A Day for Bones, page 15
The end of what?
Setting course for The Lodge, Peller plotted his approach. His main objective was Andrew Hunt. Confront him with the evidence against him, push until he caved. Hunt was the weak link, a poor liar and nervous as hell. He knew he was sinking with a rock tied to him. After he broke Hunt, Peller would try to strike a deal with Ferring. Try. He had about zero hope of success, but accumulating evidence might spark in Ferring a conversion experience.
Predictably, Peller’s arrival precipitated Ferring’s anger and Hunt’s fear. So far, so good. The more off-balance they were, the better his chances of getting somewhere. “I need to speak with Mr. Hunt,” he told Ferring.
Ferring about bit Peller’s arm off. “I’m sick of all these disruptions! Nobody died, damn it, it was just a robbery!”
“You sure?” Peller snapped back. “Who has your guns? How’re they being used? I need to talk to Mr. Hunt.”
Ferring showed no contrition. He maintained his angry act. “You know where the damn office is.”
Peller motioned Hunt to lead on. Hunt skittered ahead of him, eyes darting as though seeking escape. Peller sensed Ferring’s eyes on his back, heard him mutter curses. As they passed through the door, Ferring called, “I’m calling my lawyer!”
Peller shunted Hunt into the office and closed the door. “You may want to talk to your lawyer, too, Andrew.”
Hunt’s hands shook. He clasped them in a vain effort to still them. “Why?”
“We have the whole thing on video. You going out for a smoke, the thieves coming in shortly thereafter. The timing is too convenient. Also…” Peller pulled the folded family tree from his pocket, opened it, and pushed it across the desk for Hunt to examine. Hunt no more than glanced at it before looking away. “Turns out, you are related to the boss. It’s hardly a close relation, but you knew, didn’t you?”
Hunt shook his head.
“One of our detectives was here earlier today. When she mentioned finding the remains of Mr. Ferring’s grandfather, it spooked you.”
The young man’s jaw worked for a moment before he said, “It surprised me, that’s all. I didn’t know Mr. Ferring’s grandfather had been killed.”
Peller leaned back and crossed his arms. “Who said he was killed?”
“You said—”
“I said we found his remains. I didn’t say how he died.”
Hunt squeezed his hands tighter. His fingers turned white.
“Let’s do this the easy way, Andrew. Tell me everything you know, and I’ll put in a good word for you with the DA’s office. You were just an accessory. Help us convict the real criminals, and the judge will probably just wag a finger at you.” He leaned forward and tapped the paper. “I’ll find out with or without your help. This is a one-shot deal. I won’t offer it again.”
Running a hand over his face, Hunt straightened and really looked at the family tree for the first time. He spoke with a tremor. “I wasn’t entirely lying. I didn’t know we were related when Mr. Ferring hired me. I only found out later.”
“When?”
“Just before Christmas. I was at a family party and met a distant cousin. We figured out our relationship.”
“Who was this cousin?”
“Her name’s Alice Crandall. She’s James Ferring’s daughter.”
“James IV?”
“James V.”
Peller extracted a pen from his pocket and amended the diagram. “Like that?”
Hunt nodded.
“And then you knew. Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.”
“So why the denials and deceptions?”
Hunt shrugged.
Leaning back again, Peller drummed his fingers on the desk. The hammering sounded unnaturally loud in the enclosed space. “One-shot deal, Andrew.”
“I don’t know much. Honest.”
“Tell me what you do know.”
Hunt licked his lips. “It was better Mr. Ferring didn’t know. His side of the family doesn’t get along with mine. He might have fired me.”
Peller nodded and waited for more.
In a suddenly cooperative mood, Hunt leaned forward and lowered his voice. “He still doesn’t know. She told me to keep quiet about it, so I did. And she asked for a favor.”
“Alice?”
“Yeah. She already knew I slipped out back for a smoke sometimes. I don’t know how. She asked me to leave the door unlocked just one time. I didn’t know what they were going to do.”
Peller could believe Hunt was that stupid. He waited for more, but Hunt shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s all,” he said.
“I’m about to walk, Andrew. If I do, you have zero protection.”
He hung his head. “If I tell you, they’ll come after me.”
“Not if I get them first.”
That didn’t comfort Hunt, but he complied. “Alice and her friends wanted to play a practical joke on Mr. Ferring.”
“Some joke. Who are these friends?”
“I don’t know. I never met them. I only ever talked to her.”
“Got her address or phone number?”
With a sigh, Hunt pulled out his cell phone. He flipped through his address book, then picked up Peller’s pen and jotted a phone number on the family tree. “Don’t tell her you got this from me,” he said. “Please.”
Peller offered no assurances. “That’s everything?”
“It is.”
“If it’s not, I’ll find out.”
“It is,” Hunt repeated.
Peller rose and motioned him to the door. “Tell Mr. Ferring I’ll see him now.”
“Please don’t tell him.”
“That you’re his relative, or that you helped rob him?”
“Either.”
Peller waved him on.
