Annette Dashofy - Zoe Chambers 03 - Bridges Burned (6 page)

Six

The skinny, sallow kid working the front desk at the Sleep EZ Motel acted like he had caterpillars crawling up his back the moment he looked up from his smartphone and spotted Pete and his uniform. The kid, whose name badge identified him as Gerald, shot a nervous glance at the computer in front of him. Pete wondered how many illegal activities were going on behind the motel’s assorted doors and which of the occupants had paid Gerald extra to give them a quick heads-up if the heat came calling.

“I need the room number for Holt Farabee.” Pete doubted it would be that easy.

Gerald’s bloodshot eyes bugged from their sockets. “Um. I don’t think I can give you it, dude. Not without a—whachamacallit—warrant?”

“Look, Gerald. I’m not here to arrest anyone, so relax.”

The kid’s shoulders released a notch. “I still can’t give you a room number, dude.”

“Okay,
dude
. Can you call Mr. Farabee and tell him Chief Pete Adams is here and needs to talk to him?”

“Um.” The kid appeared on the verge of spraining something if he had to think any harder. “I…um…guess I could do that.”

When Gerald continued to stare, motionless, Pete pointed at the grungy phone sitting next to the computer keyboard.

The clerk’s eyes widened as he apparently realized Pete had not only wondered if it was possible, but also wanted him to do it. “Oh. Okay.”

Unlike the standard Sleep EZ resident, Holt Farabee gave Gerald permission to reveal his room number to Pete.

Zoe had waited outside the motel office, stating she’d had all the offensive odors she could stomach for one day. She fell into step beside Pete as he headed down the row of closed doors and drawn curtains toward the room Gerald had indicated. Near the end, one of the doors opened and Farabee stepped outside without closing it. He wore the same jeans from yesterday, still stained from the mud, although it appeared he’d made an effort to wash them—probably in the motel room’s sink. From inside, a TV blared a canned laugh track.

“Chief?” Farabee extended a hand, which Pete shook. The man’s gaze darted from Pete to Zoe as if searching for some sign the news might be good.

From inside came a small voice. “Daddy? Who is it?”

Pete held Farabee’s gaze and watched the hope drain away as he read his answer in Pete’s face.

“You watch your show, honey,” Farabee called inside to his daughter. “I have to talk to this gentleman for a few minutes.”

As Farabee reached to pull the door shut, Zoe spoke up. “Would you like me to sit with your daughter while you talk?”

He glanced into the room. Then to Pete and back to Zoe. “She doesn’t know anything about what’s happened yet.” Farabee’s voice was low and strained. “I’ve been making up excuses for where her mom is until—until I knew for sure.”

“I won’t say anything,” Zoe assured him. “I’ll just watch TV with her.”

He nodded. “That would be great. Thanks.” He took a step inside. “Maddie, honey, this is…” Farabee glanced back at them, his eyes wide in embarrassment.

“Zoe,” she said gliding past him into the room. “Maddie, my name’s Zoe. What are you watching?”

Farabee watched the two for a moment before pulling the door shut behind him and facing Pete. “The body in the fire. It was Lill, wasn’t it?”

Pete had seen more bereaved spouses in his career in law enforcement than he could ever count. The anguish in Holt Farabee’s eyes was as genuine as any Pete had witnessed. Or else the man was one of the best liars he’d encountered. “Yes, Mr. Farabee. I’m sorry, but the coroner’s confirmed—”

Farabee slumped against the outside wall of the motel and covered his face with his hands, muffling the sobs.

Zoe perched next to the ten-year-old blond ponytailed Maddie Farabee on a bed that under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t have touched without first putting on Latex gloves. The room’s carpet was a flat gray marred with dark stains. Faded and peeling wallpaper appeared to have been applied back in the ’80s. And was that a bullet hole above the ancient television set? The show on the TV was almost as old as the room’s décor, featuring a wholesome teen girl’s antics while the actress playing her had long since grown into a rebellious young woman. Zoe had gone through her own rebellion, but maturity led her to see the link between her bad choices and the tragedy which had shaped her life. She glanced at the youngster beside her and hoped Maddie wouldn’t make those same kinds of mistakes.

