Текст книги "Cruelest Month"

Автор книги: Aaron Stander

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Would you switch on the lights?” asked Ray.

Ashton chuckled, pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, and turned it on. “This is it, Sheriff. If you want the overheads, I’ll have to start the generator. Since it hasn’t been run since last fall, it’ll take a little doing.”

Ray and Sue followed Ashton on a walkthrough of the main lodge, Sue carrying Simone. There was little evidence that anything had changed over many generations—chintz-covered furniture, worn oriental rugs, shelves lined with faded books. Two snowshoes, bent ash with leather decks, hung above a large stone fireplace. A half-dozen antique duck decoys sat on the dark mantle. The air was damp and heavy and smelled of mildew.

“Usually I find the remains of a party, probably teenagers,” Ashton remarked as they moved from room to room. “You know, beer cans and cigarette butts, things tumbled over. I don’t know, though. Nothing out of place this time. Maybe they were just looking the property over. A prospective buyer.” Ashton laughed at his own joke. “Hell, it’s not my problem anymore.”

“So what else is here?” asked Ray as they exited the lodge through a back door.

“There are four extra cabins left over from the days the Hollingsfords had lots of company. Over there is the staff quarters. In the early days, they used to bring some of their maids and cooks from Chicago, and they also hired lots of locals. That’s before my time; my father told me about it.” Ashton lit a cigarette and surveyed the property slowly, like for the last time. “Just behind the lodge is the main kitchen,” he said pointing. “There’s a bathhouse on the hill below the water tank. The main house wasn’t plumbed at the time it was built. They added two bathrooms later. You can see them,” he said, turning back toward the lodge. “That addition with the shed roof. Everything is gravity feed. And there’s a big old wood-fired water heater up there, too.”

“They never ran electricity in?”

“Nope. The older folks wanted to keep things the way they remembered them.”

“So where did you find Terry Hallen’s body?”

“Along the Lake Michigan beach.”

“Could you show us the exact place?” asked Ray. “I checked a map for this area, and it looks like more than a mile of shoreline is part of this parcel.”

“Yes, I think it’s like a mile and change. Let’s go out to the beach, and I’ll show you the exact spot.”

They followed Ashton up a winding trail through a rolling hardwood forest, a low swampy area, and finally over the top of a series of dunes to the shore. Simone tugged on her lead when the water came in sight. They all stood for a long moment in silence, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun and looking out at the lake.

“We need to head south a bit,” Ashton said, trudging forward. Ray and Sue followed until he stopped on a promontory of dune grass. “It would be somewhere near here. It happened during that period when the lake was real high for four or five years.” He waved his arm along the coast, then he pointed with a long, bony finger at a stand of small, wind-bent trees. “Most of the beach was gone here. The water had eaten away the sand right up to the roots of those cedars.”

“And the body?” asked Ray.

“It was along here. Not at the water’s edge, more thrown up on the top. We had some big storms and the waves did break up on the shore. I guess it’s possible, but it seemed a little unnatural.”

“I know it was a long while ago, but can you talk about finding the body? What do you remember?”

Ashton scanned the area, his deep-set eyes slowly moving from right to left, then back again. “It was a day like today, much later in the spring, but about the same temperature. I had worked all morning and came over here with a sandwich and beer about noon. It was one of those spring days where you’re just filled with joy. You know, sunshine and warm air. The lake was like glass, not a ripple.

“I sat for a while and ate, then I thought I’d walk down the beach a bit. I could see something white from a long way off. I didn’t think anything much about it till I got close. Just sort of curious. At first I thought it was the body of an animal, being partially covered with sand and all. It took me a while to be sure what I was seeing. He was a skinny kid, a boy, maybe 120 pounds.

“I went back as fast as I could. I had one of the pontoon boats by that time, and I crossed Lost Lake and went to that house on the road where you parked. I called the sheriff. He sent a deputy, that Lowther guy, and an ambulance showed up, too. Lowther acted like he was really pissed about having to get in a boat and then walk out here. Maybe he was worried about his spit-polished boots.

“So he looked around, made a few notes, had the guys bag the body. Later on, on the news, I saw that they’d called it an accidental drowning. I don’t know how they came up with that. Didn’t get the sense that there was ever an investigation or anything.”

“What’s wrong with an accidental drowning?’