After Hunt left, Peller packed up the family tree and resumed his seat. He allowed himself a moment of elation. He didn’t doubt Hunt had told the truth about Alice Crandall. From the surveillance footage, one of the gang had been female. With one fingered, the others wouldn’t be long in surfacing.
Ferring showed up in less than a minute. He took a seat and met Peller’s eyes with a hard glare. “What?”
“You’ll be happy to know we’ve ID’d one of the thieves.”
But no, Ferring wasn’t happy. Alarm flitted across his face before he got himself under control. “That’s good,” he mumbled.
“That depends on what we learn from the suspect, doesn’t it?”
“Meaning?”
Peller leaned on the desk and spoke more quietly. “You’re in some kind of trouble, Mr. Ferring. I’d like to help, but so far you’ve thrown up roadblock after roadblock.”
“I’ve cooperated every step of the way,” Ferring objected.
Peller shook his head.
Suddenly angry, Ferring pounded on the desk. “Damn it, what more do you want from me?”
Peller didn’t react to the outburst. “How did you know your grandfather’s remains were buried under the Colonial Bakery?”
Ferring pushed himself to his feet. “Time for you to leave, Lieutenant.”
“What’re you afraid of? What does that note mean?”
“I said, leave.”
“Cooperated every step of the way.” Peller rose and marched without a backward glance through the storefront to the exit. Ferring followed as though not trusting Peller actually would go. He might have been ready to lock the door behind the detective.
Pushing the door open, Peller paused. “You’ve got your wish, Mr. Ferring. I doubt I’ll return, but you have my number. When things get ugly, which I predict they will, feel free to call.”
Montufar received the fingerprint report on the gun handled during the robbery diversion. No matches had been found. So much for that. Maybe the ATF’s reward posting would do better. Montufar was about to move on to the next thing when Theresa Swan slipped into her cubicle and sat. “Can I talk to you, Corina?”
“Sure.” Montufar pushed back from her computer. “How did it go at The Lodge?”
“I gave Lieutenant Peller my report, but …” She studied her hands, which had begun to tremble. “I left something out.”
Montufar leaned close and lowered her voice. “Should we go to a conference room?”
Swan shook her head. “It’s okay. I just …”
Montufar waited.
“There was a customer. He threatened me and I …” She looked up, fear flooding her eyes. “I drew. I think I had to, but…”
Montufar took Swan’s shaking hands in her own. “Did you fire?”
She shook her head. “He backed off. I told him to leave, and he did.”
Thank God for that. “What else?”
“That’s it, but…Corina, I wanted to shoot the bastard. I wanted to kill him.”
“Why?”
“Big tough white guy trying to intimidate a black woman. More than trying. He threatened me and called me…things.”
Montufar didn’t need details. She’d been on the receiving end herself and knew the fear, the anger, the gun so conveniently to hand. “You think he’ll file a complaint?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care. Mr. Ferring would probably back me up, if it came to that. But it’s not that. Corina, I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of me.”
“You acted in self-defense, Theresa. You did what you had to do, nothing more. You deescalated and everyone walked away unharmed. That’s a good thing.” But she knew better. Unharmed? Hardly.
Swan pulled her hands from Montufar’s and folded them in her lap. “Maybe next time I won’t. Maybe next time I’ll pull that trigger. How can I know?”
Montufar understood the feeling, but she’d never been that close to the line. She’d never pointed a gun at anyone in such a situation. She’d never felt the urge to kill. How could she possibly answer? She only knew one person who might have the right words. “You should talk to Rick.”
“Lieutenant Peller?” She shook her head. “I can’t. He’ll—”
“No, he won’t.”
“I…I don’t think I can.”
“Don’t be afraid of him. He’s got more scars than the rest of us combined. He’ll understand better than anyone.”
Swan fidgeted with her fingers, then rose. “Thank you.” She slipped away in silence. Montufar stared at the empty chair. How did anyone with a conscience survive this line of work?
Holly Ross looked triumphant when she presented herself before Dumas, smug smile and all. “Moderately good news?” Dumas chided.
“Cassie Ferring is a terrible liar.” Ross sat in Dumas’s guest chair and leaned an elbow on his desk.
“Who’s Cassie Ferring?”
“Art Ferring’s wife. I took a little trip to Frederick County to talk with her.”
“And?”
“Guess why nobody mentioned Art Ferring’s horse was killed on his birthday?”
“Stress,” Dumas guessed. “Anger, fear, confusion.” If he had been Art Ferring, those would have been his reasons.
“Family business.” Ross beamed at him.
“Family business?”
She nodded.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means it’s none of our business, which I figure means it very much ought to be our business. Try this on for size. Some family member shot the horse to teach Art Ferring a lesson. Cassie called the cops because she was afraid, but Art didn’t want the truth getting out. The family deals with its problems its way. Art told Cassie to shut up while he conned the investigator into blaming a brainless hunter. Same basic story as Chuck Ferring blaming his troubles on anti-gun nuts.”
Dumas squeezed his eyes shut. “God. Corina will never let me hear the end of this. She’ll accuse me of teaching you to think crazy thoughts.”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“There are indications along those lines,” Dumas conceded. “Ruth Vickeridge told Jack she wanted nothing more to do with the Ferrings, and Art Ferring might have moved to Frederick for that same reason. Tell me everything Cassie said.”
