Lost Lake

by Phillip Margolin

  “That was some entrance. He came in by helicopter with two bodyguards and a psychiatrist who worked at a place called Serenity Manor. The General just took over. He was like that. One of the most forceful and charismatic men I’ve ever met. I don’t doubt he’ll be our next president. Being in his presence is like standing next to bottled lightning.”

  They drove around a curve, and Ami saw large black metal letters that spelled out “Lost Lake Resort” attached to a low stone wall. Harney turned onto a paved two-lane road that wended its way through an evergreen forest for a quarter-mile. Blocking access to the grounds was a gate that could be raised or lowered by an access card or by a security guard in a small brick gatehouse. The gate and the guard didn’t look as if they afforded any real security-anyone could sneak through the woods on either side, and the guard was old, fat, and slow-moving-but they gave the illusion of protection and an air of exclusivity to the wealthy owners of the expensive homes that dotted the lake.

  “Hey, Ray,” Sheriff Harney said.

  “Sheriff,” the guard replied with a nod.

  “Going to take a ride around, if that’s okay with you.”

  The guard nodded again, raised the gate, and waved them through. After another eighth of a mile Ami saw signs for the lodge. The road forked and Harney turned left, away from the lodge, toward a range of low green hills. Every so often a driveway appeared. Most of the houses were screened from view by trees, but occasionally Ami could see one of the summer homes. For the most part, they were overbuilt-massive ranches, imitation Spanish villas, or huge stone fortresses. Ami felt as if she were in the midst of an architectural battlefield.

  “What happened to Vanessa after her father arrived at the hospital?” she asked, her eyes turned toward the landscape but her mind on the sheriff’s story.

  “All hell broke loose. She started screaming when the General walked into her room. They had to sedate her. Then the psychiatrist who was with the General had a conference with the doctors at the hospital. Next thing we knew, our star witness was lifting off in that helicopter and that’s the last we saw of her.”

  “Didn’t you try to stop them from taking her away?”

  “Not really. We’re just small-town cops. The General, he was something else. Earl did say something about her being our only witness, and the General promised he’d make his daughter available whenever we needed her. What could Earl say? Wingate was her father, and Lost Lake Hospital couldn’t provide the type of psychiatric care Wingate’s doctor said she needed.” Harney shrugged. “That was that, except for the FBI man.”

  “Who?”

  “Name was Victor Hobson, a real tough guy. The FBI was involved because Glass was a congressman and Hobson had been assigned to the case. He showed up a few hours after the General left, and he was furious when he heard what the General had done.”

  “Was any progress ever made with the case?”

  “Not really. The General brought Rice’s army records with him. Rice had been discharged for psychiatric reasons. Wingate said he was a very disturbed young man. Seems he and Miss Wingate went to high school together, and he had a crush on her. Then they’d met again in D.C. where Miss Wingate was going to law school and working for the congressman. Wingate thought that Rice was obsessed with his daughter and probably killed Glass because he imagined the congressman and his daughter were lovers.”

  “Was Rice ever arrested?”

  “No. We put out an APB, and the FBI had him on the ten-most-wanted list for a while, but I never heard anything else about him except for a second murder of some General on the east coast where Rice was a suspect. After that, nothing.”

  A driveway appeared and Harney turned into it. At the end of the driveway was a two-story log cabin set back behind a manicured lawn and some flower beds.

  “I thought you might like to see the place. The Reynolds family owns it now. He’s a banker in San Francisco. They come out a lot in the summer, but they’re in Europe now. I can’t let you in.”

  “I understand.”

  “The place was hard to sell after Glass died. You can imagine the problem. When the Reynoldses got it, they redecorated, knocked down a few walls. I’ve been inside, and it doesn’t look the same. But the grounds are pretty much the way they were that night.”

  Ami got out. It was hot and the midday air was still. She stared at the house and turned slowly in a circle, trying to imagine the way it would look in the dead of night. The sheriff waited patiently, then followed Ami when she walked around to the back. The house had blocked the breeze from the lake, and it felt cool and welcome.