“Something wasn’t right about it. I mean, the lake was still real cold. They said he must have been skinny-dipping and drowned, then the body drifted up here. But I don’t think so. I don’t know about these things, but I don’t think he’d been in the water long enough to be a floater. And I never heard that they found his clothes, not here or wherever he was from.”

“What was the condition of the body? Do you remember?”

“Sure. It was white, sorta waxy looking. It wasn’t really rotting or anything. And the animals hadn’t gotten to it yet, not the crows or the gulls. I think it was pretty fresh.”

The three of them stood for a long time in silence.

“Anything else?” Ashton asked finally.

“Not for me,” said Ray. “Sue?”

“No. Thank you, Perry. That was helpful.”

“Good. I better get you back to your cars. I’ve got to start collecting my tools and stuff and packing out.”

“Before we leave,” said Ray, “I’ve heard the Hollingsfords had a family burial plot.”

“Yes, it’s just over that dune. Do you want to have a look?”

“Yes, if you have time.”

“Yep, I’ll make it, follow me.”

“I’ve got your order from Zingerman’s in a cooler,” said Sue after Perry Ashton dropped them off. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask about it immediately.”

“I didn’t have to. I have great confidence in your successful completion of every mission.”

“And you owe me about a gazillion dollars,” she said, fishing a receipt from an interior pocket.

“Not so bad,” he said, scanning it. “Life’s pleasures come with a cost.”

“So what did we learn?” she asked.

Ray looked at his watch. “I need to think about it. Let’s get together tomorrow morning around 10,” he said, passing Simone into Sue’s arms. “We’ll see if we can make any connections.”

26

Just before the economic collapse, a downstate developer purchased a large track of cherry and apple orchards on the ridgeline north of Cedar Bay and spent a few million dollars reshaping the landscape to develop 15 luxury home sites. At the entrance road stood two large fieldstone columns and a faux gatehouse. A large billboard announced, “Build your dream house in Bay Ridge Estates, a detached luxury condominium community with views of your personal piece of paradise.” A crisp, white sticker reading “Now Bank Owned” in bold red letters had been added across the bottom of the sign.

Mackenzie drove slowly up the hill and inspected the vacant building sites. There were five cul-de-sacs in the subdivision, each connected by an access road that ran at the top of the development. Mackenzie passed the first four roads, turning into the fifth, and pulled onto a short paved spur intended to be the beginning of a drive.

She had been up here once before, briefly, and knew where she could get the best view of Richard Sabotny’s house. This time she came with a camera, one equipped with a telephoto lens. Peering through the viewfinder, she first located Sabotny’s house, then focused on the vehicle sitting beyond the open garage door. She took several shots of the rear of a Range Rover, then turned her attention to the second car, a Lexus.

After checking the quality of the photos, she returned the camera to the bag. Just as she switched her car back into drive, she noticed the brake lights and then the backup lights of the Range Rover. The vehicle reversed into a turnaround, then headed out the long drive to the highway, pausing briefly as the steel gates at the end slowly swung open. Mackenzie grabbed her camera a second time, but it was too late; the vehicle was almost out of view, heading south.

Mackenzie accelerated onto the access road as she drove toward the highway. Her pursuit of the Range Rover momentarily stalled as she waited to turn right. Two slow-moving gravel trucks, followed by a school bus, crept by.

After the bus turned onto a side road, Mackenzie continued through the village behind the gravel trucks. The reduced speed allowed her to survey the sides of the highway and the adjoining village streets for the large, pearl-white English SUV.

She spotted it a quarter of a mile south, just as the trucks ahead of her started to accelerate. It was parked under the canopy of a local bank, next to the drive-in window at the near end of the parking lot that served the Bay Side Family Market, a small number of shops, and a medical clinic. Mackenzie parked near the market where she had a clear view of the bank. She was tempted to reach for her camera, but hesitated, unsure that the smoked glass of her Subaru would totally conceal her in the brilliant sunlight.

After a few minutes, Sabotny drove away from the bank and pulled into a space near The Espresso Shot. As Mackenzie watched, the doors on each side of the vehicle swung open. A short, petite woman with dark red hair—a color Mackenzie remembered noticing on so many women in Paris—stepped lightly from the vehicle, then turned and waited, one hand on her hip, for Sabotny to join her. Together, they walked into the coffee shop.

