“So you know Bowers pretty well?”
“In a manner of speaking, Doc. A slight matter of class difference perhaps. Irish Catholic still doesn’t cut in some circles in this town,” said Dick with the touch of irony that had led to the friendship between him and Osborne years earlier.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Oh, gosh … six or eight weeks ago? It’s funny you ask, because we’ve been trying to schedule a board meeting, and that guy has been out of town for over a month now. We can’t get an answer from his office on when he’ll be back, either.”
“He may not be coming back if we’re both talking the right Bowers,” Osborne said. “We’ve had a multiple slaying up here, and his may be one of the bodies.”
Dick was very quiet for a long moment. Then his voice tightened, and Osborne got a very real sense of how his old pal behaved in the office. To say Dick Halstead could focus was to put it mildly, thought Osborne later. The sudden appearance of breaking news catapulted Dick from the easygoing banter of his Sunday afternoon foot-on-the-ottoman style to the terse style of the newspaperman driven by the urgent, ongoing need to get it first and get it right and get it before TV, damn.
“Listen, buddy,” said Dick, “I have a Pulitzer-winning investigative guy on staff that I want you to talk to. He can give you some background, and I’m gonna tell him to give you some off-the-record stuff, too. Now is this … Are you official on this?”
“I’m deputized to help with the investigation, but we haven’t made any official announcements. We don’t have positive IDs yet,” said Osborne.
“Great. I need you to do something for me in return. Don’t talk to any other news media about this before you confirm with us, all right? Call me immediately when you have that confirmation,” said Dick. “If one of those victims is Bowers, this will be big news down here. And, Doc, here’s something that my reporter knows but that we haven’t released to the public: there’s a sting investigation under way down here, and we have to keep it under wraps until the KBI gives us the go-head.”
“The KBI?”
“The Kansas Bureau of Investigation. But let me put you through to the reporter, because he’s got the details. His name is Grant Moore—”
“What’s his phone number?”
“Don’t worry about it, I’m going to patch you through to him. I think he’s downtown, just hold on.”
Less than a minute passed before Osborne heard a new voice on the phone. “Dr. Osborne? This is Grant Moore. The boss said you’ve got some interesting news….”
Quickly Osborne told the reporter exactly what he had just said to Dick Halstead. He went over the details of where the bodies were found, what he’d seen for physical evidence, but he said nothing about the peculiar genitals of the corpse that appeared to be from Kansas City. He didn’t think he should share that information until they had a solid ID. He did tell the reporter about Ray’s disappearance, the assault, and the strange woman in the woods.
“None of this makes a lot of sense,” he apologized, “but my dental records do seem to point in the direction of Kansas City.”
“I see,” said Moore. “I’m going to air freight a packet of clips for you—photos and background on the family. That will help with your investigation, but you need to talk to Bowers’s lawyer right away. She’s been bugging me for weeks to look into where he is because she’s sure there is something wrong. We didn’t have a clue where to start because he didn’t leave any word with his housekeeper or anyone else that we could find.”
“What kind of a man is he?” asked Osborne.
“Very private person,” said Moore. “Midforties, single, very unassuming. I guess he’s worth about two hundred million bucks, but I’d never heard anything about him until the robbery. Dick set up the interview—that was about two months ago—but we haven’t run the story yet.”
“A robbery?” asked Osborne.
“That’s what Dick asked me to tell you about,” said Moore. “The Bowers family home, which he inherited from his mother, was robbed of a very famous collection of European sterling silver, which is what precipitated the paper’s involvement. The police down here weren’t as responsive as Bowers thought they should be—the silver collection is worth millions—and he mentioned it to Dick during a board meeting. He refused to let us publicize the robbery, but he is cooperating with the KBI, which has set up a fence operation they think may lead them to the perpetrators—which, in my opinion, it won’t.”
“You sound pretty sure of that,” said Osborne.
