you enlighten me, Investigator.”
Brent stared at Gannon’s notebook, then at Gannon.
“Enlighten you? I think you have a hearing problem. Seems when you called me, I told you to hold off with your little tale there, said you’d save yourself a lot of grief.”
Gannon shrugged.
“So, how’s that grief working out for you today, Slick?”
Gannon didn’t answer.
Brent’s jawline tensed, then relaxed as he stepped into Gannon’s personal space.
“You’d better get ready for more grief,” Brent said, “because I’m going to find out who your source is, and when I do, I’m going to make sure they face the consequences of obstructing our investigation.”
13
Gannon left that mess with the state police behind him in Clarence and drove to the Great Lakes Truck Palace at Interstate 90 and Union Road.
He needed to check out the revelation on the mystery rig.
After navigating his small car through a realm of eighteen-wheelers, with their hissing brakes and diesels spewing black smoke, he parked at the office of general manager Rob Hatcher.
“I’ll help you if I can. A crying shame about that girl,” Hatcher had said on the phone.
Gannon knew him from earlier stories he’d written on a couple of bad wrecks and had called him after the news conference.
Now, with Gannon watching him, Hatcher clicked his pen repeatedly as he gazed upon Bernice Hogan’s picture in the Sentinel, which was spread across his service counter.
“So, you really think a cop did it?”
“He’s a suspect.”
“Well, two state police investigators came in three days ago, maybe four. They asked us to help them locate a blue truck.”
“Did they say why?”
“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
