Dead Man's Lake (The Braddock & Gray Case Files Book 5)

by H. P. Bayne

  So far, they’d spent the bulk of their time going back over what they’d observed while surveilling Greg Waterford. Brinks was a thorough client, wanting every detail, as if hoping to find something important through description alone.

  Finally, Lachlan moved the conversation along.

  “One thing of particular note,” he said. “One of my associates tailed Mr. Waterford to Dead Man’s Lake. He followed him into the woods and observed him digging around in the remains of a cabin previously destroyed by fire.”

  Brinks lifted a brow. “Digging, was he? Seems like a challenge for a man with a significant shoulder injury.”

  Being forced to play second fiddle to Lachlan left Dez free to make full observation of Brinks. Dez watched for signs the man was troubled by Waterford’s late-night visit to the lake and the former cabin but saw nothing that couldn’t be explained away by the whole worker’s compensation aspect to the case.

  “Yes, he seemed to be quite active, is my understanding,” Lachlan said. “And one other thing. Desmond here tailed Mr. Waterford to a downtown coffee shop where he observed him meeting with a reporter. We don’t know precisely what it was, but he handed something over to her. Something in an envelope.”

  Brinks sat up straight and shot forward so fast he bumped his desk. “Did you make efforts to find out what it was?”

  “We did—and we’re still working on it. However, there’s a secondary issue here, Mr. Brinks, and it’s one that could eclipse the workers’ compensation concerns you have regarding your employee. We have information suggesting the cabin Mr. Waterford was digging inside once belonged to a former employee of yours named Walter McCrory.”

  Brinks went still. Though Dez didn’t see any loss of colour, the man’s skin was so dark and leathery to start with thanks to years spent outdoors, he wasn’t sure he’d notice if Brinks did lose a shade.

  “Walter? Are you certain?”

  “Quite certain.”

  “But—my God. I haven’t heard that name in years. He was one of my best crewmen. Disappeared one day and I haven’t heard from or of him since.”

  Dez’s phone buzzed again. Though he hated to interrupt and risk Lachlan’s wrath as a result, if this was Sully, it could be important. He nudged Lachlan with an elbow. “I think we should check this.”

  Lachlan’s mouth pinched into a straight line. Disapproval, indeed. Then he turned to Brinks. “Pardon us for a moment, sir. We’ll return in a moment.”

  The trailer was large, and Dez took a chance they could speak privately in the far corner.

  “This better be important, Braddock. I was on a roll.”

  Dez turned so his back was to Brinks before checking the phone’s screen. Two texts from Sully.

  Craig admitted to hiring Walter away and paying him to spy on Brinks

  Then, Dez?

  Dez texted back, Got it. Thanks

  He showed the text to Lachlan, who stared at it for a moment. Then he moved closer to Dez. “Have Sullivan find Waterford and go back to keeping an eye on him.” He kept his voice low. “We’ll hook up with him again after we’re done here and compare notes.”

  Dez nodded and sent the message to Sully. A few seconds later, he received a thumbs-up in response.

  “Done,” he told Lachlan. “But maybe you and I should keep an eye on Brinks after this, huh? I mean, he had motive too, right?”

  “Only if he knew about the spying. Come on, let’s get asking.”

  The two of them turned, and Dez found Brinks’s eyes fixed on them as if he’d been sitting there struggling to overhear.

  Dez followed Lachlan back to their chairs across the desk from Brinks and sat.

  “Forgive us,” Lachlan said. “My other associate was just over having a chat with Harrison Craig at Calypso.”

  Brinks’s gaze flicked from Lachlan to Dez and back again. “Harrison? About what?”

  “Well, as I was getting into a few minutes ago, our investigation took a very interesting turn when he found Mr. Waterford digging around Walter McCrory’s old place. You see, McCrory, it turns out, simply vanished one day. Unfortunately for him, no one seemed to notice or care enough to report him missing. We have reason to suspect he met with foul play.”

  Brinks’s bushy grey brows shot up his forehead. “What do you mean, foul play? You mean murder?”

