Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 6

Justin Treece lives with his parents in a run-down frame house on the outskirts of Buck Creek. The neighborhood is a downtrodden purlieu of postage stamp–size houses with ramshackle front porches and yards with grass trampled to dirt. Several houses are vacant, the windows either boarded up with plywood or open to the elements. The roof of the house next to the Treece place is fire-damaged; a hole the size of a tractor tire reveals blackened rafters and pink puffs of insulation.

“Damn, looks like Cleveland,” Tomasetti says as we idle past.

“Welcome to the other side of the tracks,” I mutter.

A beat-up Toyota pickup truck with oversize tires sits in the driveway next to an old Ford Thunderbird. “Looks like someone’s home.”

In front of us, Goddard’s cruiser pulls over to the curb two houses down from the Treece place, and we park behind him. Tomasetti and I meet him on the sidewalk.

“Vehicles belong to the parents,” the sheriff tells us. “Trina drives the Thunderbird. Jack drives the Toyota.”

“What about the kid?” Tomasetti asks.

“Last time I stopped him, he was in an old Plymouth Duster. Him and his old man tinker with cars, so it could be in the garage out back.”

“Exactly how bad is this kid?” I ask.

“He’s only got that one conviction.” Goddard shakes his head. “But it is a doozy. To tell you the truth, I think that little bastard is on his way. In ten years, he’ll be in the major league.”

“Or in prison,” Tomasetti puts in.

Goddard motions toward the house. “The whole lot of them are regulars with the department. Domestic stuff, mostly. Parents get drunk and beat the shit out of each other. Kids run wild. It’s sad is what it is.”

Having been a patrol officer in Columbus for a number of years, I’m all too familiar with those kinds of scenarios. It’s a sad and seemingly hopeless cycle, especially for the kids. Too many of them become victims of their environment and end up like their parents—or worse.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if this kid is involved with this missing girl,” Goddard tells us. “He’s got a hot head and a big mouth.”

“Bad combination,” I say.

“They armed?” Tomasetti asks.

“We searched the place once a few months back and didn’t find anything. But nothing would surprise me when it comes to this bunch.” Goddard divides his attention between the two of us. “So are you guys packing, or what?”

“Never leave home without it,” Tomasetti replies.

I open my jacket just far enough for him to see the leather shoulder holster where I keep my .22 mini-Magnum.

“Well, lock and load, people.” He motions toward the house. “Let’s go see what Romeo has to say.”

We take a sidewalk that’s buckled from tree roots and riddled with cracks. A tumbling chain-link fence encircles the front yard. I glance between the close-set houses and see a tiny backyard that’s littered with old tires. Beyond, a detached garage with peeling yellow paint and a single broken window separates the yard from the alley.

“Light on in the garage,” I say.

“Kid hangs out there a lot. Listens to that weird-shit music loud enough to bust your fuckin’ ear drums.”

“Do the parents work?” Tomasetti asks as we take the concrete steps to the front door.

Goddard nods. “Jack Treece is a mechanic at the filling station in town. He’s good, from what I hear. Probably where the kid got the knack. Trina works down at the bowling alley. Tends bar most nights.”

“What about Justin?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone around here would hire him to tell you the truth. He’s got a rep. Most people steer clear.”

We reach the front door. A few feet away, a window-unit air conditioner belches water onto the concrete. Goddard knocks and then steps aside, as if expecting someone to shoot through the door.

The door creaks open. I find myself looking at a huge round woman with brown eyes and a tangle of black hair that reaches midway down her back. She’s got the kind of face that makes it difficult to guess her age, but I’d put her around forty. It’s obvious we wakened her, but she must have been sleeping on the sofa, because it didn’t take long for her to answer the door, and she doesn’t look like the type to move with any kind of speed.

She’s wearing a flowered muumuu that doesn’t cover as much of her as I’d like. Her calves are the size of hams and bulge with varicose veins. Swollen toes with thick yellow nails stick out of the ends of pink slippers.

She takes in the sight of us with a mix of hostility and amusement. “Sheriff.” Her voice is deep and slow, with a hint of the Kentucky hills. “I heard you died.”

