“I hope so. I’ll tell you right now, though, it won’t be easy. From what you say, there were a lot of people in the woods. That means a lot of suspects and a lot of crap for a defense lawyer to throw around in court. Unless someone saw something, we might never know the truth. And the fact is that truth is as slippery as ice sometimes.”
Warm summer air blew through the open windows. The car engine roared as Ray stepped on the gas.
“I have to make a stop first,” he said.
He drove along the lakeshore on London Road until he reached the Glensheen Mansion, where he turned into the mammoth estate’s main driveway. Stride saw several police vehicles parked inside. Ray shut down the engine and got out, then leaned back through the window of the Camaro.
“Wait here for a minute, okay?”
Stride saw Ray approach another detective who was standing with two or three uniformed officers in the middle of the driveway. The huge red brick mansion with its three distinctive peaks was visible through the trees. Ray lit a cigarette. Stride could hear the murmur of conversation but couldn’t make out the words. He guessed what they were talking about. A week earlier, the heiress to the Congdon mining fortune, Elisabeth Congdon, and her live-in nurse had both been found murdered inside the mansion. One suffocated, one bludgeoned. The papers said the motive was robbery, but Stride had already heard rumors floating around the city that the murders might have involved a member of Congdon’s family and an estate worth tens of millions of dollars.
Fifteen minutes later, Ray got back in the car.
“Money,” he said. “It makes the world go around.”
“Did you arrest someone?”
Ray winked and looked pleased. “Keep an eye on the papers.”
He turned the Camaro around. “It’s not a good year for the filthy rich,” Ray said. “In May, they found that woman in Indianapolis. Marjorie Jackson. Shot in the stomach and five million bucks stashed around her house. I mean, can you imagine keeping your money in your vacuum cleaner bag? Now we lose Mrs. Congdon. Sometimes you wonder if it’s really worth it, having all that dough.”
“Like Randall Stanhope,” Stride said.
Ray nodded. “Yeah.”
“I think Peter killed Laura,” Stride told him.
“Yeah? Why is that?”
“It was his bat. I think he attacked her in the softball field, and she managed to get away, and he chased her up to the north beach.”
“Say you’re right,” Ray said. “How do you prove it?”
“Maybe someone saw him.”
Ray spilled coffee on his pants, and he dabbed at the stain with his fingers. “Maybe, but we need to find a witness first, and that witness has to be willing to testify against the son of one of the richest men in the city. Don’t kid yourself. Most witnesses won’t do that.”
“So you’re saying we can’t touch him?”
“I’m not saying that at all. But sometimes you know in your head that someone is guilty, and you still can’t make a case. Oh, and keep your opinions to yourself, Jon. When we’re inside the house, don’t speak unless I tell you to speak. Got it?”
“Sure. Why do you want me along anyway?”
Ray smiled. “Three reasons. First, I want Randall to think Peter is just another witness, not a suspect, and having you there will help me sell that idea. Second, I think Peter is less likely to lie if you’re in the room, because he’s not sure what you saw.”
“And the third?” Stride asked.
“Third, I don’t want anyone to think I gave Peter a free ride because of his daddy’s money. You’re my backup, Jon. Welcome to the police force.”
It was the kind of estate that reeked of old money. Robber baron money. The house and its grounds were surrounded by a fence made of iron spikes, with intermittent stone columns that matched the mottled fieldstones of the mansion. The brooding estate itself was a quarter mile inside the fir trees, nearly invisible from the road. Ray stopped at the two-story gatehouse and announced himself at the intercom. A minute later, an iron fence swung silently open. He drove through the trees and parked under the mansion’s porte cochere.
Stride had never been this close. He glimpsed fountains in the rear. Trimmed globe bushes. A fenced tennis court. The Tudor estate towered above him in sharp peaks, dozens of chimney stacks, and red Duluth stone. Most of the chambered windows were swathed in thick curtains.
