Lost Lake

by Phillip Margolin

  The newscasters started talking about a plane crash in Brazil, and Hobson turned off the set. The day after Morris Wingate had declared his intention to challenge President Charles Jennings for his party’s nomination, Hobson had received a call from Ted Schoonover, an ex-CIA man who was the president’s chief troubleshooter. Schoonover had invited him to breakfast at a Greek restaurant in a strip mall in a Maryland suburb. Hobson was willing to bet that no one with any clout in D.C. had ever set eyes on the place. Schoonover was a short, chubby man with thinning hair and a double chin, certainly not the type of person you would notice in a crowd. After their meeting, Hobson had run a check on him. Except for some basic employment information, Schoonover’s file was eerily blank. Hobson had been able to determine little more than the fact that Schoonover had served with Charles Jennings when Jennings was the director of the CIA. When Hobson tried to get more information about the ex-spook he was told that he was not cleared to look at the relevant files.

  Over breakfast, Schoonover had asked Hobson if he’d heard Wingate’s announcement. Then he asked the FBI man to brief him on the events at Lost Lake and their aftermath. When Hobson was finished, Schoonover asked if there was any new information on the whereabouts of Carl Rice. Hobson had told Schoonover that he’d had no new information about Rice since the mid-1980s. Schoonover told Hobson that the president wanted to know immediately whenever there were any developments in the case.

  Hobson had not contacted Schoonover after his phone conversation with Vanessa Wingate, because he had nothing concrete to report. Now he took Schoonover’s business card out of his wallet and dialed the cell phone number that the president’s aide had written on the back.

  “Talk to me,” Schoonover said after three rings.

  “This is Victor Hobson. There’s been a new development in that matter we discussed.”

  “You up for a late-night snack?”

  “The same place?”

  “See you in a half hour.”

  A sign on the door said that The Acropolis closed at eleven P.M., but Ted Schoonover was sitting inside eating baklava and sipping thick Greek coffee when Hobson parked outside at eleven-thirty. Before Hobson could knock, a balding man wearing a white apron let him in, then relocked the door.

  “You want some coffee? The baklava is the best,” Schoonover said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Then fill me in.”

  “Vanessa Wingate called me a few days ago and said that she knew how to find Carl Rice, but she wouldn’t tell me anything else. I had her call traced to a motel, but the clerk said that she’d checked out. I questioned her boyfriend. He says that he has no idea where she went. I didn’t call you, because I didn’t have anything solid and Vanessa is-well, to put it charitably-odd. She was raving about her father trying to kill her. The boyfriend told me that she’d called 911 and told the cops that he was being attacked in their apartment when that wasn’t true.”

  “Where is this going?”

  “Have you heard about the brawl at that Little League game in Oregon?”

  “I read something about it.”

  “I think Carl Rice is the man the police arrested at the game. I’m pretty sure that he was in Portland, Oregon, as of last night.”

  “What do you mean, ‘was’?”

  “A woman broke him out of the security ward of the county hospital.” Schoonover stopped eating and gave Hobson his full attention.

  “On TV tonight, they showed a mug shot of the man who escaped. The newscaster called him Daniel Morelli. I can’t be certain, because the photo in Rice’s file was taken when he was in his twenties and the man in the mug shot is years older, but it definitely looks like Rice, and the artist’s sketch of the woman looked a lot like Vanessa Wingate.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “I thought I’d send an agent out to Portland to keep tabs on the manhunt.”

  Schoonover thought while he dabbed at his lips with a napkin.

  “No,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “You take care of this personally.”

  “I’m an assistant director. I can’t go running off to Oregon for God knows how long. Rice has hidden successfully for twenty years. I have no idea how long it will take for the police to find him.”