“I know that,” said Moore. His voice was genial but serious. “I have a source in the Kansas City, Kansas, police department that told me they know exactly who took the silver: when, how, what happened to it, and why it will never be found.”
“But no one believes them?”
“Oh, they’d believe them just fine,” said Moore. “But this information is off the record. I can’t publish this. I can’t even tell Bowers—but Dick Halstead told me I better tell you. So I have to ask you to agree to keep this confidential before I tell you anything more. Agreed?”
“Of course.”
“There’s a known silver thief who operates out of Canada,” said the reporter. “He gets his information from antique dealers. We think he masquerades as an antique dealer himself. Then he flies into a city in the morning, pulls the heist, and is out on a plane that night. He’s pulled maybe six or seven jobs in Kansas City over the last ten years because this is a center for some fine collections. A lot of money in this town.”
“Why don’t the police get him?” Osborne asked.
“Two reasons, no, three,” said Moore. “First, they don’t usually know he’s been here until he’s gone; second, police departments don’t share information. Kansas cops may know one thing, but they aren’t talking to the Missouri cops. None of the cops, Kansas or Missoui, talk to the KBI. The KBI wouldn’t listen if they did. Bowers lives in Missouri, and my informer is in Kansas. The third reason is that on the Kansas City, Kansas, side they really don’t care. That’s the poor side of town. They could care less if a major heist occurs on the other side of the state line.”
“I’m sorry,” said Osborne, “but you lost me. Why the is the KBI involved if Bowers is a Missouri resident?”
“The University of Kansas’s art museum was robbed of a similar silver collection that had been donated by Mrs. Bowers several years ago. The same thief, of course.
“But I have a theory on this, Dr. Osborne, and I couldn’t get Robert Bowers to listen to me. He has been working with two art experts, private dealers, over the last year, and I think they’re involved. I am certain of it. And the reason I’m certain is because those two have vanished.
“First the silver disappeared, then Bowers took this unexplained business trip, then his lawyer found hundreds of thousands of dollars paid out of his personal account to one of the dealers—who is missing. Well, we think he’s missing, although we can’t really document that he lived here. He was around a lot, but we can’t find a local address for him.”
“We have more than one body,” said Osborne.
“You can’t miss the woman,” said Moore, “she’s built—like thirty-eight Ds. Very chesty.”
“Nope, that we don’t have,” said Osborne. “What about the male? What does he look like?”
“Middle-aged, kind of stout.”
“That’s it?”
“I only saw the guy once and from a distance at a gallery opening.”
“What about other businessmen in the area—anyone else missing?”
“No,” said Moore. “Dr. Osborne, I know Bowers’s lawyer will be anxious to hear everything you’ve told me. Why don’t you give her a call, then let’s talk again. Here’s her number. I’ve got some reporting on fire here right now, but I’d like to see if Dick won’t send me up there in a day or or two, but let me get back to you on that….”
Osborne placed the second call, and within ten
minutes, he was making arrangements to pick up the lawyer at the Rhinelander airport the next morning.
“Dad? I overhead you talking about Ray Pradt getting beat up out there by Shepard Lake.” Erin was waiting for him in the long, airy living room. She was sitting on the sofa, little Cody sound asleep on her shoulder. She spoke softly so she wouldn’t wake up her son.
Osborne loved the picture he saw: his lively-eyed, slender-bodied daughter, jean-clad knees akimbo on an old overstuffed sofa in a room full of interesting and colorful things. Not expensive, traditional stuff like Mary Lee had always wanted, but what Erin called “funky.” Old furniture and antiques, comfortable sofa and chairs, nothing their three children couldn’t clamber on. The room was full of life, and her face was full of thought. Serious thought.
Osborne smiled and sat down carefully on the plump sofa beside Erin. The expression on her face seemed to grow darker, more concerned. This was beginning to look like something requiring lengthy discussion. Was she going to tell him he was making a mistake taking the assignment from Lew? Maybe she had reservations about Ray. Ray was always controversial, and his daughters often chided him for being seen too often with the stuffed trout hat. They had inherited their mother’s conventional attitudes, though in less toxic doses.
