Down a Dark Road (Kate Burkholder #9)

“Then you probably got the wrong house.”

“I want to talk to you about the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department.”

“In case you’re not up on your news, I don’t work there anymore.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Tilting her head, she looks at me a little more closely. She may not be a cop any longer, but she’s still got the look. Direct gaze with that inherent hint of suspicion. Straightforward demeanor. No-nonsense approach. A little bit of bad attitude thrown in for good measure.

“All right.” She steps aside. “I’ll bite.”

I keep a close eye on her as I brush past. I’m pretty sure that’s the outline of a pistol tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She takes me into a good-size living room with high ceilings and a bay window that looks out over the street. The room smells of paint and turpentine. Country music pours from a set of speakers set up on a sofa table. A half-dead ficus tree in the corner. Threadbare sofa and chair. No TV. A well-used leather punching bag hangs from a hook set into the ceiling. An easel in the next room—the dining room—holds a large canvas soused with oil paints in magenta and purple and blue.

“You’re a painter?” I ask.

“I dabble.” She gives me another once-over, curious now. “All right. You’re in. You want to tell me what this is all about?”

I’m going to have to be cautious. I don’t know this woman. I have no idea where her loyalties lie or what kind of person she is. If she has an agenda that has nothing to do with right or wrong. As far as I know she’s a wannabe rookie cop who couldn’t cut it and now she’s looking for some easy money to pay her rent.

“I was involved in the Joseph King standoff a few days ago,” I tell her.

“Yeah, I heard about that. Tough break. SWAT got him, didn’t they?”

I nod. “I understand you used to be a deputy with the Geauga County Sheriff’s Department.”

“Once upon a time.”

“How long were you with them?”

“Eight months.”

“Were you involved in the Naomi King murder case at all?”

“Before my time.”

“You ever make any stops out at the King farm?”

“Never did.”

Nodding, I turn my attention to the punching bag, the set of gloves lying on the hardwood floor beneath it. “You box?”

A smile touches her eyes, but she says nothing.

“Ms. Cascioli, I read about what happened to you.”

“Yeah, well, so did everyone else.” Bitterness laces her voice.

“What are you doing for a living now?”

“I’m unemployed. Shocking, right?”

“You looking to get back into law enforcement?”

She sneers. “What do you think?”

“I think it depends.”

“On what? The tooth fairy?”

“On the information that comes out in the course of your lawsuit. On the truth.”

Her eyes narrow on mine. I’ve got her undivided attention now. She’s staring at me, wondering why I’m here and where all of this is going.

“Your lawsuit alleges that while you worked for the sheriff’s department, your fellow deputies and Sheriff Jeff Crowder were regularly tampering with evidence and engaging in other unlawful activities.”

“I know what my lawsuit is about,” she says.

“You claim you were terminated because you were a whistleblower.”

“Look, Chief Whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is, my lawyer told me not to talk to anyone about the lawsuit.”

“Probably good advice.”

Sighing, she crosses her arms, unimpressed, saying nothing.

Vickie Cascioli is a tough cookie, and I struggle to find the right words. Some angle that will compel her to buck her better judgment and give me something I can use. I’m coming up short. “I know this is a sensitive situation, but I need your help. It’s about the Naomi King murder case and Joseph King. It’s important.”

“Can’t help you.”

“Ms. Cascioli, I believe we want the same thing.”

“You have no idea what I want.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” I stumble over words that aren’t quite right, not sure how to best proceed. “I think the King case went to trial without all of the evidence ever coming to light. There’s something going on. I’m trying to figure out what it is.”

“Are you recording this?” For the first time she looks angry. “You wearing some kind of fucking wire?”

“If you’re that paranoid, you can check.” Maintaining eye contact, I raise my hands to shoulder level.

Her mouth curves. Never taking her eyes off mine, she quickly and impersonally gives me a thorough pat-down, leaving the pockets of my jacket and jeans turned inside out.

“Lift up your hair,” she says.

Rolling my eyes, I do, and she runs her fingertips around the back of my neck and beneath the collar of my jacket.

Finally, she steps away.

I hold her gaze. “What are they doing?”

“I’ve seen them plant dope. Pot. Meth. Coke. I know at least two deputies have acted improperly with females during DUI arrests. I know at least one deputy has taken cash off a drug dealer and kept it. The information never made it into any report or file.”

“How deep does the corruption go?” I ask.

“All the way to the top,” she says in a low voice.

“Who’s involved?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not going to go there with you.”

“How did you find out about it?”

Her mouth twists into something ugly. “Sleeping with the enemy.”

“Who?” I repeat.

“Time’s up.” She strides to the door and opens it. “Hit the road.”

*

There’s an old saying in the annals of law enforcement. It goes something like this: When a case stalls, get off your ass and canvass. Any cop worth his salt knows it’s one of the most effective tools a cop has. Of course, the best time to canvass is immediately after the crime. It’s been over two years since Naomi King was murdered; the case is as cold as the bones of her decomposing body.

Still, in terms of the good old-fashioned canvass, there are a couple of things that might work to my advantage. The area is rural—fewer homes to cover—and it’s predominantly Amish. The Amish tend to stay in one place longer than their English neighbors. And while members of the Amish community may have been reluctant to come forward for the local police, they may be more likely to speak with me.

The King farm is just half an hour from Auburn Corners. Garnering any useful information from the neighbors is a long shot, but since I’m already in the area it’s worth the trip. I cruise past the abandoned King farm. Of course there’s no one there.