  Lachlan gave a solemn nod. “That’s exactly what I mean. Someone known to Desmond was fishing and pulled up a shred of cloth—one matching what we believe Mr. McCrory was wearing at the time of his death. We have reason to believe he was killed and dumped in the lake—where he remains to this day.”

  “But—my God—that’s—that’s horrible. Why?”

  “We’re working on the why,” Lachlan said. “But we’ve learned one interesting piece of information. Years ago, your company and one co-owned by Harrison Craig were in the running for a very lucrative contract from Dunsmore Developments. The job, then as now, involved developing Crystal Lake.”

  “Yes. That’s certainly no secret. We were indeed in competition at the time over the potential job. It never came to fruition, of course.”

  “Did you know Mr. Craig paid Walter McCrory to spy on your company?”

  This time, Dez was certain he saw Brinks lose some colour. His hands, previously cupped in a relaxed pose atop the desk, dropped toward his lap. “Wh-what are you saying?”

  “It’s a dirty business, isn’t it, Mr. Brinks? I mean, of course, you deal in dirt to a great extent by nature of the job, but it goes beyond that. When money’s at stake, people will do a great deal to hold onto it. Sometimes, they’ll even kill.”

  “Are you accusing me of killing Walter?”

  “It would seem you had motive.”

  The muscles in Brinks’s face tightened. “I’m not a murderer, Mr. Fields. I may be a great many things—not all of which I’m proud of—but a killer isn’t one of them. Now, I paid you to do a job for me. You’re working for me, if I must remind you.”

  Lachlan smiled. “Yes, and we did the job you asked us to do. We followed Mr. Waterford. It just so happens he led us in some very interesting directions.”

  “I don’t believe this. I don’t—Can … can you take me out to the lake and show me? I’d like to see the place for myself.”

  “Why?” Lachlan asked.

  Brinks’s right hand re-emerged. In it, he held a nickel-plated pistol.

  “Humour me,” he said.

  22

  Among skills Dez had learned while policing was how to disarm someone with a gun. As Brinks walked around the desk toward them, Dez prepared himself.

  A light kick to his shin stalled him. He flashed a glance at Lachlan and received a barely perceptible head shake. No fear showed in Lachlan’s eyes. This was excitement.

  Leave it to Lachlan, Dez thought. Only he’d be pumped by the idea of being held at gunpoint and taken out to a remote location, presumably to be killed. The man needed a life.

  Vowing to keep close enough to disarm Brinks as soon as the situation called for it, Dez obeyed Lachlan—for now.

  This side of the desk—not quite near enough to grab, even for Dez with his longer reach—Brinks stopped. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a set of plasticuffs, the kind Dez had occasionally used in his policing days.

  Dez’s stomach dropped. He guessed they were meant for him. Between him and Lachlan, he was by far the bigger threat. “The gun’s bad enough. Where’d you get the plasticuffs? They’re not readily available to civilians.”

  “Easy enough to find if you know where to look.” Brinks tossed them to Lachlan. “Cuff your associate behind his back. And turn him so I can see. I want to make sure you don’t leave him room to slip free.”

  Still too far to risk going after Brinks. He held the handgun steadily, like a man who’d used one before. Dez was getting the distinct impression he had.

  With no other immediate option, he turned his back to Lachlan, allowing him to draw the cuffs tightly a
round his wrists.

  “Sorry, kid,” Lachlan said.

  “Not your fault.” At least, Dez didn’t think so. If he found out later Lachlan suspected a gun and hadn’t said anything, there would be hell to pay.

  “Let’s take your vehicle,” Brinks said. “Lead the way, Fields. Anything stupid and I shoot the big guy.”

  With Brinks careful to stay out of reach, the three of them headed out to Dez’s SUV. With his hands bound and no room to maneuver, he could think of little to do. No way he and Lachlan could dive into the SUV and take off, leaving Brinks in the dust. Anyway, it was clear Lachlan had some cards he hoped to play yet. Whether those cards would allow them to win this suddenly very dangerous game, Dez had no idea. He sure as hell hoped so.

  Dez’s phone continued to record in his pocket as Lachlan, at Brinks’s direction, opened the rear door for Dez to get in. Brinks ordered Lachlan to do up Dez’s seatbelt.