Ross related the entire interview.
After the recitation, Dumas had to admit there weren’t too many reasonable interpretations. Cassie Ferring had slipped up and tried her best to backpedal, but by then it was too late. Clearly, she was hiding something, most probably her own error in calling the police. Yet it seemed strange that in a family so vindictive—the intentional slaughter of a horse was hardly a small slight—nothing had come of it. Even most of the attacks on the Lodge had been petty by comparison. Nobody had been hurt, so far as police records could show. If the Ferrings were waging an internal war, it was mostly being fought with pop guns, not pistols.
When Dumas mentioned that to Ross, she reminded him of the one known exception: George Ferring, who had been killed by his uncle Roger in 1937.
“Ancient history,” Dumas said.
“And William Ferring, Roger’s son,” Ross said. “Disappeared in 1947 and buried under the bakery.”
“Possibly buried under the bakery.” Dumas shook his head. “Then nothing until 1992 when the horse is shot? Then nothing again until the sporadic attacks on The Lodge, which started six years later? What kind of family feud are we talking about, Holly? Blood in the streets I could understand, but this makes no sense.”
She grinned. “We’ll crack it. We just have to keep pushing.”
Dumas wondered if her enthusiasm was running away with her. “I’d recommend caution. Let’s remember what we have here. At most, it’s a very old homicide. The killer might not even be alive anymore. Even factoring in the gun theft, it’s not entirely horrible as crimes go. And you can’t tar and feather an entire family, even if some are guilty.”
“But solving it will make us all look good.” She hopped out of her chair, raring to go. “And I have some ideas about that.”
Jack Collins accepted a cup of tea from Denise Ferring while her husband James waited quietly, hands folded over his abdomen. They were seated in the Ferring’s richly-appointed living room over the bakery. From outside, sounds of power tools and hammers testified to the rebuilding underway up and down Main Street.
Once the refreshment had been served, Denise seated herself beside her husband, her alert eyes studying the reporter as though checking him for weapons while gently stirring her tea. She made little figure-eights in the liquid.
“I understand your grandfather started the Colonial Bakery,” Collins said, and the interview commenced with a long recitation of the history of the establishment. Without embellishment, Ferring offered the same details Ruth Vickeridge had. Denise added nothing. Her eyes never left Collins, not even when taking dainty sips from her cup. Collins let his tape recorder gather Ferring’s recitation.
“You’ve suffered losses from flooding before,” the reporter prompted, and Ferring rattled off that history, too, missing no dates but offering few details.
That done, Collins brought up the interesting bit: “This one had a weird twist, didn’t it?”
Ferring shifted uncomfortably. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Any idea who it could have been?”
Ferring looked at his wife, who shrugged and stirred her tea again, this time counterclockwise.
Evasion. Totally expected. Collins leaned forward. “The remains have been dated to around the time you were born. The bakery was already here when the deceased was buried in the cellar. Are there any family stories about it?”
Ferring looked out the window again. Denise carefully shook a few drops of liquid from her spoon and set it on her saucer. “How do you figure that?” she asked as though making small talk.
Collins had the feeling she was testing him, but it was an easy question. “That’s what the police said.”
“Oh, yes,” Denise agreed, “Now I remember. I heard that on the news.”
Something in her tone suggested Collins had made a mistake, and he immediately realized what it was. While the police had released most details about the bones, they hadn’t pinpointed their origin. They only stated the remains were strewn up and down Main Street, with the bulk of them coming to rest in the HorseSpirit Arts Gallery. Collins shouldn’t have known they had washed out of the bakery’s cellar.
It was too late to pretend, so deflection seemed the best course. He dropped the subject and moved on.
“How long will repairs take?”
Back on terra firma, James Ferring rattled off a list of damages and the work to be done. “It’s going to take a full month to complete,” he said, “but we’ll open in about two weeks.”
Collins ended the interview there and thanked the Ferrings for their time. Denise escorted him to the door while her husband vanished into the recesses of their home. “He’s taken it pretty hard,” the reporter observed.
“That water didn’t just rip into the building, Mr. Collins. It ripped into Jim’s heart and soul. This bakery is more than a business. It’s his family. His life. You don’t take a hit like this without feeling it. But we’ll pull through. We always do.”
Thanking her again, Collins descended to street level, walked a block to his car, and sat behind the wheel, kicking himself for being so clumsy. Maybe the Ferrings wouldn’t have let slip anything anyway, but now he’d never know. He didn’t dare talk to any of them again.
Not that it was a total loss. At least he had enough to spin his story for the Flier.
Chapter 14
“Got some good news for you, Rick.” ATF Special Agent Zee Mirlo sounded more awake than Peller ever got. Maybe he’d had three cups of coffee already.
It was Tuesday morning, June sixth. Peller had just arrived at his desk to start the day and hadn’t even sat down before the phone rang. He lowered himself into his chair, cradling the receiver between his ear and shoulder. “Fire when ready.”
