by Rich Foster
Lasting Doubts
The Red Lake Series vol. 4
A Harry Grim Story
For Elaine, of whom I have no doubts
Lasting Doubts
by
Rich Foster
Copyright © 2012 by Rich Foster
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
First Edition: October 2012
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter 1
Paula’s Lindstrom's transmission shrieked angrily as she tried but failed to power shift gears due to her dying clutch. Why not grind another one? she imagined Harry kidding her. Why didn’t I buy an automatic? She thought. Of course then I’d probably be marooned alongside the road.
On the open highway the bad clutch was not a problem but once she entered town every stop became an ordeal. Fortunately, Red Lake had little traffic at midnight in the off season. Once the summer cabins opened it would be different.
Paula rolled through stop signs and timed her arrival for green lights. Main Street was buttoned up, the shop doors locked and display lights off. Even the Texaco station was dark. The Antler’s Bar, was the sole exception. On the street, the neon pink martini glass, with a yellow toothpick through a green olive shed a Las Vegas glow on the walk. Inside serious drinkers nursed their failings. At the curb a dozen cars awaited their owners. While up the street, hidden in the shadows, a sheriff’s deputy waited for those who chose to drive home.
She kept an eye on her rear view mirror, until a curve in the road hid the squad car. Paula figured she could talk her way out of a ticket, if not by the mechanical problem then by her good Scandinavian looks. Policemen were always kind to her.
Lost in her thoughts, the van seemed to appear out of nowhere. It shot out from a side street. Paula stomped on the brakes. As tires squealed, the engine lugged and stalled. Her SUV came to a halt. The van shot on ahead. A half block later it, slowed for a red light. Paula ground the starter. Beating the clutch pedal with her foot helped. The car jerked into motion, snapping her head back.
She closed on the van. The the storefronts were washed in the stop light's rosy red glow. When it turned, the greenish hue left the street washed out. The rear window curtains fell with a jerk, before the van sped forward. Paula glimpsed a pair of hands clutched together that beat against the glass, a silver bracelet glinted in her headlights. The van swerved and the hands disappeared. Then the van straightened out and signaled a right turn at the next side street. It swung hard and fast into the turn, the body leaned hard to one side, as the van's weight stretch the shocks and it threatened to roll.
Halfway around the turn the rear door swung open. A bundle tumbled to the pavement. Paula swerved. Her car wheels missed the object by inches. Tires screeched, smoke wafted from the asphalt, then her SUV climbed the curb. It fished tail into a light pole. The car spun around the light standard like a mechanical pole dancer and then clipped off a fire hydrant. Paula’s vehicle flipped onto its side and the impact sprung the rear cargo doors open. A geyser erupted and surged forty feet into the night sky. A deluge ensued. Waterlogged, Paula clambered out. She hunched over for protection and ran out from the downpour. She wiped her face and tried to understand what happened.
Water flooded the intersection. Beneath the falling torrent, the bundle flopped in the street like a beached fish.
Paula’s muddled mind sorted it into a person with a dark bag covering the head. She ran into the downpour. Water blurred her vision as she dragged the body clear. The handcuffed arms flailed wildly, legs kicked, and the body flopped,
“Help! Help!” came muffled screams from beneath the sodden cloth.
Paula pulled a small penknife from her jeans pocket and cut the cinch cord that held the sack snug around the victim's neck and pulled the sack off. She briefly registered stringy blond hair and a pretty face. A voice screamed, “Fuck you!”
Crisscrossed fists swung at her face. Paula fell backward. Her head struck something hard and darkness fell.
A bright light hurt her eye. Someone pried her eyelid open. She tried to turn her head.
“Just lie still,” a voice ordered. “No dilation, probably a minor concussion.”
She turned her head and the backside throbbed.
“Don’t move! You need stitches.”
Paula sat up anyway. The world lurched as badly as a storm tossed ship’s deck. Slowly, objects settled to a nauseating sway.
Emergency vehicles red lights swept the buildings; a yellow strobe flashed on the Red Lake Water District service truck. Some forty feet away a girl huddled in a blanket and sobbed hysterically.
“What happened?” Paula asked.
“We thought you might tell us?” said a young deputy.
“I was having trouble with my car. Then…I don’t know?”
“Girl over there says she was kidnapped. What do you know about that?”
Paula saw a mental flash of a black sack being pulled away, exposing a face.
“I think I found her,” Confused, she tried to shake her head and winced in pain.
The medic interrupted, “This can wait, we’re going to transport her to St. Catherine’s.”
“I better cuff her until we sort this out.”
Paula was lifted onto a gurney. A handcuff snapped onto her wrist and then the rail. Another flash of memory, arms flailing in silvery bracelets, then the image faded.
“Call Harry!” she said to the EMT, you have to call Harry!”
But no one seemed to listen.
The geyser stopped, as did the roar that accompanied it.
They rolled Paula over to the ambulance and loaded the gurney.
Nearby, a sedan rolled to a stop, a blue light flashed behind the grill. The man who wearily, grunted as he climbed out was large and in his late sixties. A full mustache sheltered his upper lip. His badge simply said Sheriff, a job the citizens of Canaan County elected and then re-elected him to for the past twenty years.