  “Keep him from forming any ideas about getting stupid back there,” Brinks said.

  Lachlan leaned in, making like he was fighting with the belt as he got in a few private words with Dez. “Don’t worry. We’ll get our statement from him and get out of this. I’ve got it handled.”

  “So do I,” Dez said. “I’ve got a razor blade in the seam of my coat.”

  Lachlan gave a low, barely audible chuckle. “That’s my boy.”

  Belted in and sealed inside, Dez waited as Lachlan climbed behind the wheel and Brinks took the passenger seat. Brinks held the gun on Lachlan as he started the vehicle and put it into drive.

  “Not worried any of your guys might have seen all of that?” Lachlan asked.

  “Nope. Too wet to work just yet. Gave them the day off.”

  “Thought it seemed kinda quiet.”

  “I wanted somewhere private to talk when I thought it was about Greg. Given all of this, I’m glad quiet is what I went for.”

  And quiet is how things stayed in the SUV for a while as well. Dez guessed Lachlan wanted to be out of the city before he got into any serious questioning. The man was whip smart and highly skilled at many things, but he wasn’t fond of driving in the city. Lachlan had been a longtime member of the Kimotan Rapids Police Department so had spent plenty of time driving the city over the years. But the place had grown a lot since his days in patrol. Add in after-effects of a severe concussion he’d suffered a few years ago, and Lachlan was typically quite happy to leave the driving to Dez.

  Unfortunately, the silence left Dez unable to shift around much.

  Having found himself in some predicaments before, he’d learned what he could to keep himself protected. As a result, he’d fashioned himself a tiny pocket in a couple of his jackets, along the back, inside the bottom seam. In it, he carried a handcuff key and a razor blade duct taped on one side. Between the two, he figured he could extricate himself from most restraints.

  Of course, first he had to get to them. It would involve some squirming and shifting to get the razor blade in hand and into position, then more as he gradually sliced through the tough plastic. Until Brinks was occupied with Lachlan’s questions, Dez would have to play it safe. If Brinks determined Dez was trying to escape and located the razor blade, he and Lachlan were screwed.

  Unless, of course, Sully happened to find them. Then all three of them might be screwed.

  Dez’s phone buzzed once with an incoming text. He peered toward Brinks, hoping he hadn’t heard. Brinks hadn’t thought to have them leave their cellphones behind, and Dez didn’t want him to clue in now. If he checked the phone and saw Dez was recording, there went the evidence they already had and their chance at collecting more.

  Thankfully, no further texts followed. Dez sat in silence the rest of the trip through the city, watching the scenery flash by as Lachlan made his way onto the freeway. It was farther around this way but quicker if the traffic in the city centre was bad. Dez imagined Lachlan wanted this dealt with sooner rather than later.

  Indeed, as soon as Lachlan settled into the second-to-rightmost lane and hit cruising speed, he began his questioning.

  “What’s the plan here, exactly?”

  Brinks didn’t turn. “The plan is for you to not talk to me. Just drive.”

  “You hired me in the first place because I like to ask questions. It’s what makes me damn good at my job. Listen, I’m not naive. Neither is my associate back there. We both know the plan is to kill us, then figure out a way to do away with Sullivan as well. Am I off base?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I think we have the right to know how this is supposed to play out.”

  Brinks shifted slightly. “You haven’t left me any choice. I get no pleasure from having to do this.”

  “That makes three of us,” Dez grumbled.

  Lachlan cast him a warning glare in the rearview mirror. Dez glared back. Yeah, he knew Lachlan liked handling questioning himself. Annoying, but better to let Lachlan have his way than have to deal with him later, if they got out of this. By the time Lachlan got started with him, Dez might find himself wishing Brinks had killed him after all and put him out of his misery early.

  Dez took a breath and did what he normally did: thought of this as a police interview. Normally, only one member present in the interview room with the suspect, the partner monitoring from a nearby room and taking notes. They’d consult once or twice during the process, away from the suspect, but would otherwise each play their own role. Here, as per usual, Lachlan had designated himself with the role of interviewer. Dez’s was playing Houdini and extricating himself from the plasticuffs.

