Quinn Tracey’s stuff wasn’t like that. It made Ben want to scrub out his eyeballs.
He sent the entire slag heap to the printer and, as it was purring out into a stack of paper, went to find someone who could confirm what time kids would be getting home from Millers Kill High.
Mina Norris snorted at him. “Don’t you pay any attention to anything you’re not working on? Today’s a snow day. Didn’t you notice half the office is out?”
“Huh. It did look a little underpopulated. So, all the high schoolers would be home already?”
“Uh-huh. The only reason I’m here is because my two are old enough to stay by themselves.”
He went back to his desk singing, “Oh, the weather outside is frightful . . .” He flipped open his notepad, ready to transcribe first the listing, then the conversation. There were only two Traceys in the Millers Kill/Fort Henry/Cossayuharie directory. One was unfamiliar, the other the number he had called Tuesday afternoon to interview the woman who had found Linda Van Alstyne’s body. Well, Audrey Keane’s body, but they hadn’t known that then.
Beagle’s pencil went still over his notepad.
Meg Tracey. That was the name of the woman who had found the body.
Quinn Tracey was her son?
His hands shook as he punched in the number.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mrs. Tracey? This is Ben Beagle, with the Glens Falls Post-Star. We spoke on Tuesday?”
“Of course. I remember.” The woman laughed. “If you want my reaction to the latest development, it’s ecstatic. I can’t tell you what a miracle it is, having Linda restored to life like that.”
She sounded so emotional, Ben wondered if they were talking about the same “latest development.”
“Have you . . . heard from her?”
“No, no, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.”
“Ah. Great. I’m happy to get a quote from you, but as it stands, I called on a different matter. I understand you have a son who runs his own snowplowing business.”
“Quinn? Yes. He inherited it from his big brother when Seamus went off to school. Why? Do you need a plow?”
Ben wanted to be politic. “No. I’m doing a story, and I was hoping to interview him.”
“About his snowplowing? It is unique, isn’t it? The thing I like is how eye-catching it’s going to be on his college applications. Imagine admissions officers, seeing one fast-food job after another, and then a young man who ran his own business! Of course you can interview him. Hang on.”
The earpiece clunked as she put her phone down. Ben realized he was thwapping his pencil at high speed against the notepad. He forced himself to relax.
“Hi . . .” The young man who picked up the other end sounded like someone who had been frogmarched to the phone to talk with an unloved relative.
“Hi, Quinn. I’m Ben Beagle, with the Post-Star. Your mom said it was okay if I asked you a few questions. Is that okay with you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Great. You run a snowplow business, right? Can you tell me how long you’ve been doing it?”
“This winter’s my first one by myself. Last year Seamus and I did it together.”
“Getting the experience, yeah. How many customers do you have?”
“Uh . . . twelve regular, and two guys who call me if they’re too busy to snowblow their drives themselves. Plus I get a lot of pickups when I’m doing the plowing. Like, I’m doing one of my regulars and his next-door neighbor will coming running out with a twenty and ask me to do his drive, too.”
“Sounds profitable. How do you get your customers?”
“Most of ’em Seamus got, and they, you know, just kept calling up in the fall. My mom and dad talk it up, so I get some people who know them.”
“What do you use for the plowing?”
“I have an ’88 Ford Ranger with a fifty-four-inch Deere plow and cement blocks in the bed to weight it down.”
“Is it yours, or do you borrow it from your folks?”
“It’s mine. I bought it off of my brother.”
“Do you use it just for the business?”
“Naw, it’s how I get around. I mean, I don’t get great mileage during the winter, with the plow and the weights on, but I never get stuck, so it’s a good trade-off.”
“Especially on a day like today.”
The boy huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’ll be way busy as soon as this lets up.”
Ben slid the list of reported animal losses in front of him. “Do you plow for John and Zoë Kavenaugh?” The couple he hadn’t been able to reach.
“Yeah.” Tracey sounded surprised.
“And Dr. Irving Underkirk.”