“Well, no one’s told me about it yet.” Goddard shows her his identification. “Hope that’s not too much of a disappointment.”

“Things would get pretty boring round here without you cops fuckin’ with us all the damn time.”

“Is Justin here?”

Her gaze slides from the sheriff to me and Tomasetti and then back to the sheriff. I see a cunning in its depths that reminds me of big lumbering bear that can transform to a predator capable of tearing a man to shreds with no provocation or warning. She’s got cold, empty eyes and an “I don’t give a shit” air, both of which tell me she has no respect for anything or anyone—including herself—and has a particularly high level of loathing for law enforcement.

“Who wants to know?” she asks.

“Me and these state agents.”

“State agents, huh?” She gives me the once-over and makes a sound of disdain. “What’d he do now?”

“We just want to ask him some questions.”

“This about that girl gone missing?”

The collective surge of interest is palpable. The sheriff leans forward. I see Tomasetti, who is beside me, crane his head slightly, looking beyond her. “Trina, we just want to talk to Justin,” Goddard tells her.

She makes no move to open the door. “I know my rights, Bud. I’m the parent and I want to know why you want to talk to my son.”

Tomasetti shoves his identification at her. “Because we asked nicely, and if we have to come back with a warrant, we won’t be so nice.”

She’s not impressed and doesn’t even glance at his credentials. “Who the fuck ’re you?”

“I’m the guy who’s going to fuck you over if you don’t open the goddamn door.”

Goddard’s mouth sags open wide enough for me to see the fillings in his molars. Trina Treece doesn’t even blink. The flash of amusement in her eyes shocks me. Tomasetti is about as amusing as an autopsy. Most people do their utmost to concede to his wishes, especially if he’s in a nasty mood. He might be a cop, but he possesses an air of unpredictability that keeps even the densest individuals from crossing him. This woman doesn’t even seem to notice—and I don’t believe it’s because she’s dense.

She smirks at the sheriff. “Where’d you find this charmer?”

“If I were you, I’d just open the door,” the sheriff says tiredly. “We really need to speak with your son.”

“Well, hell, all right.” Her triceps flap when she swings open the door. “C’mon in. Wipe your damn feet.”

Tomasetti goes through the door first. He brushes by her without a word, his right hand never far from his holster, and he doesn’t bother wiping his feet. I go in next, swipe each shoe against the throw rug at the threshold. Goddard brings up the rear, and actually looks down while he diligently wipes his shoes on the rug.

The interior of the house is hot and stuffy and smells vaguely of fish. A swaybacked sofa draped with a dingy afghan separates the small living room from an even smaller dining area. A floor fan blows stale air toward a narrow, dark hall. A sleek high-def television is mounted on the wall. It’s tuned to an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the volume turned low. From where I stand, I can see into a dimly lit kitchen with cluttered counters and a sinkful of dirty dishes. Beyond is a back door, its window adorned with frilly yellow curtains. A folded pizza box sticks out of the top of a stainless-steel trash can.

For a full minute, the only sounds are the rattle of the air conditioner and Trina Treece’s labored breathing.

“Where is he?” Goddard asks.

“I reckon he’s out back with that worthless old man of his.” But she’s looking at Tomasetti as if trying to decide which buttons to push and how hard to push them. Tomasetti stares back at her with a blank expression that gives away absolutely nothing. Oh boy.

A sound from the hall draws my attention. Two girls, about ten years old, peek around the corner at us. I see shy, curious faces and young eyes that have already seen too much.

Trina hauls her frame around. “I told you two idiots to stay in your room!”

Both girls have the same wild black hair as their mother. But all likeness ends there. The girls are thin and pretty and seemingly undamaged by the environment in which they live. Watching them, I can’t help but to compare these kids to the girls at the King farm. Innocent girls whose lives are filled with promise but whose future will be determined by the guidance they receive from their parents and the vastly different worlds in which they reside.

I think of all the life lessons that lie ahead for these two girls, and I wonder if they’ll be able to count on either parent to guide them through it. I wonder if they’ll survive.

“Who are these people, Mama?” the taller of the two girls asks.