  “Don’t worry about your other work. I’ll take care of that with the director. You’ll offer FBI assistance on this. Once Rice is arrested, you’ll call me and I’ll take over. Your job is to make certain that no one gets to this guy before I do. No one, is that understood?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Ami nodded off twice during the ride home, but fear erased her fatigue when the patrol car parked in front of her house. Ami and Ryan lived in a yellow-and-white farmhouse surrounded by dense woods. It had a quaint front porch with a swing that she and Chad had rocked in on warm summer nights after Ryan went to sleep. In daylight, it was a picture-postcard house. Tonight, when Ami looked at the woods she painted and the home she knew so well, she saw dark places where a murderer could hide.

  One of the officers stood watch while Ami waited in the car. The other officer used Ami’s keys to unlock her front door. When he was satisfied that no one was hiding in the house, the two policemen escorted her inside. While Ami went upstairs to get ready for bed, one officer took up a post in the living room and the second went outside to patrol the grounds. Ami felt better after a shower, though she was certain that she could not possibly fall asleep. For a while her thoughts kept her in turmoil, but she was so exhausted physically and emotionally that she soon drifted off.

  Ami’s eyes snapped open. She stared bleary-eyed at the clock on her end table. It was one-forty-six in the morning, and the room was pitch-black. The thud of a heavy object falling had jerked her out of her deep sleep, but she wasn’t certain that she hadn’t dreamed the sound.

  Ami sat up and listened. She heard nothing but the ticking of the grandfather clock in her downstairs hallway. The clock was an antique that Chad had loved. The metallic tock of the moving hands could be heard clearly in the middle of the night and had always bothered Ami, but she could not bring herself to get rid of the clock after Chad died. Now it was the only sound she could hear. She had almost convinced herself that the sound that had awakened her was a figment of her imagination when a floorboard creaked.

  Someone was walking up the stairs and trying to be quiet about it. Ami got out of bed. Her heart beat furiously until she remembered that there was a policeman in the house. She was chiding herself for being a fool when her doorknob started to turn.

  Ami rushed to the door and braced against it. The knob stopped turning.

  “Who’s out there?”

  The wooden door shattered and flew into the room. Splinters stabbed Ami, and the sharp edge of the door struck her forehead, knocking her onto the bed. A shadow loomed over her. Dressed all in black, the man seemed part of the darkness. He raised a brutal knife whose serrated blade shone in the moonlight. Ami rolled off the bed to the floor and had scrambled to her knees when she was jerked up by her hair. The pain was excruciating. She screamed and the grip on her hair relaxed. Ami rolled to her back, her hands up in self-defense. Her attacker collapsed on top of her. Ami screamed again as she shoved at the weight that crushed her to the floor. The killer did not strike at her and his body barely moved. Over his shoulder, Ami saw another man whose face was concealed by a ski mask identical to the one the first assailant had worn. Ami scuttled from under the first man’s body until her back was pressed against the wall.

  “It’s me,” a familiar voice said.

  The man peeled back his ski mask. Carl Rice stood above her, a large, blood-covered knife in his right hand. Rice saw where she was looking and laid it on the floor.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I heard about Dr. French on the radio and I knew they’d come for you.”

  Ami had never been so close to death and she was having trouble breathing.

  “I’m going to help you stand
up,” Rice said. “Let’s get you away from the body.”

  Carl reached down and helped Ami to her feet. She moved sideways so she would not have to touch the corpse but she could not take her eyes off of the dead man.

  “Who is he?” Ami asked, terrified that she knew the answer.

  “It’s one of Wingate’s men.”

  “Oh, no,” Ami moaned, overwhelmed by the idea that someone as powerful as the General was after her.

  “This is the worst possible time for me to come back from the dead,” Rice said. “Wingate knows that eventually the police will figure out that I’m wanted for the murder of a general and a congressman. He’s got to be terrified that I’ll barter information about the Unit for a lighter sentence. If President Jennings raises serious questions about the Unit, Wingate’s presidential hopes go down the tube. That’s why Dr. French was killed. Wingate had to find out what I told you and the doctor, and who else knows. Ami, did you tell the police about our conversations?”

  Rice’s reference to the police made Ami remember her guards.

  “What happened to the two officers who…?”

  Carl shook his head. “I was too late.”

