“The shooter was probably no more then five feet one way or the other,” said Ray. “See a shell casing anywhere?”
“No, I was looking for it as I walked out here; I didn’t want to push it into the sand.”
“Let’s work our way out from this point in each direction, some automatics throw the brass a pretty good distance.”
They covered the area three times without finding anything, the third time using a rake Ray brought from the cottage.
“It’s not here. What do you think?” asked Sue.
“The shooter either picked up the shell, which would have been difficult in the dark, or he used a bolt action rifle. Then he ran for his car that he left….”
Sue finished his sentence, “Behind one of those unoccupied cottages down the way.”
“Let’s see how long it would take,” said Ray.
They headed across the dune at a brisk pace. When they got to the first cottage Ray checked his watch.
“How long?” asked Sue.
“Less than three minutes.”
“And if he was running,” she opined, “he could have cut that in half.”
“Even in the dark and rain?”
“Well, maybe two minutes,” she offered with a smile. “Then another minute or two to the highway, and he’s gone. How long before Jake got here?”
“I’d have to check the log to tell you accurately, but I think about fifteen minutes.” “So even if the shooter took a leisurely stroll out, he would have had five or ten minutes lead on the first unit, and…”
“And what?” asked Ray.
“Well, we’re assuming that the killer had a car parked here, and that’s how he escaped. But we have no evidence to that fact. He might have walked out, had a car hidden on one of the old fire roads a mile or two from here. Or he might have come by boat.”
“That’s all true. I guess it depends on who the killer was.”
“What are you getting at?” she asked.
“The shooter was very skilled. If this was done by a professional, he would have come to the area to do the job and would get out fast. I doubt if he would have taken the time to learn the area well enough to find out where all these little roads in the woods go. And I doubt if he would have taken time to arrange for a boat. The most efficient thing to do would be to stake out the victim for a few days, get a sense of his habits, and then devise a plan to do the killing and get away safely.”
“So you think this was professional hit.”
“Might be. We’ll know more when we get additional information on the victim.”
“Is there anything else you want me to do here, Sheriff?”
“Go over the area again with a metal detector, just in case the brass is buried in the sand. Later today or tomorrow I want to bring the victim’s wife back here for questioning. I want you to be here for that. Also, see if any of those cottages are occupied. Then cover the drives and two tracks on foot just to make sure the shooter didn’t drop anything.”
“Given the lack of physical evidence, where do we go from here?” she asked.
“We question the witnesses again, check for any evidence that we might have missed, dig the bullet out of wall and send it to the State Police Lab, and see if there is any information on the victim on LEIN and NCIC.”
“And what happens if we don’t find anything new?”
Ray could tell from Sue’s expression what she had just come to realize.
“In the months since you have been on the force—this is your third homicide, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” she answered. “We had the deer hunter in November and the woman who shot her husband in late January or February.”
“And those are fairly typical of the kinds of homicides that we see up here, only a few each year, and they are usually open and shut—you’ve got the body, the motive, and usually a killer who wants to make a statement.”
“And this one?”
“It’s too early to tell.”
4
Marc was awakened by a loud banging on the back door. As he noticed the sunlight framing the edges of the thick curtains, he heard his dog, Grendel, move. Briefly he heard Grendel’s license and rabies tags drag against the floor, but it was clear that the dog was not going to investigate the noise.
Marc pulled on some worn, khaki shorts. As he walked down the hall to the kitchen, he could see a familiar face peering in the window next to the door. He opened the door.
“Why’s everything locked? You’re not in the city.” “Why are you getting me out of bed in the middle of the night?”
“Middle of the night, hell. 9:00 a.m. is the middle of the night for you summer people?”
Marc yawned, stretched and rubbed his eyes several more times. Then he took a long look at his boyhood friend. He saw that Ray had less than a day’s beard; he was wearing a tie, although loose, with the top button open, and the uniform that covered his short and stocky frame still showed some evidence that it had once been pressed.
“Are you cleaning up your act?” asked Marc. “Even at this ungodly hour, you’re more in uniform than I’ve ever seen you.”
“Ungodly hour, it’s midday for us working folk.”
“I’m still impressed by the uniform. You spent years trying to effect the country-cop look, and now you’re looking almost citified.”
“Well, there is an election coming, and I thought it was time I started to improve the department’s image a bit. Which leads me to the reason for my visit. Rumor has it you’re becoming a local voter.” When Ray talked, his whole face, round with a pointed nose, was mobile, and he punctuated his sentences by blinking and moving his head. His face had humor. He looked like a character in a Hogarth print, or one of Dickens’ street urchins who had grown to middle age.
“The rumor is true, but campaigning at this time in the morning,” said Marc as he stretched again.
“You’ve got to catch the voters when you can,” replied Ray with a sleepy smile. “The election is turning into a real horse race. I’ll have to work this time if I want to stay in office.”
“I thought you might have tired of the job by now. I’m surprised someone hasn’t enticed you back downstate with a more challenging position.”
