If I Should Die (16 page)

“He has a huge spread of land next to the Hendricksons’. Where did he get the money?”

“The Richardson family, inheritance. Mostly land, little cash.”

“Henry and his nephew Jon seem complete opposites,” Lucy said. “Middle-class blue-collar worker and wealthy international lawyer. How did Jon pay his way through college?”

“I didn’t go that deep; all this is basic intelligence. You want me to give them both a full rectal exam?”

“You’re full of humor today, Patrick.”

He laughed. “Oh, and the local reverend. He’s lived in Spruce Lake his entire life, owns two acres in town where he has both a house and the church. His father was the preacher before him. Looks like the only time he’s left the county for any length of time was four years’ divinity college in Ohio.”

“Thanks for everything,” Lucy said.

“On another note, when I said low profile, I meant in more than just staying safe. You know how Sean can get, and the last thing I want is for him to in any way jeopardize your future with the FBI. He should never have let you go down to that mine again. What were you thinking?”

The conversation went from cordial to confrontational real fast. It took Lucy a moment to respond. “Sean doesn’t
let
me do anything. The local deputy disregarded everything I said. No one was handling the investigation, and that’s something I know a lot about.”

“You’re not a cop—yet. Watch your step, Lucy. Sean isn’t going to think about your future when he’s on a case. It’s one of the reasons he’s so good, but it could damage your career.”

Lucy’s stomach dropped. Patrick had voiced the largest obstacle in her relationship with Sean. She didn’t want to think her brother was trying to put a wedge between them, but he’d made it clear three months ago that he didn’t think Sean was good for Lucy. They had somewhat of a truce, but Lucy felt Patrick constantly assessing her, as if waiting for moments like these to sow dissent.

“It was my idea to go back to the mine,” she said evenly. “I take responsibility for any repercussions.”

When Patrick didn’t respond right away, she added, “No one else seems to care about the fact that a young woman was murdered.”

“Lucy—” he began, then stopped himself. “I understand. Just be cautious.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up, wishing Patrick hadn’t scratched that issue. It made her wonder if everyone she cared about was waiting for her relationship with Sean to self-destruct.

Lucy had no illusions that she was normal. One horrific mistake seven years ago had changed her life forever. She had survived her attack, but had become a different person. She was so focused on her career goals, her careful planning, that life passed her by. What normal person turns down a shot to be on an Olympic team? But though she swam on her college team, she couldn’t make the commitment necessary to train for the Olympics. Seven years ago it had been one of her dreams, but no longer. What normal person goes to college year round—and one night class—in order to get the units necessary for a double major? What normal person moves from one law enforcement internship to another, building a résumé solely to get into the FBI?

Being busy—swimming, studying, working—had saved her. She hadn’t had time to think, had no time to feel sorry for herself. And she was proud of what she’d accomplished.

But she also had no close friends from college, because she hadn’t had time to socialize. Her one serious boyfriend before Sean had been a cop she’d met through one of her internships. She didn’t know how to have fun, didn’t know what to do when she wasn’t working or training or exercising.

Until Sean.

Simply, he made her happy. He’d taken her ice skating, flying, and now on vacation—such as it was. A couple of weeks ago before he went out of town on a case, he’d taken her to a G-rated kids’ movie. And he’d laughed as much as the kids surrounding them, giving her an all-too-rare carefree feeling.

Sean seemed to understand her, to
know
her so well that sometimes it scared her.

Maybe that was why their earlier fight was so disturbing. It was the first time that he couldn’t read her mind—when he didn’t push her to explain herself, or reveal what she was thinking as if she’d said the words out loud. Though it was unnerving at times, she’d come to depend on the unspoken connection.

And thanks to Patrick, the conflict with Sean continued to eat at her as she meticulously went through each missing woman in the file.

SEVENTEEN

After sending the bullet casings to his brother Duke at the RCK main office in California, Sean headed to the St. Lawrence County Sheriff’s Department. It was housed in a large building with numerous other county departments, including the property records.

