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“She was an exec at one of the top communication companies in New York. Fast track. Husband was a producer—daytime drama. Individually they were pulling down double our combined salaries.”
“Now they’re working a farm in Nebraska.” He nodded. “I get you.”
“Somebody already knows we’re out here.”
“Yeah.” Behind the shades, his gaze tracked to the dot of yellow blinking above the front door. “They got motion and cams, bet it’s a three-sixty scan. More on the fence lines, east and west. A lot of security for a little farm in West Bumfuck, Nebraska.”
They went to the door, knocked. Steel-reinforced, MacNab thought, and noted the shimmer on the windows. Lockdown alarms.
“Yes?” The voice through the intercom was female, and firm.
“Mrs. Turnbill? We’re the police. Detectives Peabody and McNab with the New York City Police and Security Department.”
“That’s not a police vehicle.”
“No, ma’am, it’s private.” Peabody held up her badge. “We’d like to speak with you, and will wait until you verify our IDs.”
“I don’t—”
“You spoke with my partner, Lieutenant Dallas, earlier today. I understand your caution under the circumstances, Mrs. Turnbill, but it’s important we speak with you. If you refuse, we’ll contact the local authorities and arrange for a warrant. I don’t want to do that. We’ve gone to some trouble to keep this visit quiet, to insure your safety.”
“Wait.”
Like Peabody, McNab kept his badge up, and watched the thin red light shimmer out, scan both. Somebody, he thought, isn’t just cautious, but scared. Right into the bowels.
The door opened. “I’ll speak with you, but I can’t tell you any more than I told Lieutenant Dallas.” As she spoke a man came down from the second floor. His face was grim, his eyes cold.
“Why can’t you people leave us alone?”
“The kids?” his wife asked him.
“Fine. I told them to stay upstairs.”
He was stocky in the way that told Peabody he did manual labor routinely. His face was tanned, squint lines scoring out from his eyes, his hair bleached by the sun.
Six years, she thought, had made him more farmer than urbanite. And the way he kept one hand in the pocket of his work pants warned her he was carrying.
“Mr. Turnbill, we’ve come a long way, and not to harass you. Roger Kirkendall is wanted in connection with seven homicides.”
“Only seven.” His lips twisted. “You’re way off.”
“That may be, but it’s the seven that concern us at the moment.”
Taking his cue, McNab kept his voice as brittle as Turnbill’s, and drew crime scene photos from his field bag. “Here’s a couple to start.”
He’d gone straight to the kids, and saw by the way Roxanne paled, it had been the right move. “They were sleeping when he cut their throats. I guess that’s a mercy.”
“Oh God.” Roxanne wrapped her arms around her belly. “Oh my God.”
“You’ve got no right to come in here and do this.”
“Oh yeah.” McNab’s eyes were merciless as they met Turnbill’s. “We do.”
“McNab.” Peabody murmured it, deliberately reached out and pulled back the photos. “I’m sorry. Sorry to disturb you, sorry to upset you. We need your help.”
“We don’t know anything.” Turnbill put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We just want to be left alone.”
“You left high-powered, high-paying jobs six years ago,” McNab began. “Why?”
