by Blake Pierce
Riley recognized him immediately.
She gasped and said to Frankie, “That’s Jake Crivaro!”
CHAPTER TEN
As he drove the borrowed police car to Mayor Nelson’s home just outside the town of Dighton, Jake couldn’t get yesterday’s clumsy misadventure with the media out of his mind. The memory still made him cringe.
The eager media crew had caught up with him when he was checking out the murder scene near Hyland. They’d engulfed him with their equipment, and a TV reporter had charged toward him, snapping out questions. Jake had done his best to play it by the book and not say anything that would cause a public panic.
“We don’t have sufficient information to share at this time,” he’d said when he was asked whether a serial killer was stalking this part of the state.
But the reporter had kept badgering Jake while he and the sheriff were trying to make their way to their car, demanding to know …
“What aren’t you telling us? What are you hiding?”
Jake growled under his breath at that particular recollection. He knew the reporter’s type all too well—a local hack who fancied himself some sort of crack investigator, anxious to make his name by harassing authorities and maybe someday winding up on the lineup of 60 Minutes.
As Jake had tried to get away, the reporter stepped into his path so that he couldn’t help bump into him—a deliberate move, Jake was sure. The reporter had staggered and almost fallen down, acting for all the world as though Jake had flat-out assaulted him.
Later that night, after he’d settled into a seedy motel room and was watching the TV news, he’d seen the story—an FBI Agent had attacked a reporter who was just trying to do his job.
And of course, Special Agent Erik Lehl had already called Jake to chew him out about that.
Well, Jake knew that Lehl had no use for excuses, and there hadn’t been any point in trying to explain that it wasn’t his fault. So Jake had followed orders. He’d called the TV station first thing this morning and abjectly apologized.
He wondered if his apology would make the news today.
That had been an inauspicious start to what was turning out to be a pretty lousy day.
Now it was only mid-afternoon, but Jake felt as though he’d already interviewed half of Dighton’s inhabitants. He’d asked them all about the local victim, Hope Nelson, and her husband, the mayor.
He’d certainly gotten a variety of responses.
Most people, of course, were shocked by what had happened to Hope—shocked and afraid. Women especially talked about being scared to leave their houses after dark. As gently as he could, Jake had suggested that they were probably wise to stay inside.
Some people seemed to be truly grief-stricken and expressed nothing but admiration for the Nelsons. The high school principal, for example, appreciated how the couple had revitalized the town’s economy by introducing grass-fed beef into the area. By switching from traditional to organic methods, a lot of nearby family farms had been saved from going under.
Other people didn’t much like the changes. The town barber was sullen about the arrival of “goddamn hippie farmers” like Guy Dafoe. Jake could understand why a barber wouldn’t want long hair and shaggy beards to become the local fashion.
Hope’s employees at her farm supply store were still badly shaken, and Jake had a hard time reading just how they’d felt about their boss when she was alive. He was sure, though, that none of them wanted her dead.
In fact, Jake didn’t sense that anyone in Dighton wished the Nelsons any serious harm. And nobody he asked had even heard Alice Gibson’s name, which left any connection between the two murdered women a complete mystery.
He slowed the car, checked his directions, and then turned into the long, private drive leading to the Nelsons’ home. It took him past big pastures where Black Angus cattle grazed on the other side of barbed wire fences.
Jake thought wryly …
Nice to see barbed wire put to its proper use.
The drive led to an impressive white farmhouse surrounded by maybe a half a dozen outbuildings. He pulled up in front of the broad, welcoming front porch.
An upright, well-dressed gentleman was standing on the porch waiting for him.
“Right on time,” the man said approvingly.
Jake got out of the car and went to shake the hand of Mayor Nelson. Jake observed that he barely resembled the stunned, stricken, and crumpled man Jake had met at the crime scene yesterday. Instead he definitely had the suave, slightly too-polished demeanor of a politician.
Nelson said, “I’m sorry for putting off meeting you until this afternoon. I’ve been busy with—well, the business of death, you might say. I’d forgotten what a bureaucratic ordeal the loss of a loved one could be. I’ve also been getting things ready for a small memorial service we’ll be holding here tomorrow.”