In the sheriff’s office—a small, clean, functional space—Sean was pleased that they acted professionally, but frustrated he couldn’t get any real information. He used all his charm on the fifty-year-old secretary, but she just smiled sweetly and told him someone would contact him, or he could wait until one of the detective sergeants was available. Essentially, “kiss my ass” but in the nicest way possible.

Sean left his contact information, because waiting would drive him up a wall. If he was lucky, someone would call his cell before he left Canton. He much preferred face-to-face meetings because half of what he learned in conversation came from body language, which revealed what someone
didn’t
say.

He found the property records office, filled out the paperwork, and sat at one of the early 1980s monitors. They all fed into a larger mainframe but didn’t store any data. Searching for property records by parcel number was easy, but the actual records were on either microfiche or paper, depending on how old. New transactions were in a different database, but Sean wanted to learn more about the ownership history of the mine.

Bureau of Land Management leases would be federal, but Sean could get those online when he got back to Spruce Lake. Right now, he was more interested in the mine and surrounding property. He pulled all the files and didn’t see anything unusual.

He went to the new computer terminal that housed all property transactions for the last decade. He searched all parcels in the Spruce Lake area—and was surprised when Jon Callahan’s name popped up on almost every record. When Patrick told him Callahan owned the majority of the property, he hadn’t realized it was divided into so many individual parcels. To contrast, he looked up the Hendricksons’ property. They owned one large parcel of over five hundred acres; Callahan owned dozens of parcels anywhere from one acre—the lots in town—to upward of one hundred acres.

The transfer dates on Callahan’s properties were recent, starting about seven years ago. Most of them, however, were during the last two years.

Sean sweet-talked the clerk into letting him download the information to a flash drive, rather then waiting for her to burn a CD or print out the documents. He left wondering if Jon Callahan wanted Tim’s property, and if so, why? Property could be a good investment, but Spruce Lake was in a depressed area.

After finishing his research, he was almost back to the turnoff to Spruce Lake when he saw the sign to Colton, ten miles to the north. He glanced at the time. Nearly three in the afternoon—maybe he could get to the high school in time and catch sight of the teenage arsonist.

It was worth a shot.

St. Lawrence County had its share of crime, but compared to the rest of New York State, it was a safe place to live. In fact, Detective Sergeant Kyle Dillard had lived pretty much everywhere in New York and Pennsylvania, and he was set on raising his kids and retiring in Canton. While the bitter winter got to him from time to time, the St. Lawrence Valley was one of the most beautiful and serene places to live—without hordes of people to mess with his peace.

While Kyle handled a variety of calls from murder to petty theft, the bulk of his duties were investigating traffic fatalities. The roads were not kind, especially to inattentive drivers and those unfortunate enough to cross their path.

He’d just come from a particularly nasty crash—a truck went over the guardrail up on Route 56 outside Colton two nights ago, landing in the reservoir. They didn’t have the equipment to bring the vehicle up until this morning, and when they did, there was no dead driver behind the wheel. The truck was being taken to the police yard for inspection while a team was finishing up the preliminary accident report, based on the physical evidence. Kyle was certain drunk driving was the cause. Based on the skid marks leading to the crash site, the truck had been going far too fast for the road. While there was no body, the driver could easily have been thrown from the truck and be at the bottom of the lake. They’d searched up and down both sides of the lake downstream and found nothing. They’d send down divers this weekend.

The truck was registered to James Benson. He had a deputy working on finding next of kin for Benson, a firefighter stationed up in Indian Hills. He was a single man of thirty-two with no offspring.

All Kyle wanted to do now was go home to Laurie and the kids and forget the senseless accident. Play some games, maybe barbeque some ribs, and listen to his three boys laugh.

“Hello, Margo,” he said to the secretary/clerk/office manager. He didn’t remember Margo’s official title, but the Sheriff’s Department would fall apart without her at the helm.

“Mrs. Fletcher called about the duplex on the corner of Elm and Sycamore. Three visitors between midnight and four a.m.”

