him. I told them to keep an eye out.”

Zoe turned a full circle, scanning the room, thinking—hoping Harry might suddenly reappear out of thin air. Where was security? She’d phoned them at least fifteen minutes ago.

As if on cue, a pair of uniformed guards ambled through the door. Zoe leaped to meet them. “Have you heard anything yet?”

“We need more information.” The older guard, who carried himself like a retired cop or military officer, studied his notebook. “All I have is a missing elderly man with dementia wandered away. Can you give us a description?”

“He’s about six feet tall,” Zoe said, “white hair, blue eyes, athletic build. I’d guess late sixties, early seventies. His name is Harry Adams. He’s Vance Township Police Chief Pete Adams’ dad.”

The older guard nodded and scribbled notes. The younger one waved a walkie-talkie. “I’ll report it.” He turned and strode away, speaking into the radio.

“How long has he been missing?”

Zoe looked at her watch. “About twenty minutes.” Crap. Harry could have covered a lot of ground in twenty freaking minutes. And she couldn’t quite shake that look Wilford Engle had given Harry when he’d spotted them. What was that all about anyway?

“Has he done this sort of thing before?”

She nodded. “But he doesn’t usually go very far.”

“I’m sure he hasn’t this time either.”

The younger guard returned. “I’ve put out an alert,” he told them. Turning to Zoe, he asked, “You said he’s alone, right?”

“Right. Why?”

“Because one of the volunteers at the front desk reported seeing two elderly men arguing in the lobby about ten minutes ago. One matches the description you gave us. Although that description could match any number of people.”

Zoe’s mind swam in a sea of muck. Two men arguing? “Did you get a description of the other man?”

“Approximately eighty years old. Tall, very thin. Very pale.”

Wilford Engle. Zoe reached for her throat to claw away the invisible hand choking her. “You have to get someone down there to hold them.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the young guard said. “The volunteer didn’t know about your friend being missing. She said the two men in question left the building.”

Twenty-Nine

“Either charge my client or release him.” Anthony Imperatore didn’t bother with bluster or theatrics. He was all cool-headed, down-to-earth business.

Pete respected the man, grateful for his legal savvy and determination those times when someone Pete cared about—Sylvia last winter, for instance—was being unjustly accused. But right now, in the hallway of Pete’s police station, the attorney reminded him of a pit bull guarding his territory. “I need five minutes with Jackson. That’s all. Afterward, I’ll cut him loose.” Or formally arrest him. But no use mentioning the obvious to Imperatore.

The lawyer eyed Pete askance. “Five minutes. And I will be present during this interview.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

With a miniscule nod, Imperatore agreed.

Minutes later, Pete once again faced Zoe’s stepfather across a table. Jackson’s demeanor hadn’t improved. “I’ve just come from Gary Chamber’s autopsy.”

Jackson lowered his face. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“I’m sure.”

Jackson’s face came up again. “Not for the reason you seem to think.”

“Oh?”

Imperatore tapped the table. “Mr. Jackson, be quiet.”

He tipped his head toward his lawyer. “I have nothing to hide.” His voice was a growl. “I didn’t do anything.” He met Pete’s gaze and held it firm. “I gather you saw Gary’s body.”

“I did.”

Jackson swallowed. Hard. “Did Zoe?”

“No.”

Jackson seemed relieved. But his gaze darkened. “Why not?”

Pete considered reminding the man about who was asking the questions here. But maybe a little honey was in order to catch this fly. “I didn’t think she should have to face that.”

Jackson studied Pete in silence for a long moment before shifting in his chair. “I give you credit. You really do care for my daughter.”

Pete knew where this was headed and let it ride.

“So do I,” Jackson said. “And I cared for her—and her mother—when Zoe was eight. I knew how badly burned Gary’s body was. I didn’t want either of them to have to deal with that.”

“How did you know?”

“What?”

“How did you know how badly burned Gary’s body was? Unless you saw it.”

“No. Froats told me.”

“Warren Froats?”

“One and the same.”

A knock at the door drew Pete’s attention. The door swung open and Baronick entered without invitation.

The detective crossed to Pete’s side, kept his back to Jackson and Imperatore, and leaned down to whisper in Pete’s ear. “It’s a match.”