Osborne glanced at his watch. If he didn’t leave in five minutes, he’d be late for his meeting with Ray and Lew.
“What about Ray, hon? I told you we found him on one of those old logging roads farther north,” said Osborne. “Why?”
“But didn’t I hear you say it was up behind Shepard Lake?”
“Well, it was,” said Osborne, “closer to Dead Creek but back beyond that old B-and-B.”
“Dad, I had a terrible thing happen to me up there.” Erin laid the sleeping form of her son carefully on a blanket she’d spread beside her on the sofa. “I didn’t want to tell anyone this because I felt so stupid later.” She stood up and motioned him back toward the kitchen.
Osborne followed her, a nasty feeling tightening his shoulders. The look on Erin’s face frightened him. “What is it, Erin? You’ve got me worried.”
Erin leaned back against the kitchen sink and crossed her arms. She looked hard at her father. “You know Jeannie Phelan is running for county clerk, right? And I’m her campaign manager. So we got all these flyers printed up last Wednesday, and I got everyone to take some and start dropping them off in mailboxes.
“I took a bunch myself, and I decided I’d go out toward Crandon a ways and then north to Pine Lake. I had about three hours to kill, so I put Cody in the van and I just started to drive down the different roads, dropping off flyers at every house. Some houses have mailboxes by the road, and some have them right on the door or the porch. If they were on the door, I’d get out of the van and go shove one in the box or wherever.
“So I’m heading toward Pine Lake, and I’m driving past the sign for Marjorie’s Bed and Breakfast when I see this road I’ve never been on before. Looks like new houses going in or something because it’s getting traveled. I go up about a mile, and I see this old building with a truck in front of it. I was turning around when I noticed the road swung back behind the building. So I keep going, I go over a hill, and on the other side there’s a brand-new house—a big, fancy, log house. I pull in the drive, get out of the van, and walk up to the house. It has a porch that runs around it on both sides.
“So, Dad, I’m standing at the front door and I’m looking for a mailbox. I can’t find one. Then I sort of peer into this front window by the door because I’m intrigued by this incredible house when all of a sudden—I heard him before I saw him—I heard someone pounding across the porch. Then this guy comes around the corner of the house right at me like he’s going to hit me or something.”
“Are you serious?” Osborne was stunned.
“I can’t even remember exactly what he looked like except he was big, he was wearing these huge black boots, and he had this intense look of hate or fury or something in his eyes. I mean—he came at me! I screamed and ran,” said Erin. “It makes me shake to talk about it.”
She was right; Osborne could see her arms trembling even through her heavy sweater.
“Did he follow you to the van?”
“No, thank God. He never left the porch. He never said anything, either. I don’t even know where he came from. He just loomed up with these eyes and this hate, and I thought I was going to die. Taught me a lesson. You won’t catch me back in those woods again. I swung that van in a circle and beat it out of there, but I looked back in my rearview mirror, and I could see him waving his arms at me. It was so freaky, Dad. Don’t go near that place, whatever you do.”
“But you don’t remember what he looked like?”
“Just … like big and bearded, these sharp, blazing eyes, and those boots. A real big guy.” Erin paused and thought hard. “He was in farmer overalls and a dirty old sweatshirt, but I don’t remember too much more than that. He had this look in his eyes, Dad. Like he hated me and like he’d been waiting for me.”
Erin had begun to tremble again. Osborne reached to pull her close and put his arms around her. This was strange, thought Osborne. He couldn’t help but wonder if Ray had run into the same situation.
“Well,” he stroked Erin’s hair, “take it easy. You’re fine, and that’s what counts. I’ll tell Lew and Ray. We’re going out that way to retrace what happened to Ray yesterday, and I’m going to check out this house you’ve mentioned. You know, I don’t recall anyone building back in there. You know me, I’m pretty tuned in around here.”
