Текст книги "Cruelest Month"

Автор книги: Aaron Stander

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

10

Mackenzie Mason stood in the great room of her recently acquired home and surveyed the scene—white walls, thick white carpeting, black granite on the countertops and the fireplace surround. Built on a small spit of land that extended into the bay, the contractor’s trophy-home intentions were limited by the buildable area of the lot. More by accident than aspiration, he had managed to build a structure appropriately sized for the setting, his efforts enhanced by the work of a skilled young architect. The final product was a home of modest proportions with luxury accoutrements—exotic woods, pricy fixtures, and high-end appliances. A great room—high ceilinged, glass walled, and occupying half of the building’s footprint—was the focal point of the structure. It provided spectacular views of the bay and the orchard-covered hillsides beyond. A large master suite, a second bath, and two tiny bedrooms completed the house.

Mackenzie had found the listing online. The real-estate agent told her that the house was completed just as the economy tanked. The builder’s company went into receivership and the bank was left holding the bag. The bargain property was then picked up by a Bloomfield Hills orthopedist as an investment. Less than six months later, he walked from the mortgage as his own financial house of cards came crashing down.

When Mackenzie offered $100,000 less than the asking price, she was amazed at how quickly the bank snapped up the offer. She chided herself for not going lower. So much for toxic assets, she thought out loud as she looked around the room. She’d had spent little time or effort redecorating. The house was furnished with only the essentials needed for the next few months. She had, however, upgraded the security system with cameras, monitors, additional motion detectors, and a wireless uplink to the alarm company’s headquarters.

Mackenzie walked to the front of the room and stood near the wall of glass that faced the bay. Small patches of snow were still visible on the opposite shore, and cold drizzle blurred the already formless landscape. After spending more than two decades in the west, most of it in California, she was having trouble adjusting to the cold, gray, March weather of northern Michigan. Sliding into an Aeron chair, she wondered, Is this just madness? Her eyes ran along the bleak horizon. Why am I here?

Mackenzie Mason had left her senior vice-president position in a high-tech company on December 31. She and three other top-level executives walked away with severance packages equal to a year’s salary with the customary bonuses—a generous parting gift for the fortunate few. Based on their rank in the hierarchy, the other employees got from three months to two weeks wages as the once highflying dot.com slid toward insolvency.

January 1 found Mackenzie at loose ends. But the search for a new job was the least of her concerns. Headhunters had started harassing her as soon as rumors of the company’s demise went public. More than one had made the point that she was the dream client: young, bright, articulate, the right education from the best places, and a solid track record of accomplishment. What they didn’t say, because it might be considered inappropriate, was that she was also funny, beautiful, and very sexy.

For Mackenzie, the end of a long-term relationship was more problematic than the employment situation. Although she was the one who had insisted on it, she still woke up at night with the fear that she had made the wrong decision. Which was why she’d decided to come back to Michigan. There was something she needed to know, investigate, understand, and perhaps resolve before she could move on with her life.

Even as she admired her now sumptuous surroundings, she could still remember being poor and hungry and vulnerable. For years she had done her best to avoid the painful memories of childhood and the trauma and sadness of her brother’s death. Those memories had intensified the day before, when she drove to the south end of the county to look at the village where she had spent two desperately unhappy years.

Mackenzie was shocked at how the town, Sandville, had almost vanished over the past several decades. Any thoughts of taking a closer look at her grandmother’s old garden, or perhaps searching the cemetery for her brother’s grave, quickly evaporated when she saw a sheriff’s car parked on the road. The deputy, a young woman, had a small dog on a leash, and they were walking around the lot where the house formerly stood. Mackenzie slowed enough to take in the scene; she circled the block, then left, not wanting to attract attention to herself.

What was that all about? Mackenzie thought as she drove north. She ran several scenarios that would explain the deputy’s presence at her grandmother’s house, but couldn’t generate anything more plausible than a chance happening. Perhaps the dog needed a walk. She reassured herself that it would be silly to read anything into the event.

Mackenzie picked up an iPad and flipped through the apps. She opened a project planner and looked at her early notes. Scrolling through the first draft, she was struck by the disorder of her stratagem. She had been doing project planning for years and was known for the precise and skillful way she could focus the work of hundreds of people and millions of dollars to achieve timely, profitable results. But here she was stymied. She hardly knew where to begin.