“Dad’s upset,” Maddie said without taking her eyes from the screen. “He won’t tell me what’s wrong because he thinks I can’t handle stuff.”

What had Zoe been thinking when she offered to sit and watch TV with this kid?
I won’t say anything,
she’d told the dad, forgetting about how perceptive kids were. Zoe ran several possible responses through her mind. Other than a flat-out fib, nothing sounded reassuring.

Maddie gave a huge sigh. “I hate this place.”

Zoe looked around again. “It’s…not very nice.” Understatement.

“It sucks.”

Zoe snorted. “Yeah. It does.”

“And it stinks.”

“That, too.”

“I hate smelly stuff.”

Zoe gave the girl a smile. “So do I.”

“And I don’t have any of my stuff with me.” Maddie smoothed her ruffled pink skirt over a pair of aqua leggings. “Dad picked me up from my friend’s house and brought me straight here. I don’t know why we couldn’t stop at
our
house so I could pack some clothes and get my games.”

Zoe pictured the fire. Maddie no longer had any clothes or games.

“I hope my mom brings me some of my things when she gets here.”

Maddie no longer had a mom, either.

The girl turned to face Zoe. “Is there something wrong with my mom?”

Zoe opened her mouth, but words failed her. Unlike earlier when Maddie had changed the subject and saved Zoe from an uncomfortable response, the girl was clearly waiting for an answer this time. Her large, wise-beyond-their-years brown eyes stared unblinking at Zoe.

The door swung open and a pale Holt Farabee took two uncertain steps into the room. “Thanks,” he said to Zoe. “You can go now. I need to talk to my daughter.”

“I can stick around if you need me to.” Zoe heard the words and realized they were coming from her own mouth.

Farabee shook his head. “We’ll be fine.”

Relieved even if she didn’t believe him, Zoe jumped up—and hesitated. She couldn’t simply bolt from the room. Turning to Maddie, she looked down into those searching, innocent eyes. What should Zoe say?
See ya
didn’t sound right.
Nice chatting with you
? No.

Zoe glanced around the room, her gaze settling on the cheap veneered desk.

She crossed to it and picked up the motel’s promotional pen to jot her name and number on the complimentary notepad. Ripping off the top sheet, she returned to kneel in front of the ten-year-old. She pressed the paper into Maddie’s hand. “I live on a horse farm and give riding lessons. If you ever want to come out and go for a ride, give me a call.”

Maddie’s eyes widened. “I love horses.”

Zoe would have bet on that. Most little girls did.

Maddie looked at her father. “Can I, Dad?”

Farabee’s shell-shocked expression didn’t waver. “We’ll see.”

Zoe patted the girl’s knee and rose.

“Do you want to tell me what that was all about?” Pete demanded as he and Zoe walked to their vehicles.

She stopped short. “What was
what
all about?”

“Pony rides? That little girl isn’t a stray puppy or kitten you can pick up and take home with you.”

Zoe stared at him, a perplexed scowl on that beautiful face, her lips open, but no words coming from them.

She had a soft spot for kids. It had gotten her into trouble before. But this wasn’t a friend’s daughter. This was the child of a stranger—a man Pete wasn’t at all sure he trusted.

Zoe closed her mouth and made a deliberate production of crossing her arms and cocking one hip before speaking. “You think I don’t know the difference between a little girl who’s lost a parent and a stray dog?”

Her sharp tone brought his own stupidity into focus. Chagrined, he removed his Vance Twp PD ball cap and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course you do. But you can’t save everyone.”

“I’m not trying to. Look, I know what Maddie Farabee’s about to go through. I’ve been there.”

Pete knew all that and tried to interrupt, but Zoe shut him up with the wave of a hand.

“If I can do something as simple as taking her for a horseback ride or two, give her some sense of self-worth and control, maybe she won’t go all renegade like I did.”

“As long as it stops with a horseback ride. Or two.”

“Or three.” A fleeting grin crossed Zoe’s face. “Come on, Pete. Tell me you don’t feel a little helpless where that kid’s concerned.”

