Vengeance Road. Rick Mofina

had scored. No doubt about it. Buffalo radio and TV morning news led with the story, wire services picked it up.

      It was the win he needed.

      The light changed and Gannon continued through traffic, turning into the Sentinel‘s parking lot, concentrating on the reason he’d come in early today: to work on a follow-up. Beating the competition always meant they’d come back at you big-time.

       He was not going to lose this one.

      He grabbed a paper from the security desk in the lobby before stepping into the elevator. Ascending alone, he studied the front-page photo of Styebeck’s handsome hero face next to one of Bernice.

       What a heartbreaker.

      During his years on the crime desk, he’d encountered tragedies every day: the deaths of children, school shootings, gang murders, fires, wrecks, calamities, manifestations of evil in every form. He went at things wearing emotional armor.

      But something about Bernice Hogan’s tragedy got to him.

      Looking at her face, he vowed to see that, in death, she received the respect that had eluded her in life.

      The elevator stopped and he went to the newsroom kitchen for coffee.

      The best follow-up to this morning’s exclusive would be a feature on Styebeck. He’d go into Styebeck’s life, his upbringing and how he came to be a hero cop and suspected killer. Maybe he’d call some criminal profilers, talk about cases of murderers leading double lives.

      He’d need a few days but it might work.

      “You’re in early.” Jeff kept his eyes on his computer screen where he was playing solitaire.

      “Anything going on out there?”

      “It’s deadsville, Jack. Nice hit on the cop. You blew away the Buffalo Snooze.” Jeff nodded to the managing editor’s glass-walled office across the newsroom. “Nate’s been trying to reach you.”

      “About what?”

      “Don’t know. Can’t be good. I’d give it a minute.”

      Gannon didn’t like the scene he saw playing out in the office. Nate Fowler kept jabbing his finger at Ward Wallace who kept throwing up his hands. Their voices were raised but Gannon couldn’t make out what they were saying. As night editor, Wallace never came in at this hour unless there was a problem.

      A serious problem.

      “What’s going on in there?” Gannon set his coffee down. “What’s Wallace doing here?”

      “Beats me. Oh, and there’s a lady here to see you. I told her you usually get in later, but she’s been waiting in reception for about an hour.”

      “She say what she wants?”

      “No. I’ll get her.”

      Gannon did a quick check of e-mails and sipped some coffee before he saw Jeff direct a woman in her fifties toward his desk.

      She wore no makeup, had reddened eyes and unkempt hair. Her sweater and slacks had frayed edges. She held a slim file folder, her fingernails were bitten.

      “You’re Jack Gannon, the reporter?”

      “That’s me. And you are?”

      “Mary Peller, and I really need your help, Mr. Gannon.”

      “It’s Jack.” Gannon cleared a stack of justice reports from an extra chair for her. “How can I help you?”

      “My daughter, Jolene, is missing.”

      “Missing? How old is she?” Gannon fished a notebook from a pile, flipped to a fresh page.

      “Twenty-six.”

      “Twenty-six? What’s the story?”

      What came next was a tale Gannon had heard before. Jolene’s dad walked out on them when Jolene was eleven. When Jolene hit her teens, Mary lost her to drugs and the street. A year ago, after Jolene nearly died from overdosing on bad drugs, she started going to church and decided, for the sake of her three-year-old son, Cody, that she had to get clean.

      Jolene got a fast-food job, took night courses, and through a service, landed a junior motel manager position in Orlando.

      “Jo was over the moon because it was her chance to start a new life. She wasn’t proud of the things she’d done to get drugs …” Mary Peller’s voice trailed off and she stopped to regain her composure. “We don’t have much money, Mr. Gannon. Jo left last week on the bus to Florida. She was supposed to set herself up then return for Cody. But I haven’t heard from her.”

      “Nothing?”

      “Not a word. She never arrived. She should’ve been there days ago. It’s like she’s vanished.”

      “Did you call the police?”

      “Police here, police in Florida, social workers. Nobody cares.”

      “You consider hiring a private detective?”

      “I can’t afford it.”

      She passed her folder to him.

      “I was hoping you could do a story, it might help me find her. You’re good at finding things out. Please, Mr. Gannon, you’re my only hope.”

      Gannon looked at the folder’s contents, beautiful pictures of Jolene and Cody, some letters, personal papers, numbers, addresses, more pictures. One photo stopped him.

       Man, she looks like Cora in this one.

      A shadow fell over them. When Gannon lifted his head, Nate Fowler was there.

      “Excuse us, ma’am,” Fowler said, turning to Gannon. “I need you in my office, now.”

      Fowler left.

      Gannon closed Mary Peller’s folder, gave her his card and stood.

      “Can you leave this file with me?”

      “Yes.”

      “I won’t guarantee I’ll do a story. But let me look it over. I have to go. One way or the other, I’ll call you.”

      Mary Peller took his hand and shook it.

      “Thank you. Thank you for listening.”

      “Jeff will show you out.”

      In Nate Fowler’s office, Ward Wallace’s haggard face conveyed the climate. Gannon had stepped into a shit storm.

      “Shut the door.” Nate twisted a rubber band around his fingers while staring at Gannon.

      “Jack, as managing editor of this paper I sit on the boards of many charitable organizations that do a lot of good work for this city. Did you know that Detective Karl Styebeck is also a board member of some of these groups?”

      He didn’t know that.

      “And did you know, Jack, that I was reminded of that fact this morning when I got a wake-up call from the publisher, who got a wake-up call from a police commander, who said your story was wrong?”

      “Wrong?”

      “He called it a fabrication and demanded a retraction.”

      “You’ve got to be kidding.”

      “Am I smiling?”

      “My story’s not wrong.”

      “It should’ve been verified before the presses rolled. I should have been called.”

      “We called you, Nate,” Wallace said.

      “I got in last night off a late flight from Los Angeles and had no messages.” Fowler glared at Wallace, then Gannon. “Give me your source’s name so we can