“I’ve been up here for quite a while now. This agrees with me. And,” he continued with a mocking smile, “this job is worth keeping. It’s one of few jobs in the county with steady pay and a new car every year. Anyway, I was out this way and thought I’d stop and see if you were here yet.”
“I arrived on Friday. Want some coffee?”
“Have I ever turned it down?” Ray stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “Place doesn’t look any different than when your grandparents lived here. Did you move anything up with you?”
“Just my clothes, some books, two computers, and some small personal things; Elaine is keeping the house.”
“She got the gold mine and you got….”
“Not really, she’d picked out everything in the house. It was all hers. She always ridiculed my taste. All I wanted was my personal things. I was happy to leave everything else. No use bringing baggage filled with unpleasant memories. She got the house, and I got the hound.”
“Well you got the best part. Where is old Grendel?”
“He’ll wander in when it looks like breakfast is in the offing. He doesn’t feel he has to be a guard dog anymore.” As Marc started the coffee maker, he looked over at his friend. “I’m glad to see you. What brings you out this way?”
“We had a murder last night, couple of miles from here on the big lake. The victim is from Chicago. I wish you summer people would keep that stuff downstate. It’s not good for the tourist business. And it may not be good for this incumbent sheriff just before an election.” Ray bounced his thumb off his chest several times.
“How so?” asked Marc.
“My opponent,” he laughed, “will argue that the homicide rate has increased a hundred percent. H
e’ll tell the voters crime is increasing here faster than in Detroit.”
“So you’re up to two?”
“Two so far this year. Let’s hope you fudgies keep it under control for the rest of the season.”
“Still take it black?”
“Think I’ve changed?”
“It’s possible. You’ve been here for almost ten minutes, and you haven’t lit a cigarette yet.”
“True. I stopped four or five months ago. It was time. It was real hard to quit. And every time I have a coffee or a beer, God, I’d like to have one.”
Marc got two mugs and the coffeepot and carried them out to the deck. Ray followed. “So tell me about the murder?” he asked as they settled into deck chairs.
“The murder took place at one of those big old cottages on Otter Point. Place looks a lot like this, probably been in the family for years. Name’s Holden, Randy Holden, he’s from Chicago.”
“Randy Holden,” Marc repeated.
“You recognize the name?” Ray asked.
“I haven’t thought about him in years.”
“Was he a friend of….”
“Never a friend, just someone I knew. You might have met him, too.”
“Name doesn’t ring any bells. And he didn’t look familiar.”
“How did he die?”
“Bullet through the back of the neck. The kind of shot that deer hunters like. You don’t waste any meat.”
“Do you have the killer?”
“Don’t have a clue. Holden and his wife were entertaining friends, had just come back from a play. The victim was mixing drinks. Shot must have been fired from the dune just off the water’s edge. It was during that heavy thunderstorm we had about midnight. No one heard the shot. And no one saw or heard a car leaving the area.” Ray sipped his coffee. “What do you remember about Holden?”
“Not very much. I met him up here when we were in high school. He was a friend of a friend—you know how that goes, especially when you’re in high school. He was a friend of Mel Wallace. I think they went to Cranbrook. Mel’s parents had a cottage in that area. He’d come by and visit Mel. Randy would also come to the parties Mel threw when his parents left him up here alone.” Marc paused and drank some coffee. “And during my first two years at Michigan, he was in a couple of my classes. He lived in one of those old fraternity houses on Washtenaw near Hill Street. I would run into him from time to time or see him walking up South University, usually with an attractive girl.” Marc paused.
“Anything else?”
“I ran into him again after I got back from the Navy. He was still living in the Detroit area. He had finished law school at Wayne or U of D and was working for a group of personal injury lawyers. He told me he was making a mint suing General Motors. He and Mel were still hanging out together. I think I saw him three or four times the summer I got back. A year or two later Mel told me Randy got in trouble with the Michigan Bar over some of his cases.”
“What did he do?”
“I can’t remember the details anymore. It had something to do with a scam his firm was running. They were working with a thoracic surgeon. They would find older or retired workers from the General Motors foundries in Pontiac, Flint, Saginaw, and wherever else GM had foundries. The doctor would check them over and do the necessary diagnostic work to show that they had lung damage caused by their years in the foundry. His firm would bring suit against GM in Wayne County and win every time, splitting with the plaintiffs.”
“So what was the scam?”
“I think they got sloppy. You might want to check on the details. But I think it was so easy that the doctor just started creating evidence without doing the tests, and Randy was going to court knowing that his cases were built on fabricated evidence. They finally got nailed for it. And there was a bit of humor in it.”
“What was that?”
“It all came out just after the Jaycees named him one of Michigan’s Outstanding Young Men.”
“Did he get disbarred?” asked Ray.
“That I don’t know. I know he left the state and moved to Chicago. I remember Mel telling me he bought a seat on the Mercantile Exchange and was making a killing in gold, or wheat, or pork bellies, or something. And I heard that he moved on to junk bonds. Mel said he had made big money for some rich clients and was getting rich himself by churning their accounts.’’
