Pushed Too Far Page 11

  The entrance to his bunker. To his home.

  He’d set the place up to be climate controlled. The chill of winter never reached in here, nor did the basement’s humidity in summer. It had its own air, pumped in from outside and filtered until it was pure. It had its own generator, so he’d always have power, even when other electricity went out. It had its own water supply pumped out of the ground beneath.

  The pressure seal made a satisfying sucking sound as he pulled the door open. He stepped inside and surveyed his space.

  Weapons lined the walls, everything from knives to handguns to rifles and shotguns he’d modified himself. He shut the door safely behind him and feasted his eyes on his newest addition, a Charter Arms .44 Bulldog revolver like Son of Sam used.

  Sweet.

  He’d inherited the decrepit farm from his parents. Inherited a lot of money, too. And he’d sunk it all into this place. The ratty old farm house on the surface that was held together with little more than duct tape and Liquid Nails was merely a cover for his real home under the ground.

  This was where he lived. Where he was safe. Where he couldn’t be watched. Not by cops or by killers.

  And if either one came after him, this is where he’d make his stand.

  Val found the road to the cemetery on her third try.

  It was barely a road, really, not much more than a couple of tire ruts that turned off the highway near a small gravel quarry. The first two times they’d passed, Val had chalked it up to the quarry road. The third drive by, desperation had pushed her to turn in.

  The tiny Focus dipped and bucked through ruts, snow over the hubcaps in some places. Val kept her foot steady on the gas, praying they didn’t get stuck.

  “Is this really a road?” Grace held onto the arm rest with one hand, the other braced on the dash.

  An old metal arch of the type common on gates of ranches out west straddled the non-road, proclaiming the place the White Church Cemetery, but all Val could see on the adjacent swells and valleys were the tracks of horses in snow and the top of an indoor riding arena peeking over the crest of a hill.

  “The grandparents are here, right?” Grace asked, squinting at the swirling white all around them.

  “Right,” Val said. “Willard and Alfreda Unger.”

  Alfreda Unger had four daughters. Kelly’s mother and her three aunts. Kelly’s mother was buried in the cemetery overlooking Lake Loyal. Val and Grace had found one aunt in the first Illinois cemetery they’d visited, a Christmas wreath on the grave, likely put there by the woman’s son, to whom Olson had spoken. That left Alfreda and two aunts in this cemetery.

  Here there were no wreaths, and likely no visitors, since everyone in this branch of the family was already dead. The snow was much deeper, and provided they even made it without getting stuck, it was going to take some digging.

  Not that Grace cared.

  As grumpy as she’d been at the prospect of leaving Lake Loyal, she seemed in her element now. Val didn’t know many teenagers who would jump at the chance to go gravestone hunting with their aunts, but then most were nothing like her Grace. She had taken on the task as if it was a grand adventure. Her enthusiasm had even spread to Val. At first.

  She wasn’t so excited about conquering this remote tundra. “We’re going to need the shovel.”

  “It’s in the back seat.”

  Val drove under the gate and came to a stop near a large burgundy stone that resembled the one Lund had mentioned when he’d given her directions. Leaving the Ford parked smack in what appeared to be the middle of the road, they got out. Having finally located her gloves in the Focus, Val pulled them on along with a hat. Similarly bundled, Grace grabbed the shovel, and they trudged to the first stone.

  The name etched on granite was Jones.

  “No good,” Grace called over the wind. “How about that one?”

  They moved down the row, reading stone after stone. The wind kicked up, skimming a sparkle of fine ice crystals over the hills like sand in a desert. Val’s feet grew dank in her boots. Her cheeks stung with the cold, then settled into numbness.

  She was about to give up when she spotted another burgundy stone peeking through a drift near the far corner of the cemetery. This one was smaller than the first, but wide, the kind that was used to mark more than one grave. “That could be it.”

  She wallowed through one drift after another, Grace right at her side. There wasn’t just a little more snow here than in Lake Loyal, there was a lot. A little ironic since they were many miles to the south. It was at least fifteen degrees colder, too. By the time they reached the headstone, snow filled their boots and clung to their jeans up to their knees.

  The marker itself was buried, and Grace half-wiped, half dug to clear the engraving. The names Willard and Alfreda Unger etched the granite, Kelly Ann’s grandparents on her mother’s side.

  “We found it,” Grace shouted, as if discovering gold.

  Val dug the shovel into the snow in front of the stone. The drift was packed hard, and by the time she’d cleared a spot of brown grass two feet square, she could feel the exertion in her back and legs, and her hand—which had been improving a little—could no longer grip the wooden handle.

  The earth in front of the stone hadn’t been disturbed.

  Grace held out her hand while eyeing Val’s. “I’ll dig.”

  She stuffed her hand in her pocket. “My fingers are cold. Aren’t yours?”

  “No, I’m good. Give me the shovel.”

  Grace continued down the line. One aunt had died when she was a child, and Grace found her grave next to that of her parents. She cleared off the square of earth where a body would have been buried, and they found nothing but undisturbed grass, brown and frozen.