“Evening Boss,” the deputy said diffidently.
“Evening,” Gaines replied with a nod. “A kidnapping huh?”
“Yes, sir, over on the curb. She was handcuffed when I arrived. I have the driver in the ambulance.
The Sheriff strode over and looked through the side window of the ambulance.
“Oh hell!” he swore.
“Problems, sir?”
“That is Harry Grim’s girlfriend!” He stressed the first word.
“Is that trouble, sir?” the newly hired deputy asked.
“Son, those words are synonymous.”
*
At the hospital, the young deputy again inquired, “Who is Harry Grim?”
Gaines rolled his eyes. “He’s a private eye. Likes to fish, says that is why he lives here instead of LA where there are more people who lie, cheat, and steal.”
Foolishly the deputy pushed the question, “So what’s the trouble?”
Perhaps it was only because it was late and he wanted to be home in bed, but the sheriff scowled. If the deputy knew his boss better, he would have realized that when Gaines’ stroked his mustache it was an ominous sign.
“Because Grim can make a federal crime out of a cigarette butt. Last year he turned a simple car crash into a national scandal! Don’t you read the newspapers, boy?”
“I was still stationed over seas, Sir. I didn’t get discharged until January.”
From down the hall an angry voice roared. “Who is the idiot that put cuffs on her?”
A physically fit and visibly angry man charged down the hall in their direction. He
was muscular; his fists clenched, and his jaw set. Dark eyes flashed with fury.
Gaines turned to the young deputy. “You get outside, son. Nothing you say will make this better. Best thing is to hope he forgets who you are.”
“But, …”
A jerk of the Sheriff’s head toward the exit let the deputy know it was an order.
Gaines stepped forward to corral Harry who pulled up short, veins pulsed in his temples and neck. “I just saw her through the glass and she’s in cuffs!”
The Sheriff spoke softly, as he put one hand on Harry's shoulder.
“The boy's new, didn’t know Paula. What would you have done?”
Harry shook his head with disgust.
“Look Harry.” Gaines said, in another attempt to placate him, “It was a kidnap situation. Other than the victim Paula was the only one around. Easy mistake to make.”
“What, he thinks Paula looks like a kidnapper?” Harry’s voice was down a couple of notches but still carried a snarl.
“Come on Harry, you tell me, what does a kidnapper look like?”
Harry grimaced. He took a deep breath, pushing something down with an effort. “You’re right,” he said throwing up his hand and with it throwing over his vexation.
The sheriff patted Harry’s shoulder in an avuncular fashion. “Paula is going to be fine. We’ll get those cuffs off just as soon as her head is stitched up. I wanted to slow you down before you charged into Emergency and I was forced to drag you off to jail.”
Harry took a deep breath. “How’s the other girl?”
“Upset but unharmed. Too early for her to realize how lucky she was. Name is Kerri Kershaw. “
“How did she get snatched?”
“She’s works as a waitress at Marie’s. Got off work and was walking home on a dark street, lined with parked vehicles. As she passed a van, the cargo door slid open and a bag went over her head. The perp slammed her to the van floor hard enough to knock the air out of her. The girl said she couldn’t make a peep. Her assailant cuffed her hands and feet. Before she got her breath back they were taking off.”
“So how did she end up in the street?”
“The girl blindly hit the door and was lucky enough to catch the handle. When the guy turned, the law of inertia did the rest.”
“Find the van?”
“Not a trace. Paula didn’t think it had plates.”
“Description?”
“We have nothing except the van was white and the victim is pretty sure the kidnapper was a man.”
“What was the attraction?”
“Probably sex, the Kershaw girl is good looking. I doubt it was for money, her father’s a house painter.” Gaines paused then added, “Be nice if it was money, less likely to happen again, and less danger to other women.”
Harry walked over to a vending machine and pushed quarters in for a cup of coffee. “The world has a lot of creeps.” The machine hissed. “Anything else like this lately?” Harry asked over his shoulder as the paper cup filled.
“Nothing, but we’ll send it around the state and see. Leave this to us Harry. Go see to Paula.”
Harry turned away and walked back toward the E.R. leaving a trail of coffee drips on the linoleum Twenty feet later he stopped. “Sorry Sheriff. I was tired and worried.”
“Sure, Grim. Get some sleep. We’ll want to talk to Paula again tomorrow.”
*
The next morning Harry pampered Paula. He served her tea and croissants in bed. Their bedroom had a picturesque view of the lake. The morning was bright and the water shimmery quicksilver.
“How’s your head?”
“I feel hung-over. The back of my head hurts, even on the pillow.” Paula gingerly touched the sutures on her scalp. “Am I bald?” she inquired nervously.
Harry laughed. “No, the doctor shaved a small bit near the laceration. Your hair will easily cover it.”
“It feels crunchy and stiff.”
“Dried blood. Scalps bleed a lot. You need a shower.”
Paula slid out from under the floral duvet. It was one of the feminine touches she brought to the house when she moved in.