“Did Randall build all this?” Stride asked.
Ray shook his head. “No, this is turn-of-the-century stuff. Before income taxes, know what I mean? For a while in those days, Duluth had more tonnage running through its harbor than New York. We were number one. A handful of families like the Stanhopes and the Congdons got very, very rich.”
“And now?”
“Now they’re doing everything they can to hold on to it.”
A maid greeted them at the door and showed them to a library on the other side of the vaulted foyer. Stride felt self-conscious, wearing shorts and a white baseball jersey. His sneakers slipped on the marble. Inside the library, he noticed squared beams stretching the length of the ceiling, wheat-colored wall coverings, and an Oriental rug overlaying a hardwood floor. One wall featured hand-carved bookshelves, lined with old volumes of ship logs from the 1800s. He saw oil paintings of old men in suits.
“Maybe I should go,” Stride said.
“Don’t be intimidated,” Ray replied. “These people belch, fart, and have bad breath like everyone else.”
They heard laughter from the doorway and smelled cigar smoke.
“Do I? I guess I should never have had the puttanesca for lunch.”
It was Randall Stanhope.
Stride had never seen him in person, only on television and in photographs in the newspaper. He was smaller than he expected, no more than five foot eight. He had trimmed gray hair and boxy black glasses, and like the men in the paintings on the wall, he wore a three-piece dark suit. In his left hand, he held a lowball glass filled with ice and an amber-colored drink. In his right hand, he pinched a cigar between his thumb and index finger.
“You’re Ray Wallace, is that right? The chief has told me a lot about you. Says you’re an up-and-comer in the department. I like that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Who’s the boy?” Stanhope asked, fixing his blue eyes on Stride.
“This is Jon Stride,” Ray said. “He was in the park with Peter last night. He’s helping me re-create what happened that led to the death of this young girl, and I thought Peter could fill in some details where Jon wasn’t around.”
Stanhope smiled. “You’re a baseball player, like my son.”
Stride nodded. “That’s right.”
“Well, good.” Stanhope turned to Ray. “I hear they’re about to pick up Elisabeth Congdon’s son-in-law for the murders at Glensheen. Quick work.”
“That’s actually not public yet, sir.”
“Oh, I know, but the mayor called me. Nasty business.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But I know that’s not why you’re here.”
“No, sir. Is Peter in the house? I’d like to ask him a few questions.”
“Absolutely. I was horrified to learn about this girl’s murder. Brutal thing. Naturally, Peter will tell you everything he can. This girl was a friend of his, and he’s anxious to help you find out who killed her.”
“I appreciate that,” Ray said.
“Tell me something honestly, Detective. You don’t for one moment consider my boy to be a suspect, do you?”
“I don’t really have enough information to consider anyone a suspect, sir,” Ray replied.
Stanhope smiled. Ray smiled back.
“The sheriff was right in calling you a smart man, Detective.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ve talked to Peter in detail about this incident myself. I believe he can help you identify the guilty party.”
Ray’s eyebrows shot up. “He saw who killed Laura?”
“Not the crime itself, but when you hear his story, I think you’ll feel as I do.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“Of course. Peter!”
Peter Stanhope sauntered into the library. He had been waiting outside. His blond hair was washed and combed. He was close-shaven. He wore dress pants, a white shirt, a tie, and a tweed blazer. Stride noticed deep scratches on Peter’s broad, freckled face and a misshapen purplish bruise on his forehead. Peter’s gait was stilted and stiff. He shoved his hands in his pockets and grimaced in pain.
Behind Peter, the same maid who had answered the front door entered the library silently and handed Randall Stanhope a large cardboard box. She left, and Stanhope passed the box to Ray.
“Peter’s clothes from last night,” Stanhope said. “Unwashed. Plenty of mud and grass stains, but as you will see, no blood, other than, perhaps, a little of his own. I anticipated that would be one of your first concerns, so I made sure we preserved the evidence.”