  The days were growing short. That coupled with clouds moving in brought darkness earlier than Val had anticipated. With the night, the temperature dropped even further.

  To think they were missing the warming trend in Lake Loyal for this.

  Val hitched her coat tighter around her neck and followed Grace to the next stone. Hollywell. Then the next. Johnston.

  “Here it is,” Grace called. “Another Unger.”

  The stone was small and gray, its carving hard to make out in the snow and dimming light.

  She dipped her hand in her pocket and pulled out the small flashlight she insisted Grace keep in her glove box and directed it at the marker, revealing the name Elizabeth Unger, the woman who was once married to Jeff Schneider.

  Grace cleared more of the stone with her mitten. Liz’s birthdate, the dash, and … nothing. “No death date?”

  She spun around, focusing wide eyes on Val. “Elizabeth Unger is still alive?”

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  Of course, it wasn’t that simple.

  “Just because a date isn’t entered on Liz Unger’s tombstone doesn’t mean she isn’t buried here.” Val explained to her niece. “All it means is someone failed to have the date carved into the stone.”

  Grace cleared the snow in front of the grave marker, as she had with the others, and as with the others, the earth was undisturbed. “But it’s weird, right? Why wouldn’t someone make sure she has a death date?”

  Val could think of a lot of reasons. “She might be buried somewhere else. She could have remarried before she died and was interred with her husband. She could have had children and is buried near them. For all we know, she could have retired to Florida and was buried down there.”

  “So this doesn’t tell us anything?”

  Val gave her niece an encouraging smile. “Actually, it does. It tells us we have some investigating to do. Elizabeth Unger died in a car crash, and as luck would have it, governments all over the country keep track of a lot of things, and fatal car accidents are one of them.”

  They climbed back into the car. Possibilities whirled in Val’s head like the whipping wind and left her just as cold. Heater switched to blast furnace, she pulled out her phone and f
ound Harlan Runk’s cell number in her directory.

  He answered on the third ring. “Yup.”

  “Harlan? It’s Val Ryker.”

  “Hiya, sweet cheeks. What can I do ya for?” His words slurred and soft music, voices and clattering tableware sounded in the background.

  No doubt the coroner was imbibing his favorite brandy old fashioned sweets at the supper club. She hoped he was sober enough to remember what she was about to tell him. And act on it. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “I’m not in Lake Loyal, Harlan, and this has to do with work.”

  “You’re breaking my heart, honey pot. But I can’t deny you anything. What do you need?”

  “I need you to request some medical records and compare them to what’s left of Jane Doe.”

  “Jane Doe’s got no teeth. Without teeth, it’s a long shot.”

  “Actually the whole thing is a long shot, Harlan. But I’m desperate.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  She stifled a groan. “The bones have a fracture that matched a broken wrist Kelly had. Can you use that to compare?”

  “I seem to remember that. Yup.”

  “So you’ll do the comparison?”

  “First thing in the morning. You’ve got my word, princess. Now to whom am I comparing?”

  “Elizabeth Unger. She’s Kelly Lund’s aunt on her mother’s side. If I find anything else, I’ll let you know.” She thanked him and hung up.

  Exiting the cemetery was easier, thanks to the tire ruts they made going in and the fact that they were now headed downhill. Val took Highway 14 Southeast to Palatine, then joined 53 and blended into Interstate 290.

  They’d almost reached the turnoff to Bensenville when Grace finally spoke. “I don’t want to stay somewhere without you.”

  She hadn’t yet told Grace anything about her need to dash back to Lake Loyal after what they’d found in the cemetery, but with her call to Harlan, she should have known the girl would put it together. “You’ll like Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  “Jack Daniels.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t that booze?”

  “This Jack Daniels is a friend of mine from back when I worked for the Chicago PD. Jack is short for Jacqueline. You’ll have fun, Grace. She knows a lot more about fashion than I do, and if you cooperate, maybe she’ll even take you to the firing range.”

  Of course, first she had to make sure Jack didn’t mind Grace staying with her without Val present.

  The pout stayed on Grace’s lips despite the prospect of buying clothes and shooting guns. “You won’t remember to feed the horses.”

  “Good thing I hired someone to do that.”

  “You won’t remember to feed yourself.”

  Val could hardly argue that point, especially after the past few days. “I’ll stick a Post-It on the door so I can’t miss it.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  Val was exhausted, and she still had to figure out what happened to Liz Unger and—provided she found something—drive the four hours back to Lake Loyal. She didn’t have the energy for this. “It’s going to be tough not having you there, Grace. I know you’ve been keeping the place together, especially lately. But I can’t deal with it unless I know you’re okay.”

  “Who’s going to make sure you’re okay?”

  Her question hit Val like a hard kick. Grace was an amazing girl, always responsible, always caring for others. She was so much like her mother, it made Val’s chest hurt. “I need you to do this for me, Grace. Just for a few days.”

  Her niece stared straight ahead out the windshield, not answering. A mile hummed under the tires, then another.

  No one could administer the silent treatment like a teenage girl.

  Fine. She was angry now, but she’d get over it, and she might even have a good time. Most of all she’d be safe. That was what mattered most.

