Her Last Goodbye, page 29
“Are you okay, Dad?” Kat said.
Vince touched his jaw. “Got a sore tooth.”
“Sore tooth?” Greg and Kat traded a quick look. Then Greg said: “Want to go home, Dad? I can get someone else to come over.”
Vince’s focus shifted. He’d returned, looked at them, and shook his head.
“No. I’m good. Jake and I will be fine,” he said.
Media people were still waiting outside, shouting questions as Greg and Kat got into her Jeep. She reversed slowly, easing through the pack as Greg waved them off before Kat shifted into Drive and sped away. Then he watched his side mirror.
“Some of them are following us.”
“I’ll lose them.”
They got onto Sentinel Trail, with its four lanes running through the suburb’s commercial stretch. Kat threaded through the traffic. Some news vehicles had quit the chase. Then Kat turned into a Burger King drive-through but veered from the lane, using the parking lot’s rear exit to get onto another side street.
“As a courier driver, you have to know shortcuts,” she said.
Greg checked his mirror. Kat’s maneuver had worked. Except for a white van, which seemed to trail them for several more blocks before abandoning its pursuit.
* * *
The neighborhood was east of downtown in an old working class district north of the interstate, bordering the Hydraulics and Larkin area.
This was where Jenn had grown up until her parents’ deaths in the fire.
A small apartment building now occupied the lot where Jenn’s house had been. The building had also swallowed a few lots next to it. The apartment had been there a long time, and it had been years since Greg had even driven by here. Neat frame houses built with the optimism that followed the Second World War still lined the street where Jenn spent the first eight years of her life. Greg imagined her skipping rope, or learning to ride a bike along the tree-shaded sidewalk.
Kat parked.
They got out, intent on going to the few names and addresses taken from the cards that they hadn’t crossed off, and since they were here, every home on the block. House after house, door after door, the responses they’d received varied but soon began to blur with head shakes and dismissals.
“No, don’t know anybody named Korvin.”
“Who? What? Naw, never heard of them.”
“Is that about the woman on the news? No, sorry, we just moved here last year.”
“Not us. Try the Galassos, the house with the hedge. They’ve lived here forever...”
But the older man trimming the hedge at the Galasso house shook his head.
“You might try the Krynskis,” he said. “Second place from the corner.”
As they headed toward it, Kat reached into her bag.
“I think we have a sympathy card from the Krynskis. Yes, Marek and Celina.”
They rang the doorbell, heard movement inside before a man in his twenties opened the door, a question rising on his face as he assessed Kat and Greg.
“Sorry to bother you,” Kat said. “We’re looking for anyone who may remember a family who lived nearby a long time ago. Leo and Sofia Korvin. They had a daughter, Jennifer?”
The man started shaking his head.
“The parents died in a house fire about thirty years ago,” Kat said.
The man shrugged.
“A sympathy card was sent from this address.” Kat showed it to him.
Studying the card, he began nodding as they heard barking from inside.
“Wow, yeah, those are my parents and this is, or was, their house.” He handed it back. “But they died a few years ago, and I’m living here now with my family.”
“So you didn’t grow up here?” Greg said.
“I don’t know anything. Sorry, I can’t help you.”
“Well, could you tell us if—”
The barking grew louder. The man glanced at his phone in his hand.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” the man said, closing the door.
Cutting short what had appeared to be a hopeful lead drove home for Greg the futility of their effort as they turned from the house and started for the sidewalk.
What are we doing? Jenn had no relatives. The DNA analysis has got to be a mistake. And if it is...then Jenn is really dead.
He glanced at Kat.
Did she really tell me the truth about knowing where Jenn had kept her mother’s things?
A glint, a reflection caught Greg’s eye, and his focus went beyond Kat, down the street, way down by more than a block.
Was that a white van and a camera lens?
“Excuse me?”
Greg and Kat stopped and turned.
The young man had returned to his front door and called to them.
“I think I know someone who might be able to help you.”
Seventy-Two
Clarence, New York
Melinda Hyland’s keyboard clicked in staccato bursts, halting only when she paused to nudge her glasses over the bridge of her nose.
She’d been making requests and studying databases for records confirming Jennifer Griffin’s biological mother gave birth to another child.
Come on, show me something.
Okay, so the FBI’s experts at Quantico stated that the DNA of the Cleveland victim did not come from Jennifer Griffin, but belonged to a relative from the same biological mother, Sofia Ann Korvin.
Hyland had found records confirming Sofia Ann Korvin gave birth to Jennifer Marie Korvin in a Buffalo hospital. Leo Korvin was listed as Jennifer’s biological father.
But so far, Hyland’s search of available records throughout all of New York had found no documents for Sofia having another child. It was entirely possible that the birth was not registered, or had taken place in another state, another country. It could’ve been a home birth. Sofia could’ve abandoned, or given up the child, had an affair. Any number of scenarios came to mind.