He struck his official law enforcement pose. The one with the best intimidation factor. “You’ve been in the business long enough to know you can’t get personally involved in a case. It’ll break your heart.”

Zoe showed no sign of being the least bit intimidated. “Maybe you’ve been in the business too long and have gotten jaded. Putting a kid on a pony isn’t going to break anything, least of all my heart.”

This probably wasn’t the time for a quip about bucking broncs and potential broken bones. Maybe Zoe was right. Maybe she could make a positive difference in Maddie Farabee’s life and leave it at that.

And maybe—as much as he hated the thought—maybe she was right about him, too. He thought about the phone message. The one he hadn’t responded to. Yet. He jammed his cap back on his head. “All right. You win.” Besides, odds were good Farabee would pack up his meager belongings and move with his daughter to someplace closer to family. “I have to go meet with the loan officer at MNB.” Half afraid to hear the answer, he asked, “Are we still on for tonight?”

Zoe continued to glare at him for a moment. Then the corner of her mouth twitched. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me. You must expect me to back out.”

“Maybe.”

She ducked her head, but not before he caught a glimpse of the smile she attempted to hide. “We’re still on.”

“I’ll pick you up at six,” he called after her as she strode to her truck.

“Don’t be late.”

Pete watched her drive away before climbing into his SUV. He sat behind the wheel, his hand on the key in the ignition. What was it about Holt Farabee that set his nerves on edge? The man seemed genuine enough. He’d almost charged into the fire yesterday. His heartbreak afterwards in the ambulance and again just now when Pete had told him about the positive ID of his wife’s body all felt real. Even the criminal trespass charge seemed reasonable under the circumstances. Still a felony. But hardly worth the unease in Pete’s gut.

Maybe the bank could offer some answers—or at least an insight into how a man with a wife and daughter could become a squatter.

Monongahela National Bank was headquartered in a relatively new multistory brick building in downtown Brunswick. Pete found a parking space in the lot behind the structure.

A young teller at the first window directed him to an office in the rear of the building. A statuesque redhead in a gray skirt and jacket met him at the door, introducing herself as Mary Lawson, Loan Manager.

She directed him to take a seat as she closed the door behind them and slid into the chair behind her methodically tidy desk. “How can I help you, Chief Adams?”

Pete crossed an ankle over one knee and fished his notepad and pen from his pocket. “Are you familiar with Scenic Hilltop Estates in Vance Township?”

“That’s where the horrible explosion was yesterday.”

“I understand your bank holds the mortgage on the homes there.”

Lawson leaned forward, skimming her fingers over the keyboard. “Correct. The developer set up an arrangement for anyone planning to purchase property there to be financed through us.”

“Is that common practice?”

She scowled. “I don’t understand your question.”

“Is it common practice for the developer of a housing plan to arrange the buyers’ mortgages?”

Lawson leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “It’s not unusual.”

“The house that exploded yesterday had been owned by Holt and Lillian Farabee.”

Mary Lawson may have had flaming red hair, but her demeanor was cool as ice as she held Pete’s gaze.

“Had been,” Pete stressed. “Your bank had them evicted.”

A crease appeared in the woman’s forehead. “I wasn’t aware. That’s too bad.”

“You weren’t aware? Aren’t you in charge of loans?”

“Loans, yes. But if the family had fallen into arrears, their case would have gone to our collections department.”

Pete jotted a note. “Collections department?”

“Yes.” Lawson leaned forward, resting her arms on her desk, her manicured fingers loosely intertwined. “Chief Adams, it behooves no one to repossess a home. The bank much prefers to work with our clients, make whatever arrangements necessary for them to repay their loans. We’re interested in getting our money back. Not in dispossessing homeowners.”

“Were you aware a woman was killed in yesterday’s explosion?”

“I believe I heard something on the news.”

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you someone was inside the house when it exploded?”

Lawson’s icy façade developed a crack as one eye twitched. “Until you told me the house in question had been repossessed, I wasn’t aware of the situation.”