  “Those poor men, they were only here to help me.”

  Ami started to sob. Rice gripped her upper arms. “You’ve got to pull yourself together. We don’t have time for this.”

  “We don’t have time?” Ami yelled as anger replaced her despair. “You’re the cause of all this. Those men would be alive if it weren’t for you.”

  “And you would be dead,” Rice answered calmly, “and you may be dead soon if we stand here debating who’s responsible for what. When Wingate’s men don’t report in, he’ll send more. Now tell me what you told the police about the Unit.”

  “The police don’t know anything. I told them what you said was privileged.” Suddenly a picture of George French’s ravaged body flashed in Ami’s mind and she shuddered. “Wingate’s men must know what you told us. George was tortured just the way you tortured Eric Glass.”

  “Do the police think I killed French?”

  Ami nodded. “I saw the crime scene photographs at Lost Lake. I thought…”

  “Of course you did. What else were you supposed to think?” Rice placed his hands on Ami’s shoulders. “There’s only one way you can save yourself. You have to tell that DA, Kirkpatrick, about the Unit. Wingate won’t have a reason to kill you if other people know my story. Get dressed. I’ll take you to police headquarters and drop you off.” Rice pointed at the corpse. “He’s your proof.”

  Ami grabbed some clothes and a pair of sneakers and went into the bathroom while Rice searched the dead man. When she came out he was holding a pistol that he’d taken from the killer.

  Carl led Ami downstairs in the dark and out the back door. They circled through the woods that bordered her property and came out on a logging road about a quarter-mile from the farmhouse. Ami saw the outline of a car in the dark. Carl aimed a penlight at the front window and turned it on and off. The engine started, and Carl raced to the car with Ami in tow. Ami jumped into the back, Rice got into the front passenger seat, and Vanessa started driving.

  “We’re going to drop Ami at police headquarters,” Rice said.

  Vanessa was about to respond when Ami pointed down the road. “What’s that?”

  A car was barreling toward them with its lights off. Carl opened his window and fired across the hood. An answering shot blew out Vanessa’s left front headlight. Carl fired again and the other car’s windshield shattered. Almost instantly the car careened off the road. When they sped past, Ami saw the driver slumped over the steering wheel.

  “Move!” Carl ordered Vanessa. She floored the accelerator and Ami flew back in her seat.

  Two men had leaped out of the wrecked car and were firing at them. Carl pushed Ami to the floor as a bullet ricocheted off the trunk leaving a trail of sparks. Ami rolled back and forth on the floor as Vanessa sped out of range.

  “You can sit up now,” Rice said when he was sure that they were safe.

  “Where are we going after we drop off Ami?” Vanessa asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “We need a place to hole up until the hunt dies down. Then we can try to figure out how to get out of the country.”

  “I have an idea,” Ami said. “When I was at my old firm I bought a cabin with two other couples. It’s on the coast. I’m pretty sure no one is using it this week. You can stay there.”

  “Thanks for the offer but I’ll pass,” Rice said.

  “Why? It’s pretty isolated. No one will look for you there.”

  “If the police find out you helped us they’ll arrest you. I’m not going to risk that.”

  “You just saved my life, Carl. I’d be dead and Ryan would be an orphan if it weren’t for you.” Ami took a key off of her key chain. “I’m willing to take a chance for someone who took a big one for me. Use the cabin.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Ami was drinking a cup of coffee when Walsh and Kirkpatrick burst into the interrogation room where she had been waiting for the past half hour. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and looked like hell.

  “Is Ryan safe?” she asked before they could say anything.

  “He’s fine,” Walsh assured her. “I sent an extra car over there to be sure. Tell us what happened at your house.”

  “The policemen who were guarding me are dead. I would be dead too if Carl hadn’t saved me.”

  “Who is Carl?” Walsh asked.

  “My client’s real name is Carl Rice, not Daniel Morelli. The woman who helped him escape is Vanessa Wingate. She’s the daughter of General Morris Wingate.”