It’s also possible Sofia Korvin changed her name.
Hyland knew that in most states, like New York, legal name changes were public record. However, if a person felt their safety, or their children’s safety, was at risk, the court would seal the name change so that it would never be public. This happened in cases of domestic abuse. But police could access the change if needed.
Hyland put in a call to her contact in Albany for help with sealed name changes. Hyland left a message.
She then returned to another aspect of the investigation, her continual examination of statements, tips, and reports that had come in on the case, cross-referencing them, double-checking them with local, regional, and statewide databases for any potential links to other cases.
Hyland mined the latest information, using keyword searches, or dates—whatever was required. She also had a checklist of facets of the case she continually checked for updates.
Kinda like panning for gold.
Consulting her list, she went to service calls made to Greg and Jennifer Griffin’s home in the months prior to her going missing. Again, there were only two. Starting with SparkleThru window washing service, Hyland submitted the company name and names of the workers in all the databases.
Nothing new came up.
She submitted the name of the cable repair company, Distinctly Connex. Waiting for the results, she reached for her coffee when her computer pinged with a hit.
She froze.
What’s this?
Her screen filled with the summary of a recent complaint that was actually withdrawn because the caller had changed her mind. This is interesting. It came from a woman in Cardinal Hill concerning the cable repairman, his offensive behavior with her underwear in her home and his suggestive comments.
It made Hyland’s skin crawl.
When she checked the database for Jennifer Griffin, it showed the same company, Distinctly Connex, had sent the same man to restore their service and that Jennifer was alone in the house with him at the time.
Hyland swallowed.
The repairman’s name was Zoran Volk.
Hyland sat up, her keyboard clicking as she typed.
We’ve got a new lead here.
Seventy-Three
Elk Creek, Pennsylvania
Gravel ricocheted under Lorena Jo Tullev’s Ford Escape as she drove deeper into the woods of northwestern Pennsylvania.
Lorena couldn’t remember the last time she and Zoran had been here together. She took in the tranquility of the forest with its gentle slopes and streams. The region was paradise for people who liked to fish.
Or wanted privacy.
Coming to the eagle-like rock formation that marked the turn for Zoran’s cabin, Lorena slowed down but kept driving. Passing by the acreage, staring through the interlacing of trees, branches, and leaves, she saw a corner of the cabin, a flash of chrome, a reflection of glass, and she identified Zoran’s white van.
He’s there.
She didn’t see a second vehicle.
If Zoran was cheating, maybe he would meet the other woman here, or maybe he’d picked her up? He had enough time. Lorena had waited nearly two hours before she left Buffalo, heading west on I-90 after he said he was going to his cabin to fish for a couple days.
Now, having spotted Zoran’s van, she drove around a bend, then a little farther until she’d come to the mouth of an unmarked entrance to a neighboring property. Its grassy pathway was nearly invisible in a thicket. She parked her Ford there, on the side, grabbed her bag, and got out, satisfied her SUV was concealed by the shrubs and branches.
She walked back down the road then left it, entering the forest. Staying off the pathway, she stepped carefully through the woods making her way to the rear of Zoran’s cabin. Constructed of logs, it sat some forty yards from a wide, twisting expanse of Elk Creek.
She went to the cabin’s back wall, stood next to it, listening for voices. A long minute passed. The leaves in the treetops moved in a little breeze, birds chirped. There was the soft peaceful flow of the creek.
But no voices.
What am I doing? This is silly. I should go home. No. I have to do this. Something’s going on with Zoran. Something’s not right.
Suddenly Lorena heard movement inside, someone walking. She slipped into the bushes, positioning herself to see the front door that faced the creek.
Zoran had stepped outside.
Carrying a rod, a tackle box, and a plastic bucket, he locked the door then took a trail that cut into the woods.
When he was out of sight, Lorena went to the door, got her key from her bag. She’d secretly made a duplicate months ago when she first suspected Zoran was cheating at the cabin.
She slid her key into the slot, hoping he hadn’t changed the lock.
She turned it.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, shoving it in all the way, jiggling, and turning.
It clicked.
Stepping inside, the air smelled of lumber with a hint of fried bacon.
Lorena could feel memories stirring as she inventoried the place. It had one private bedroom and one small bathroom with a shower. The rest of the interior was a large open area. In one corner, the kitchen, in another, sofa chairs faced the stone fireplace.
On the table was Zoran’s big backpack, a couple of empty beer cans, and an open bag of Doritos. The chairs were draped with his jeans, his hoodie, a T-shirt, and socks.
Lorena went to the bedroom door.
When she opened it, she stopped in her tracks.
A tripod with a video camera stood at the foot of the bed.
Chains with handcuffs reached from the headboard and footboard.
He’s making his own porn here. Or he’s cheating with someone who’s into bondage. Or both.
Anger surged through her.
Who’s he doing this with? Who?
Lorena thought.
His laptop! Yes, I came here to find it.