Pete wasn’t at all sure he bought Ms. Lawson’s total ignorance of the Farabees’ plight. “Now that you know, does it seem strange?”

Her chest rose and fell with a long breath, but otherwise she remained completely still. Pete imagined her brain, on the other hand, was churning in high gear. After a long silence, she replied, “I don’t suppose it’s all that strange. The victim was likely a real estate agent preparing the home for the market.”

“The victim,” Pete said, “was Lillian Farabee.”

Lawson’s eyes widened. “Oh. I—I—” She closed her mouth and made a visible effort to regain her composure. When she spoke again, the icy veneer was back in place. “The newscast didn’t give her name.”

Because Pete had only informed the next of kin less than an hour ago. “How can you explain the owner’s wife being back in the house after your bank evicted her?”

Mary Lawson hadn’t had an answer for Pete’s last question. Instead, she directed him upstairs to another office—the collections department. After being bounced from one harried secretary to another, he found himself in the cubicle of one Dennis Spangler. In stark contrast to Lawson’s cool persona and meticulously neat desk, Spangler’s tie hung loose at his throat, the top button of his rumpled shirt unbuttoned, and his sleeves rolled haphazardly up to this elbows. Files and papers stacked a foot deep on either side of his computer threatened to avalanche at any moment. The greasy smell of a hamburger and fries signaled lunch had been eaten at his desk. Pete smiled. This man reminded him of some of the detectives he’d worked with in the city. Too much work. Too little time.

“How can I help you?” Spangler asked without lifting his gaze above the badge on Pete’s shirt.

Pete was tired of repeating the same questions, giving the same explanation over and over only to be directed to another bank employee. “Are you in charge of the Holt and Lillian Farabee case?”

Spangler’s fingers stopped tapping on his keyboard. He leaned back in his chair and looked up to meet Pete’s eyes. “I am.”

Finally.

Spangler motioned to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

Pete lowered into it. “I assume you’ve heard about the explosion.”

Spangler nodded cautiously. “Have you identified the body yet?”

Pete had a feeling Spangler had already guessed. “Lillian Farabee.”

Spangler swore. “I was afraid of that.”

“Why?”

The rumpled bank employee’s face revealed a number of emotions crossing his mind, but he seemed unable to settle on one. Nor did he answer.

“Mr. Spangler?”

The man blew out a breath. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

Spangler shifted his weight in the chair and it creaked in protest. “I knew about the Farabees moving back into the house.”

Pete waited.

“I was supposed to go there and secure the house after they moved out. And I intended to. But my caseload has become overwhelming.” Spangler swept his arm over the piles of folders and papers on his desk. “By the time I got to the property, I saw someone was living there. I confirmed it was the homeowners. Former homeowners. And they didn’t seem to be trashing the place. Some people do, you know. They’re angry about being put out of their house so they vandalize it out of spite. That wasn’t the case here.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I did nothing. I felt bad for them, okay? I mean, they had a little kid and all. Besides, a lot of these vacant foreclosures fall victim to vandals and thieves. You know?”

Of course Pete knew, but he kept quiet. Spangler’s floodgates had opened and Pete wasn’t about to risk having him clam up.

“Anyhow, I decided to look the other way. For now. I have plenty of other cases to keep me busy. And the Farabee place wasn’t set to go up for sheriff’s sale for another couple of months. I figured, what’s the harm? Let the previous owners babysit the property for a little longer.” Spangler pressed a hand to his forehead and eyes. Pete wasn’t sure if the man was about to cry or simply had the mother of all headaches. Or both.

“Did you talk to the Farabees?”

Spangler dropped his hand from his face. “No.”

“Had you met them before?”

“Not face-to-face. I’ve spoken to Mr. Farabee on the phone a number of times. Trying to arrange some sort of payment plan which would allow them to keep their house.”

Pete jotted a note. “How did you know it was them in the house?”

“Stephen Tierney. Their neighbor. He’s a bank employee. He told me.”

Pete closed his notebook and thanked Dennis Spangler for his time, assuring him if he was in any trouble, it was with his own bosses, not the law.

But Pete wasn’t so sure the same held true for Stephen Tierney.