Vengeance Road

“Naw, they didn’t provide much information.”

“Did they ask you anything about this guy?” Gannon tapped the paper on Karl Styebeck’s face.

“Nope.”

“What did they say about the blue rig?”

“All they said was that the truck had unique writing and art on the doors.”

“What kind? Did they give you any more details, like a plate?”

Hatcher shrugged.

“They didn’t specify. They asked us to alert them if we saw a rig fitting that description.”

“That’s a pretty general description.”

“I know.”

Hatcher chuckled and nodded to the lot.

“We’ve got forty acres out there, partner. We run one of the largest operations in western New York. Seven or eight hundred trucks pass through here every twenty-four hours. Finding that rig is like finding a needle in a haystack. But the word’s gone out.”

“Will you call me if something breaks on this?”

“I can do that.”

Gannon left the Truck Palace and spent the rest of the day working the street for data. He went to downtown coffee shops, hotel lobbies and taxi stands and talked to waitresses, doormen and cabdrivers for anything new on Bernice Hogan’s murder.

At one point, Adell Clark sent him a text message.

FYI: Crime scene should be released by tonight.

Could be something for later, he thought as he entered Kupinski’s Diner. Stan Kupinski, a former navy cook, ran a twenty-four-hour greasy spoon off Niagara that was a favorite of blue-collar workers and street types.

The smells of frying bacon and coffee greeted Gannon as he slid into a vinyl booth. He took stock of the checkered floor, the chrome stools at the worn counter with take-out containers towering to the ceiling.

He ordered a club sandwich and in no time at all Kupinski tapped a bell with his spatula, then left a heaping plate of food at the pick-up window. Lotta, the ample waitress—regulars called her Whole Lotta—set Gannon’s food before him. He invited her to sit at his booth and talk about the murder. Since she needed to take a load off, she agreed.

“As a matter of fact, darlin', I did hear things about that little girl, Bernice,” Lotta said. “I heard she and some other girl got into a little spat the last night anyone saw her.”

Gannon’s eyebrows climbed and he got out his notebook.

“Any idea what they fought about?”

“Maybe leaving, or something,” Lotta said then stole a fry.

“Did you tell the police?”

“Police didn’t come in here asking, like you.”

“You know who the other girl is?”

Lotta’s earrings swung when she shook her head.

“I can ask around,” she said.

“Thanks—” Gannon put a five-dollar tip in Lotta’s hand “—because I’d like to find her.”

It was getting late but Gannon would try one more thing.

Experience from working on investigative stories had taught him that you should always keep tabs on your subject. It could yield a break, he thought as he headed to Ascension Park and Karl Styebeck’s street.

Styebeck’s house was a well-kept colonial with a two-car garage. It sat far back from the street, deep into the lot as if isolated within the neighborhood.

Gannon parked several doors away and watched it from his rearview mirror as he considered the story.

Why did the police consider Styebeck a suspect behind closed doors while not confirming it publicly? Where was the pressure to discredit his story coming from?

Was this the home of a monster?

Hold on.

The garage door was lifting as Karl Styebeck got into one of the two cars a dark sedan alone, then drove out.

Gannon started his Vibe’s engine and followed him from a distance.

14

After leaving his house, Karl Styebeck waited at a traffic light, determined to fight his way out of this crisis.

Everything was on the line.

Jack Gannon’s story in that morning’s Sentinel had exploded in his home, claiming his wife and son as collateral damage.

Alice had buried her face in her hands

“Oh my God, Karl! This can’t be happening!”

Taylor, his twelve-year-old son, was scared. “Why is Mom crying, Dad?”

Styebeck struggled to explain the story.

“It’s wrong,” he’d told them. “This guy, Gannon, screwed up. I’m helping with the investigation. His information is dead wrong. I’m going to straighten this out, okay?”

That seemed good enough for Taylor, who worshipped his dad. Still, Alice kept him home from school, and later she pulled Styebeck aside.

“Is this story true?” She glared at him. “We’ve had strange phone calls the last few weeks. You’ve been on edge and moody lately, tossing in your sleep. You tell me right now if you had anything to do with this girl’s murder! You tell me, Karl!”