  Of course, things hadn’t turned out so well for Houdini in the end.

  He bent his fingers, ignoring the pinch of the plastic as it dug into the base of the junction of wrist and palm, seeking out the hidden, self-created pocket inside his seam.

  “Is what’s supposed to happen to us what happened to Walter McCrory?” Lachlan asked.

  “How the hell should I know? I didn’t kill him.”

  This was interesting. Interesting enough Dez stalled temporarily in his search. Brinks had as good as admitted to planning on killing them. No reason for him not to acknowledge they were right about Walter.

  Unless, of course, they weren’t.

  Lachlan held his tongue, and so did Dez. A trick learned in policing. Throw in some silences now and then and see if the interviewee would fill them. Human beings in conversation hated silences.

  So did Dez. He could feel the edges of his concealed escape kit now, but he would need to pop a couple stitches to get to it.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Brinks said again.

  Dez snapped the stitching.

  “So who do you suppose did?”

  “What makes you think he’s been murdered?”

  Lachlan launched into the explanation about Sully and his gift, allowing Dez a moment to focus in on his task. He mentally thanked himself for not using plastic wrapping, thus avoiding any obvious crinkling as he pushed back the flap of the tiny cloth sack and reached inside. If he got the chance to do this again, he’d do it so the flap was outside the seam. Make for a quicker search that way.

  He’d placed the razor blade taped end up, and he eased it out between his forefinger and middle finger, careful not to bump it and drop it. If he lost it now, it would probably slip between the seats. Then he’d be well out of luck.

  A “You expect me to believe that?” from Brinks signalled an end to Lachlan’s explanation.

  “You can believe whatever you want,” Lachlan said. “You’re the man with the gun. I’m only telling you the truth. Sullivan sees the ghosts of homicide victims, and he’s seen McCrory. In my experience with the kid, two plus two always comes out to four. Now, given what we’ve learned about McCrory, it’s clear you had motive to kill him.”

  “Because he was spying for Harrison Craig’s company?”

  “Yes. And because maybe he saw something he shouldn’t have.”

  Dez maneuvered the blade so he could grasp
it between forefinger and thumb of his dominant right hand. He placed the sharp edge against the plastic and began to saw away, the action a matter of centimetres.

  “I’ll say it again. I didn’t kill him. I’ll admit, I had someone make the call to police about him as the suspect in the robbery, but that’s it. I saw him sneaking out of my office and suspected something was up. I was angry.”

  The question formed on Dez’s lips, and it was out of his mouth before he could stop it, bringing a temporary halt to his cutting. “Did Walter even commit the bank robbery?”

  Brinks spared him a quick glance before returning attention to the road ahead and Lachlan. “No idea. I highly doubt it. Not his style. I’d been hearing about it on the news, and I thought it would be a good way to both punish Walter and, if it panned out, to make it so he’d have a bitch of a time ever finding himself another decent job. No one sneaks around behind my back and gets away with it.”

  Dez stewed over this for the moment as he went back to his previous task. Walter hadn’t committed the robbery, after all. At this point, decades on, it was highly unlikely anyone would ever figure out the true culprit, and it probably didn’t matter anyway. They’d said it themselves earlier—someone who’d made off with that kind of dough would try to distance himself from the location of his crime. Chances were, whoever it had been, he was long gone.

  It didn’t matter anymore. What did matter was Greg Waterford clearly believed Walter had done it.

  “Did Waterford know about any of this?” Lachlan asked. “About McCrory spying on you? About the fact you called the cops to report the man as a robber?”

  Both Dez and Lachlan knew the answer to the latter questions already, of course, but Dez suspected Lachlan was testing Brinks.

  Brinks nodded. “He knew, all right. He’s the one I had make the call.”

  “Why?”

  A shrug. “If cops figured out someone had set Walter up, they’d come calling. I had Waterford phone from the line in the crew trailer. Everyone has access to it. Cops would have to interview everyone to figure out who’d made the call. Since I had my own office on site with my own line, they weren’t likely to suspect I had anything to do with it. If Greg said anything about me, I was prepared to deny it.”