Vengeance Road

“Has Karl Styebeck been ruled out?” Gannon asked.

“We’ve answered that,” Parson said.

“Sir,” Gannon pressed, “you have not answered that question.”

“Has Karl Styebeck been questioned?” Golden asked.

“We’re not going to publicly discuss all details of this case.”

“So you have questioned him?” Golden said.

“Next question,” Parson said, pointing to a reporter from one of the Niagara Falls news stations. “Go ahead, Loretta.”

“Did you find any DNA, fingerprints or usable trace evidence?”

“We’re not going to go into that here,” Parson said. “I think we’ll conclude this for now. We’ll keep you apprised of any developments.”

Several reporters tried to get in last questions. The investigators waved them off as they gathered file folders and left the room. As the conference broke up, Martinez called to Gannon, pointing outside to talk privately.

Martinez was a seasoned general-assignment reporter who could cover anything, a good-natured guy who got along with everyone, including Gannon. They walked alongside the building, to the rear, where they could be alone.

“You’re playing with fire being here, being suspended and all, Jack.”

“Guess you heard what happened?”

“There are no secrets in a newsroom.”

“Well, my story’s not wrong, Pete.”

“I’m not going to judge you, buddy,” Martinez said. “Before you got here, I was talking with Golden and Ramon from the News. Seems nobody can find Styebeck. Any chance you could share any other contact data, Jack?”

“I don’t have anything, sorry. I’m here as a freelancer.”

“Really, for who?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Watch yourself. You’re persona non grata.” Martinez looked around, then stepped closer and dropped his voice. “Nate fully intends to run a retraction if you don’t give up your source. That’s what I’m hearing.”

“I can’t do that, Pete.”

Martinez’s cell phone rang. “I don’t care what you do. I’m just keeping you posted.” Martinez shook Gannon’s hand, answered his call as he headed for his car.

Gannon reviewed his notes, considering the new lead on the blue truck as the sunlight dimmed.

“Well, look who we have here. Mr. Jack Gannon, the legend who almost won a Pulitzer. At last we meet, in the flesh.”

Michael Brent and Roxanne Esko were now standing next to him. He glanced around. No one else was in sight. Esko had car keys and a file folder in her hand.

“Quite an interesting story in your paper today,” Brent said. “Unnamed sources say the darnedest things. Well, we heard something, too.”

Gannon let Brent fill the silence.

“We heard you got fired or something for writing fiction. Care to comment?”

“I stand by my story. I trust my source. It’s that simple.”

“No, it’s not,” Brent said. “Because you and your ‘source,’ whoever they are, don’t have a clue about what’s going on. You don’t know jack shit, Jack.”

Gannon flipped to a clear page, poised his pen.

“Why don’t 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?”