Ian grunted, his eyes on Weddle.
“It’s all taken care of, really.” Tyler glanced at Ian, then faced me.
I didn’t like what I was hearing.
“What do you mean?”
“I heard on the scanner this morning that Jimmy’s truck was found in the reservoir.”
I froze. My heart just about stopped. “What?”
“They have to drag the bottom because his body wasn’t in the car, but—”
“Go back. What did you do?”
He backtracked. “It wasn’t me, I just heard about it. Carl said he had to clean up some loose ends, and I assumed—”
Carl Browne.
After we inked the deal Sunday, Carl Browne was a dead man.
I looked Tyler in the eye and pictured him dead, too.
The images calmed me.
“Get rid of any evidence still in that mine today and I won’t punish you,” I lied smoothly.
“I will. I promise. Thank you.”
“Did the girl and her P.I. take anything with them?”
“No.”
“You know that for sure? Like you ‘knew’ Jimmy had dumped the bitch in the Hell Hole?” The Hell Hole was the deepest exploration shaft, drilled in the 1940s during the height of World War II. An accident resulted in three men falling to their deaths—more than 150 feet. My daddy used the Hell Hole whenever he needed to disappear someone. I suspected skeletons were stacking up down there like cordwood.
“They would have told me,” Tyler said. “I threatened to arrest them for obstructing justice.”
I simply didn’t believe that Tyler had any skill in reading people. If he had, he would know he was already dead.
“Good. Take care of the evidence and report to me when it’s done.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Go.”
“Ian,” I said after the fool left. “I’m not happy.”
“I can see why. What do you want me to do?”
“I need you to discreetly search Jimmy Benson’s house. No one can know you were there. Anything you find that even remotely connects back to me or my family, bring to me.”
“Of course.”
I had no need to tell Ian the entire truth. If he found what Jimmy had on me, he would instantly think traitor, and that would suit my purposes, but I didn’t think he’d find anything. I’d already had Jimmy’s place searched after my brother turned on me, and found nothing. But I had to believe the threat—and if Jimmy was dead, the information could be leaked.
My instincts were on fire. Something was wrong. I needed to know everything going on in town, starting with the strangers.
“I want everything on the P.I. Sean Rogan and his bed buddy Lucy Kincaid,” I told Ian. “Start with how they know Tim Hendrickson, and then move into their backgrounds. What kind of cases he works. What the bitch does at the morgue. Where they live, siblings, parents, everything.”
“Not a problem.”
Nothing was a problem for Ian. He was perfect for me. Young, beautiful, strong, smart—and he did everything right the first time I told him. I’ve gone through so many personal assistants I’ve lost count. The longest running was Zachary, who was with me almost two years before I found him screwing a cheap whore. It pained me to kill him. What a waste.
Ian had been with me for seven months, and was amazing in all parts of his job. After my one failed marriage, I’d never again give control to a husband. Killing husbands was a messy business because there were official marriage records and crap like that. A hired, under-the-table assistant was far preferable.
“We’re going to have some fun tonight.”
His blue eyes sparkled. “The cop?”
I grinned. Ian got the same thrills I did.
“May I kiss you?”
My skin tingled. “You may.”
He came around the desk and kissed me. I reached down and touched him between his legs. He was already growing hard.
I pulled away. “Save it. We’ve got a lot of work to do today.” And no way was I wasting time screwing.
Ian walked over to the couch and opened his laptop. “Sean Rogan. Lucy Kincaid. Let’s see what I can find.”
“While you do that, I have people to punish.”
I couldn’t tell from his look if he was concerned about my safety or merely disappointed he couldn’t participate.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him, “and I promise to let you help with the fun punishments later.”
“You’re so good to me.”
SIXTEEN
Lucy showered until the hot water turned cold. Her head ached from both lack of sleep and the friction with Sean.
She was drying her hair when her phone rang. It was her brother Patrick, Sean’s partner at RCK.
“Luce, I emailed you a link to the missing persons reports I pulled.”
“I’ll look through them right now.” She put her phone on speaker and quickly gathered her damp hair into a ponytail.
“I used your criteria—Caucasian women between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five who went missing in the Northeast during the last nine months. I narrowed it down to forty-seven women, blond or light brown hair, between five foot four and five foot eight. Since the files are large, I posted them to my server and you can view or download them from there. I can broaden the search if necessary.”