In frustration, she got up and began switching on the lights, making the room as bright a contrast as possible to the end of winter gloom. Then she unlocked the hinged covers of the two stainless steel shipping cases she had collected a few hours earlier in Traverse City. She had been apprehensive about the pick-up, but everything went without a hitch. Ken Lee Park, a sometimes boyfriend, Taekwondo instructor, and expert in computers and corporate security, had assured her that everything would come via FedEx Ground without inspection. FedEx had further helped her by putting the trunks on an aluminum hand truck, rolling them to the parking lot, and lifting them into the back of her Subaru.

She lifted a layer of dark gray foam from the first case, exposing the precisely engineered interior. The contents had been carefully packed, foam cut to surround every component. She removed a large computer display and set it on the desk. After pulling out more of the packing, she found the tower for the system and positioned it beside the display. From the second case, she lifted a small laser printer and a box of wires. Each cable and cord had been marked with colored stickers for easy assembly.

In a few minutes, the computer was running. Mackenzie plugged in a thumb drive she’d brought with her from California and opened an encrypted text file, working her way through the elaborate security system Ken Lee had installed to protect the contents of the hard drive—the normal array of business application programs plus a collection of sophisticated intercept, surveillance, and hacking software.

Returning to the second trunk, she lifted away another layer of foam and began unpacking several articles of clothing, all black, each packaged in a sealed plastic bag. There was also a bag of special soaps and shampoos. Without opening them, she stowed the bags in the large walk-in closet of the master suite and put the toiletries in a cupboard in the bathroom. The last block of foam came apart in two halves, revealing meticulously hollowed-out spaces. Ken Lee, well aware of her competence in the martial arts, had stressed the importance of weapons for self-defense. He had selected and trained her to use the two pistols, a Glock 19 and a Rohrbaugh R9. Each was tucked into a holster. The Glock was to be carried at the hip, the Rohrbaugh inside the left ankle. In addition to extra magazines for each weapon, there was also a small, high-quality LED flashlight and a bear claw knife.

At the desk, Mackenzie stacked the six boxes of Winchester PDX-1 shells she’d purchased earlier at a Walmart, then loaded three magazines for each pistol. That done, she opened the safe hidden behind a panel in the built-in shelves in her bedroom and carefully placed the guns in the interior, along with the extra shells. She started to close the door, then stopped, retrieving the small Rohrbaugh, its holster and magazines. Sliding one of the magazines into the pistol, she put it in a drawer next to the bed, along with a flashlight.

Ken Lee had overcome Mackenzie’s ambivalence, stressing that her skill at close-in fighting could be worthless against an armed and determined assailant. Although she had misgivings about the guns, she looked at them as necessary equipment to carry out her current mission.

Slipping back into the chair, she decided she felt much better about her plan. The two-part mission statement at the top of planning draft read:

Find the boys responsible for Terry’s death,

Facilitate convictions and life sentences for: Richard Sabotny, Zed Piontowski, Jim Moarse, and Chris Brewler.

She looked at the list. Then with her finger she highlighted Richard Sabotny’s name and chose the bold option from the toolbox. There. Richard Sabotny. That’s the man she wanted, the bully and ringleader, the one most or wholly responsible for her brother’s death. Not the brother of Mackenzie Mason’s for that was pure fiction. Terry was Caitlyn Hallen’s brother. Her brother.

11

Sue Lawrence responded to the call first. Ray reached the scene 15 or 20 minutes after her. A Cedar County Road Commission truck, flashers blinking in the misting rain, was blocking off the road to northbound traffic. The driver, Hank Pullen, stood in the center of the road behind the truck, a reflective vest over his jacket, turning cars around.

Ray waved as he guided his patrol car around the truck and parked on the far shoulder behind Sue’s Jeep. He could see a second county employee standing at the intersection 50 yards up, keeping traffic from entering the road.

Sue looked up at Ray as he approached. Camera in hand, she was crouched on the shoulder of the road. The ditch below was swampy and filled with water. A partially submerged body lay just below the embankment. “The ME is on his way,” she said.

“Did you tell him to bring waders?” asked Ray, referring to Dr. Dyskin, the semiretired pathologist, who contracted as the county medical examiner.