  “That dock was there then,” Harney said, pointing out a short wooden pier. “Glass had a speedboat he tooled around in. And that’s the path to the tennis court where I first saw Miss Wingate.”

  Ami looked at the dock for a moment before turning her attention to the path that led to the tennis court. She imagined Vanessa Wingate wandering out of the darkness in her white nightdress.

  “The path goes past the tennis courts to a narrow rocky beach you can swim off or picnic on. We think Rice put it there.”

  “It’s all so peaceful, so beautiful,” Ami said. “It’s hard to imagine a murder happening here.”

  “It’s our first and only one, thank God.”

  Ami wandered back across the lawn. The curtains were closed, but there was a slit between the curtains and the sill. She looked into the kitchen.

  “That’s new,” Harney said. “The Reynoldses put in the island and the convection oven. Those marble countertops weren’t there either.”

  Ami wondered how much remodeling you would have to do before the ghosts left you alone. She turned away from the house.

  “Thanks for the tour.”

  “Did you learn anything helpful?” the sheriff asked.

  “No. Maybe there’ll be something in the files.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The file for the Glass murder was waiting for Ami when she and Sheriff Harney returned from the lake. She went through everything, including the pictures from the crime scene. Ami had never seen a murdered man, and the way Glass had been killed was so horrible that she felt light-headed after looking at the photographs.

  The only new information Ami gleaned from the file was that no army records were inventoried during the search of Glass’s house. Either Vanessa was lying and she had never brought the files to Glass or Rice had taken them with him when he fled. One thing in Vanessa’s and Rice’s favor was the fact that they had both told the same story about the records, and Ami was certain that they’d had no opportunity to talk since Carl had been arrested. Of course, the fact that Vanessa had found records of military personnel, including Carl, in her father’s safe didn’t necessarily mean that the secret unit existed.

  Ami had just finished her review when her cell phone rang. It was Mary O’Dell, the friend who was watching Ryan.

  “Thank God I got you,” Mary said. “You’ve got to come home.”

  “What happened?” Ami asked, terrified that Ryan had been hurt.

  “The police were here. They’re looking for you.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “That man who was staying with you escaped. It’s all over the news.”

  Ami raced to the San Francisco airport and caught the first flight to Portland. Detective Walsh had left a number with Mary, and Ami had phoned him while she waited for her flight to leave. Walsh confirmed that her client had escaped from the security ward but was unwilling to give Ami any more information over the phone.

  Walsh had sent a policeman to the airport and he was waiting at the gate when Ami landed in Portland. TV crews and a larger than normal contingent of police cars had ramped up the usual chaos that was endemic to any hospital. Ami’s escort led her through the media mob in the lobby and into an elevator. Their car stopped and Ami walked into a crowd of forensic experts, uniformed officers, and men in suits. She spotted Brendan Kirkpatrick talking to a police officer near the do
or to the security ward. He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Ami.

  “Mrs. Vergano. Nice to see you,” he said coldly.

  “What happened?”

  “Your lodger escaped with the help of a woman. You’re lucky you were in California, or I’d have you in custody.”

  Ami’s eyes widened with fear and her breath caught in her chest.

  “I don’t know anything about this. I didn’t help him escape.”

  “Who didn’t you help escape, Mrs. Vergano? What’s your client’s real name, and who is the woman?”

  Ami felt awful. “I can’t answer your questions, Brendan. My client told the answers to me in confidence. They’re privileged.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’m going to haul you in front of a judge first thing in the morning.”

  “You have to believe me,” Ami pleaded. “I’d help if I could.”

  Kirkpatrick’s shoulders sagged and he let out a deep breath. “There I go yelling at you again. I’m sorry. I’m just exhausted and frustrated.”

  “Believe me, I’d cooperate if I thought I could. I’ll tell you everything I know if the judge orders me to talk to you.”

