Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“I went home. What else would I do? I was a fucking mess. I called Karen. She came over and picked me up. She told me to go to the hospital, but I’m like … fuck that. So she took me back to her apartment and I spent the night. The next day she talked me into calling the newspaper.”

She looks down at her cigarette, rolls it between her fingers. “They send out this … college girl. She’s, like, younger than me. But she seemed serious, so I told her everything—every sordid detail—and she writes this huge story. I mean, this girl’s thinking Pulitzer Prize and a promotion. I’m thinking it’s going to get the son of a bitch arrested.”

“What happened?”

“The night after it was published? Prince Charming came to my trailer. I was sleeping. Alone. Just me and my daughter. And he was … furious. I mean foaming-at-the-mouth pissed off. He put a gun to my head. He picked my daughter up by her foot, held her upside down, and put the gun against her head.”

For the first time, she chokes back tears. “He told me if I didn’t tell that reporter and the cops that I made the whole thing up, he’d come back and kill us both. He said he’d get away with it because he’s a cop.”

She turns those blue eyes on me. “I believed him.”

“What did you do?” I ask.

“What do you think? I called the fucking reporter and told her I made it up. A couple days later, the cops came out and arrested me for making false allegations against a police officer. It was a felony, but my attorney got it knocked down to some lesser misdemeanor.” She looks down at the cigarette burning in her hand. “My parents had to mortgage their house to pay for all this shit.”

“Mama.”

Kelly startles with so much force that she nearly drops her cigarette.

I glance left to see a little girl standing in the hall. She has mussed blond hair and cherub cheeks. She’s wearing a T-shirt that’s too big—her mom’s, probably—and dragging a doll by its hair behind her.

“I’m hungry,” she says.

“Come here, baby.” Kelly Dennison opens her arms and the little girl goes into them, snuggles against her.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

Hugging her child against her, she kisses the top of her head and then looks at me. “Why are you asking me about all this crap, anyway?”

“I think this is one of those rare occasions where the less you know, the better.”

“Since that’s the case, try this on for size: You tell anyone what I said and I’ll deny every word. You got that?”

“I got it,” I tell her. “Loud and clear.”





CHAPTER 23

In the years I’ve been in law enforcement, I’ve been lied to more times that I can count. Some people are good at it. Others not so much. I’m no slouch when it comes to discerning one from the other. Kelly Dennison might be rough around the edges; she might even be a capable liar. But I don’t believe she’s lying about what happened the night she was pulled over by Deputy Wade Travers.

The last thing I want to believe about a cop is that he is corrupt. If my suspicions are correct, Wade Travers is a violent sexual predator—and maybe worse. He’s used his position of power to find victims—women in trouble with the law. He assaults them and then he uses his position as a cop to intimidate them into silence. The next logical question is: What else has he done?

I call Tomasetti as I pull out of the driveway and head south. “I have a name for you,” I say without preamble.

“Lay it on me.”

“Wade Travers. He’s a Geauga County dep—”

“I know who he is,” Tomasetti cuts in.

“You know him?”

“I know his father-in-law is the goddamn sheriff.”

“Jeff Crowder?” Shock renders me speechless; despite my foray into the sheriff’s department personnel, no one had uncovered that information. When I find my voice, I say, “That explains a lot of things.”

“It explains why you need to be careful.”

“I’m not wrong about this.”

“Kate, I’m not saying you’re wrong. And I will help you, but I need something concrete before I can pursue this on an official level. You understand what’s at stake.”

“I understand.” My mind spins through everything I’ve learned, the things I suspect, and I struggle to put them in order in terms of provability. “Two and a half years ago Travers was accused of sexual assault.”

“I looked at it,” he tells me. “The victim retracted her story. She was charged and did jail time. Travers was vindicated. Kate, there’s nothing there.”

“There’s nothing there because he intimidated her into keeping her mouth shut.” I tell him about my visit with Kelly Dennison. “He threatened her. He threatened her infant daughter.”

“We need proof.”

“She’s too frightened to come forward.”

“And she has a small credibility problem.”

I think about my trip to the Geauga County Records Department. “What about the purged records?”

A pensive silence ensues, and then, “If we can come up with something concrete that shows Travers or anyone else inside the sheriff’s department has altered official records to cover up misconduct or corruption or to alter evidence, I can get involved and make this official. Without some proof of wrongdoing … the best we can hope for is the initiation of an audit based on the missing or purged records. I’d prefer not to go that route.”

“An audit now would just give them a heads-up and ample time to cover their tracks,” I murmur.

“Look, Kate, we have to bear in mind here that we’re talking about a man’s life, his character, his career.”

“Or a dirty cop,” I snap.

“We have to be sure.” Another thoughtful pause. “You think a cop inside the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department was involved with Naomi King. You think there was some kind of falling-out between them. You think he murdered her and then framed her husband for it? Kate, do you have any idea how that sounds?”

“I know how it sounds,” I retort.

“We need something substantial before I can begin any kind of investigation. Even then it’s probably going to take some time to get things rolling.”

“I guess I’d better get started then.”

“In the interim, I’ll dig around a little on my end, see if anything pops.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says. “We’re a long way from bringing this thing to a head.”

*

Vicki Cascioli lives in a Victorian-style duplex just north of Auburn Corners. I’m still mulling my conversation with Tomasetti when I take the steps to the porch and knock.

I hear at least three locks disengage. The door opens and I find myself looking at a striking woman with black hair pulled into a ponytail, a flawless olive complexion, and the cheekbones of a runway model. Dark eyes fringed with sooty lashes and full lips are set into an oval face. No makeup, but then she’s one of those women who doesn’t need it. She’s tall and large-boned with a muscular build. All two hundred pounds of her is packed into snug jeans and a faded Ohio State sweatshirt.

I show her my badge. “Vicki Cascioli?”

“Maybe.” She takes the time to scrutinize it. “What do you want?”

“I’m Kate Burkholder, chief of police down in Painters Mill.”

“Yeah, I can read.”

“I’m not here in an official capacity.”