Ray crooked a finger at Stride, who peered into the box. He took a quick glance at the clothes and nodded. The clothes in the box were the same clothes Peter had been wearing the night before.
“What happened to you, Peter?” Ray asked.
“Someone kicked the shit out of me, what does it look like?”
Peter snapped. “Peter!” his father interrupted sternly. Stanhope turned to Ray. “I’m sorry. Peter is very upset about what happened.”
“Of course.”
“You see, Peter and Laura were lovers.”
Stride opened his mouth to protest, then clamped it shut. Ray folded his arms and studied Peter, who was leaning uncomfortably against the bookcase. “Is that true, Peter?”
Peter shrugged. “Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“A couple months.”
“Her sister told me that Laura broke up with you. She said you were pressuring Laura for sex, and Laura said no.”
“I hear yes a lot more than I hear no.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Laura wanted to keep it a secret. Her and me. She didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Why is that?”
“Who knows? Girls are weird that way. Maybe she didn’t want everyone asking her for favors, you know? When people hear my last name, they want stuff.”
“So what happened last night?”
Peter glanced at Stride. “There was a big storm up there. It washed out the ball game, and I went running for my car. I waited there until the rain had mostly stopped, and then I went back into the field.”
“Why?”
“I knew Laura would be coming.”
“Did the two of you arrange to meet? Was this a date?”
“We didn’t plan anything in advance, but I saw her in the field with her sister. She gave me a look. I knew what she meant. She was telling me to hang around, so we could get together.”
“A look?” Ray asked.
“Yeah, a look.”
“Okay, go on.”
“I heard her coming, so I surprised her. Came up behind her. She freaked out for a minute, because she didn’t know who it was. That was when she scratched me.” He touched his face.
“She scratched you by accident?”
“Exactly.”
“Then what?”
“Then we started making out. I mean, when she realized it was me, she was really sorry. She said she had heard someone in the woods earlier, and she was scared. Then we started kissing, and we lay down in the grass, and, well, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” Ray said.
“We were going to have sex.”
“Right there in the softball field.”
“Sure.”
“And did you?”
Peter shook his head. “No. We were rolling around in the grass, and we were starting to get our clothes off, and that’s when it happened.”
“What happened?”
“This guy attacked us.”
“What guy?”
“I don’t know who he was. Some big black guy.”
“What did this guy do?”
“He hit me with my baseball bat.”
“How did he get your bat?”
“I left it in the field. He must have picked it up. He hit me in the back. The doc says I’ve got some broken ribs. Then he yanked me off Laura. I mean, he picked me up like I was a rag doll. This guy was strong. Laura screamed, and I saw her run for the woods, trying to get away. He started after her. He still had the bat in his hand. I got up and took a swing at him, and he punched me in the head with his fist. Knocked me out cold, flat on my back. That’s all I remember.”
Ray looked at him. “What happened when you woke up? How long were you out?”
“I don’t know. Fifteen minutes maybe.”
“Where was Laura? Where was this black guy?”
“They were both gone.”
“Didn’t you look for her?”
Peter shuffled his feet. “No.”
“This girl is your lover, and some guy chased her into the woods, and you woke up and just left?”
“I panicked. I was scared to death.”
Randall Stanhope interrupted. “I’m sorry, Detective. Obviously, my son should have made efforts to see if his girlfriend was safe. I’m very disappointed in his behavior.”
Peter’s eyes flashed with anger. “Hey, what could I do? If I’d gone after him, I’d be dead now, too. Is that what you want?”
“Shut up, Peter,” his father told him.
“Let’s get back to this man who assaulted you,” Ray said. “What else do you remember about him?”
Peter shrugged. “He was big. Like a bear. I think he had dreadlocks.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
“No.”
Ray nodded. “Jon saw a black man matching this description in the woods that night, too.”