“Yeah . . .” Surprise turning to suspicion.
“And Herbert Perkins.”
“How do you know all this?”
“All three of them have had an animal killed within the last month. Throat slit, body hacked up, but the meat uneaten. So we know it’s not a starving coyote or panther coming down from the mountains. I’m thinking it must have been done with a knife.”
He could hear fast, heavy breathing across the line. Nothing else.
“That’s a strange coincidence. Three of your customers reporting an outdoor animal butchered. And those are just the ones who called the police. I know of at least one other person who had an animal mutilated who hasn’t involved the cops. Yet.” He should have called Clare Fergusson back and asked for the name of the parishioner she mentioned. He would have had to trade information, but right now he’d give just about anything to have another name to throw at Tracey. “Do you have any comment?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“I didn’t say you did. Just that it was strange. And another strange coincidence. Your mom discovered the body of a woman who also had her throat slit and got hacked up. Just like those animals. Were the Van Alstynes customers of yours as well?”
His answer was the blank buzz of the dial tone.
FORTY-THREE
Storms can come to the Adirondacks from any of the four compass points. Soggy and slow from the south, doily-sized flakes dropping straight as beads on a string from the sky. Canadian clippers from the north, with air straight off the arctic circle and fine dry snow that scours whatever it touches. Rarely, the wheeling nor’ easters that pound the New England coastline will fall in tattered remnants over the easternmost edges of New York.
But the storms that wrack come from the west. Massive low pressure systems rumbling out of Canada, crossing five Great Lakes before breaking over the shoals of the Adirondacks. Winds that have gathered speed for a thousand miles come howling through the ancient hills. Snow crystals that may have formed over the arctic regions of Hudson Bay hurtle downward, looking for their namesake river. As the snow falls faster and the winds continue to rise, the truck driver on the Northway and the shopper walking down Main Street may be caught in a whiteout, a spinning, shifting blankness that wipes the world away.
Smart people stay inside, watch through windows as the drifts mount two, five, eight feet against the barn door and rising, and shake their heads when a vehicle rolls down the road. “Damn fool,” Margy Van Alstyne says, as an SUV rumbles past her drive. She knows, however, that some folks have no choice but to be out in the storm.
Sergeant Ogilvie would have just as soon put off picking up the Shambaugh computers from the Millers Kill Police Department, but his guys from the state cybercrime analysis team were leaning on him to bring in the hardware. When he stomped through the hallway, shedding snow, he thought the station was deserted, but he found the dispatcher, who sent him downstairs to the evidence room. Durkee, the officer who had been working on the preliminary downloads, was overjoyed to meet him, and Ogilvie could see why: The poor bastard was working inside the small evidence cage to preserve the chain of custody. He had to admire the guy’s dedication. The room’s heat and lighting system must have been installed a century ago; compact fluorescents screwed into ov
erhead bulbs flickered as if they were about to blow, and Ogilvie could almost see his breath in the cold.
He and Durkee both signed off on the custody sheets, and Ogilvie twisted no-release plastic straps around the CPU and sealed them with his department’s lead slug. Durkee helped him tote the things up the stairs, through the building, and down another set of stairs. They ducked heads and raised shoulders and stalked through the driving snow to get to Ogilvie’s van, then hightailed it back inside and did it again.
The three CPUs secured in a locker in the back, Ogilvie followed Durkee back inside one more time to get the hard-copy transcripts the Millers Kill officer had prepped and to take him up on the offer of a hot refill for his traveling mug.
“Crappy weather,” Durkee said, leading Ogilvie to the coffee machine. “I’m glad I’m not headed down to Albany.”
“I’ll take it slow. My boss thinks your perp might be part of an areawide identity theft ring. He’s practically wetting his pants over those CPUs.”
“I hope he finds some leads, then, because when we catch Shambaugh, he’s going down for Man One, not fraud.” Durkee crossed the squad room to his desk and retrieved a thick plastic document box. “Here’s the printouts.”
