Chapter 24
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Ravenswood, Illinois
Flint’s encrypted phone rang as they drove away. The sound cut through the steady hum of the SUV’s heater and the slapping windshield wipers battling the falling snow. Ice crystals collected in the corners of the windshield despite the defroster running at full blast.
“What did you find?” Flint said, putting the call on speaker so Drake could hear the intel firsthand.
“I’ve identified Lizzy Pace’s boyfriend,” Gaspar replied. “Francis Daniel Tantanella, born in Harlan County, Kentucky. He attended the same high school as the Fisher brothers and also Lizzy Pace, but he was a year older than Jason.”
Flint straightened in his seat. “What else?”
“He’s got a juvenile record. Three arrests between ages fifteen and seventeen.
Two for petty arson. One for theft. All charges dropped or pleaded down to community service.
” Gaspar paused, but his rapid keyboard clicks were audible through the phone.
“Last known address was his father’s place in Kentucky. ”
“So no records are available after the Fisher house fire?” Flint asked.
“Exactly. Kid disappeared completely. No employment records, no tax filings, no driver’s license renewals. Nothing.” Gaspar paused a moment. “I’ll move on to records in Illinois and federal databases. But it looks like the kid fell off the grid. Probably on purpose.”
“We’re low on fuel and who knows when we’ll find another station out here,” Drake said as he pulled the SUV into a gas station. The building squatted beside the rural highway like a beacon in the gathering storm, its neon signs reflecting off the wet pavement in wavering pools of color.
Gravel crunched under the tires. Snow had accumulated on the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it.
He hopped out to fill the tank and clear the windshield while Gaspar continued his summary.
The bitter wind cut through Drake’s jacket, and his breath formed white clouds in the frigid air.
“Send me the files.” Flint wearily wiped a palm across his face.
“Already in your secure email. Photos from his high school yearbook, arrest records, family background. His father died of cancer a couple of years after the Fisher fire,” Gaspar said. “Mother remarried and moved to Florida.”
“Siblings?”
“Still searching.”
“Copy that. Keep us updated.”
“Will do,” Gaspar said before he rang off.
Flint located his laptop and opened it. After a couple of seconds, it hooked up to his secure satellite.
The screen cast blue light across his face in the dim interior, creating sharp shadows that made his features look carved from stone.
He found the files Gaspar mentioned and opened them one at a time.
Tantanella’s high school yearbook photo showed a lean teenager with wary eyes, arrest records painted a picture of petty crimes and second chances, family background revealed the grinding poverty that shaped too many lives in rural Kentucky.
The juvenile files were sealed, but Gaspar had contacts, both personal and professional. Which meant Flint now had access to the sealed records as well.
Frankie Tantanella had been a local kid from a struggling family. His father worked construction when he could find jobs. His mother cleaned houses. Frankie was familiar to the local cops as a teenager but had committed no crimes serious enough for jail time.
The arrest records told the story. In mid-September, he was hit with a petty arson charge, pleaded down to community service.
A month later was the last time he did odd jobs for Harry Fisher.
The Fisher house fire soon followed. Tantanella’s truck was found abandoned two days later in a Wal-Mart parking lot.
He hadn’t been seen at school or around the area again.
Meaning Tantanella had vanished completely after the Fisher house burned down. There was nothing more in any of the files. Nothing at all.
Drake finished pumping the gas and climbed in from the frigid outdoors to the warm cabin. His jacket dripped melting snow onto the floor mats, and the heater immediately began working to chase away the cold he’d brought inside. Before they got on the road again, Flint brought Drake up to speed.
“Call Jason Fisher?” Drake suggested when Flint finished his summary.
“Yeah, he might know where to look for Frankie Tantanella,” Flint said as he chose one of Tantanella’s mug shots from Gaspar’s files and then placed the call from his laptop. “He might have reasonable intel to offer, too.”
“Have you told him that Lizzy and his siblings survived the fire?” Drake asked as he pulled onto the road.
Flint shook his head. “That’s the kind of intel I need to deliver in person once I can tell him what happened to the three of them with some level of certainty.”