A quick search of the bedroom—the dresser drawers, the closet, under the bed, under the mattress—resulted in no laptop.
Lorena returned to the living area, scanning it for answers, looking at the table. She went to Zoran’s backpack. If it wasn’t in there, if he’d locked it in his van, she’d be out of luck.
Rifling through his backpack, she found mostly packaged food, then something hard and flat.
Bingo! Laptop.
She placed it on the table and fired it up.
As it came to life, she reached into her bag for her wallet and the slip of paper with Zoran’s password.
Everything worked.
She was in.
He had a galaxy of folders. The first she went to were listed as “JOBS,” and she opened a few randomly. They looked like work orders for repairs and connections.
Another was labeled “SPORTS” and seemed to contain team stats, probably for his gambling on games.
Next she found an array labeled “FUN” that appeared to be porn, purchased or at least downloaded. He was not in the few videos she’d zipped through, and she didn’t recognize any of the women.
Lorena shot a glance to the window, listening for Zoran’s return. Biting her lip, she continued opening folders, finding records on his taxes, banking. She kept hunting, then found a folder hidden within a folder, within a folder, following it until she found one labeled: “PROJECTS.”
Projects?
The next one she came to had a folder labeled “LP Cardinal Hill.”
It contained a mundane-looking work order with a date, address, and name.
Then she found a series of short videos.
One was taken inside a house, showing a woman’s folded laundry on a large bed, specifically underwear. Then she found footage of a woman, a rather pretty woman, in the house, that seemed to have been recorded without her knowing. Then there was video taken from a dash-mounted camera of a car being followed in traffic. Then the camera angle changes to show the woman driving the car was the same one who’d been in the house.
What is Zoran doing?
Lorena went to another folder, one labeled “J.G. Trailside Grove.”
Opening it, she saw a collection of news stories and headlines:
Missing Woman Investigation Continues
Mystery Surrounds Mom’s Disappearance
One Month Later Woman’s Case Baffles Police
Then she played a video of TV news reports showing Jennifer Griffin, the mom missing from Trailside. There were more files of news reports, photos, videos, showing her car in the woods, the search, and her anguished family...
What is this?
Lorena’s fingers shook as she went to more videos and played them.
Her hand flew to her mouth at what she saw.
Seventy-Four
Location Unknown
Jennifer knew there was little hope of escaping.
But a grain of hope was all she had, so she kept digging at the door’s hinges while her tattered mind went back to the chime.
Who gave it to me and why?
The angel chime had signified her happiness and her horror.
Its arrival was an omen, a triggering incident, just as Dr. Maynart had said. But he didn’t know the whole truth. No one did. It was a secret Jennifer had carried ever since the night of the fire...
How I loved the chime Mom gave me, loved its soothing, soft ringing... I was enraptured by the flash and glaze of the golden angels, their carousel of shadows, mesmerizing, as if casting a magical spell. I could watch them for hours, forever...
...and that night, that night I couldn’t sleep. All I could think of was my chime. I yearned to watch it. From the muffled snoring in Mom and Dad’s room, I knew they were asleep... I tiptoed down the stairs to the chime in the living room, set it on the coffee table, got the candles and matches from the kitchen. I’d seen Mom light the candles so many times...
I put the candles in their holders and took the matchbox with a voice in my head, a warning... I was breaking the rules. I was never to play with the chime alone. It was wrong but I couldn’t stop. I felt a rush of rebellious adrenaline as I struck the match. Its flame flared with a hiss. Feeling its heat, I lit the candle wicks just like Mom, fanning out the match and blowing on it, putting it on the metal base... I was thrilled I did it all by myself... Soon, the carousel began turning, creating the glorious chiming with shadows dancing around the room, and on our Christmas tree, a real one, in the corner. I watched with delight, until I fell asleep on the sofa, waking to find the candles nearly burned down...
I blew them out, put the chime away, placed the cold, burnt matchstick and burned-down candles in the trash, hiding them under potato peelings, tiptoeing back to bed, falling asleep...
The screams woke me. The loud cracking and snapping of wood, of walls collapsing, the smoke, the stinking, thick choking smoke, the flames and searing heat, my home on fire... I’m going to die. Then, a face at the window, a firefighter, saving me. Only me. Not my mom, not my dad... My world, my life, burned to the ground, destroyed... Shock. Horror. Waking in a hospital bed, feeling Grandma’s arms... “You’ll live with me now...” A lit cigarette left burning between the sofa cushions in the living room caused the fire. That’s what they told Grandma, that’s what she told me. No. No, that’s wrong. Not true. I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t tell them the truth. I kept it to myself because I broke the rule...it was the chime. I started the fire...
I killed my mom and dad...
And then the chime shows up mysteriously at my door.
Who put it there?
Why?
It comes like payback, like a toll to be exacted for what she did, ripping open her wounds, triggering her overwhelming guilt.
