No Stone Unturned (34 page)

Next, I called Morrissey to fill him in on the burglary at the Mohawk. He thought it might be local kids, but the coincidence was troubling. Then I told him about the threatening phone call and the brake job someone had done on my car.

“I just spoke to Jerrold,” I said. “He refuses to help me. Can you squeeze him a little? And while you’re at it, could you check if he owns a second car?”

“I’ll go see him tomorrow,” said Morrissey. “And by the way, you’ll be happy to know that Nichols turned up a couple of hours ago in Worcester. He’s fine, but his prints were among those in the girls’ apartment. State police are bringing him back in now. I’ve got other troubles. A couple of other students from the department have dropped out of sight. A guy named Singh and another named Mohammed.”

“Dead or guilty?”

“Maybe both. At any rate, I’ve been dropping hints at the Engineering Department that some photographs of the Shaw murder might exist. Maybe that’s why they’ve gone underground.”

“Then I’ll have to beat some bushes to flush them out. I’m going to put it in the paper.”

“Put what in the paper?”

“That pictures of the murder exist, of course.”

“I think you’re crazy,” he laughed. “You’re asking for trouble.”

I was just drunk enough to pull the stunt I had in mind. I cajoled Fadge into helping me. He didn’t want to at first but soon got into the spirit of the proceedings. I dropped a dime into the phone and dialed George Walsh’s home number. Walsh answered in his affected gentrified manner, voice rising and dipping over the phonemes of a simple
hello
. I handed the phone to Fadge for his big performance.

“Don’t say a word,” whispered Fadge, doing his best imitation of my own midnight caller. I’d coached him beforehand but was impressed by his flair. He was great! “Keep your mouth shut and listen,” he continued, “or you’ll never solve the Shaw murder. The case has been botched by the police, and fouled up by your stupid paper from the start. Evidence was stolen. There are photos of the murder. The Puerto Rican kid shot pictures through the bathroom window, but someone grabbed the film when they searched the motel. That’s your tip, Bozo, don’t blow it,” and he hung up before Georgie could utter a syllable.

Fadge took me to Tedesco’s for a pizza after closing, then dropped me home around two. The wheels were in motion.

Monday night brought a black sky and freezing temperatures, the coldest of the season. I pulled a second quilt out of the closet and threw it over the bed, but I still didn’t sleep well. A half pizza, washed down with several Scotches, doesn’t agree with me, no matter how nice the company.

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1960

Monday morning, I rolled out of my warm bed around eight and shuffled into the bath. I felt lousy, but the memory of Fadge’s performance the night before cheered me. I stopped by Fiorello’s for a coffee and a poppy-seed roll. Feeling my oats after breakfast, I had an idea of where to find Julio’s stash.

“Wish me luck, Fadge,” I said, heading for my car. The Royal Lancer roared to a start on the first turn of the key, and I blessed Charlie Reese.

Lake Winandauga. Its name suggests a quiet waterway nestled amid tall pines; a place where Indians in their canoes once sliced through cool, clear water; a miracle of nature, discovered and settled millennia ago by the natives. Actually, the Army Corps of Engineers built the lake in 1936 when they stopped up a dripping stream known as Winandauga Creek. It was a WPA project, part of a larger plan to control the Hudson River’s water levels and stabilize the reservoirs downstate. The dam also provided a modest source of electricity for the surrounding area, and the leisure preserve was gravy.

The farmland in the valley above Winandauga Creek became lakebed, and cheap, sleepy forest was transformed into valuable beachfront. Victor Trent had bought some of the land in the early ’30s, a few years before the lake project was announced, and he hit the jackpot. As Frank Olney put it: “Third-class fellow, first-class luck.” Later, Trent built an enchanting cottage beneath a canopy of thick, verdant trees, about forty yards from the water. The view from the porch was a sublime panorama of rolling hills, blue water, and lazy skies. I wondered how I could ever afford such bliss on my meager salary. Assuming I could hold onto my job at all . . .

The house was closed for the winter, padlocked and deserted. I got through a window easily enough, though, and found myself in a small parlor. There were a few books—old furniture-repair manuals and
Reader’s Digest
condensed novels—and piles of movie and crime magazines. A black-and-white print of Jean Trent in a wistful pose dominated the room from the brick fireplace’s mantelpiece. I peeked into a few drawers, finding nothing but pencils, a yellowing pad of paper, candles, and a box of kitchen matches. In the bedroom, two dusty twin mattresses were rolled up on top of a narrow double bed. A warping chest of drawers against the wall was empty except for two bags of mothballs and more candles. My search of the closets produced no cameras or film. There was no basement or attic. I squeezed back through the window I’d jimmied and explored the grounds.