“So for now, we ask about Tantanella and nothing else,” Drake replied with a nod.
The video call connected after two rings. Jason Fisher’s intense face filled the screen, his dark eyes focused sharply. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the gray-black skyline through the icy rain. The city looked hostile and unwelcoming, a concrete jungle wrapped in winter’s grip.
“What did you find?” Fisher asked when he picked up.
“I need you to look at a mug shot. Just sent it to you. Did you get it?”
“Just a second,” Fisher said as he searched for the photo. “It’s Frankie Tantanella. Why did you go looking for this?”
“So you do you know him?” Flint asked.
“We went to high school together. He was a year older than me.”
“Tell me what you know about Tantanella.”
“Not much, really. I was a kid. Frankie, too. Local guy. Did odd jobs around town for pocket money. His family didn’t have much.
” Fisher paused, as if he were struggling with his memory.
“I remember he had a thing for Lizzy Pace. She was hot. Lots of guys were besotted with her. Frankie used to follow her around like a lost puppy.”
Flint nodded. “Did he ever work for your family?”
“Sometimes. Dad hired him to do yard work, fix things. Frankie needed the money and Dad liked helping local kids.”
Flint said, “What happened to him after the fire?”
“Nobody knew. His truck was found abandoned on a back road a few days later. No sign of Frankie,” Jason shrugged. “I guess most people assumed he’d either moved on or joined the military, like the rest of the local kids did.”
“Call your brother, Bruce. Show him this photo. See what he remembers about Tantanella,” Flint said.
Fisher nodded before he ended the call. “I’ll get him on a call now and get back to you.”
The video ended and Fisher’s face disappeared from the screen.
“So Tantanella knew the Fisher family,” Drake recapped. “He had access to their property, knew their routines.”
“And he had a juvenile record for arson.” Flint closed his laptop with a soft click. “Someone could have hired him to burn that house down.”
A video call came in. Jason Fisher calling back.
“I’ve got Bruce on with us,” Fisher said when Flint answered. “Bruce, this is Michael Flint. He wants to ask you about Frankie Tantanella.”
Bruce Fisher’s face appeared in a smaller window beside Jason’s on the laptop screen.
The family resemblance was strong. Same dark hair, same sharp jawline, same intense eyes.
But where Jason radiated corporate intensity, his brother seemed calm and relaxed.
The contrast was striking between the two men shaped by the same tragedy.
“Flint, show him the photo,” Jason said without preamble.
Bruce leaned closer to the screen. Behind him, Flint caught glimpses of a workshop. Metal sculptures caught the light from overhead fixtures, welding equipment stood ready for use, the controlled chaos of an artist’s studio that spoke of creativity born from pain.
“I can see it fine from here. That’s definitely Frankie Tantanella.”
“You’re certain?” Flint asked.
“Dead certain. He went to school with us.” Bruce’s tone lacked his brother’s urgency. “His dad was sick most of the time. Cancer, I think. Frankie did odd jobs around town to help pay bills.”
“Jason said he also worked for your family from time to time. Do you remember that?” Flint asked.
“Sometimes. Dad hired him to help us with chores. Yard work, fix fence posts, that kind of thing.” Bruce paused as the import of Flint’s questions seemed to soak in. His expression grew troubled. “Frankie knew our routines. When we’d be home, when we wouldn’t.”
Drake shifted in the driver’s seat, following the conversation even as he navigated the snowy roads.
The windshield wipers maintained their steady rhythm against the falling snow.
Outside, the landscape had turned into a monochrome painting of white and gray, trees bare and skeletal against the overcast sky.
“Was there anything unusual about him? Any reason to think he might be involved in what happened to your house?” Flint pressed.
“Frankie wasn’t a bad guy,” Bruce said slowly. “His family was struggling. He needed the work. But...”
“But what?”
“He always seemed nervous around the house after Dad started acting strange about his business. Like he knew something was wrong but didn’t know what to do about it.”
Jason leaned forward on his end of the call. “What do you mean Dad was acting strange?”