“That didn’t sound good,” I say.
Tomasetti drops his phone onto the console and puts the Tahoe in gear. “Treece did a year in Mansfield for beating the hell out of his mother.”
CHAPTER 6
Justin Treece lives with his parents in a run-down frame house on the outskirts of Buck Creek. The neighborhood is a downtrodden purlieu of postage stamp–size houses with ramshackle front porches and yards with grass trampled to dirt. Several houses are vacant, the windows either boarded up with plywood or open to the elements. The roof of the house next to the Treece place is fire-damaged; a hole the size of a tractor tire reveals blackened rafters and pink puffs of insulation.
“Damn, looks like Cleveland,” Tomasetti says as we idle past.
“Welcome to the other side of the tracks,” I mutter.
A beat-up Toyota pickup truck with oversize tires sits in the driveway next to an old Ford Thunderbird. “Looks like someone’s home.”
In front of us, Goddard’s cruiser pulls over to the curb two houses down from the Treece place, and we park behind him. Tomasetti and I meet him on the sidewalk.
“Vehicles belong to the parents,” the sheriff tells us. “Trina drives the Thunderbird. Jack drives the Toyota.”
“What about the kid?” Tomasetti asks.
“Last time I stopped him, he was in an old Plymouth Duster. Him and his old man tinker with cars, so it could be in the garage out back.”
“Exactly how bad is this kid?” I ask.
“He’s only got that one conviction.” Goddard shakes his head. “But it is a doozy. To tell you the truth, I think that little bastard is on his way. In ten years, he’ll be in the major league.”
“Or in prison,” Tomasetti puts in.
Goddard motions toward the house. “The whole lot of them are regulars with the department. Domestic stuff, mostly. Parents get drunk and beat the shit out of each other. Kids run wild. It’s sad is what it is.”
Having been a patrol officer in Columbus for a number of years, I’m all too familiar with those kinds of scenarios. It’s a sad and seemingly hopeless cycle, especially for the kids. Too many of them become victims of their environment and end up like their parents—or worse.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if this kid is involved with this missing girl,” Goddard tells us. “He’s got a hot head and a big mouth.”
“Bad combination,” I say.
“They armed?” Tomasetti asks.
“We searched the place once a few months back and didn’t find anything. But nothing would surprise me when it comes to this bunch.” Goddard divides his attention between the two of us. “So are you guys packing, or what?”
“Never leave home without it,” Tomasetti replies.
I open my jacket just far enough for him to see the leather shoulder holster where I keep my .22 mini-Magnum.
“Well, lock and load, people.” He motions toward the house. “Let’s go see what Romeo has to say.”
We take a sidewalk that’s buckled from tree roots and riddled with cracks. A tumbling chain-link fence encircles the front yard. I glance between the close-set houses and see a tiny backyard that’s littered with old tires. Beyond, a detached garage with peeling yellow paint and a single broken window separates the yard from the alley.
“Light on in the garage,” I say.
“Kid hangs out there a lot. Listens to that weird-shit music loud enough to bust your fuckin’ ear drums.”
“Do the parents work?” Tomasetti asks as we take the concrete steps to the front door.
Goddard nods. “Jack Treece is a mechanic at the filling station in town. He’s good, from what I hear. Probably where the kid got the knack. Trina works down at the bowling alley. Tends bar most nights.”
“What about Justin?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone around here would hire him to tell you the truth. He’s got a rep. Most people steer clear.”
We reach the front door. A few feet away, a window-unit air conditioner belches water onto the concrete. Goddard knocks and then steps aside, as if expecting someone to shoot through the door.
The door creaks open. I find myself looking at a huge round woman with brown eyes and a tangle of black hair that reaches midway down her back. She’s got the kind of face that makes it difficult to guess her age, but I’d put her around forty. It’s obvious we wakened her, but she must have been sleeping on the sofa, because it didn’t take long for her to answer the door, and she doesn’t look like the type to move with any kind of speed.
She’s wearing a flowered muumuu that doesn’t cover as much of her as I’d like. Her calves are the size of hams and bulge with varicose veins. Swollen toes with thick yellow nails stick out of the ends of pink slippers.
She takes in the sight of us with a mix of hostility and amusement. “Sheriff.” Her voice is deep and slow, with a hint of the Kentucky hills. “I heard you died.”
“Well, no one’s told me about it yet.” Goddard shows her his identification. “Hope that’s not too much of a disappointment.”
“Things would get pretty boring round here without you cops fuckin’ with us all the damn time.”
“Is Justin here?”
Her gaze slides from the sheriff to me and Tomasetti and then back to the sheriff. I see a cunning in its depths that reminds me of big lumbering bear that can transform to a predator capable of tearing a man to shreds with no provocation or warning. She’s got cold, empty eyes and an “I don’t give a shit” air, both of which tell me she has no respect for anything or anyone—including herself—and has a particularly high level of loathing for law enforcement.
“Who wants to know?” she asks.
“Me and these state agents.”
“State agents, huh?” She gives me the once-over and makes a sound of disdain. “What’d he do now?”
“We just want to ask him some questions.”
“This about that girl gone missing?”
The collective surge of interest is palpable. The sheriff leans forward. I see Tomasetti, who is beside me, crane his head slightly, looking beyond her. “Trina, we just want to talk to Justin,” Goddard tells her.
She makes no move to open the door. “I know my rights, Bud. I’m the parent and I want to know why you want to talk to my son.”
Tomasetti shoves his identification at her. “Because we asked nicely, and if we have to come back with a warrant, we won’t be so nice.”
She’s not impressed and doesn’t even glance at his credentials. “Who the fuck ’re you?”
“I’m the guy who’s going to fuck you over if you don’t open the goddamn door.”
Goddard’s mouth sags open wide enough for me to see the fillings in his molars. Trina Treece doesn’t even blink. The flash of amusement in her eyes shocks me. Tomasetti is about as amusing as an autopsy. Most people do their utmost to concede to his wishes, especially if he’s in a nasty mood. He might be a cop, but he possesses an air of unpredictability that keeps even the densest individuals from crossing him. This woman doesn’t even seem to notice—and I don’t believe it’s because she’s dense.
She smirks at the sheriff. “Where’d you find this charmer?”
“If I were you, I’d just open the door,” the sheriff says tiredly. “We really need to speak with your son.”
“Well, hell, all right.” Her triceps flap when she swings open the door. “C’mon in. Wipe your damn feet.”
Tomasetti goes through the door first. He brushes by her without a word, his right hand never far from his holster, and he doesn’t bother wiping his feet. I go in next, swipe each shoe against the throw rug at the threshold. Goddard brings up the rear, and actually looks down while he diligently wipes his shoes on the rug.
The interior of the house is hot and stuffy and smells vaguely of fish. A swaybacked sofa draped with a dingy afghan separates the small living room from an even smaller dining area. A floor fan blows stale air toward a narrow, dark hall. A sleek high-def television is mounted on the wall. It’s tuned to an old Bugs Bunny cartoon, the volume turned low. From where I stand, I can see into a dimly lit kitchen with cluttered counters and a sinkful of dirty dishes. Beyond is a back door, its window adorned with frilly yellow curtains. A folded pizza box sticks out of the top of a stainless-steel trash can.