Elena Rustova thought Mackenzie. She pulled her laptop from under the camera bag, opened it, and punched in the security code. A search for Rustova brought her to an open document, her name highlighted in green.

Elena Rustova, b. 1980 Chisinau, Moldova. Ethnically Russian. Educated in public schools, undergraduate degree State University of Moldova. Religion unknown. Linguist and translator. Believed fluent in English, Romanian, Russian, French, Arabic, and Urdu. Ranked martial artist in college. Employment history: assignments with European and American companies in Africa, Asia, the former Soviet Republics, Iraq, and Pakistan. No known criminal activity.

Mackenzie suddenly felt a need to see Sabotny up close. She was sure he wouldn’t be able to ID her, dressed as she was in baggy faded jeans, a worn pair of L.L. Bean duck shoes, a shapeless jacket, a floppy knit hat that hid her hair, and large, dark sunglasses. Ken Lee had suggested the outfit would give her a local look without attracting attention.

Backing up and driving around to the side of a dental office, she found a location out of sight of the coffee house. Just in case, she wanted no connection between her person and her vehicle. Then she walked back on a route parallel to the front of the building so her approach couldn’t be seen from the interior of the shop.

A brass bell at the top of the door announced her entrance. Mackenzie marched toward the counter and scanned the interior without removing her sunglasses. Sabotny and Rustova were at a small table in a corner at the back. Sabotny was positioned in a way that provided a clear view of the entire interior.

She studied the overhead menu as the barista prepared a latté for a large man in Carhartts. When he picked up his drink and moved away from the counter, she ordered a medium cappuccino. She fidgeted as the barista left her alone to prepare the drink. It felt like Sabotny was focused on her, his eyes burning into her back. Coffee in hand, she headed quickly for the door, not looking in Sabotny’s direction. Outside, she wanted to run to the safety of her car, but did her best to maintain a normal gait, looking back only once to ensure that she wasn’t being followed.

Back in her car, doors locked, the engine at idle, Mackenzie was surprised at the alarm she felt from the encounter. She put down her coffee and went through a series of breathing exercises trying to calm down. There is no way he could have recognized me, Mackenzie said out loud, trying to put her rational side back in control. He’s just one of those men who scopes out every woman he encounters.

Determined not to be beaten, she drove once again through the parking lot and pulled into a position where she could view the Range Rover from a distance. A few minutes later Sabotny and Elena emerged and walked hand in hand toward the Bayside Family Market. Again, Mackenzie was tempted to follow, but talked herself out of it. What could be the value trailing them through a grocery store? Instead, she took a couple of photos of the front of the Range Rover.

Eventually the couple reappeared, each carrying a brown paper bag. As soon as the doors of their vehicle closed, she put her engine in gear and was soon one car behind them at a stop sign. Sabotny turned north. Mackenzie fell in behind him, now separated by two cars. She followed him back through the village, three cars between them, and eventually passed him as he pulled into his driveway. Mackenzie continued on for a mile, then turned around in a motel parking lot. The steel gates at the entrance to Sabotny’s compound were closed when she passed.

At home, Mackenzie moved the photos to her computer and e-mailed them to Ken Lee Park. A few minutes later, Ken Lee was on the phone. He told her that he could identify both vehicles, and in the next day or two he would send her information on where to place the GPS transmitters.

“How did you get the photos?” he asked.

“There’s an empty sub on a ridgeline north of his property. I had an excellent view of his compound, and fortunately his garage door was open.”

“That wide-angle shot of the whole area, it looks as if he’s taken some serious security measures.”

“I’ll say—tall fence, gated entrance. I’m sure he’s got cameras and motion detectors everywhere. You don’t see that up here. This isn’t Brentwood, it’s northern Michigan. And he’s not in some remote spot. His place is on the highway, just a mile or so from the village. I’m sure he’s attracting lots of unwanted attention by his over-the-top security setup. It just leaps out at you when you drive by.”

“Good. Being noticed probably doesn’t help his cause, whatever that is.”

“How do I install the tracking device?”

“It’s easily done. That vehicle has lots of plastic on both ends. You just need to slide it in behind some plastic. The magnets on the unit will hold it securely to any metal surface. I’ll try it out on similar models and send you diagrams of good places.”

“And how am I suppose to do this undetected?”