“No, but I told the EMTs to bring their hip boots. No point getting Dr. Dyskin mired in the mud.”

“Who spotted the body?”

“Hank Pullen called it in. He and Dan Beeson were riding around patching chuckholes. I need to talk to them again, but I think it was Dan who saw the body. He was riding shotgun.”

“They didn’t see who dumped it?” asked Ray.

“No such luck. And given the body’s location, you could probably only spot it from the height of a truck cab. It might not have been found for days or even weeks.”

Ray stepped as far as he dared to the edge of the bank and peered down at the corpse. “Not much doubt about who it is, or was. Looks like he was just thrown out.”

“That was my thought,” said Sue. “The poor old guy tossed along the road like a beer can or a fast food bag.”

“And he’s missing a boot.”

“I noticed that. Brett is on his way. After the body is removed, we’ll do our best to look for other possible evidence. Perhaps the missing boot is submerged in the water.”

Their attention was pulled from the ditch by the arrival of an EMT unit and Dr. Dyskin. “Where’s the body?” he asked.

Sue pointed over the embankment. Dyskin walked to the edge, gazed at the body for a long moment. “Well let’s get him up here and see what we can see.”

Sue directed the actions of the EMTs, two young men. After pulling hip boots over their orange coveralls, they carefully approached the corpse, gently scooping it into a metal rescue litter that they carried back to the surface of the road.

Dyskin knelt at the side of the litter and started his examination, working from the head down, running his hands along the skull, then the neck, continuing all the way to the feet. He moved extremely slowly, taking everything in with his eyes and hands. Dyskin asked one of the EMTs to help him rotate the body. Then he continued his investigation. He studied the bottom of the bare right foot for a long moment. Next he removed the boot and sock from the other foot, pitching them on the pavement. He held both feet, one hand under each heel, lifted them gently, and carefully studied their appearance. “Bring your camera over here,” he said, gesturing with his head to Sue. “I want a picture of this.”

She knelt at his side and shot a series of photos, the strobe throwing an eerie glow in the drizzle.

Dyskin gently laid the feet back on the litter and stood. He brushed his hands, one against the other. “I think we’re done here,” he said.

“What did you learn?” asked Ray.

“Is this the man they’ve been talking about on TV, the one that went missing?”

“ Yes, his name is Vincent Fox.”

“And where did he disappear from?”

“He lived a couple of miles outside of Cedar Bay, probably about 20 miles from here.”

“Well, you know that happens with old people, especially when they have some sort of dementia. They just go wandering away, and sometimes they get pretty far before they are found. That said, I don’t think that’s what happened here. When did you say he was last seen?”

“Saturday, but he wasn’t reported missing until Monday,” answered Ray.

“He’s been dead for several days,” said Dyskin. “I can’t find any injuries to the body, no wounds or fractures. Nothing of that nature. But there’s something really curious about the bottom of his right foot. It’s been burned. It looks like it was held against something hot, like a wood stove. And I can’t imagine that it’s self-inflicted or accidental. After you have the body identified, it should be sent to Grand Rapids for an autopsy. We’ll know a lot more when we get the results. Something’s not right.”

Ray raised his eyebrows at Dyskin who was reaching for his fleece jacket, noting that instead of the usual rumpled suit, he was wearing a nylon workout outfit and looked fifty pounds lighter. “On your way to the gym?” Ray asked.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it,” said Dyskin. “Had a little wakeup call just after the holidays. My wife, in collusion with a cardiologist, has put me on a strict diet and a regular exercise program. Sonja even hired a personal trainer. Me with a personal trainer! The planet is spinning off its axis.”

“How about the cigars?” asked Sue, laughing.

“Verboten.”

“Going through withdrawal?”

“I did for a bit. Now I can’t believe I ever used those things. Think I was just trying to kill the smell of my workplace.” Dyskin smiled, and Sue and Ray laughed again, more quietly.

Watching Dyskin pull a three-point and head back to town, Ray asked, “Are you going to be more tolerant of the good doctor now?”

“He’s still into Old Spice,” Sue shrugged, “but without the tobacco it’s not so bad.” Ray squatted and leaned over to look at Fox’s feet again. Sue knelt beside him. “What are you thinking?