At Sean’s computer, she logged into her email. “I hope she’s here.”
“I just got off the phone with Sean; he told me what happened. I got a seat on the last flight to Albany tonight, then a commuter plane first thing in the morning. This was supposed to be a vacation for you two.”
“This is the second vacation I’ve had where a dead body has turned up. Maybe I should stay home.”
She was half-joking, but Patrick was serious. “I started the background checks Sean asked for. The Swain family popped immediately. The father died in prison—he got twenty-five-to-life for killing his girlfriend. The oldest brother, Paul Swain, is in prison for manslaughter and drug trafficking. They tried to make a case against his brother Butch, but nothing stuck. Butch was suspected of bribery, extortion, and manufacturing methamphetamines.”
“Do you know if there’s an active investigation?”
“I called around to the usual places, didn’t hear of anything ongoing, but that doesn’t mean squat half the time. The word is when Paul Swain was sent away, his operation dried up. Nine people went to prison. He was the brains, Butch was the brawn.”
“Where’s Butch Swain now?”
“His legal address is in Colton, about twenty miles from Spruce Lake. There’s a younger sister, Roberta, who went to college in Florida, and I can’t find anything on her since then.”
“Really?” Lucy teased. “You’re stumped?”
“Hardly. I’m digging. I think she probably got married, which is why I have nothing on her maiden name. I can’t find a marriage record in Florida or New York, so I’ll broaden the search. Anyway, I wanted to make sure you got my email with the missing persons records. Let me know if your mine lady’s not there, and I’ll broaden that search, too.”
“Thanks, Patrick.”
“Watch out for Butch Swain. Even though word is he isn’t a sharp tack, he could have acquired a new partner. I told Sean the same thing.”
“Does anyone think the little brother has a new meth lab up and running?”
“I called Noah, and he’s putting a feeler out with the DEA about drug activity in St. Lawrence County. There was nothing on the FBI radar, at least with the Swain name or Spruce Lake attached. They’re focusing on labs in Massena now, which they believe picked up the slack when the Swains went out of business.”
“Take one down, two more pop up.”
“Got that right. Luce, I don’t know what’s going on in Spruce Lake, but keep a low profile until Sean gets back. I wish he hadn’t left you alone.”
She sighed. Long ago she realized that she’d be forever coddled by her family. “
Patrick, I’m not alone. Tim and Adam Hendrickson are both here. And do you remember I’m practically an FBI agent? When I have my badge, will you still tell me to be careful?”
“Yes.”
She laughed. “Fair enough.”
“And you’d better have your gun on you now.”
She glanced across the room to where her Glock was partly hidden on a bookshelf. Sean had given her security measures to follow since they became involved, many of which she’d already learned from her oldest brother, Jack, a former army sergeant. There was another gun hidden in the bathroom and a third under the cushion on the couch.
“I have it covered,” Lucy told Patrick. “Nothing we’ve found indicates the vandalism on the resort is drug related. Did you run the other names Sean gave you?”
“There’s nothing much on Jon Callahan. He’s originally from Montreal, but after his father died when he was twelve, his mother sent him to live with his Uncle Henry in Spruce Lake. He went to college in Connecticut, became a naturalized citizen—easy because his dad was an American—and settled in Spruce Lake. He owns a lot of property—most of the town, in fact, that isn’t owned by the Hendrickson estate.”
“How did he make his money?”
“He’s a lawyer specializing in international law—no criminal law, all civil. He’s with a major firm based in Montreal with a U.S. office in New York City, very respectable, seems to work primarily in intellectual property rights, contract law, estate planning. I’m going to look at the type of work he specializes in.”
“But how can he practice law living in the middle of nowhere?”
“With technology these days, he wouldn’t necessarily have to go into an office. He gave you the creeps?”
“No. He seemed to be the most normal person I’ve met here; maybe that’s why he stood out. Very smooth, like a good salesman.”
“Absolutely, we need to especially watch out for the normal people.”
“Very funny. What about Reverend Browne or Callahan’s uncle?”
“Henry Callahan worked for the Kelley Mine as a young man. Married Emily Richardson when they were both nineteen, right out of high school. They have no children. When the mine closed, he enlisted in the army, served five years stateside as a mechanic. Opened his own shop in Colton. It went under a few years later and he retired early.”
“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.
If I Should Die Page 12