“You’ll have to find a time when the vehicles are parked and unattended. Probably takes less than 10 seconds to get a device in place. Wasn’t your last picture from a parking lot?”

“Yes, I followed him this morning. He went to a local coffee shop with Rustova, then did some shopping.” Mackenzie didn’t mention following Sabotny into the coffee shop or the panic she’d felt.

“You’re going to have to keep him under surveillance, see if there is a pattern to his activities. The last picture—is that a strip mall?”

“More than a strip mall. There’s a grocery, a bank, some offices, and the coffee shop.”

“That’s a good place to start. How often do they go for coffee? Is there a movie theater in town? Do they market every day? You just need a chance to get next to his vehicle for a few seconds.” He paused. “Are you okay with this?”

Mackenzie’s answer was slow in coming. “I think so.”

“Here’s something, then: I’m curious about the fact that you’ve put all your attention on Richard Sabotny. You told me there were three or four others involved.”

“He was always the biggest bully in the group. I think the other guys were just following along. Plus, from what we’ve learned, their lives are unremarkable, where Sabotny’s activities seem quite nefarious.”

There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Then Ken Lee said, “Mackenzie, you’re working with a memory of something that happened more than 20 years ago. What if you’re wrong about Sabotny?”

After a long silence, she responded, “Okay, I’ll give the others a look. But it means I’ll have to shift my focus. It will take more time, and it’s probably wasted time.”

“This is your thing. I’m just trying to help. Listen, I’ll send you the diagram later today. And I’m going to FedEx you a unit for your own vehicle, so I can keep tabs on you, too. Oh, and one more thing, what’s the name of the bank, the one Sabotny stopped at?”

“Northwoods Bank and Trust, why?”

“I might want to look at Sabotny’s accounts.”

“Don’t do anything that you can get caught at.”

She could hear Ken Lee chuckling as he rang off.

27

Sue released Simone from her grip and set a large insulated cup on the conference table. “Did you eat your way through the Zingerman’s box last night?” she asked.

Ray looked up from his computer and smiled. “That wonderful bread and perfect piece of Stilton got me through a no-cook dinner. The rest went in the fridge or freezer. I’ll have to organize a dinner party to share the bounty with friends. Thank you for going through the hassle of working through my rather extensive list.” Simone begged to be picked up, and Ray pulled her into his lap briefly before returning her to the floor and getting up himself to move to the conference table. Simone, used to the routine, headed for the overstuffed chair in the far corner of the office and her morning nap.

“Glad I could do it. Where should we start?” Sue asked.

“Vincent Fox. Let’s go back over what we have so far.”

“I read the preliminary autopsy report last night.”

“I thought we were going to try to have a life away from the office?”

“I was going through my e-mail. There it was. How could I not read it? Thank you for the summary and for disambiguating the medical jargon. The whole thing sort of creeped me out—the stun gun, the burning of his foot. What’s going on here? Who are these people? What’s this about?”

“We’re back to motive,” said Ray, pointing at his diagram. “We’ve been working with two possibilities. First, someone was after the money that Fox won at the casino—getting it from an old man would look like easy pickings. Second, a true believer in the Capone treasure story grabbed Fox with the idea of getting more exact information from him on the actual location of the stash.”

“How about this just being a random….”

“There’s always that possibility, but I don’t think so.” Ray pointed to his diagram. “We assume that Vincent Fox had $2,000 on his person or at his home. You didn’t find any cash there or on his body, right?”

“Correct. The money might have been taken at the time of his abduction or stolen from his house.”

“There are other possibilities. He might have hidden it so well that no one has found it, or he might have given it away the same way he did with the $4,000 to Tommy Fuller.

“Those two are a long reach,” countered Sue.

“Yes, they are.”

Sue scanned Ray’s graphic. “You don’t have Fox’s computer listed.”

Ray got up and added computer below the $2,000 cash. “Okay, so here’s a possible scenario. A couple of the Capone true believers have been keeping track of Fox’s movements. They grab him off the street or at his house. When he struggles, they use a stun gun. When they apply some torture, he dies. Later they grab the computer because it might contain information that would lead them to the treasure. The money was just an unexpected bonus.”

“Our perps are on a continuum from being sadistic bastards to totally weird psychopaths.”

“But is what we’re seeing all there is? Could something else be going on here?” asked Ray.

