Vengeance Road

“Sir, you have not denied the information that Styebeck is a suspect.”

Brent hung up.

Gannon circled the few notes he’d taken from Brent and weighed matters. Brent wouldn’t have warned him to hold off if his information was wrong. Because if it was wrong Brent wouldn’t have cared, which told Gannon that his information had to be dead on the money.

No way was he going to sit on a story this big and risk letting the Buffalo News scoop him.

There was only one more person to confront with the story.

Karl Styebeck.

7

Karl Styebeck’s address and phone number were not listed, a step most cops took to protect their families.

Gannon had a hunch.

After he finished eating his sandwich, he picked up his phone and punched an internal extension.

“Circulation, Ashley speaking.”

“Hi, Ash. It’s Jack in news.”

“Jack Gannon?”

He’d dated Ashley Rowe a few times after meeting her at the paper’s Christmas party. They got along but they didn’t think it would go anywhere. They’d parted as friends, or so he thought.

“Hello, are you there, Ashley?”

“I’m here, Jack. What is it?”

“Can you check a name for me? See if they’re a subscriber? Styebeck, Karl Styebeck. Karl with a K and last name spelled S-t-y-e-b-e-c-k.”

“You know it’s against policy for us to share the paper’s subscriber list.”

“I completely understand. But it’s for a story.”

Gannon heard an annoyed sigh then typing on her keyboard.

“I cannot tell you that yes, we do have a subscriber by that name and the number and address are as follows.”

Gannon wrote the information down.

“I appreciate this,” he said.

“I’m sure you do.”

Gannon called Karl Styebeck’s home. The phone was answered by a woman.

“No, I’m sorry, Karl’s not here at the moment.” She was pleasant. “He’s coaching the game at the Franklin Diamond. May I take a message?”

“No, no message, thanks.”

Gannon did not identify himself.

He made a copy of Styebeck’s photo from a recent profile of him in one of the community newspapers then drove to Ascension Park.

It was an established middle-class neighbourhood of streets lined with mature trees that arched over well-kept homes. Franklin Diamond encompassed a playground, basketball and tennis courts that were busy with activity. The bleachers at the ball diamond were sprinkled with parents cheering the players of a game in progress.

He neared the benches, getting close enough to scrutinize the coaches until he was satisfied he’d locked onto Styebeck. The cop was leaning against a chest-high chain-link fence, drinking from a can of soda, watching his players in the field.

“Let’s go, Bobbie!” he shouted to his pitcher. “Big swinger!”

Gannon sidled up to him then waited for a lull in the game. Styebeck pulled a rolled roster from his rear pocket when Gannon interrupted.

“Excuse me, Detective Styebeck?”

Deep-set intelligent eyes turned on Gannon from a face as cold and still as a frozen lake. The man was in his early forties, stood an inch or so over six feet. He had a medium build with firm, large upper chest and arms. He wore a ball cap, baseball shirt and jeans.

“Detective Karl Styebeck?”

Styebeck nodded.

“Jack Gannon from the Buffalo Sentinel.”

“The Sentinel? You guys never cover our games.”

“I’m not here for that, sir.”

Gannon nodded to an empty picnic table by a tree, thirty yards away from the first-base line.

“Can we go over there for a moment?” Gannon asked.

“I’m kind of busy. What’s this about?”

“Bernice Hogan.”

“You better show me some ID.”

Gannon produced his press ID. Styebeck examined it, gave it back, then went to the picnic table with Gannon.

“What do you want?” Styebeck folded his arms across his chest.

“I need to ask you a few questions for the record.”

Gannon extended his small recorder.

Styebeck looked at it but didn’t move.