“This ain’t your concern, you nosy little shit.” Trina crosses to the sofa, picks up an empty soda can, and throws it at the girl. The can bounces off the wall and clangs against the floor. “Now go get your damn brother. Tell him the fuckin’ cops are here.”

Next to me, Tomasetti makes a sound of reprehension, and I know he’s on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t. His face is devoid of emotion, but I know him well enough to recognize the anger burgeoning beneath the surface of all that calm, and I’m reminded that his own daughters were about the same age as these two girls when they were murdered.

“Let it go,” I whisper.

He doesn’t acknowledge the words, doesn’t even look at me. But he doesn’t make a move. I figure that’s the best I can hope for.

Unfazed by their mother’s mistreatment, eyeing us with far too much curiosity, the girls start across the living room. No one speaks, as if in deference to their presence. The things we’ll be discussing are not suited for young ears, despite the probability they’ve already heard far worse. They’re wearing shorts with T-shirts that are too tight and too revealing for such a tender age. That’s when I notice the Ace bandage on the taller girl’s left wrist. My eyes sweep lower and I notice a bruise the size of a fist on her left thigh, a second bruise on the back of her arm, and I wonder who put them there. I wonder how integral violence is to this family.

The back door slams. I look up, to see a tall, dark-haired young man appear in the kitchen doorway. I know immediately he’s Justin Treece. He’s nearly six feet tall. Skinny, the way so many young males are, but he’s got some sinew in his arms and the rangy look of a street fighter—one who knows how to fight dirty. He’s wearing baggy jeans with a drooping crotch—perfect for secreting a weapon—and a dirty T-shirt. Well-worn Doc Martens cover his feet. Newish-looking tats entwine both arms from shoulder to elbow. A single gold chain hangs around his neck, and he has gold hoops in both ears. He’s looking at us as if we’ve interrupted something important and he needs to get back to it ASAP.

“What’s going on?” he asks, wiping grease from his hands onto an orange shop towel.

Trina twists her head around to look at him. “I don’t know what you did, but these cops want to talk to you.”

“I didn’t do shit.” His gaze lingers on his mother, and for an instant I see a flash of raw hatred before he directs his attention to us. “What do you guys want?”

Justin Treece is not what I expected. He’s attractive, with dark, intelligent eyes that have the same cunning light as his mother’s. Someone less schooled in all the wicked ways of the human animal might presume he’s a decent, hardworking young man. But I’ve never put much weight in appearances, especially when I know they’re false.

Goddard doesn’t waste time on preliminaries. “When’s the last time you saw Annie King?”

An emotion I can’t quite identify flickers in his eyes; then his expression goes hard. “I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

Tomasetti flips out his identification, holds it up for Justin to see. “Why is that?”

Justin gives him a dismissive once-over. “When something bad happens around here, the cops come calling. I’m their go-to man.”

“When a girl goes missing, the boyfriend is usually one of the first people the police talk to,” Goddard tells him.

“That’s your problem,” Justin says.

Tomasetti never takes his eyes from the teen. “Stop acting like a dip-shit and answer the sheriff’s question.”

“I ain’t seen her in a couple days.” He shrugs a little too casually, as if a missing girl is of no great concern, girlfriend or not. “I heard she was missing, though.”

“You don’t seem too worried,” Tomasetti says.

“I figured she left.”

“Why would you think that?”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Anyone under eighteen with a brain is thinking about leaving this fuckin’ dump. Besides, she hates those Bible-thumping freaks.”

“You mean the Amish?” I ask.

He gives me his full attention. Curiosity flickers in his eyes. He’s wondering who I am and why I’m here. I tug out my identification and show it to him.

“Yeah, man, the Amish. They treat her like shit, and she was sick of all their self-righteous crap.”

“She told you that?” I ask.

“All the time. They’re always judging her, telling her what she can and can’t do. She has no freedom and can’t do shit without one of them pointing their holier-than-thou fingers.” That he’s speaking of her in the present tense doesn’t elude me. “I’m glad she finally got out. Good for her.”

“How close are you?” I ask.

“We’re friends. You know, tight.”