  It suddenly dawned on Ami that Carl had been locked in the ward and guarded by a policeman and at least two orderlies.

  “Was anyone hurt?” she asked.

  “Your client pistol-whipped one of the orderlies. He had to have some stitches. Everyone else is okay.”

  “How did he escape?”

  “The woman posed as an aide to a television producer and conned Dr. Ganett into taking her into the ward. I guess he didn’t learn anything from his experience with you.”

  Ami flushed.

  “The orderlies were so excited about being on TV that they didn’t search her. She had two guns in her purse. Rice and the woman locked everyone in an empty room and disappeared. As of now, we have no idea where they are or what they’re driving.”

  Kirkpatrick was starting to say something else when Detective Walsh walked out of the elevator. He looked upset.

  “Excuse us, Mrs. Vergano,” Walsh said as he pulled the prosecutor out of earshot. As Walsh spoke, Ami could see Kirkpatrick getting more and more agitated. She heard him swear. Then the two men strode back to her.

  “No more games, Ami,” Kirkpatrick said, his temper barely under control. “We need the name of the woman, and anything else you can tell us, now.”

  “What happened?”

  “Dr. George French is dead, murdered,” Walsh said.

  Ami blanched and her legs gave out. Kirkpatrick grabbed her arm to keep her from falling.

  “Get her some water,” the DA told Walsh as he helped Ami to the chair at the orderly’s station. By the time Walsh returned with a cup of water tears were coursing down Ami’s cheeks.

  “He was such a good man,” she sobbed. Kirkpatrick looked at sea but Walsh knelt next to Ami and helped her sip from the cup.

  “You’ve got to help us, Ami,” the detective said. “Do you know who the woman is? Do you have any idea where they’re going?”

  “What makes you think my client killed Dr. French?” Ami asked. The question sounded more like a plea for help.

  “We don’t, but this is a hell of a coincidence.”

  A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Ami. “How…how was George…?”

  Walsh seemed reluctant to answer her. “It looks like he was kidnapped from his home and taken to his office,” he said.

  “Was he shot?” Ami asked, hoping that Walsh would say that this was the way that the psychiatrist’s life had been taken.

  “No.” Walsh hesitated again.

  “Please, it’s important.”

  “He was tortured, then his throat was cut.”

  Ami squeezed her eyes shut. She felt sick. She wanted to take Ryan and run somewhere, far away, but there was something she had to do first.

  “Will you take me to the murder scene?”

  “I don’t think…“ Walsh started.

  “Please,” she said, remembering the crime scene photos in the Glass file. “I can’t explain why, but I’ve got to go to the crime scene.”

  On the ride over, Ami learned that one of the cleaning crew in French’s office building had discovered the doctor’s body. A police car had been sent to French’s house, where the body of his wife had been found. Walsh thought that the Frenches had been asleep when the killer broke in. His bedroom and den had been ransacked, but Walsh didn’t think that the killer found what he was looking for because he had brought the psychiatrist downtown and the safe and the filing cabinets in French’s office were open and files were strewn about.

  When they arrived at French’s office building, Ami was escorted to French’s suite. As they walked from the reception area to the doctor’s office, Kirkpatrick became aware of the nauseating stench exuded by the newly dead that permeated every murder scene. He glanced at Ami. Her complexion was pasty and she was unsteady on her feet.

  “Are you certain that you want to do this?” he asked.

  Ami nodded because she was holding her breath to block the smell. She hoped she wouldn’t be sick.

  When they arrived at the door to the office Ami squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them slowly to control her view of the body. The office could have passed for a slaughterhouse. Blood had sprayed across the coffee table and the rug. Her stomach churned. Bile rose in her throat.