“Piñatas. Like when we capture the bastards that did this, we pull them up by their heels and beat them with baseball bats, the aluminum kind they use in Little League, the ones that make that satisfying pinging sound every time you get a good skull whack in. That would offer a certain satisfaction.”

“Is that all?” Sue gasped at her boss’s rich fantasy life.

“We could meet this evening,” said Ray, grasping Sue’s elbow and pulling her up to face him. “We could go over the events and think through who might have done this, our resident bad guys, someone who has just been paroled….”

Sue shook her head. “It can wait till tomorrow, Ray. Tonight I need to hang out with my dog, go to yoga, stop off at the bar with the girls for a couple of glasses of wine, take a long hot bath and sleep for 10 hours. Then I can think about this case again. And I’m coming in late tomorrow—using a couple of hours of comp time.” She gave him a long, measured look. “And you better get in a kayak before you explode, while there’s still some light. I’m going to start processing this scene.”

Ray stuck his hands in his pockets and took a step backwards. “What’s your plan with the media?”

“I’ll send a one– or two-sentence press release,” Sue said, heading back to her Jeep and back to business. “Something to the effect that the ‘body of an elderly man believed to be Vincent Fox has been found. More information will be available after formal identification.’”

“That should be enough to get us through several news cycles. I’ll contact his daughter and have her identify the body. Then I’ll have it sent to Grand Rapids for an autopsy.”

“Thanks,” she said, and walked away from him to let the EMTs know the body was ready for transport.

12

Ray sat in his car and watched Brett and Sue begin to process the scene. Then he pulled on his seatbelt and slowly drove away. He knew that Sue was right. Spending the evening in the office trying to puzzle out who might be responsible for the crime, especially when they were both exhausted, would be a waste of time. He headed home.

When he reached the top of his drive, there was Hannah Jeffers waiting for him. His kayak was already secured to the roof of her Subaru wagon. They exchanged a friendly embrace.

“How did you get into the house?”

“The side door of the garage was unlocked. Your place never seems to be secured. You’re either very trusting or extremely careless,” she said, chuckling. “Doesn’t your department do those homeowner security workshops?”

Ray just shook his head, making no other response.

“Of course, you don’t have much that anyone could fence. Your 12-inch flat screen wouldn’t bring much, and no one wants books or classical CDs. But you do have an iPad; that’s worth stealing.” She gave him a poke in the chest. “Get into your dry suit,” she said. “We don’t have many hours of light left.”

Ten minutes later, Ray tossed his gear bag and two paddles in the back of Hannah’s vehicle and settled into the passenger’s seat. But she didn’t start the engine.

“Bad day?”

Ray did not turn to meet her gaze. “I thought we had an agreement to never talk about our work days, especially when we are on our way to the lake, on the water, or après kayaking.”

Hannah started to laugh. “Where did that come from? You’re making it up.” She reached over and felt for a vein on his neck. “The good news is you’ve got a pulse, but it’s a bit too rapid. I’d like to take your blood pressure. You seem hypertensive.”

“Come on, Hannah,” Ray said, pushing her hand away gently, “get this crate in gear. Once I get out on the water everything will be okay. Cut straight across to 22, then head south. There’s something I want to see.”

They drove for a while in silence, the windshield wipers providing a slow and slower tempo as the drizzle turned to mist.

“So you had a bad day?” Hannah asked again.

Ray took a deep breath, exhaled. “One of the worst.” He turned in his seat to face her. “I told you about Vincent Fox the other night?”

Hannah nodded, glancing at him. “Yes, I remember. The old guy who wrote about the Capone treasure.”

Ray told her about recovering Fox’s body, and the charring on the bottom of one of his feet. “It reminds me of something I saw in France.”

“What’s that?”

“When I was in the army, stationed in Europe, I toured a historical farm somewhere in France. The outbuildings had been restored to how they appeared in the 16^th or 17^th century. There were wonderful descriptions on everything, with translations in English, German, Spanish. One display talked about some outlaws of the time, La bande d’Orgeres, who attacked wealthy farmers and held their feet to the fire until they disclosed where their gold and valuables were hidden. My memory is that this kind of extortion took place shortly before the beginning of the French Revolution, and that these activities were a precursor to the bloody events that followed.”

“You think that’s what happened to Fox?”