“Since you’re so tight, Justin, did it bother you that she left without saying good-bye?” I ask.

The kid surprises me by looking down, and I realize the question hit a raw spot he doesn’t want us to see. “It’s a free country. I always told her if she got the chance, she should take it.” He laughs. “I figured I’d be the one to go first.”

“Did she mention a destination?” Tomasetti asks.

He thinks about that a moment. “We used to talk about Florida. She hates the cold. Never even seen the ocean. But I can’t see her just picking up and going with no apartment. No job.”

“Her parents are worried,” I tell him.

“They shoulda treated her better,” he shoots back.

“We think she could be in trouble,” Goddard says.

His eyes narrow on the sheriff. “You mean like someone . . . hurting her?”

“That’s exactly what we mean.” Tomasetti stares hard at him. “Do you know anything about that?”

“What? You think I did something to her?”

“You ever lose your temper with her?” Tomasetti asks, pressing him. “Ever hit her?”

Trina Treece heaves her frame up off the sofa with the grace of a gymnast. “What kind of question is that?”

“The kind he has to answer.” But Tomasetti doesn’t take his eyes off the boy.

Justin holds his gaze. “I never touched her.”

“Did you buy her a cell phone?” Goddard asks.

“Her parents wouldn’t do it, so I did. Last I heard, that wasn’t against the law.”

“She use it?” I ask.

“Sure. We talk all the time.”

“When’s the last time you heard from her?” Tomasetti asks.

“I dunno. A couple days ago.”

“Have you tried to contact her in the last twenty-four hours?”

Justin nods. “Goes straight to voice mail.”

“Didn’t that seem strange?” Goddard asks. “Or worry you?”

“Hey, she’s like that. Independent, you know?” The teenager shrugs. “I figured she’d call me when she got to where she was going.”

Tomasetti pulls out his note pad. “What’s the number?”

Justin rattles it off from memory and Tomasetti writes it down.

“You got your cell on you?” he asks.

“Sure, I—” The kid’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to take it.” Tomasetti holds out his hand. “Give it to me.”

The kid wants to refuse. I see it in his face and in the way he can’t quite make himself reach into his pocket to get it out. But he must see something in Tomasetti’s eyes, because after a moment, he produces the phone. “That cost me plenty.”

“We’re just going to take a look, see if it will help us with a time line.” He removes an evidence bag from his pocket and the boy drops the phone into it. “You’ll get it back.”

Justin doesn’t believe him, and looks away. “What ever.”

“You know, Justin, it would have been helpful if you’d come to us when she first went missing,” Goddard says.

“So that’s what you’re calling it?” Treece looks from Goddard to me to Tomasetti. “She’s missing?”

“Her parents just filed a missing-person report,” I tell him.

“I figured she was fine,” the boy says. “How was I supposed to know?”

“You could have tried using that thing between your ears,” Tomasetti tells him.

The teenager gives him a “Fuck you” look.

“Does she have any other friends she might have taken off with?” Goddard asks.

Justin shakes his head. “Most of her friends are Amish.”

“Did she have transportation?” I ask.

Another shake. “Not that I know of. She couldn’t afford a car.” He chuckles. “I let her drive mine once and she took out old man Heath’s mailbox.”

“So you just assumed she’d walked somewhere?” Tomasetti asks.

“Or took the bus.” His voice turns belligerent. “Look, we’re friends, but I ain’t her fuckin’ keeper.”

“How did you meet her?” I ask.

“She was walking along the road. It was raining, so I stopped and asked her if she wanted a ride. She got in.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. “I offered her a cigarette and she smoked it.” He smiles. “It was funny, because she was wearing that old-lady dress—you know, the Amish getup. We hit it off.”

“Are you involved in a relationship with her?” Tomasetti asks.

“Well . . . we’re friends . . . mostly.”

Tomasetti sighs. “Are you sleeping with her, Justin?”

To his credit, the kid blushes. “I guess. I mean, we did it a few times. But we weren’t like boyfriend and girlfriend or anything like that. I’m not ready to get tied down, so I set the boundary right off the bat.”

