“Fishing. Told me he was going to fish Horsehead.”
“Who with?” asked Lew as she looked down to jot a note on the legal pad in front of her.
“Alone. He always goes alone.”
“Well . . . ” said Lew glancing up, “we will need a witness for where Jerry was yesterday. We know where you were but we need witnesses for the whereabouts of all family members. That includes Bart, too. You can understand why.”
Charlotte gave an impatient sigh. “I am the witness. I watched him leave our driveway with his fishing boat on the trailer.”
“We need someone who saw him at Horsehead Lake between one and three P.M. yesterday afternoon, Charlotte,” said Lew, her voice firm. “Where is your husband right now because I would like to speak with him as soon as possible?”
“He’s in his office of course. Someone has to run the business,” said Charlotte, making no effort to hide her irritation. “If you had mentioned this earlier, I could’ve had him come in with me.”
“If I had wanted both of you here, I would have said so.”
Silence. A sullen look on her face, Charlotte reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone.
“If you’re trying to reach your husband, you’ll have better reception outside,” said Lew. “And you have my cell number?” Charlotte nodded. “He can call me direct when he has a moment and we’ll arrange a time to talk. Thank you, Charlotte.” Lew gave her a gracious smile.
Once Charlotte had left the room, Lew turned to Osborne. “What do you think?”
“I think Jerry Pfeiffer keeps to himself,” said Osborne. “I doubt that woman has a clue as to what her husband really thinks or plans or even who the guy really is.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Hey . . . ” yipped Ray as he unfolded, section by section, his six feet six inches through the front door leading to the hall, which housed the offices of the Loon Lake Police Department, at the same time as Charlotte was heading in the opposite direction, “Charley Pfeiffer . . . how . . . the heck . . . ” he pointed an index finger at her nose, “ya doin’?”
Ray had a habit of breaking up his “commentary” (as he liked to call it) with pregnant pauses that forced listeners to suspend whatever momentum they thought they had in life until he finished his sentence. This could be entertaining or supremely irritating.
“None of your goddamn business, and stop calling me ‘Charley,’ ” said Charlotte, eyes focused straight ahead to ignore Ray as she stomped past. Osborne, observing the two from where he stood in the doorway to Lew’s office, grinned as he beckoned to Ray.
“ ‘Charley’? Where did that come from?” he asked, stepping aside so Ray could enter the office.
“She used to babysit for us when we were kids,” said Ray. “We all called her ‘Charley.’ Or . . . when she couldn’t hear us . . . ‘Sourpuss.’ ”
“So she’s always been . . . unpleasant?”
“Long as I’ve known her. N-o-o-o sense of humor.” A glint entered Ray’s eye. “Which only makes it that much more fun to torture the woman.”
“And I’m sure you do,” said Lew with a chortle from where she was sitting at her desk.
“Got your message on the server crashing so I brought this along,” said Ray, reaching into the backpack he had slung over one shoulder. He pulled out his laptop computer.
“Fire that sucker up, Ray, and show us what you got.” After a long, silent viewing of the photos on Ray’s laptop computer, she sat back in her chair. Thinking, she swiveled the chair from side to side. “So no surprises really,” she said at last. “Am I right or did I miss something?”
“Nothing unusual that I could see—or that showed up in either black and white or color,” said Ray. “I took photos of the entire Pfeiffer booth from top to bottom, the chair where Pfeiffer died, and I made sure to shoot around the area as well. I checked with the two forensics guys working the scene with Bruce to make sure I didn’t miss anything. You got it all.” He sat back in his chair. “Need anything more from me?”
“Not at the moment,” said Lew.
“Wait, I have a suggestion,” said Osborne. “Since Ray knows more people in this town—maybe around this town—than I do. Or you, Chief. And we know that Dani’s going to have hundreds of photos and videos that people took yesterday—”
“That many?” asked Ray, surprised.
“Enough to crash her server,” said Lew. “Doc makes a good point. I should have you look at those, too. See if you recognize anyone. Or see things going on in the background when someone is taking video of their kids. The more eyes we have on those pictures, the better.”
