Читать книгу Vengeance Road - Rick Mofina, Rick Mofina - Страница 14

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.

“Sir, I’d like your response to a story we’re running tomorrow that will name you as a suspect in the murder of Bernice Hogan.”

Styebeck’s eyes narrowed.

“What? Is this some kind of joke?”

“I understand that you are a suspect in the murder of Bernice Hogan, the nursing student whose body—”

“I know who she is. I’m working the case with the state police. I don’t know where this is coming from, but your information is unmitigated bullshit.”

“I’m going to quote you, sir.”

Styebeck crushed his soda can in his fist just as two boys wearing jerseys emblazoned with Kowalski’s Towing, ran to them.

“Coach!” one boy said. “We’re up! Who bats?”

Styebeck glared at Gannon.

“T.J. is up, Dallas is on deck.”

“Coach, you’re bleeding!”

The twisted metal had cut into Styebeck’s fingers. Blood dripped from them, dampening the earth. Gannon looked at it, then at Styebeck, catching something cold threading across his eyes.

“I’m fine, fellas. Let’s get back to the game.”

Styebeck held back, leaned into Gannon and dropped his voice. “You better watch yourself, asshole.”

Styebeck returned to the game. Gannon stood alone, puffed his cheeks and exhaled slowly.

Then he checked his recording and walked to his car.

When he’d returned to the Sentinel, Tim Derrick was collecting his briefcase and throwing off to Ward Wallace, the night editor.

Gannon went to them and told them what he had.

“The prime suspect in Bernice Hogan’s murder is a detective working on the investigation.”

Wallace and Derrick exchanged glances.

“Christ, that’s a helluva goddamn story.” Wallace waved over Ed Sikes, the front-page editor. They used the empty city editor’s office for an impromptu conference.

Wallace removed his glasses, tapped them on his chin as other deputy and night editors joined them.

“This is dynamite,” Derrick said. “How’d you get it?”

“I picked it up when I went out to Clarence Barracks. Then I went to a good source who confirmed it.”

“Who’s your source?” Sikes said.

“They’re inside the investigation. I can’t name them.”

“Why not?”

“That was the deal.”

“Policy requires you give us a name, Jack. Even if we don’t use it,” Sikes said.

“I know, but this is deep inside. Come on. I gave my word and this is exactly how we broke the jetliner story. We were tipped by an unnamed source.”

“You also got the document that nailed it,” Sikes said. “Got any paper on this tip? A warrant? A police report? A memo?”

“No, not quite.”

“What do you mean, ‘not quite'?”

“My information is solid.”

“Jack, is your source on this information a cop?” Wallace asked.

“Yes.”

“With the New York State Police?”

“My source is a cop inside the investigation. That’s as far as I want to go. I gave my word.”

“This story’s huge,” Derrick said. “Who else did you call?”

Gannon told them.

“Christ.” Wallace ran his hand through his hair. “We need a story like this. He’s got the investigator on the record, and the suspect.”

“Alleged suspect,” Sikes said. His eyes were like black ball bearings as they bored into Gannon. “You trust your source with everything, Jack? Because with this kind of story, if you’re wrong, we could all pay dearly.”

Gannon took stock of the faces staring at him. Beyond the office, a few reporters raised their heads to look at the sombre group, curious about what was happening.

“I stand by my story.”

Sikes kept Gannon in his gaze for a long time.

“We’re taking a risk here.”

“I trust my source completely.”

“Write it up,” Sikes said. “I’ll take it for front. Better find a picture of Karl Styebeck.” Then he pointed his finger at Gannon. “You’d better be right about this.”