Fatal Fall

by Diane Capri

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  She looked at the map one last time and then closed it. Mandy’s email reappeared with its long list of attachments running off the bottom of the phone’s screen. Jess scrolled down. She had looked at most of the files, but she’d missed one at the very bottom. The last in the list was labeled NEL gate. She clicked to open it.

  The images of a book appeared on the phone. They had been taken with a camera, not scanned in. The book was laid on a wood desk. The pages were open, the spine folded flat. Each page had a list of names. Each name was in different handwriting. Some were cursive, some were printed, and some were in capitals. There were dates and times in columns. The columns were marked Entry and Exit. The dates were for the past weekend.

  Jess flipped on to the next image. It was the same book. The same folded flat pages and lists of names. The dates were older. She flipped back and forth. The dates were in pairs with gaps. She counted from the current date. They were weekends. Saturday and Sunday with no more entries until the next Saturday.

  She flipped on to the next page and traced her finger down the names. She stopped on the second to last name and frowned. The letters were heavily slanted. The sweep of a confident writer. A busy person dashing off a signature before rushing on to more important matters. She recognized the name. He was the Senate majority leader. His appointment had come with controversy. His face had been a staple of the evening news for a couple of weeks until the next big thing had moved him aside.

  Jess ran back to the first image. There was no cover page or title. She skimmed a dozen pages and recognized the names of several senators. Twenty-five pages in, a gray cover appeared, with the words North Entry Lower covering the top half. Underneath were two dates, four years and seven months apart. She skimmed on.

  Every fifty pages, a cover appeared with the same title and a new pair of dates. The book ran serially back in time. The dates kept up the weekend pattern. She recognized the names of more senators.

  The document was long. The pictures changed. They were taken from a different angle. The lighting was different. Further on, the wood changed to marble and the gray covers to green.

  She pressed on. Ignoring the names and concentrating on the dates. She stopped the week Peter Whiting was born fourteen years ago. The pictures were dim. A different camera. Older. Poorer resolution. The signatures had jagged edges. She went further back in time. A month. Two. Four.

  She stopped at a name. Her skin tingled. She leaned closer to her phone. Closer to the image. Her eyes smoothed the handwriting’s jagged lines, her mind envisaging the sweep of a pen. She zoomed in. Centering a name on the phone’s small screen.

  Alistaire Meisner.

  The signature was unmistakable. Clear. Precise lines and confident curves.

  Underneath was another name she recognized. Strong print. Individual letters. Same date, same time. No less clear. No less confident.

  Crystal Mackie.

  Jess punched the speed dial button for Mandy’s cell phone. It seemed like ages before connecting. She took deep breaths as it rang and fell over to voicemail. Her assistant’s jaunty voice invited her to leave a message and assured that she would reply as soon as possible.

  “Mandy. It’s Jess. The information you sent. From the Berenstains, or whatever their name was, I need to know where the North Entry Lower book came from. It’s got a long list of signatures and dates. I need an answer as soon as possible.”

  She took a breath. “And thank you. I know you had to break up your date. I appreciate it, Mandy. I really do.”

  Jess hung up. She had a good idea she knew where the book came from, but why such a book existed and why it had so few names was a mystery.

  Meisner denied knowing Crystal Mackie, and yet here were both names recorded in what was surely their individual handwriting. If Jess was right about the pages of the NEL book, the signatures had been made on the other side of the country.

  Not a smoking gun, but definitely a new lead. Crystal Mackie might be leading a happy life somewhere. Or she might not be. Jess had a bad feeling about Crystal. She’d had that bad feeling from the beginning.

  She heard Nelson’s voice urging restraint, telling her she needed evidence.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Light rain misted the windshield of Jess’s rental. She briefly considered her need to find a hotel for the night before studying the strange hand-drawn markings on the Meisner estate maps. The images in Mandy’s files were copies that had been scanned or photographed from the originals with no indication of where the originals were located.

  She switched off her phone and started her car. Maybe she could figure it out by comparing the map to the physical area. She rolled out toward the Meisner estate.

  Within ten minutes, she found and parked at the place where Nelson had found her on her first day in town. The rain hadn’t let up. She wished she still had her jacket. She turned up her collar and slid out of the car.

  The ground was slippery. She kept to the side of the trail, making the most of the additional grip from the grassy edges.

  She called out to Max, but he didn’t reply, and she continued on to what she’d come to think of as Peter’s tree. She stayed well into the woods, shadowed by the tree’s canopy. She hoped Meisner’s security team in the mansion couldn’t see her.

  She pulled out her phone and found Mandy’s map. She visualized the computerized survey map, matching it to the physical presence it represented. As expected, the markings accurately referenced the location of the house and fence.

  The handwritten marks on the plan were less obvious and less accurate. She walked further along the trail to a spot marked by a circle placed on the vicious looking fence. The circle lined up with the gate Meisner’s security guards had used to escort her from the property. The gate was secured with a heavy-duty chain and padlock.