She didn’t add what she was thinking: The vision and intuition that made Ray an excellent tracker over field and swamp and through dense, dark cedar forests might pick up details in the shadow and light of a digital image missed by an untrained viewer.
“Do you have any record of threats that your husband may have received in recent weeks?” Osborne asked of Rikki Pfeiffer. Having known the woman from the days when she was “Rosalyn,” and known Chuck since before he was a twenty-two-year-old homewrecker, Lew had asked Osborne to take the lead on questioning the widow.
“Oh, yeah,” said Rikki, “this one old man sent threats to Chuck all the time. He used to leave nasty notes at our front gate. Even in winter when the envelopes got all soggy from the snow. He was always threatening to kill Chuck.”
“How do you know it was an old man?” asked Osborne. “Anyone in particular?”
“Oh, yes—it was Gail Murphy’s father. Gail was Chuck’s wife before me—the one who killed herself.”
“Do you mean Clarence Murphy?”
“Yeah, Clarence. That old creep.”
“Rikki, Clarence Murphy died over a year ago.”
“Really? Well, that explains why we haven’t gotten any in a while,” she said, her voice flat.
Osborne was quiet. He wasn’t sure how to respond. He wanted to say that Clarence Murphy was not an “old creep.” He was a retired pediatrician whose wife had died years ago in a car accident on an ice-covered bridge. The death of his only child, which he swore was the result of Chuck’s philandering and lack of sympathy for his young wife’s despair, had devastated the old man. Osborne could only imagine the man’s fury.
“Gail died under very sad circumstances,” he said, recalling the conversation with his friend, the psychiatrist who had treated her for depression and alcoholism before her suicide. “I’m not surprised her father sent angry notes. Better than showing up with a shotgun, wouldn’t you say?”
“Her killing herself was not Chuck’s fault.”
Are you so sure about that? Osborne wanted to ask. The rumor had been that Chuck had taken up with Rikki long before his second wife’s death. Oh well, no point in opening that line of inquiry.
“Other threats?” he asked.
“Not unless you count Jerry being such an ass. You know he threatened to sue his dad if he promoted Bart.”
“I didn’t know that. How far has that gone?”
“Oh, he—I mean Jerry—backed down.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Of course he would. He is such a wuss. And you would think he could see the writing on the wall for Christ’s sake.”
“How so? I thought Jerry was in line to become CEO, too. Most people in Loon Lake assumed—”
“Well, they can stop assuming. Let’s be real, Dr. Osborne. Jerry Pfeiffer has never been out of Loon Lake. He has a two-year degree from a tech college and he’s married to that . . . that . . . oh, forget her. She’s a whole ’nother story.
“My son went to Princeton and has an MBA from the University of Chicago and he learned the nitty-gritty of doing business from one very smart man—his father. Bart knows how to run a billion-dollar company. Jerry has no clue, plus he’s slimy as a leech and twice as spineless. Chuck could see that.” Her voice had risen while she talked and she finished with her chin thrust high though Osborne suspected she knew she had said too much.
<
br /> Lew couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “When you mention Bart’s father are you referring to your ex-husband who went to prison?”
“Yes, I am. But Jim is brilliant. He has an amazing head for business and he’s taught Bart everything—made sure he went to the right schools, gave him the best advice for getting ahead.”
“Excuse me for bringing this up again, but isn’t your former husband in prison for fraud?” Osborne was befuddled by her rationale.
“No. Jimmy was released from prison three months ago and he’s living in a halfway house here in Loon Lake. But only for another couple months.” Her voice had softened as she spoke her ex-husband’s nickname. “And for the record he was framed. The financial records he was accused of forging? Baloney—he kept excellent records like all real estate developers do. Jim’s problem was he was too successful and someone with more political clout was able to nail him on some teensy-weensy error in the financials and get their grubby hands on land that belonged to us. You know, Chuck agreed with me that Jim had done nothing wrong. It was a-a-l-l politics.”