“Ah,” Randall said. “Well, that’s good. Another witness. Do you think you’ll be able to find him?”
“Jon says he’s a vagrant who lives down by the tracks,” Ray said.
“Oh, so you’ve seen him before?” Randall asked Stride.
Stride nodded.
“Isn’t that lucky,” Randall said. “Detective, I hope you can apprehend him. Of course, I know that these people are often desperate itinerants. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s long gone by now. He must know that the police will be on his trail.”
“No doubt,” Ray said.
“Do you need anything else from Peter right now?”
Ray shook his head. “Not for the moment.”
“That’s good. Do you have another minute, Detective? I’d like to share something with you privately.”
Ray rubbed his mustache and nodded at Stride. He tossed him the keys to the Camaro, which Stride caught in midair. “Wait outside for me, okay, Jon? I won’t be long. Play the radio, if you like.”
Stride and Peter left the room together. The waning sunlight gathered through the high windows in the vault of the foyer, but where the two boys were, the room was filled with dusty shadows. Stride heard a clock ticking. A gamey smell of venison rose from the downstairs kitchen. Peter escorted him silently to the front door, and Stride felt a frozen tension between them.
“You weren’t dating Laura,” Stride said.
“What are you, a cop? Leave it alone.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No, I didn’t, you asshole. Get the hell out of here.”
Peter yanked the heavy door open. Stride shoved past him and heard the door slam as soon as he had cleared the threshold. He kicked at the loose gravel, then bent down and picked up a loose rock and hurled it into an oval duck pond. He walked past Ray’s Camaro and found a black wrought-iron bench in the gardens, where he sat down, his long legs stretched out. He waited. Silhouettes of birds flitted among the fir trees. The air outside was humid, and he began to sweat. Twenty minutes later, the front door opened again, and Ray came out alon
e. Ray lit a cigarette and strolled over to the bench.
“Hey, Jon, sorry that took so long.”
“No problem.”
Ray exhaled a cloud of white smoke. “So what do you think?”
“I think Peter is lying.”
“Maybe,” Ray said, “but his story about this guy Dada tracks with what you saw. You didn’t spot this guy until after the storm hit and you left the softball game, right?”
“Right.”
“Any chance Peter saw him hanging around before the game?”
“Not likely,” Stride said. “I was already in the field when Peter arrived, and I didn’t see Dada anywhere around there.”
“So Peter must have seen him after you did. After the storm. When Laura was coming back to the softball field.”
“I guess so,” Stride said.
“Do you think Laura could have been hiding her affair with Peter?”
Stride frowned. “I think Cindy would have known.”
“Sisters don’t always tell sisters everything.”
“Well, yeah, that’s true. Cindy and Laura weren’t best pals or anything. But Peter didn’t make it sound like he was dating Laura when he talked to me during the game.”
“That could be him keeping it secret.”
“Maybe.” Stride wasn’t convinced.
“Anyway, can you stay with me a while longer? I could use your help again.”
“Sure,” Stride said.
Ray reached inside his sport coat and withdrew a long-barreled revolver. He opened the chamber and checked it. Stride could see the silver jackets of bullets loaded inside. Ray spun and locked it with a solid click and shoved it back in his shoulder holster.
“Okay then,” Ray said. “Let’s go get Dada.”
15
Donna Biggs pulled off Highway 23 near the river overlook at Perch Lake Park. She shut off the car and sat silently by the water, which was drenched in the orange glow of the dying sunlight. The river here was broken up by narrow swirls of land, like chocolate ribbons dropped into vanilla cake batter. From the bank at Fond du Lac, it was a cool hundred-foot swim with the stars overhead to the beaches and birch trees of the nearest island. She remembered midnight skinny-dipping here as a teenager, when a dozen or more kids would steal off from the fishing pier to drink, smoke weed, and have awkward sex in the sand. She and Clark had hooked up for the first time on one of those nights.
In the Dark aka The Watcher Page 12