  The map showed two more locations with circles. Probably two more gates. The persistent rain dissuaded her from investigating further.

  The remaining hand-drawn mark on the fence was a cross. She’d passed that location already. She turned and walked back, bending down to peer through the woods as she approached the area.

  She stood on the edge of the woods, beside the cover of another tree. The slope of the hill hid the lower two floors of the mansion. She looked along the roofline, searching for surveillance cameras. She saw none, but knew they must be there somewhere.

  She stepped closer to the fence. The horizontal spars were thick wire placed at six-inch intervals. The vertical poles were single piece, heavy-duty metal moldings that ran straight into the ground. The horizontal wires ran through holes in the vertical poles. Three rows of barbed wire were secured to the tops of the poles.

  She walked to the next vertical pole. The horizontal wires passed through holes here, too. She tossed a branch at the wires. It bounced off. The wires vibrated but didn’t arc or burn the branch. It looked like an electric fence, but either it wasn’t electrified or the power was off.

  The next vertical post was different. The horizontal wires didn’t pass through the metal. They were attached to the post with bolts. The next set of wires ran from another set of bolts.

  She stepped back. It was the dislodged post she had seen on her first visit to the tree. It sported a bright yellow label with black text identifying who to call for repairs. Nelson had said it was probably vandalism, but the more she looked, the less it looked like a random act.

  The post was embedded in the ground, but the tension in the wires on either side contributed to holding it upright. She’d once read how counterbalanced loads kept suspension bridges from falling. She touched the wires. They were taut with little sign of sagging between the posts. The wires hadn’t been sagging on her first visit, either. So the wires hadn’t been cut.

  She stepped back. A large area of ground had been dug up around the post. Much more than would have been required for a concrete base. Presumably, the foundations for the post also played a par
t in keeping it upright. And if the wires hadn’t been cut, the foundations must have been undermined.

  She looked at the old map. There was no question in her mind. Someone had marked the post on the old map. It had been something important. Something they wanted to remember.

  And fourteen years later, someone had dug it up again.

  She shook the wires that stretched from post to post. It was easy to see how the post could be pulled over if the force on either side wasn’t balanced. Whoever had cut the wires knew that very well. It wasn’t luck or spite or random vandalism that led him to this particular spot.

  She held out her arms on each side of her body. Like most people, her outstretched arms from fingertip to fingertip were the same length as her height—five feet four. The churned up ground around the post was a good two feet longer than her extended arms.

  She stared at the ground. Seven feet. Far more than was required to reinstall the fence post but, she took a deep breath, enough to bury Crystal Mackie’s body.

  Except that made no sense. Crystal Mackie disappeared fourteen years ago, but the fence post was repaired this week. Unless the body was someone other than Crystal. But that didn’t make sense, either. Whoever buried the body had to know the fence post would be repaired. No one would bury a body expecting repairmen to dig it up again.

  She turned off her flashlight. Blackness flooded in. The sun had given up for the day. The woods were silent. The activity of the daytime creatures handed over to the more cautious night dwellers.

  In the distance, the mansion’s lights illuminated brilliant white walls. The roof climbed into the misty black sky. Whatever secrets were hidden inside Meisner’s mansion had waited for years. They’d wait another day.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Jess returned to her rental, switched on the headlights, and drove back to town.

  The Plum Inn was at the opposite end of town from The Montpelier. It wasn’t just its location that was at the other end of the scale.

  The property was a two-story motel with paint peeling from the siding. Wooden steps ran up the side of the property to the upper floor. The doors were navy blue upstairs, and green on the ground floor. They opened directly into the rooms. As Jess parked her car, she didn’t hold out a lot of hope for room service.

  The office was at one end of the building. It was a cramped space with a counter, a guest book, and an out-of-place old-fashioned cash register. Behind the counter was a door that, by the scent in the air, Jess guessed led to a laundry.

  A woman followed her into the office. “Room?” she said, as she ducked under the counter.

  Jess nodded. “Say a week.” She had no idea how much longer she would be in Randolph, but she wasn’t going to risk being turned out of her last chance hotel.

  The woman had a handwritten badge with Beth printed in large letters. Underneath it said Enjoy your stay! in faded blue marker.

  Beth pushed the guest book toward Jess. “Name, address, and registration. I’ll need ID.”

  Jess held out her driver’s license and corporate credit card.

  Beth examined the license and wrote down the number from the credit card.

  Jess frowned.

  The woman handed back the card. “We don’t have a reader thing. I have to call the number in.”

  Jess smiled. “No problem.”

  The woman looked Jess up and down. “Forgive me, but you don’t look short on money. There’s a fancier place on down the road.”

  “The Montpellier?”

  “Yeah. You know it?”

  “I was there last night.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows. “Didn’t like it?”

  “They’re full tonight. Apparently. Practically threw me out.”

  The woman tutted. “Old Meisner isn’t known for his hospitality.”

  “The Montpellier is owned by Meisner?”