“It’s a prefab, Dad,” said Erin. “We know the manufacturer, and you can put those up in less than a month if you get your foundation poured. The other weird thing is the little lake it’s on. It looks man-made.”
“A man-made lake in this part of the country?” Osborne shook his head. “We’ve already got three hundred and twenty lakes in a ten-mile radius of Loon Lake. Why would anyone want to make another one?”
fourteen
There is more to fishing than catching fish.
Dame Juliana Berners, fifteenth century
Leaving Mike in Erin’s backyard, Osborne hurried across the street and over the sun-dappled courthouse lawn. Lew’s office in the new wing attached to the jail was just a block and a half away. A brisk east wind gave the air a cold edge, even though the sun was still high. Osborne broke into a jog. He did not want to be late for the conference call with Rick Shanley.
The door to Lew’s office stood open. Lew sat at her desk, rocking back in her chair as she chatted with Ray, sprawled in one of two leather-seated wooden armchairs pulled up in front of the big old oak desk. The room was airy and light-filled, thanks to three wide, tall windows whose sills spilled over with green plants. The southern exposure agreed with them. To Osborne’s right as he entered was a small table, which held a coffeepot, its red light glowing. As he stopped to fill a mug, Lew straightened up in her chair, pushed a multibuttoned telephone console toward the center of her desk, and waved at him.
“Close that door behind you, will you, Doc?” she said. “I’ve got the speakerphone all set up. Are we ready?” Osborne nodded as he sat down, steaming mug in hand, and crossed his legs.
******************** “Okay, Lucy.” Lew leaned toward the console. “You can put us through.” A brief pause, a distant ring, and Dr. Richard Shanley identified himself.
“Hey, Rick.” Ray clasped his hands as he leaned forward, elbows on the arms of his chair. “Ray Pradt here. I’ve got Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris with me and Dr. Paul Osborne. You and Doc Osborne met at my place, remember?”
“Sure do, how are you, Dr. Osborne? Caught any trophy muskies lately?” Shanley’s voice boomed into the room, causing Lew to turn the volume down a notch. Osborne got the impression she didn’t want Shanley’s remarks heard outside the room.
“Season’s just opening, Rick,” said Osborne. “I like to fish shallow water right after the ice leaves the lake. That’s w
hy I was scouting upstream when I found the bodies you’ve been looking at. Now, I don’t know if you know or not, but muskies are very territorial, always feeding in the same spots if the temperature is right. There is a heck of a trophy muskie I’ve been stalking for years now. So when I get a spring sun and a west wind, I know right where to go. Otherwise, Rick, I would never have been up that creek, and no one else fishes that spot. Chances are real good no one would have come across those fellas ever.”
“He’s right,” said Lew. “We’re lucky Doc Osborne found them when he did—before the water warmed up. I want to thank you, by the way, for changing your schedule to run your tests. I know Wausau appreciates it, too.”
“You have no idea how much I appreciate it,” said Shanley.
He sounded downright buoyant, quite different from the tight-lipped academic Osborne been introduced to one October afternoon seven months earlier. Ray had swung into his drive that day with Shanley in tow, right after the two men had agreed on Ray’s participation in Shanley’s research. At that time, the environmental expert, identified only as “a new client,” was obviously anxious to keep a low profile, was probably running late for another appointment, and had been rather curt to Ray, cutting him off just as he had launched into a discussion of Shanley’s search for chemical pollutants affecting wildlife in the region. No such abruptness was apparent in the voice coming through the speakerphone today. Expansive was more like it.
“I have to thank you for this, Ray. A bonanza. I’ve spent all morning here in the lab, and I will probably be here … well, I’m planning to stay overnight. I apologize if I sound gleeful over someone’s bad fortune, but I’ve been on the lookout for something like this for a good, oh, three, four years.”
Dead Creek Page 13
