Nope, Paterno thought, he didn’t like the Flannerys or the Carlyles.
Ryan had, arguably, been the worst. A wife beater. No two ways about it. Paterno had heard a small bit of tape that had been retrieved from the final fight between him and his wife, Shannon. Most of the equipment and recording had been destroyed, but the police had reconstructed one little bit of the tape where Shannon was yelling at her husband, and sounding as if she was fighting for her life. That scrap of audiotape had been used as the basis for the theory about why she might have killed her husband…Yes, it had proved motive, but, in Paterno’s estimation, not enough. The prosecution had persevered, insisting that Shannon had sought help from either a killer-for-hire or others who had abetted her—those others being her brothers, whose only alibis had been each other.
It had been a weak case and looking back at it now, Paterno wondered why the DA had decided to try it. Pressure, he decided, staring at the transcript of the tape.
He dug further until he found information on the sole victim of one of the fires set by the Stealth Torcher.
Dolores Galvez had been thirty-two, divorced, with no children, a waitress at an Italian restaurant that had gone under since her death. Dolores had one brother who lived in Pasadena. Her parents, as of three years ago, lived in LA. There was a note that her brother had thought she’d been seeing someone, but he’d never met the guy, never heard his name, just knew that Dolores was “in love.” She’d been reticent to tell the brother anything about the guy and he’d shrugged it off because his sister had been one of those women who fell in love easily—“a couple of times a year”—was the quote. But in all the notes about Dolores there was no mention of the man she’d been seeing at the time of her death. All the old boyfriends had been checked and had come out clean.
After the tragedy, the mystery man hadn’t come forward. If he’d attended the funeral, no one had bothered to make note of it.
Paterno didn’t like it.
It didn’t feel right.
But nothing about this case did.
He hoped the lab would come up with fingerprints off the cassette of the kid’s voice, or at the very least separate the sounds so that they might have a shot at hearing noises that would help pinpoint where the recording took place, but he didn’t have much faith. Shannon’s cell phone might give up some clues; the numbers recently called and those received would be on the screen and he’d already requested her records from the cell phone company. And then there was her truck. Would whoever had left the phone in the truck been careless enough to leave fingerprints or trace evidence?
He doubted it.
So far, this guy had been careful. He’d given the police only what he wanted them to have. Maybe the FBI would find something more from the van found at Blanche Johnson’s Idaho property. Something that would lead them back to the whack job who was holding Dani Settler and probably killed Mary Beth Flannery as well as Blanche.
There was a chance they would get lucky.
Paterno wasn’t banking on it.
He rubbed his face with one hand and felt eighteen hours’ worth of beard stubble as he glanced through another stack of notes about Blanche Johnson’s murder.
What was the message that had been left at the scene, in blood no less? Payback Time. What the hell did
that mean? And what did it have to do with Shannon Flannery?
Paterno felt he was spinning his wheels.
He’d have to call the authorities in Oregon in the morning and then have a chat with the elusive Nate Santana. See what that guy knew. He’d been gone a lot recently. Never around. And he was an ex-con, whether he had beat the rap or not.
Finishing his drink, he gave up for the night, walked to the slider and pulled it shut. The damned moth was still beating itself silly around the lightbulb.
“Give it up,” he muttered, snapping off the light. He didn’t know if he was talking to the fluttering insect or himself.
“Let’s try to call again,” Shannon said as Travis parked his truck behind a white Toyota Camry parked on the street in front of the small, darkened cottage.
“It doesn’t look like he’s home.” But Travis handed her his cell phone.
“His car is here.” Punching out the number, she nodded toward the car in front of them. “Come on, Oliver,” she whispered, waiting and then gnawing at the corner of her fingernail as the phone continued to ring. No light came on in the house. She snapped the phone closed. “Something’s wrong.”
Before he could say a word, she was out of the truck and up the concrete walk to the front door. As Travis slid out of the truck, she rang the bell repeatedly. Where was Oliver? she wondered. Her mind raced with ideas—maybe he had duties to perform, last rites or tending to the sick, but wouldn’t he have taken his car? A friend could have picked him up, or he could be with one of her brothers, she supposed, but it didn’t feel right. She stole a glance at the Camry parked in its usual spot and a cold knot of fear coiled in her stomach.
“Oliver,” she said and pounded on the door. “It’s Shannon. Open up.”
Nothing.
“Oliver!” Her fist was poised to strike the door again when Travis stopped her, his fingers surrounding hers.
“You’ll wake the neighbors.”
She glanced along the deserted street. “I know where he keeps a key,” she said and before Travis even thought about arguing with her, she was down the two steps of the porch and hurrying along a path to the back of the house. Reaching over and unlatching the gate to the fenced yard, she tried to keep her fear at bay. Oliver was fine. She just had to find him.