  Jack’s directions were precise, and Val found the house in Bensenville with little problem. Her old friend and mentor looked stylishly gorgeous as usual in a pair of gray herringbone trousers and a wrap sweater that had to be cashmere. She really was too well dressed to be a cop.

  In light of Val’s fashion ineptitude, it was probably a good thing she moved to the middle of Wisconsin, where the chicest outfit you could wear was green and gold on game day.

  As they exchanged hugs and introductions, a tall redheaded man with a charming little boy smile stepped into the room, his gait a halting shuffle that took a lot of time and a seemingly large amount of effort. He thrust out a hand.

  “This is my fiancé, Latham.” Jack wasn’t smiling, she was glowing.

  His grip was warm and felt more vital than he looked. After they made introductions all around, Latham talked Grace into a game of rummy, leaving Val and Jack to duck into the kitchen to talk.

  “What do you think of Latham?” Jack said as soon as they were out of earshot.

  What could Val say? Latham’s eyes lit up every time he looked in Jack’s direction, something he couldn’t keep from doing at every opportunity. “He’s great.”

  “I proposed to him,” Jack said. “One knee, mariachi band, the works.”

  That caught Val by surprise. If there was a woman less romantic than she was, it was Jack. She might dress well, but fashion was her way of projecting confidence, something essential in the old boys’ club of the Chicago PD. Jack kept her emotions close to her chest, and wasn’t one to get dewy-eyed over a man.

  Jack smiled. “I know, I know. You can’t imagine it. But I’ve never been this happy with anyone.”

  Val had to admit, between Monica and now Jack, she was feeling left out. And more than a little envious. “When are you getting married?”

  “I don’t know. He’s recovering from a brush with botulism.”

  So that was the reason for the shuffling steps, the pallor to his skin.

  “Do you have a guy up in the north woods?”

  For the flash of a second, Val thought of Lund, then she shook the thought away. “I’m a little busy lately.”

  “In other words, you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Right.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Jack, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I was wondering if Grace could stay with you a few days. Without me, I mean.”

  “Of course she can.” Jack narrowed her eyes. “Something happen with Dixon Hess since we talked?”

  She filled Jack in on Tamara Wade, ending with the missing death date on Liz Unger’s gravestone.

  After listening to it all, Jack gave a sage-like nod. “I think I have exactly what you need.” She led Val to a computer and called up a vital records database.

  Val slid into the chair. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll make some coffee.”

  Val had downed at least five cups by the time she found what she was looking for.

  Liz Unger’s death records where listed under Elizabeth Schneider, not Unger, since it appeared she and Jeff Schneider never officially divorced. She’d died ten years ago from injuries sustained in a car accident, and she was buried in the White Church cemetery in Illinois.

  The only problem was that there was no police report of the fatal accident, and while the cemetery had a record of her plot, a call to the White Church Cemetery’s association president confirmed she hadn’t been buried there. Odd that Olson hadn’t picked up on those inconsistencies when looking for information on the family, especially since Schneider had assisted him.

  But that wasn’t all.

  Val stared at the computer screen, her heart drumming so hard she thought she might be sick. In the other room, she could hear Grace laughing above the low hum of Latham’s voice. The scent of apple pie drifted on the air, Jack’s mother having arrived home a short time before and insisted on baking something for Grace, along with giving her tips on how to beat Latham a
t rummy.

  The door squeaked open, and she could feel Jack watching her. “You found something.”

  She didn’t bother asking how Jack knew. Her old friend was a master when it came to reading body language and assembling puzzles. “Seems like I came a long way to find something that was in my own backyard.”

  “She died in Wisconsin.”

  “My home county, to be precise.”

  Throat dry, she stared at the part that disturbed her most … the name of the coroner who’d signed the death certificate.

  Val’s head was buzzing long after she’d driven back across the Wisconsin border, known as the cheddar curtain, took the Highway 12 exit circling around Madison and Middleton, and then followed it north. The rain meteorologists had predicted pattered against the windshield, and the temperature hovered around freezing.

  Not a good night for driving.

  In years past, this stretch of road had been dangerous, fraught with steep twists and badly banked turns. A bypass had smoothed out the rough edges, and Val continued at a good clip. Only the occasional set of headlights pierced the darkness in the oncoming lane. A mid-sized pickup followed a little too close behind.

  She’d first noticed him in Janesville. Before that, she’d been too distracted by the thoughts pinging around in her head, not that they had quieted down in the miles since.

  Pete Olson, Jeff Schneider and Harlan Runk.

  At least one of them was lying to her, maybe all three.

  She’d been a cop long enough to know that the best of people were capable of horrible acts when caught by difficult circumstances. She just didn’t want to believe men she’d worked with for the past six years framed a man for a woman’s death.

  Or maybe even caused it themselves.

  As she approached the first turn off to Roxbury, ice started to build up at the edges of the Focus’s back window, and she could feel an unstable slickness under the tires. She pulled her foot from the accelerator and let the car’s momentum take her around the curve.

  The headlights behind drew closer, their glare flooding her car and bouncing off the rear view into her eyes.