“Who knows?” Ray said. “It’s such an old technique, been around since medieval times, probably before. And now, possibly right here in Cedar County. Hard to be optimistic about human progress.” Hannah snorted. “So, what would be the physiological effect of that kind of torture?” he asked.

Hannah’s eyes were locked on the twisting county road in front of her. “You don’t need a medical degree to figure that one out. Elderly man, high-stress situation. Heart attack, stroke. By his age lots of things are just waiting to fail. The autopsy will probably provide a reliable answer.” She grimaced. “Medieval, that’s the perfect word. It’s hard to imagine the horror they put this poor man through.”

The mist had faded to almost nothing, and Hannah turned off the wipers. Again they were silent as the orchards faded away to piney scrub and marsh. “I understand you’re upset,” she said at last. “My question is, is our destination connected with this case?”

Ray chuckled. “Maybe. I’m not sure. Given all the money involved, Fox probably got himself involved in something drug-related.” He told her about Ma French finding the large stash of cash on the grounds of the Hollingsford Estate and explained he wanted to paddle to the estate from the Lake Michigan side for a look around.

“It’s really isolated,” he said. “Of course, in the summer you can get there by crossing a small lake—Lost Lake, that’s what it’s called—in a boat or a canoe. In the winter it’s skis, snowshoes, or a snowmobile across the ice. These days, the ice is probably too thin.

“Why not hike in? Can’t you just go around the Lost Lake?”

“Most of the surrounding area is marshland and swamp. There are places where you can slip into mud up to your waist. No thanks.”

“Looks like we have some chop,” Hannah said, pulling into the parking area.

“Not too bad,” Ray responded. “And given the direction of the wind, we will be protected by that headland for launch and landing. There’s a storm coming in tonight, but we should be off the water long before it comes onshore.”

Hannah parked the Subaru in the launch and they both got out to offload the boats. “Do we need lights?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“I don’t think the batteries in this thing are any good,” she said, fiddling with the navigation light attached to her life vest.

“I can’t help you out. I don’t have any in my gear bag,” Ray said, pulling on his gloves. “They’re really only for visibility, but this time of the year there’s never anyone on the water. Mine works, and I’ll put a flashlight in my day hatch.”

They paddled north for more than an hour along the miles of empty shoreline, beach. and low dunes without a single cottage. They landed on the south side of the small stream that emptied from Lost Lake.

Hannah pulled off her PFD and spray skirt, and tossed them into the open cockpit of her kayak. “What are you looking for?” she asked.

“There is supposed to be an old cemetery up on that bluff overlooking the lake. That’s where Ma French found the cash. My best guess is that whoever is connected to the money is accessing the area on a snowmobile or ATV. Probably coming from the north.”

“Why didn’t we…?”

“The put-in would have been more than twice as far, and we wouldn’t have had enough daylight. We barely have enough as it is. We better get going.”

Ray led the way over the beach and up the hill, stopping near the remnants of a wrought-iron fence that marked the perimeters of the cemetery. They walked among a small collection of headstones, some standing, others fallen flat over graves.

“Rex, Star, Lady…looks like mostly pets in this section,” Hannah said. “And on the human side, the ones I can read go back a hundred years.”

“This is probably the newest one.” Ray pointed at a monolith of gray granite, the largest headstone in the cemetery.

“What are the rules on cemeteries? Can you make one anywhere?” asked Hannah.

“Not now. There are zoning and environmental rules. In the early days, though, you could pretty much do what you wanted.”

They walked around, looking at head stones, at times stooping and brushing off the surfaces of the markers to read the inscriptions. Eventually they met each other. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Hannah asked.

“I came here mostly to get a sense of the place. I wasn’t anticipating any major discoveries.” He nodded toward the lake. “We better get going. I want to get back before it’s completely dark. Looks like the wind’s come up.”

The surf had started to build while they were on land. After getting their gear back on, Ray helped Hannah launch into the breakers. Then he climbed in his boat, secured his spray skirt, and pushed into an oncoming wave with his hand. His bow was immediately shoved parallel to the shore. He struggled to get it turned back into the surf, and finally, he was able to break free of the beach and the pounding waves. Together, they paddled out about a 100 yards , beyond the second sand bar, where the rolling action of the waves was a bit less intense.