“Maybe Mrs. Fletcher should take an extra sleeping pill,” Kyle muttered. The woman slept so lightly that she could hear a fly snore.

“The courthouse called to let you know that Jeremy Fisher cut a deal on the assault charges and you won’t be needed in court on Monday.”

“My day just got better.”

Margo looked at him blandly and said, “And a private investigator stopped by regarding a case he said Deputy Weddle is working.”

Kyle took the business card and message from Margo.
Sean Rogan, Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid Investigative
Services, Eastern Office
. Sounded impressive, but P.I.s liked to bullshit. When he’d been a cop in Philly, he’d dealt with enough low-life P.I.s that he didn’t hold out hope that Rogan was any different.

He expected a message from Margo, but Rogan had written the note himself.

Detective—

I’m inquiring about the status of the investigation into the missing body of the female victim found in the Kelley Mine on Travers Peak outside Spruce Lake, as well as the statement myself and Ms. Lucy Kincaid gave to Deputy Weddle regarding evidence visually identified in the mine this morning, specifically hair strands and insects first observed on the dead woman before she disappeared
.

I’ve been retained by Tim Hendrickson, who owns the property adjacent to the mine and has been the subject of escalating acts of sabotage aimed at preventing him and his brother from opening a family resort, which was approved by the county. I am interested in the status of this investigation as it may be related to my own. Please contact me at your earliest convenience
.

—
Sean Rogan

“I’m lost,” Kyle said.

“According to Deputy Weddle’s report, he closed the case yesterday after Fire and Rescue determined it was a crank call.”

“Crank call?”

“No body was found in the mine.”

Kyle was royally confused. “Track down Tyler. I want to talk to him before I call this P.I. back.”

“Yes, Detective.” She picked up her phone.

Kyle went to his small office and pulled up the report on the computer. A call came in from Hendrickson on Wednesday about an arson fire and the corpse in the mine. Two different locations. The arson investigation was active and assigned to the county fire marshal’s office. Standard. The other call was a prank?

Something didn’t jibe. He read Weddle’s notes.

 … No body was found in the mine at the location Ms. Kincaid identified. They searched the immediate area, but no sign of any body, or evidence of violence, was seen. The area where Ms. Kincaid claimed to have seen the body is heavily shadowed, and an overactive imagination could easily have “seen” a dead person. When questioned, Ms. Kincaid admitted she didn’t approach the “body” but ran back to the mine shaft. This officer doesn’t believe the false report had been malicious, but simply a scared young woman who saw “something” in the dark
.

Weddle had closed the case. So what evidence was Rogan talking about?

“Margo?” Kyle called out into the main room. “Did Weddle log in any evidence today?”

“No, Detective.”

“Have you reached him?”

“He’s off duty. I left a message.”

Kyle glanced at the clock. 3:10. Typical of Weddle and a few others who didn’t raise a finger after they clocked out. When their budget was slashed and overtime had to be preapproved, half the deputies protested by clocking in and out right on time. Most went back to the old way, but a few, like Weddle, didn’t.

Kyle didn’t have a college degree, but he’d been a cop for over twenty years. A good cop. He smelled something rotten, and feared it was his own deputy. Kyle almost called the P.I., then decided to wait. He needed something more than his gut instinct before he brought the situation to the sheriff, who was currently in Albany fighting for more funding. Ever since the state screwed the counties in the last budget, they’d been unable to hire more deputies, upgrade their computer system, or perform more than minimal maintenance on the county jail. Tyler Weddle had better have a logical—and provable—explanation for the conflicting information or Kyle would string him up.

The only thing Kyle hated more than an unrepentant criminal was a bad cop.

Margo buzzed him. He didn’t want to answer—thirty minutes until he was off-duty—but of course he did.

“We found Mr. Benson’s next of kin,” she said. “He’s the legal guardian of his seventeen-year-old nephew.”

Kyle rubbed his face. Damn. A minor.