  “The Wingate who’s running for president of the United States?” Walsh asked.

  Ami nodded.

  “Holy shit.”

  Brendan Kirkpatrick imagined the consequences to his career of issuing an APB for the daughter of a man who was the front-runner for his party’s presidential nomination.

  “Okay, Ami,” he said. “Let’s start at the beginning. What does the daughter of a presidential candidate have to do with an itinerant carpenter who got into a fight at a Little League game?”

  For the next half hour Ami told the prosecutor and the detective the stories Carl and Vanessa had told her. They both listened intently, and Walsh took notes. When Ami was almost finished an officer came into the interrogation room and started to speak to Walsh. The detective stopped him and they left the room. Moments later Walsh reentered the room. He looked concerned.

  “The men I sent to your house just reported in. They found the officers. They’re dead. But there aren’t any other bodies at your house.”

  Ami was stunned. “That’s impossible.”

  “Did you see the men who murdered the officers?” Walsh asked.

  “Weren’t you listening? One of them attacked me with a knife!”

  “Calm down,” Kirkpatrick said.

  “Do you think I’m lying? Do you think I made this up?”

  “No one is accusing you of lying,” Kirkpatrick said. “It’s just that…Well, the whole story sounds…”

  “Unbelievable?” Ami finished for him. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Ami used the moment to think.

  “Vanessa was parked on a logging road behind my house when Carl saved me. After we got out of the house, Carl and Vanessa drove me here. While we were still on the logging road, men in another car attacked us. Carl shot the driver and they crashed. The car must not have been too badly damaged and they must have driven to my house and taken the bodies away.”

  Before Kirkpatrick could respond, the door to the interrogation room opened and a large man with granite features walked in followed by two other men in crisp blue pinstripe suits.

  “Who are you?” Kirkpatrick snapped.

  “I’m Victor Hobson, the executive assistant director for law enforcement services at the FBI. These are ag
ents McCollum and Haggard. I understand that you had Carl Rice in your custody and you let him escape. I’m here to help you get him back.”

  Walsh and Kirkpatrick exchanged glances.

  “How did you know our prisoner’s name was Carl Rice?” the DA asked.

  “I’ve been hunting Rice since 1985. He’s wanted for the murders of United States Congressman Eric Glass and General Peter Rivera. The woman who helped him escape is probably Vanessa Kohler, General Morris Wingate’s daughter.”

  “Mr. Hobson,” Kirkpatrick said, “I’ve got a question to ask you, but I’d like to hear what you can tell us about Rice and Vanessa Wingate first. Will you fill us in on what you know?”

  “In 1985, Congressman Eric Glass was tortured and murdered in his summer home on Lost Lake, California. A deputy sheriff found Vanessa Wingate wandering around the grounds in a daze. She identified Carl Rice as the killer, but there was nothing beyond her statement connecting Rice to the crime. I was sent to investigate because the victim was a member of Congress. By the time I got to Lost Lake, General Wingate had taken his daughter out of the local hospital and had committed her to a private mental hospital. She was there for a year and the medical staff prevented me from talking to her during her stay.

  “I learned that Rice had dated Ms. Wingate when they were in high school and had bumped into her again in Washington, D.C., a month or so before the congressman was killed. I also learned that Rice had recently been discharged from the military for psychiatric reasons. The prevailing theory is that if Rice murdered Glass, he did it out of jealousy.

  “Several months after Eric Glass was murdered, General Peter Rivera was tortured and murdered in Maryland. The MO was identical to the method used in the Glass killing. Physical evidence at the scene of the Rivera murder linked Rice to the crime.

  “I interviewed Ms. Wingate after her release from the hospital. She was estranged from her father and calling herself Vanessa Kohler. Kohler was her mother’s maiden name. Ms. Kohler confirmed that she saw Rice kill the congressman. She denied that she and Glass were lovers but refused to tell me why she was at Glass’s house.” He paused for a minute, then shrugged. “And that’s the sum total of my knowledge about the case. You said you had a question for me.”