  Ami focused on two bare feet that were taped to the base of a chair in the center of the room. The feet were bloodstained. Someone had beaten them. Ami remembered what Carl Rice had said about the penchant his Vietnamese captors had for torturing his feet. Her eyes moved upward. French was wearing blood-spattered pajama bottoms. Ami gulped some air and vowed to get this over with. She raised her head and looked at what was left of George French. He had been taped to a chair. He was bare-chested and there were cuts all over his torso. His throat had been cut. She was looking at a mirror image of the crime scene in the home of Congressman Eric Glass.

  Ami stumbled out of the room. Kirkpatrick half-carried the attorney to the reception area. He settled her on the couch and handed her a bottle of water he’d had the foresight to bring with him. Walsh and Kirkpatrick waited anxiously for Ami to calm down.

  “Can you tell us the name of the woman and Morelli’s real name?”

  Ami looked as if she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “I don’t know what to do. I’d have to break their confidences,” she said, her voice a tremor away from a sob.

  “Can you at least tell us if something you saw in French’s office makes you think Morelli did this?” Walsh pressed. “That would be your idea, not something your client said.”

  “He did it,” Ami said. “I can’t tell you how I know, but I know.”

  “Brendan, get this in front of a judge first thing. In the meantime I’m putting some men outside Mrs. Vergano’s house tonight.”

  “Why?” Ami asked in disbelief.

  “Morelli didn’t run,” Walsh answered. “He stayed in Portland knowing that every policeman in the city was looking for him. I think he’s trying to destroy the record of what he told you and French. If you hadn’t been out of town, I think you’d be dead too.”

  Ami was already frightened. Now she was terrified.

  “Surely, he won’t come after me now. He’ll think I’ve spoken to you.”

  “He can’t be certain that you’ve told us what you know. He may take the chance that you’ve honored the attorney-client privilege and kept your mouth shut. If he plans to kill you to keep you quiet, he’ll have to move tonight. I’ve already sent a car to Mary O’Dell’s house to make sure your son is protected.”

  “Oh, God,” Ami moaned. She slumped forward. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Go home and try to rest,” Kirkpatrick said. “You’ll collapse if you don’t.”

  “No, I want to see Ryan.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Walsh said. “If Morelli is coming after you, you don’
t want to be anywhere near your son.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Emily Hobson, Victor Hobson’s wife of fifteen years, had supper waiting when he arrived home a little after eight. Two years before he met Emily, Victor had been engaged to a teller he’d met while investigating a bank robbery. His fiancee had broken off the engagement because she couldn’t put up with his erratic hours and his refusal to discuss the details of his work. Emily was a fingerprint examiner in the FBI lab. She’d retired after their second child was born. Victor worried that she would be bored silly if she stayed at home, but she had surprised him by being perfectly content to raise their children and put up with him. Victor knew that he’d been lucky to find someone who understood his job from the inside.

  After dinner, Victor checked on his children. His son was working furiously at a video game, and his daughter was talking on the phone with her best friend. They both grunted at him-a clear indication that they wished to be alone-so Victor walked downstairs and turned on CNN. The Supreme Court had heard another case involving Miranda rights; a suicide bomber had killed seven people in a cafe in Jerusalem; and there had been a surprise development in the Little League case.

  As the newscaster discussed the breaking story in Oregon, the station ran a clip of the brawl that had led to the arrest of a Little League coach on multiple assault counts. Victor stood up when the handheld camera focused on the face of the man the announcer identified as Daniel Morelli. The announcer explained that an unknown woman had helped Morelli escape from the security ward at the county hospital where the defendant had been imprisoned. A police artist’s sketch of the woman and a mug shot of Morelli flashed on the screen.

  Hobson had flown to Lost Lake shortly after the murder of Congressman Eric Glass. Vanessa Wingate had already been removed from the hospital by her father. The only positive result of his trip had been an opportunity to look through Carl Rice’s army records, which had been supplied to the sheriff by Vanessa’s father. Hobson still had a copy of the file, which contained the only photograph he had been able to locate of Rice. The face in the mug shot was older and careworn, but there was no question in Hobson’s mind that Daniel Morelli was Carl Rice.