Harry bought the cabin on the water the previous year, after his own house exploded and burned. When the insurance check came he considered living aboard his houseboat, but he noticed once people moved aboard, their boats never went out. Few people lived tidily enough to get underway without a major cleanup. What closed off that line of thought was the fact he would need to move when the lake froze over in winter.
The cabin was listed with Herb Lanski, who pestered Harry about looking for a new house after the explosion. With the insurance check, he paid off the mortgage on the gutted remains and then he went house hunting. The first property Herb showed him perfectly suited to his tastes. The house itself was small and the lot narrow but it ran down to the water with 50’ of frontage. The floating dock was long enough to handle Harry’s runabout but not his houseboat that he kept berthed at Cody's Marine. The property also had a garage with a loft above. This covered the important stuff for Harry. The house’s two bedrooms, kitchen, and living room was a bonus.
He moved in. Many days he commuted to work by boat, running over to his slip at Cody's. Then it was a quick two-block walk to his office in Boyden Street on the second floor of the old Edison Building, a former electrical substation made of brick and granite in the early 19th century and converted to offices at that century's end.
He slouched in a wing back chair near the window and happily watched Paula’s naked body as she padded toward the bathroom, enjoying her curves and wondering why he hadn’t asked her to move in sooner. The sway of her hips and long blond hair sliding across her back made him swallow hard.
Water began to run and soon a growing cloud of steam spilled from the bathroom. Harry bestirred himself, walked over, reached in and flipped the switch for the fan, then returned to his coffee. Business was quiet. Couples in Red Lake seemed to be free of domestic strife, crime was apparently in abeyance and Harry was out of work. He was content to stay at home and tend to Paula. He mulled over where to fish, perhaps the flats around Upper Cransden, north of the prison. The shallow water deterred recreational boaters which left its waters undisturbed excepting the occasional sailboat that was run aground by the uninitiated.
Harry descended to the kitchen to refill his mug and then returned to the bedroom. Paula stood in front of the mirror blow-drying her hair.
“Mmmm,” Harry murmured as he moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her.
Paula hit his foraging hands with the hairbrush. “Knock it off Romeo. I’m an invalid, remember?”
“Then I’d best take you to bed and nurse you back to health.”
Paula turned around within his embrace and kissed him. “What about those fish waiting for you?”
“They’ll be there later.”
They sidled toward the bed as Paula began to work at Harry’s buttons.
Chapter 2
Sheriff Gaines was frustrated. Three weeks and no leads developed on the kidnapper or the van. Both vanished like snow in the summer. Gaines suspected the van was somewhere in his county, stashed in a garage, barn, or deep within a wooded lot. The thought troubled him because it meant the driver was likely around, too. All inter-agency inquires came back negative, no assaults involving light colored vans and no reported kidnappings. Sooner or later it will turn up, he assured himself, I just hope it won't be too late to stop the next attack. Meanwhile, Gaines did battle with county reports, and the state audit for the Canaan County Jail.
Beyond the glass of the Sheriff's office, Deputy Jimmy Hughes took his turn at the service counter. He was a young, eager deputy who kept one ear on the radio chatter, afraid he might miss any action.
His ears perked up, his head inadvertently tilted as he listened.
“Boss, we have a 10-54.” Hughes said, poking his cherubic face in the doorway. “Body found over by the state park.”
“Which
one?”
“Granite Ridge.”
“Male or female?” asked Gaines.
“The reporting party didn’t say.”
“Did they say if it appeared natural?”
“Only if the victim rolled themselves in plastic sheeting before dying.”
Gaines shrugged. “Stay on the desk.”
Gaines rose, hitched up his holster, dropped his hat on his head and left.
A moment later the door re-opened “Exactly where am I going?”
“The body is on the beach at Rocky Nook Point, just below the state park..”
By the time Gaines arrived two other cruisers were parked along the dirt road that led down to the lake. Luis Gonzales and Mitch Conners busied themselves with stringing up yellow tape to keep back the looky-loos who drifted over from the state park next door. Bold black letters read, CRIME SCENE, KEEP OUT.
Gonzales strode briskly over to the Sheriff as Gaines asked, “What do we have, Luis?”
“Well, Sheriff, there’s a body wrapped like a package, according to the citizen that found it.”
“What was he doing here?”
“The guy was camping next door, found the body while he was chasing his dog. He’s waiting in the back of my patrol car.”
“Either of you take a look?”
“Didn’t want to disturb the site. Thought we should wait for the medical examiner. If it is in plastic it’s gotta be dead.”
The Sheriff nodded his approval.
While they spoke, a green sedan pulled up. Richard Lang, MD sat behind the wheel. The coroner’s van was close behind. Following their customary greetings they set to work.
As a team they slowly worked toward the body, bagging any items on the ground that might identify the killer. Cigarette butts were especially useful because they often held DNA, the only problem being the number of discarded butts. People ought to be able to use an ashtray, Gaines thought.
The ground near the body was hard. The softer areas of the dirt road were a mish-mash of tire tracks that would be hard to sort.