Not that Pete had doubted the result for a minute, but now the lab had confirmed. One gun had been used in every one of the shootings in this forty-five-year crime spree. “Do me a favor.” Pete kept his voice low, but didn’t care whether his suspect heard or not. “Get Warren Froats in here.”

Baronick slipped out, shutting the door behind him.

Pete toyed with his pen. “I spoke with Marvin Kroll this afternoon.”

Jackson gave a short laugh. “Then why am I still here if he told you I didn’t shoot him?”

“Because he didn’t. He has no memory of the incident.”

“Son of a bitch.” Jackson slammed both hands down on the table.

Imperatore cleared his throat. “Not another word.” The lawyer pointed at Pete. “Time’s up.”

Pete held up his watch. “I still have two minutes.”

Imperatore made a production of removing his Rolex and setting it on the table in front of him. “Two minutes. Not a second longer.”

So be it. “Kroll received a letter from James Engle, same as you did. In it he stated that Bernice Kroll had nothing to do with the Miller brothers’ deaths. Like you, Mr. Kroll went to talk to James. On Wednesday. The same day as you.” Pete didn’t mention Kroll had been there
after
Jackson. “Kroll believed James had killed the Millers and wanted him to admit it.”

“Did he?” Jackson asked, his voice flat.

“Admit to it? No.”

Jackson studied his hands, still palm-down on the table. Silent moments ticked away, cutting into Pete’s remaining minute. But his gut told him to wait.

Tom Jackson took a long breath. “I was at James’ house Wednesday.”

“Mr. Jackson,” Imperatore scolded.

“It’s all right. The chief already knows I was there. And I didn’t do anything.”

“But—”

Jackson cut off his attorney with a look. Then he sat back in his chair. “I’d opened his letter to Kimberly. I know. I shouldn’t have. But I did. And when I read it, I knew it would tear her apart. So I insisted we come north. I arranged things so I could come up a few days ahead of her and talk to Jim.”

“Your two minutes are up,” Imperatore snapped.

Jackson shook his head. “I acknowledge I have the right to remain silent. I’m waiving it.”

Pete suppressed a smile. Under different circumstances, he might just like Zoe’s stepfather.

“I wanted to find out what he knew about Gary’s accident,” Jackson said. “And—everything else, too. I don’t know what happened with the Miller brothers. But before that whole incident, Jim had been a father figure. My own father never had much to do with me, so Jim filled a big void. But after all that happened, and his sister died—”

“Died?” Pete paused in his note taking. “Mae Engle is dead?”

“She died in childbirth. They kept it all very hush hush.”

“Any idea what happened to the baby?”

“It was put up for adoption is all I know. Anyway, after all that, Jim started drinking. A lot. He began avoiding me. Wouldn’t return my calls. If I stopped by, he was either blitzed or too busy to be bothered with me. One time I demanded to know what was going on. Told him I’d always wished he was my dad. He threw an empty whiskey bottle at me.” Anguish deepened the creases in Jackson’s forehead. “I’ll never forget what he said to me that day. ‘You’re better off staying the hell away from me and my family. Nothing good ever came from being an Engle.’”

Jackson fell silent, his breath raspy. Pete waited for him to compose himself.

After clearing his throat, Jackson continued. “Did I think he killed Denver or Vernon? Or both? Yeah. I did. I still do.”

Pete peered up from his notes. “During the autopsy this evening, the M.E. pulled a bullet out of Gary Chambers’ body.”

Jackson didn’t blink.

“You knew.”

He shook his head. “Not before I spoke with Jim last Wednesday. Up until then, I thought the same as Kimberly. That Gary had been killed by a drunk driver.”

“Carl Loomis.”

“Yeah. But after that letter from Jim, I demanded to know what he was talking about and he told me.”

“That he’d shot Gary?”

“Not exactly.”

If Pete’s foot hadn’t been throbbing like a diesel engine, he’d have jumped up and gone over the table at Jackson. Instead, he struck the table with his closed fist. “What
exactly
did he say?”

Jackson flinched, but recovered. “He said he felt responsible for Gary’s death, but he hadn’t been the one who killed him. He said he wasn’t free to tell me who had, but he needed to clear his conscience while he still could.”