“Thanks.” Ogilvie hefted the box one-handed and slipped it beneath his arm. “So . . . word is this guy was ripping off your chief when he sliced and diced his partner.”
Durkee frowned. “He was there, all right. We’ve got the prints. The funny thing is—”
Ogilvie’s ears perked up. He did enjoy a juicy piece of information. “What?”
“It’s probably because I’m not real skilled in this. I’m sure you guys will uncover something. It’s just . . . I couldn’t find any trace of any of the Van Alstynes’ information in there. No SSNs, no card numbers—nothin’.”
Approaching the red light where Main crossed Route 17, Officer Kevin Flynn feathered his brakes and wished for the fifth time since leaving the station he had had the cojones to stand up to Investigator Jensen. Not so much about driving halfway across the township to talk with Quinn Tracey, but about taking his own truck.
He had just gotten back from interviewing first Shambaugh’s sister, and then his sister-in-law. Jensen called him into the chief’s office, where she had just moved in and set up camp. “O’Flynn,” she said, tossing a folder across the desk at him, “there may be a common thread in these animal abuse cases.”
“It’s just Flynn, ma’am.” He picked the folder up.
“Flynn.” She smiled insincerely. “This department has three reported cases, and I have information that there’ve been two more incidents that weren’t reported. You’ll see my notes. A kid named Quinn Tracey worked for the five owners.”
He looked up from where he had been flipping through the folder. “All five?”
“Amazingly, the brilliant investigative minds in this department hadn’t made the connection. Get yourself up to date and then get over to the Traceys’ house and talk with the kid.”
“Okay if I take my personal vehicle, ma’am? It’s better in the snow than the Crown Vics.”
“No, Officer Flynn, it’s not okay. You’ve got a uniform and a squad car. I expect to see you in both.”
He glanced out the tall windows. He could barely see the trees in the park across the street for the snow pelting down. “The chief lets me use my four-by-four if I’m not on traffic duty.” He could see from her expression that mentioning the chief had been a mistake.
“Your chief lets a lot of things slip by that are frankly unprofessional. If you ever hope to get out of this town and move up into serious policing, you need to change your attitude.” At that moment, Mark Durkee sidled through the office door. “Be more like Officer Durkee. No facial hair on him.”
Kevin clutched the seam of his pants to keep from touching his soul patch. “Ma’am,” he said. He brushed past Mark without looking at him. Suckup.
So now he was sliding toward Route 17, the squad car shimmying as its tires tried, and failed, to find traction. An eighteen-wheeler rolled into the intersection. He was headed straight for its rear wheels. “Holy St. Christopher, pray for me,” he blurted out, an incantation his mother always said when she ran into trouble behind the wheel. Amazingly, the light turned green, the truck roared past, and Kevin slid through the intersection unharmed.
“Wow.” He gently accelerated. He’d have to tell his mom. Of course, then she’d get on his case even more about going to Mass.
The Tracey house was set back a ways, and he didn’t even try to get the Crown Vic up the driveway. He parked on the shoulder, flipped on his warning flashers, and hiked up to the front porch.
A middle-school-aged girl answered the door. She looked at him suspiciously when he asked to see her mother. “Hold on,” she said, shutting the door in his face. He took off his hat and beat some of the snow off his shoulders.
A good-looking soccer mom yanked the door open. “Has there been an accident?” she cried.
“An accident? No, ma’am.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged. “Thank heavens.” She stood there, hand pressed to her chest, until she seemed to realize he was still standing on the welcome mat. “I’m so sorry!” She beckoned him to come inside. “I’m afraid Deidre takes ‘Do not let strangers in’ a little too literally.”
“No need to apologize, ma’am.” He tucked his hat under his arm. “Are you Quinn Tracey’s mother?”
The look of alarm fell over her features again. “Yes.”
“I’d like to ask him a few questions, with your permission.”
She looked toward the interior of the house, then back at Kevin. “That’s why I asked you if there was an accident. He went tearing out of here at least a half hour ago and took off in his truck. I don’t know where he is.”