The property fronted the lake on the north side. A sloping grass lawn led to the water, where a wooden dock reached thirty feet into the lake. Along the shore, a clean, stony beach broke the gentle waves. Foraging into the woods near the shore, I came across a rusting corrugated-tin shed. The lock didn’t hold for long, but there was nothing worth seeing inside—an old outboard motor, two splintering oars, faded orange life jackets, and some fishing gear. I tramped through the woods flanking the lawn, pushed through a thicket of weed trees, and there it was. In the small clearing before me sat the weathered Pontiac station wagon.

A glance through the windows showed nothing inside. I was discouraged and, had I not searched so long, probably would have given up there. But I decided to break a window and have a closer look. Nothing under the seats, still nothing in the glove compartment. Then I looked in the back and spotted the spare-tire well. There was no tire inside. Hidden in the belly of the car was my trove.

A Kodak Pony 135, about ten years old; a dozen or so rolls of film; a medium zoom; jars marked
silver nitrate
,
hypo
, and
fixer
; clothes pins—the kind with spring jaws; twenty feet of clothes line; an enlarger; and a box of Kodak photosensitive paper. At the bottom, sealed in a protective envelope, I found about a hundred black-and-white negatives. My skin crawled. These were the fruits of Julio’s long hours spent spying through bathroom windows. But after twenty minutes of squinting at negative images of rumpled beds and naked bodies, I gave up. As far as I could see, there were no pictures of Jordan (or of me, for that matter) anywhere in the bunch.

I put the negatives back, covered Julio’s equipment in the tire well, then searched the rest of the car. I ran my hand along the floors, dug into the crevasses of the fraying thatch of seat fabric, and inspected the engine and undercarriage of the car. No exposed film or negatives hidden anywhere.

As I clapped my hands clean, wondering if I’d neglected some clever hiding spot in or on the car, I heard a twig snap behind me.

I reeled around to locate the source of the noise, but it was a gray day in thick woods. An eerie silence followed. Nothing stirred.

“Who’s there?” I asked. No answer. “Who’s there?”

Still no answer. I turned slowly, scanning the dense trees for some color, some human life. Then a figure stepped up behind me.

I recognized him at first sight: the creepy guy who’d watched me from across the room at Tedesco’s the night of Jordan Shaw’s wake. Greg Hewert. I was actually relieved; at least it wasn’t Pukey Boyle.

“Greg, you scared me,” I panted. “What are you doing here?”

He said nothing, just took a step toward me. His mouth hung open slightly on one side in a strange, lopsided smile, as he stared at me with hungry, blank eyes. He took another step. I recoiled, backed up into a tree, and froze.

“What are you doing, Greg?” I asked more insistently.

“Come on, Ellie,” he said. “I’ve asked around. It’s not all work for you, is it? You like a good time, don’t you?”

“Get out of my way,” I said and tried to push past him. He barred the path and forced me back against the tree.

“Come on, don’t go rushing off. We’re just getting to know each other.”

“What do you want?”

“The same as you. I saw the way you looked at me at Tedesco’s and at the funeral parlor. Then you called me to flirt, didn’t you?”

“Are you sick?” I asked, sneering at him. “I was looking at everyone. And I was doing my job when I called you.”

“You don’t have to act. I know when a girl’s interested, and you’re not exactly saving yourself for Mr. Right, are you?”

He took another step toward me.

“Wait a minute, Greg,” I stammered, holding my hands out. “Don’t touch me! I know karate.” No effect, and a lie to boot. He continued his menacing approach.

I made another dash to get by him, but he grabbed my arm and wrenched it, yanking me toward him.

“Let me go, you creep!” I yelled. “Take your hands off me!”

I pulled and tried to run, but he held fast, and I slapped him hard on the cheek. His eyes ran bloodred, and he reeled me back in, wrapping his other arm around my shoulders, crushing my face against his chest. I squirmed and fought, thrashed legs and arms, losing both my shoes, but he only squeezed tighter, now cutting off my breathing. As the struggle went on, as the air became scarcer, I was seized with the panic that I would suffocate. I dug my nails deep into his arm and raked them over his skin. He roared, and his determination turned instantly to a violent anger. He threw me to the ground like a ragdoll and fell on top of me, knocking what little wind I had left out of me. My chest burned for air, and I thought I would lose consciousness. Then he pushed up off me, and I gasped for breath, but my lungs wouldn’t fill.

Greg slobbered on me, saliva bubbling and dripping from his mouth as he struggled to immobilize my flailing arms. He yanked my coat off my shoulders and clutched the neck of my blouse. For the first time in my life, I doubted my knack of wriggling out of tight situations with persistent men. I’d done it so many times, always able to avoid the worst. But this time was different. He was going to rape me.