Silence falls and all of us stand there, caught up in our own thoughts. The two little girls watch the scene from the kitchen, eating chips from a bag. Tomasetti’s trying not to look at them, but he’s not quite managing.

I look at Justin. “If you wanted to get out of Buck Creek so badly, why didn’t you go with her?” I ask.

He laughs. “I don’t think my probation officer would appreciate that.”

A few minutes later, Tomasetti and I are sitting in the Tahoe, waiting for Goddard to start rolling. Tomasetti is staring out the window, brooding and preoccupied. I’m trying to find the right words, when he beats me to the punch.

“What the hell are people doing to their kids, Kate?”

It’s not the kind of statement I’m accustomed to hearing from him. He’s more apt to spout off some politically incorrect joke than a serious philosophical question, and it takes me a moment to find my feet. “Not everyone treats their kids that way.”

“Too many do.”

I want to argue. Only I can’t, because he’s right. So I let it stand. “We do what we can, Tomasetti. We can’t control everything.”

“That bitch in there doesn’t deserve those little kids.”

“I know.”

“She’s going to fuck up their lives the same way she fucked up her own.”

“You can’t say that for sure.”

His laugh is bitter. “Since when are you the optimist?”

“Don’t get cynical on me, Tomasetti.”

“That’s kind of like asking the ocean not to be wet.” But he doesn’t smile as he stares out the window. “We take so much for granted. I wish I had five minutes with my kids. Just five lousy minutes to say the things I didn’t say when they were alive.”

Tension climbs up my shoulders and into my neck. This is the first time he’s talked about his children with this level of intimacy, this kind of emotion. It’s the first time he’s mentioned regret or allowed me a glimpse of his pain. I don’t have children. But I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. I’ve been to that dark place and I know firsthand the toll it can take.

“That’s human nature,” I tell him. “We take things for granted. All of us do.”

He says nothing.

“I’m sure they knew you loved them,” I say, but I feel as if I’m floundering.

“When I was on a case, I’d go for days without seeing them. Even when I was home, when I worked late, I didn’t kiss them good night. I didn’t tuck them in. I barely looked at them some days. Half the time, I didn’t even fucking miss them. What the hell kind of parent doesn’t miss his kids?”

I glance over at him. He’s gripping the wheel tightly, staring straight ahead, and I think, Shit. “Tomasetti . . .”

He tosses me a sideways look. “I don’t remember the last words I said to them, Kate. I was in a hurry that morning. Had some big fucking meeting. Some meeting that didn’t mean anything to anyone. I didn’t know that the next time I saw them would be in the morgue.”

It’s difficult, but I hold his gaze. “You loved them. They knew it. That’s what counts.”

“I didn’t keep them safe.”

“You did your best.”

“Did I?”

I take a moment to calm down, rein in my own emotions. “Tomasetti, are you okay?” I ask.

He gives me a wan smile. “I’m not going to wig out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I reach across the seat and take his hand. “Just checking.”

For a couple of minutes, neither of us speaks. We watch Goddard get into his cruiser. The only sounds come from a group of little boys playing stickball in the yard across the street and a blue jay scolding us from the maple tree a few feet away.

“I wanted to take that bitch’s head off,” he says after a moment.

“Now there’s the Tomasetti I know and love.”

His mouth twists into a grim smile, and the tension loosens its grip. An instant later, his cell goes off. He glances at the display, makes eye contact with me, and answers it. “What do you have?”

His eyes hold mine as he listens to the caller, but his face reveals nothing. “Got it. Right. Check on that for me, will you?” He disconnects and clips the phone to his belt.

“What?” I ask as I buckle up.

He cranks the key and the engine rumbles to life. “The blood is human.”

“Damn.” We both assumed that would be the case. Still, the news is like a hammer blow. “Is it hers?”

“They don’t know yet. Lab’s backed up. They should have blood type tomorrow. DNA is going to take a few days.” He puts the Tahoe in gear and pulls onto the street behind Goddard.

“That was a lot of blood,” I say, thinking aloud. “If it’s Annie’s, she’s seriously injured.”

Or worse.

The unspoken words hover like the smell of cordite after a gunshot. Neither of us dares say them aloud.