  “Not Senator Meisner, Charlie Meisner. His brother. Though I should say Charles Meisner because he hates Charlie. One more stuck up than the other.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  The woman shrugged. “It’s not a case of like or don’t like. They don’t spend their time with the likes of me.”

  Jess hummed. “Me neither, so it seems.”

  The woman held out an old key with a giant wooden key fob. “Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

  Jess left the close confines of the office. The number twenty-seven was crudely chiseled into the wood. It was halfway between rustic charm and an amateur trying his hand at one of the million jobs that a small business has to perform to save every penny.

  Room twenty-seven was on the upstairs deck. Jess carried her bag up the creaking steps. It was almost at the end of the row of blue doors.

  The key slid into the lock with a well-worn ease. The door drifted open. The air inside was as chill as outside. Jess’s breath condensed in front of her.

  Two wall lights above the bed lit the room. One was brighter than the other, but neither was up to the task of illuminating the space.

  The bed was close to the floor, and the springs squeaked as she dropped her bag on it. The sheets were clean, and there were several layers of blankets. The drapes didn’t quite join in the center of the window.

  The room had only three other items of furniture, a table and chair, and a chest of drawers beside the bed. A flyer on top of the dresser advertised a local pizza delivery place. She had no better option, so she ordered a small pepperoni and a salad.

  There was an electric heater on the wall. She switched it on. Air wafted out. It took a minute until it was warm. Jess looked at the room. It was going to take a while to heat it all.

  A narrow door led into a bathroom. The sink was a plastic molded one-piece unit. The large bathtub was old and did double duty as a shower. It rang as Jess tapped it. Cast iron.

  She settled on the bed to catch up on her email.

  Ten minutes later, her pizza arrived. She tipped the fresh-faced kid that delivered it and dug into the food as she pondered the Crystal Mackie case.

  She’d demanded to talk to Meisner out of anger and frustration. She had so many puzzle pieces and still no idea of the picture. She sighed. Nelson might even be correct that all she was doing was stirring things up.

  No.

  She stood up. Someone wasn’t taking revenge, and it wasn’t random acts of vandalism. Someone was spooked. Someone was covering their tracks. The painful irony was that she might be the one connecting the dots for that very someone.

  She sent a message to Mandy, asking if she was able to talk, and waited three minutes until her phone rang.

  “Mandy,” Jess said.

  “The one and only.”

  “How’s the date?”

  “Good. I’m back home.”

  “Oh. Didn’t work out?”

  “No, no. This one’s good, but he’s a trainee, and practice didn’t go well. So he’s practicing some more.”

  “And you left?”

  “It’s opera.”

  Jess smiled. “I thought you liked opera?”

  “I do. Kind of. It does go on.”

  “The novelty wears off.”

  “With the opera.”

  “And the trainee conductor?”

  “We’ll see. What do you want?”

  “N.E.L. North Entrance Lower. The book of signatures you sent. Is that the North entrance of the Capitol?”

  “The very one. The Capitol building in DC. I asked the Berenstains. There’s several parking lots and entrances on the ground level, but that entrance is the least popular with senators.”

  “Least popular?”

  “Yeah. Apparently, it smells and hasn’t been renovated since the sixties.”

  “But the Berenstains have a copy of the register?”

  “Yeah. Don’t ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s what the Berenstains said.”

  “But it’s the least popular entrance.”

/>   “So it’s only used by people who want to get in and out of their offices without attracting attention.”

  “Like a senator trying to impress his mistress.”

  Mandy groaned.

  “What?” Jess said.

  “You’re going to make me hunt for Meisner’s name, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve already found his name. And Crystal Mackie’s. Right next to each other. Same date, same time.”

  Mandy’s voice lightened. “Good. Because I don’t mind searching it, but not tonight. Tomorrow. At the office where I can use optical character recognition.”

  “Do that, and send me the list.”

  Jess said goodbye and hung up.

  The least popular entrance? She shook her head. It was a good link, but could he still use the plausible deniability argument?

  The bed creaked as she sat on it.

  She was seeing half the picture. When Peter Whiting’s name had been pushed into the news, it had set off a series of events. The destruction of the Whitings’ home, the murder of Norah Fender, maybe even Johnny Yukon’s overdose, they were all linked through Peter.

  Yet the only thing that felt as if it could be significant was the question over Peter’s father. And why would being Peter’s father be a reason for murder? Why would anyone want to cover it up so badly?

  She had no answer.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Jess’s laptop sat on the end of the bed. It called to her. She should be making notes. Documenting her day. Recording the seemingly insignificant. It was the way she found her best leads, in the tiny details.

  She sat on the bed, her back against the headboard. She needed to think. There was too much going on. Nothing seemed connected, yet she knew, positively, that somewhere there was a connection.

  She closed her eyes. The room was warming up. Her limbs felt weighted. She let them sink down. The sounds of passing cars faded.

  Images drifted in front of her. Dreams of boats and piers and sails meshed into a mad reality. She was floating away. She reached to hold on and hit something. Something hard.