“He did five years, isn’t that right?” asked Osborne. He knew the case well as his son-in-law had been the prosecuting attorney.
“Yes, but he went to a white-collar camp with some other guys who got railroaded. He’ll be back on his feet in no time. Just wait and see,” said Rikki sitting back with her arms crossed and a sandaled foot pumping.
“If he’s such a smart guy, why did you divorce him?” asked Lew. “Five years isn’t that long a sentence.”
“He lost all our money.”
Lew waited for Rikki to say more and when she didn’t, Lew said, “Are you in touch today?”
“Of course. Bart is his son.” She paused then added, “Chuck understood.”
He did? Osborne wanted to ask. Didn’t sound like the Chuck he knew.
“I would imagine she owns enough of the Pfeiffer Corporation now to boot Jerry out even if he is an heir to some of Chuck’s fortune,” said Osborne as he and Lew compared notes after Rikki had left the building.
“So Jim Nickel is back in town and his former wife—now a very wealthy widow—is convinced her ‘Jimmy’ was framed.” Eyebrows arched, Lew gazed at Osborne with a slight smile. “How many times have I heard that one?”
“And ‘brilliant,’ ” said Osborne. “Don’t forget ‘brilliant.’ ”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The new server went online at one fifteen that afternoon. Dani watched, eyes widening, as the photos and videos flooded in: The television and radio requests had been heard. Three hundred seventy-two photos and eighty-nine videos later, Dani exhaled.
“How on earth do I do this, Chief Ferris?” asked Dani. “I mean, I’m not sure what I’m looking for—there is so much. No wonder the old server crashed.”
Standing behind her, alongside Lew and Osborne, was Bruce. All three had their eyes glued to the screen. “I have a suggestion,” said Bruce. “Given we’re trying to determine who was in the crowd yesterday, why don’t you put head shots or photos focused on just one or two people in one folder? But photos of the crowd and those that show people in the background can go in a different folder, which is the one we’ll want to look at.” He caught Lew’s eye. “Does that make sense?”
“Yes,” said Lew, “but what is more important is any photo or video that shows the Pfeiffer family’s booth and any people standing in or near it. That’s the key: Who was close enough to Chuck Pfeiffer to place a gun at his head?”
“So you want the Pfeiffer booth?” asked Dani, sounding dubious. “Not sure how I’ll know what’s what, Chief.”
“Dani, start by taking a close look at the photos that Ray shot at the crime scene yesterday. Once you do that you’ll be able to identify the Pfeiffer booth easily.”
“It’s the only one not selling hot dogs,” said Bruce drily.
“Really?” Dani was looking a little less rattled.
“Yes,” said Lew. “Once you get started it’ll all make sense.”
“But what if I miss something?”
“Dani, all I am asking you to do is sort through and get rid of any photos or videos focused on one or two individuals—like a child and a mother. If other people are shown in the pictures, leave those for us to review. Doc, Ray, Bruce, and myself will take it from there. Got it?”
“Oh, okay. I can try,” said Dani, “but I need you guys to leave the room so I can concentrate.” She gave a heavy sigh.
As Osborne, Lew, and Bruce walked into Lew’s office, a call from an unfamiliar number came in on her cell phone. She waved Osborne and Bruce over to the small conference table in the corner as she answered. “Hello?”
“Chief Ferris, this is Jerry Pfeiffer. Charlotte said you wanted to speak with me. I’m in town at the moment. Just had a haircut. Would this be a good time? I can be there in five minutes . . . ”
“That would be helpful,” said Lew. “I’ll have the front desk send you back to my office.” Shutting off her phone, Lew joined the two men sitting across the room. “Bruce, would you please excuse Doc and myself? That was Jerry Pfeiffer, Chuck’s son who wasn’t at the tournament yesterday. We need to know where he was during those hours.”
“Hey, I understand,” said Bruce. “I’ll check with Dani. She knows me and maybe if there’s just one of us she won’t mind my watching her work. I am very interested in seeing what people have sent in because right now—unless you know more than I do, Chief—we’ve got zilch to work on.”