The trip out had been relaxed. The return was tense—the wind and waves building as the light diminished. They had to paddle hard through the troughs, bracing at the tops of the waves on the windward side to keep from getting rolled.

Ray didn’t see Hannah capsize. They were often on opposite sides of five-foot crests. But as he moved into the next wave, he saw the white bottom of Hannah’s kayak turned skyward. She rolled up, only to be knocked over by the powerful crest of the next wave. When she rolled up, Ray was relieved to see her brace against the following wave and quickly settle back into a muscular stroke.

They pushed on. Ray checked his watch and worried about Hannah getting too cold. He estimated that they had about 20 minutes more of hard going before they would come under the protection of the headland. In the roaring wind he didn’t hear the shriek of the Jet Ski engine until it crashed over the wave in front of him, coming between his boat and Hannah’s. It disappeared out into the lake for 20 or 30 seconds, then returned, splashing across Hannah’s bow and crossing Ray’s a second time. Then it was gone. Ray tried to remember the details as they paddled toward calm water.

“I thought you told me there were never any boats out here at this time of year,” yelled Hannah as they approached the shore in the protection of the headland.

“There aren’t,” said Ray.

“Then, what was that all about?”

“Come on Ray, what was it all about, that Jet Ski?” Hannah asked. They were back in Ray’s kitchen, having endured a stricken paddle to the shore and a tense, silent ride home. Hannah had found solace in the inner workings of an espresso machine.

“How is it that you have two of those?” Ray asked.

“Don’t change the subject.” She gave Ray a look. “It’s a long story. A certain someone dropped off a machine that I never thought I’d see again. I had already bought a replacement. And it’s not that I don’t like your French press, it’s just that I like cappuccino so much better. You needed one.” She walked him through the process of pulling a good shot, explaining that if the grind is right and tamped with 30 pounds of pressure in the portafilter, a lovely crema will form on the top of the coffee. When they were seated at the table with their cappuccino, she sighed deeply.

“All right. I don’t know. Someone was giving us a look. Maybe trying to scare us,” Ray said.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Technically, he was getting too close and running without navigation lights. Other than that, he didn’t do anything that was illegal.”

“Yes, but don’t you want to talk to him?”

“If I know who he was, sure, I’d like to know why he was out there. But he’s not going to be easy to find. I didn’t see a registration number on the boat, not that there was much light. It might have been there.”

“I needed your flare gun for protection. And I hate those things. Jet Skis.”

“I don’t like them, either. Maybe when gas goes to $10 a gallon most of them will disappear.”

“Did you see me capsize?” Hannah asked, sipping.

“No, I only saw your white hull and knew you were over.”

“I was trying to brace, and I missed the top of the wave. Bingo, I was upside down. Then I rolled up and got nailed a second time. In the dark water and the low light, I had trouble finding the horizon. I was really disoriented. I love to roll, but I didn’t like that. I was out of control.” She shivered.

They sat in silence for several minutes, attending to their coffee and reflecting. “You know what I’d like to do?” Hannah said, pushing away her empty demitasse.

“What’s that?”

“Raid your refrigerator for the remnants of your last box from Zingerman’s, open a bottle of Mawby, mess around awhile, and spend the night.” She stood up and was by Ray’s side, bending over and kissing him hard on the lips. Then she picked up their cups and set them noisily in the sink. “But,” she said, “I’m on call tonight, so our friendship can remain blissful and uncomplicated.”

As they kissed again, Ray pulled her close. “I think we have broadened the definition of speed dating,” she said on her way out the door.

13

Ray wandered around the house after Hannah’s departure. After finishing with the kitchen, he hung his PFD and spray skirt in the mudroom and carefully balanced his mukluks, the open side down, over a floor vent. He draped his dry suit, inside out over the shower curtain rod in the guest bedroom, along with the fleece jumpsuit he wore under it.

Although physically exhausted, his mind was still buzzing from the events of the day. He retrieved his journal and a fountain pen and stood for several minutes looking at a blank page. Finally, he unscrewed his pen and brought it to the top line of the verso page. He moved the point in an upward sweep, and the line of brown ink went from thin to invisible. Ray pulled a small pad from his desk and tried the pen again, making gentle circles—a few more blotches and then nothing. He refilled the pen, wiping the tip carefully and returning the inkbottle to its cubbyhole.