“But James Engle didn’t have cancer.”

“I know that. Now. But he kept saying he didn’t have long for this earth.” Jackson rubbed his eyes, letting his fingers rest on the bridge of his nose. “That day, last Wednesday, he was as despondent a man as I’ve ever seen. I honestly believed he was dying. I can’t explain why he thought he had cancer. Or if he knew he didn’t, why he told everyone else that he did. But I can tell you this. If I were a gambler, I’d bet every cent I have that Jim committed suicide.”

“You think Wilford Engle
kidnapped
Harry?” Patsy’s tone clearly indicated she thought Zoe was certifiable.

Maybe she was.

Zoe jogged through the hospital’s parking lot with Patsy on her heels. One of the good things about having a big old pickup was being able to spot it towering over the newer, smaller cars and SUVs. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s a possibility.” No one had been able to locate Harry anywhere inside the building. “Harry recognized Wilford. Sort of. He couldn’t place him, but told me he wasn’t nice.”

“But why would old Wilford Engle kidnap Harry?”

Reaching her truck, Zoe fumbled the key into the lock. “I guess he didn’t know Harry couldn’t remember who he was.”

Patsy ducked around to the passenger door. Over the truck bed she raised her hands in exasperation. “So what?”

Zoe yanked open the door, hit the button to unlock Patsy’s side, tossed her phone on the seat, and jumped in. “So Wilford thinks Harry has spotted him hanging around Mr. Kroll’s room.” She jammed the key in the ignition without telling Patsy she was figuring this story out as she went. “Wilford doesn’t want Harry—or more precisely, Pete—to know he was lurking around the ICU.”

Patsy climbed in and reached for the seatbelt. “What difference does it make if Wilford is showing concern for his neighbor?”

“Nothing. Unless it’s not concern.” The sickening reality settled hard in Zoe’s gut. “Wilford was hanging around to find out if Mr. Kroll was going to pull through. And be able to identify him.”

Patsy scowled. “Identify him?”

Zoe twisted the ignition.
Click
.

Nothing else. Just click.

Frantically, she glanced at the dashboard’s gauges and buttons. To the left of the steering wheel, the toggle for the headlights was flipped.

“Crap!” She pounded the steering wheel. The bad thing about having a big old pickup truck was the warning bell alerting her she’d left the lights on had quit working six months ago. “My battery’s dead.”

“What were you saying about Mr. Kroll indentifying Wilford Engle?”

In the silence, the pieces clicked just like her crippled truck. “Wilford Engle shot Mr. Kroll.”

Patsy gasped. “Why?”

“I’m not sure. But if Wilford thought he’d killed Mr. Kroll and then found out Mr. Kroll had survived, it makes sense he’d want to keep tabs on whether he pulled through or not. And if he regained consciousness, Wilford might have been waiting for an opportunity for a second chance.”

Patsy fixed her with a skeptical glare. “You’ve been watching too many crime shows on TV.”

Zoe ignored Patsy as her train of thought picked up speed. The bullet that had been used to shoot Mr. Kroll matched the one that had killed Denver Miller. And Carl Loomis.

And most likely Zoe’s father as well. A chill skittered across her shoulders. Was Wilford the killer? Not Tom. But Wilford Engle. And now he had Harry.

Zoe turned to Patsy. “If it’s true that Wilford is trying to get rid of Mr. Kroll because he can ID him, he might intend to get rid of Harry, too.”

“I can’t believe that.” But Patsy’s voice wavered.

“Why else would Wilford take Harry?”

Patsy frowned and twisted a strand of her hair.

Zoe didn’t have time for Patsy to puzzle this out. “Harry’s in danger. If I’m wrong, I’ll owe Wilford Engle an apology. If I’m right...”

Patsy’s hand dropped to her lap. “Come on. We’ll take my truck.”

They dove out of the Chevy. Zoe fell into step with Patsy as they pounded down the row toward Patsy’s white Toyota Tundra. She chirped it open as Zoe circled to the passenger side. Patsy had the big truck fired up before Zoe clicked her seatbelt.

“Where to?” Patsy asked.