“What are you suggesting?”

“We’re running old scripts, things that have come up before. We’re pushing the Fox murder into a familiar paradigm. It’s not working. And then we have the Terry Hallen case. It’s unlikely that we’ll ever figure out what happened to him. Finally, perhaps coincidently, there’s the ten grand that Ma French found in the cemetery.” Ray sipped his coffee and asked, “So what did you think of the Hollingsford Estate and Perry Ashton?”

“I’m always surprised,” she responded. “Like I think I know this area well, and then there’s something like that place. Mind blowing. How many times have I rolled past that muddy road with no idea of what was hidden in those woods.”

“I’d heard about it some over the years,” said Ray. “It always seemed more mythical than real, but, yes, I was amazed, too.”

“What do we know about Perry Ashton? Has he ever been on our radar?” asked Sue.

“I checked this morning. Nothing recent. There are two DUIs and speeding tickets. All years ago.”

“So what we learned,” said Sue, “expands and confirms what we already knew. Terry Hallen’s naked body was found on the beach of the Hollingsford Estate. If he had indeed gone skinny dipping, the logical place for him to enter the water would have been closer to his home, 10 miles below where the body was found. As far as we know, his clothing was never recovered. Perry Ashton says the water was still very cold, and the victim appeared to be terribly thin. Those two things would delay the number of days it would take for him to become a floater. We’re probably looking at 10 days to two weeks. Mrs. Schaffer’s memory is that he was found a few days after he disappeared. We have no record of when he was reported missing or who identified the body. There’s no way to date anything. There was no autopsy, just a certificate of death. No evidence of any investigation. The mother is deceased, as is the grandmother, and his siblings disappeared shortly after his death. To top it off, there’s Perry Ashton’s memory that the body was high up the beach, higher than it might have been carried by waves. Lots of unanswered questions. Lots. And I wonder what was going through Dirk Lowther’s head.”

“Dirk wasn’t into heavy lifting,” said Ray. “If Terry’s people weren’t moxie enough to challenge the finding, nothing more would have been done. So it was open and shut, accidental drowning. Case closed. Dirk had better things to spend his time on.” Ray paused again and sipped his coffee, then pointed to the right side of the whiteboard. “What about Ma French and the $10,000.”

“I need to tell you about that, the money. I e-mailed the serial numbers from those bills to an agent at the FBI—I met her at that financial fraud workshop I went to last year. She forwarded my inquiry to another agent who works on cases involving currency, you know, things like money laundering. The guy’s name is Braeton Jackson. He could tell from the serial numbers that the bills were part of 12 billion in cash sent to Iraq right after the invasion to keep the provisional government running. He went on to explain that approximately eight billion of the 12 went missing. There was no chain of custody after the money was offloaded in Baghdad.”

Ray’s coffee mug had been hovering between the table and his mouth. He put it down as Sue continued. “Jackson says these bills have turned up all over the globe. He was curious how 100 crisp new C-notes suddenly turned up on a beach in northern Michigan after all the years they were out of circulation.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, then Ray asked, “What do we know for sure?”

“We have two tire castings that might be from the perp’s car.”

“And they might be from the meter reader. Iraq. Eight billion. Who knew?”

“Even more amazing than a lost estate, huh. So what do we do now?”

“You know the answer as well as me. We sit tight, turn our attention to our usual duties, and wait until something else happens. Or we have a sudden flash of brilliance.”

“Well, did you note that more root vegetables were reported stolen yesterday?” said Sue, smiling.

“Yes, carrots and potatoes,” agreed Ray, sighing. “Same M.O. Theft from an unlocked building. The farmers are unsure of when the robbery took place. They don’t go into the storage area more than once or twice a week during the winter, and they’re unsure of the quantity. They don’t keep a tight inventory. Assign this to Brett. He can work these into his road patrol duties. At some point, we should be able to figure this one out.”

“Brett is just back from his first major crime workshop, and what do we drop in his lap? The case of missing celeriac.”

“It’s all the same kind of leg work, and it gets him out of his car and meeting people. How was Ann Arbor, by the way?”

“Ann Arbor is Ann Arbor. Saw a good movie, had some fantastic food, went to a jazz club.” She smiled, thinking that the real answer was she ate too much, drank too much champagne, and spent most of the weekend in bed making love.