Sergeant Isabel O’Brien of the New York State Police was one of the few members of her troop who actually liked storms. Instead of the mind-numbing tedium of the radar gun, she got to cruise east and west on the Thruway, looking for vehicles in trouble. Instead of being greeted with sour jokes about making the end-of-the-month ticket quota, she was hailed as a hero by drivers who had skidded into the median.
She had just passed the Schenectady exit when her radio squawked. She hit the reception button. “Eight-one-nine here. Go ahead.”
“Eight-one-nine, we have a call from the Roy Rogers manager at the Patter-sonville travel plaza. He’s reporting a suspicious individual, male Caucasian, thirties or forties, hanging around the employee parking area.”
“Dispatch, I am responding.” O’Brien tapped her computer screen to register the time and bring up an incident log. She turned on her lights and pulled into the passing lane. Traffic to her right, already slow due to the storm-imposed speed limit of forty-five miles per hour, decelerated even further as she swept past.
She was a scant five miles from Pattersonville when her radio lit up again. “Eight-one-nine, be advised the suspicious individual has left the Indian Hill rest station and is headed east in a 1992 Volvo station wagon, dark green.”
“Plates?”
There was a pause. “Hold on on the plates.”
Huh. That was odd. “Should I pursue?”
“Eight-one-nine, the manager reports the POI may have switched plates with one of his employees. We’re trying to get a confirmation on that. Please proceed without lights.”
O’Brien turned off the lights but kept her speed at a steady fifty-five, which was as fast as she was going to go, unless this guy turned out to be Osama bin Laden.
“Eight-one-nine, we have a confirmation that one employee’s rear license plate now matches that of the stolen car last seen in possession of Dennis Shambaugh.”
Her computer screen flashed on with the BOLO for Shambaugh. MILLERS KILL POLICE DEPARTMENT glowed over a mug shot.
“Suspect is wanted for assaulting an officer, GTA, questioning in a homicide, questioning in a Class B fraud. Suspect is not known to be armed, but has a p
rior felony assault conviction. Units eight-two-oh and eight-one-eight are on their way. Proceed with extreme caution.”
Her adrenaline kicked into high gear. She sped up, the powerful engine growling, the windshield wipers slapping hard against the snow that seemed to bullet straight toward her. She passed the Pattersonville travel plaza. She passed car after truck after SUV—what were all these people out for on a day like this? She came up behind a grandpa who didn’t recognize her outline in the swirling, snowy gloom and who continued on his steady forty-mile-an-hour way in the passing lane. She gave him the lights, and eventually he noticed and moved to the right.
She snapped off the red-and-whites and accelerated again. She figured she must be getting close. She divided her attention between the road ahead and the vehicles to her right, a task complicated by the poor visibility. Thank God the perp hadn’t stolen one of those Japanese cars that look like fifty percent of everything else on the road. She could concentrate on picking out the unique boxy shape of the Volvo.
SUV. SUV. Lincoln. Toyota. Mazda. Toyota. ’Burbmobiles and grampmobiles and generics.
Then, just past her right front corner, the outline of a Volvo station wagon. Dark, although she wouldn’t have laid money it was green. She flicked on her radio. “Dispatch, this is eight-one-nine. I have a possible match in sight. I can’t make out the plate in this muck.”
“Eight-one-nine, proceed. Eight-two-oh is ten miles behind you bearing west.” And so could continue past her after the suspect if she pulled over the wrong guy.
“Dispatch, I am proceeding.” She turned on her video recorder and hit the lights.
The Volvo immediately pulled forward, accelerating into the blowing snow and, as O’Brien stepped on her gas, disappearing.
“Holy crap,” she said. “He’s turned his lights off.” She turned the siren on, gripped her wheel, and hurtled after him, the noise jabbing into her head, drowning out the too-fast beat of her heart. No way he could get away. It was the Thruway, not a country road. No exit up ahead except through the Amsterdam toll, where local police were probably already moving into position.