Jerry Pfeiffer was a tall, lanky man who walked with a permanent hunch. Even his facial features, asymmetrical with a receding chin, seemed to be folding in on themselves. If anything, he looked like a man who didn’t want to be noticed. And that was in contrast to his father who had the build and confidence of a linebacker and a face that thrust itself forward even when not invited.
From what little Osborne had glimpsed in passing of Rikki’s son, Bart, the latter resembled his stepfather more than the man’s own son—both in stature and a natural presence. He could see why Chuck had favored Bart: He carried himself with authority.
Meanwhile, every time Osborne had seen Jerry Pfeiffer over the years he had had to resist the urge to tell him to stand up straight and stick his chin out. Back when Osborne was still practicing, Jerry had been a regular patient, though he had never needed anything but a cleaning by Osborne’s hygienist, which meant Osborne rarely had occasion to speak with him at length. Nor had he wanted to. The guy was so nondescript that when he left the room even the memory of him was gone.
Also, he and Osborne were too far apart in age to have hunted or fished together, but Brian, the young boy whom Chuck had treated so poorly when he didn’t finish first in the tournament, was Jerry’s son. Osborne decided to say something good about the kid right away in hopes it would get back to him and help the little guy feel better about that day.
“Thank you for coming by, Jerry,” said Lew as Jerry walked into her office. “You know Dr. Osborne? He’s been deputized to help out with our investigation.”
“Really, Dr. Osborne?” asked Jerry, shaking their hands. “I thought you were retired.” He sat down in the chair next to Osborne.
“Yes and no,” said Osborne. “I’m retired from my dental practice but my background in dental forensics has put me right smack in Chief Ferris’s sights,” said Osborne with a laugh. “Given Loon Lake has such a small police force, I try to help out when I can. Before I forget, Jerry, I want to compliment your son on his fishing in the tournament. He may not have finished first, but I watched his casting and he’ll do well. I’m sure he’ll land a fifty-incher one of these days.”
“Brian was pretty disappointed, but it was my fault,” said Jerry. “I told him to use a spider jig and it didn’t work very well.”
“You did?” asked Lew. “That’s for bass.”
“I know,” said Jerry, shaking his head with a wry smile, “but they had those kids fishing that weed bed in front of Miller’s Resort and th
at spider has a great helicopter action that punches right through weeds. And how many muskie do you reckon know the difference?
“But . . . ” he grimaced, “it didn’t work. Brian was bummed. We’re selling a lot of those spider jigs in all our shops these days, though.”
“Jerry,” said Lew, sounding anxious to change the subject. “Where were you yesterday afternoon between one and three?”
Jerry looked stunned at the question. His mouth opened and shut but he said nothing.
“No offense, Jerry,” said Lew, “but this is a question I am putting to all family members.”
“I see. Um, I was out on Horsehead Lake fishing for bluegills. Go almost every Saturday. Sounds selfish I know—I should’ve been there for Brian. It’s just . . . well, it’s my one escape from the business.” Jerry smiled. “Keeps me sane.” Osborne saw his right upper lip twitch.
“I can understand that,” said Lew. “And who would have been fishing with you?”
The question seemed to confuse the man. “Or have seen you put in and take out? I assume you use the public landing out there?”
Again, the twitch. “Humm, gee . . . I can’t think of anyone who might have seen me. At least no one I know.”
Lew and Osborne sat quiet, waiting. Jerry cleared his throat and pursed his lips.
“I’m sorry, Jerry,” said Lew, “but if you don’t have a witness for where you were during those hours, I will have to consider you a suspect in the death of your father.”
“You can’t be serious.” Jerry cleared his throat again and shifted in his chair while staring down at the floor. The room was quiet.
“Okay,” said Jerry after a long pause, still staring down, “do you know Gloria Barnes?”
“No . . . I don’t think so,” said Osborne. Lew shook her head negatively, too.
“She works for us in accounting . . . ”
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