“What’s that?” asked Ray.
“That’s when you move your clients’ money from stock to stock. With each trade you pocket a hefty commission. You can get by with churning in an up market, especially if you do your homework. You can still make money for your client. But it’s not ethical, and you’re really cheating them.”
“Mr. Stockbroker, do I note some disapproval?” asked Ray in a teasing tone.
“Well, most of the people in the business are honest and work hard at serving their customers. Then there are people like Randy and that whole parcel of young kids with the high priced MBAs, the Harvard, Wharton, Stanford, Chicago group—those kids were making more in their second or third year of business than I was making after twenty years. They are so arrogant. They seem to think that they have a birthright to rape the system. It doesn’t bother them that they’re getting rich at someone else’s expense.’’
“Do I detect some anger?”
“Yes, I think he was one of them,” continued Marc. “I’ve seen a lot of them, and I think he was the type. I hate what they’re doing to the business.”
“Who would have wanted him dead?” asked Ray.
“Hard to tell. He might have fucked with the wrong person’s investments. Call Mel, he lives in Grosse Pointe, has his law office in the Ren Cen. I’m sure he can tell you more. He might be able to give you the names of some people who would know about Randy’s recent activities. Tell him you’re a friend of mine.” As he poured some more coffee he asked, “How’s your love life?”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time with a new woman friend, a recent divorcee. She’s our age, pleasant and interesting—got a condo on Lake Michigan. I’ve been staying with her part of the time.
“Living in sin during an election, how does that go down?”
“No problem, bunch of retired people, downstaters, in the condos who love having a police car in the parking lot. They’re all good Republicans. I make a special point of telling them I’ll personally check on their place when they’re away.” Ray finished his coffee, “Well, I better run and get cleaned up and shaved. The TV crew will want an interview live from the scene. Thanks for the coffee. Glad you’re back.”
“When are we going fly fishing?”
“I can probably get loose a couple of hours tomorrow afternoon. The Hexagena hatch should be starting any day now. I’ll bring the flies. I know you don’t have any.”
“When do I get to meet this new lady?”
“Soon. She’s in Seattle now, daughter just had a baby—soon as she gets back. Tell your dog I was here to see him.”
As Ray drove away Grendel wandered out onto the deck, slipped over the side, marked two corners, and climbed back up, wagging his tail and whining for breakfast.
5
Ray arranged to have Tawny Holden, the victim’s wife, brought back to the scene for questioning. Sue Lawrence was sent to pick her up from the summer home of Larry and Jean James.
Ray got to the cottage half an hour early. He walked out to the beach and next to the stake they had pushed into the sand earlier. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize how the scene would have appeared to the shooter. He could see the porch, bright against the darkness of the stormy night. He visualized the people he had questioned and placed them on the porch. He thought about how the scene would have appeared through a telescopic site. He centered the cross hairs on the victim, felt the rifle kick, and watched the pandemonium on the porch, watched the people run into the cottage, watched the cottage go dark.
Then Ray walked down the beach to the cottages a few hundred yards south of the vi
ctim’s. He thought about a car parked in the darkness. He walked along the two-track drives, sand surfaces washed clean and made smooth by the heavy rain. There were no tire tracks, just the impressions from another walker. Ray walked back along the road to the victim’s drive.
He was just about to enter the cottage when Sue came up the drive. He walked to the passenger door and opened it for Tawny Holden. As she emerged Ray was surprised by how tall she was; she had appeared so small and fragile when he had questioned her briefly the first time.
“I don’t want to go back in there,” Tawny said gesturing toward the cottage. “Can we talk at the beach?” They arranged themselves on three metal lawn chairs on the deck next to an old boathouse. Tawny took the chair in the center. Ray sat on one side and Sue on the other. Sue held a pad, preparing to take notes.
Ray asked, “When did you first meet Mr. Holden?” “It was last October. He was on the afternoon flight from O’Hare to LAX. I’m a flight attendant for United. The plane was almost empty. There were only five or six people in the first class section, and most of them slept all the way. He was in an aisle seat in the first row, and I ended up talking with him on and off during the flight. After, he came up to me in front of the terminal. I was waiting for the employees’ van. He asked if I wanted to have dinner. I got my car and came back and picked him up. We went to my place so I could change, then I took him to his hotel so he could check in. We went to a little restaurant on the beach, had a wonderful evening. He was a lot older than anyone I’d ever dated, but he was kind and gentle and funny. He was a nice change from the man I was seeing.” She paused and looked out at the lake. She pulled her feet onto the chair and wrapped her arms around her legs. She was wearing a loose fitting linen suit, the whiteness of the material accented her deep, reddish-brown tan. Her long blond hair, pulled tight with a ribbon at the back of her head, dropped below her shoulders. “Perhaps I was on the rebound,” she continued in an almost trance-like voice. “I’d been involved with a pilot. He was married. I was in love with him, but he wanted out. Randy came along when I needed someone.”
Summer People Page 2
