Vengeance Road. Rick Mofina

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      “Oh my God, Karl! This can’t be happening!”

      Taylor, his twelve-year-old son, was scared. “Why is Mom crying, Dad?”

      Styebeck struggled to explain the story.

      “It’s wrong,” he’d told them. “This guy, Gannon, screwed up. I’m helping with the investigation. His information is dead wrong. I’m going to straighten this out, okay?”

      That seemed good enough for Taylor, who worshipped his dad. Still, Alice kept him home from school, and later she pulled Styebeck aside.

      “Is this story true?” She glared at him. “We’ve had strange phone calls the last few weeks. You’ve been on edge and moody lately, tossing in your sleep. You tell me right now if you had anything to do with this girl’s murder! You tell me, Karl!”

       What could he say?

      He stood before his wife, trying not to remember what he was and what he had come from.

      “I swear to you, I did not kill that woman.”

      Alice’s eyes searched his for a trace of deception until she was satisfied there was none.

      As the hours passed, her fears were somewhat mitigated by the steady flow of friends calling and e-mailing their support, especially the volunteers with Styebeck’s charity and outreach groups.

      And the fact that the state police challenged the accuracy of Gannon’s story at a news conference that morning had helped. Styebeck’s lieutenant got behind him after calling to say, “Somebody got their wires crossed. Hang in there, Karl.”

      The police union offered legal help, which he declined. It wasn’t needed. He’d booked off several days of saved vacation.

      He’d take care of this himself. His way.

      Night had fallen now as he cut across the city to his destination in the Delaware district. It was one of Buffalo’s most prestigious communities, an area of mansions built in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

      He went to the side door of a grand Victorian home and rang the bell. The door was opened by Nate Fowler.

      “Thank you for seeing me privately, Nate.”

      “Certainly, please come in. Right this way.” Fowler led him to a room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, a fireplace and a grandfather clock. “Can I get you a coffee or anything?”

      “No, thank you, this won’t take long.”

      “I want to assure you that nothing you say leaves this room.”

      “As I mentioned in my call this morning, your reporter, Gannon, ambushed me. I tried to reach you before the story ran.”

      “I was traveling. It was unfortunate for both of us. My apologies.”

      “This story has hurt me and my family, Nate.”

      “I understand, given your outstanding reputation.”

      “As you know, I have confidential informants on the street. Rumors get started and make their way into investigations. Things get misconstrued, things get leaked and fiction becomes fact. The truth is, I’m assisting the state police with the Hogan homicide. I can understand how a reporter trying to find a good story could get carried away.”

      “It happens, yes.”

      “I want you to know I had nothing to do with the homicide. It’s ridiculous.”

      “Today the New York State Police publicly disputed our report on you. And given the circumstances under which our story made it into print, I think a full retraction and apology is necessary.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Additionally, we’ll find the source of this injurious information. I trust that would be useful to you?”

      Relief spread across Styebeck’s face.

      “That would be helpful.”

      “You don’t deserve this, Karl. You’re a hero in the eyes of this community. A great number of people admire you. I enjoy the charity work we do together and want to maintain our relationship.”

      As Styebeck stood to leave, his attention went to the woman who’d entered the room.

      “Karl, this is my wife, Madeline, with the State Attorney General’s Office.”

      “Yes, we’ve met at functions.” Styebeck shook her hand.

      “Maddy,” Fowler said, “I was just telling Karl how I value our relationship.”

      “He thinks the world of you, Detective.” She smiled. “Did he tell you he’s willing to underscore that point at your fund-raiser this week?”

      “No. That would be appreciated.”

      “In fact—” Fowler put his hand on Styebeck’s shoulder as they walked to the door “—and this is confidential, please. But I’m considering a run for public office and would like to know that I can count on your support.”

      “I see …” Styebeck hesitated. “I don’t really get involved in politics.”

      “I understand completely, Karl,” Fowler said. “Not asking you to do or say anything. Just think about it. Besides, I’m taking steps to ensure this unfortunate matter will blow over.”

      “I need for that to happen.”

      “Now,” Fowler said, “I know it seems the obvious move for me would be to fire Jack Gannon.”

      “I didn’t want to raise that, or my legal options, here.”

      “Right. Just so you’re aware, I can’t fire him. Gannon’s Pulitzer caliber, one of my best reporters. I almost lost him once. And while he’s a zealous crusader, the fallout at the paper if I terminated him now would cause me too much grief with the news guild, just as we’re positioning to sell the paper. That’s confidential.”

      “Of course.”

      “I’ve pulled Gannon off this story and suspended him. One wrong move on his part and he’s gone. That should keep him out of your business. How’s that sound, Karl?”

      “That sound’s fine, Nate.”

      The men shook hands at the door then Styebeck got into his car.

      Unseen, in the park across the street, Jack Gannon watched Styebeck leave Nate Fowler’s house.

      15

      Gannon couldn’t believe this.

       Why was Karl Styebeck visiting Nate Fowler?

      He doubted they were discussing their charity work.

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