As the mayor led him through the front door, Jake noted that the mayor hadn’t invited him to the memorial service. There was nothing suspicious about that. Grieving people tended to feel uncomfortable with an FBI Agent hanging around. Still, Jake normally made it a practice to attend victims’ funerals whenever he could, just to observe the mourners and get a sense of their sincerity.
But there was no point in intruding upon tomorrow’s service. If he wasn’t wanted there, he’d only make things worse.
Walking through the wide hallway with polished wide-board wooden floors, Jake felt as though he were stepping back into history. They passed a table that Jake was sure must be an expensive antique. In a gilded frame above the table hung an oil landscape painting. Jake had no idea whether it was by someone famous, but it certainly looked old and valuable. The whole place seemed weirdly quiet except for the sound of their footsteps. Jake wondered whether there was anybody else in the entire place.
Finally the mayor ushered Jake into a room so different from the hallway that he had to stop himself from commenting. Apparently the mayor’s den or study, this room was furnished with curved red leather sofas sitting on rugs woven with what Jake took to be rather inauthentic Native American designs. Prickly-looking modern lamps hung from the ceiling. A big white Longhorn skull was displayed on one of the paneled walls.
On another wall hung a cluster of photographs, all portraits of stern-looking men. The oldest looked like daguerreotypes, possibly dating back to the Civil War or even before. Jake realized those must be Mayor Nelson’s male ancestors, probably including some of Dighton’s founders. The Nelsons were clearly what passed for “old money” in this little town.
Nelson offered Jake a seat, then stepped over to a cluster of glasses and bottles on a nearby table. He poured some whiskey into a crystal glass and said …
“You’re welcome to some fine old bourbon if you like—although I suppose since you’re on duty …”
“Thanks, but no,” Jake said.
Jake recognized the label on the bottle Nelson was pouring from. It was a rare and expensive 25-year-old whiskey that must have cost several hundred dollars.
Jake wondered—was Nelson showing off to him?
No, it seemed more likely that Nelson simply had a taste for what he considered the finer things in life.
Expensive whiskey and old cattle skulls, Jake thought.
As Nelson sat down near him, Jake said …
“First let me say that I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Nelson said, “Yes, I believe you tried to tell me that yesterday. I’m sorry, I wasn’t very … communicative at the time.”
“That’s more than understandable,” Jake said.
Nelson heaved a long sigh and said …
“I suppose you’re wondering if I knew anybody who might have wanted to kill Hope. I don’t think so. Mind you, as rather prominent figures in this town, my wife and I haven’t been universally liked. Small-town piques and differences, if you know what I mean. But I can’t think of anyone who might harbor enough bitterness against us to do a thing like …”
&nb
sp; His voice faded away, and he looked over at the portraits on the wall as if seeking sympathy from his ancestors. None of them looked very sympathetic as far as Jake was concerned.
Then he said, “This is all my fault.”
Jake felt a twinge of expectation.
“How do you mean?” he asked.
Nelson stared into his bourbon and said, “After that woman was killed over in Hyland a week or so ago, I should have known … I should have made sure the town was alert to any danger, especially Hope.”
Jake said, “There was no way for you to know. The local police in Hyland even thought they had a suspect.”
“I suppose,” Nelson said. “But I take my civic duties very seriously. Things like this … well, they just don’t happen here in Dighton. And I do mean never, not as long as I can remember. Some years ago, some kids stole a car and committed some vandalism, just for a thrill. There have been no burglaries that I can think of, certainly no rapes or assaults. The only case of manslaughter happened when a couple of drunks got into a bar fight and one of them wound up dead—just a stupid accident, really.”
Nelson hunched his shoulders and added …
“Still, I should have been more vigilant.”
With a wave toward the portraits he added, “Duty is part of my inheritance, you might say. Hope felt much the same way. She had a rigorous work ethic. And she inspired others to work hard as well …”
Nelson fell silent. Jake could think of a number of questions he might ask. But from long experience, he could tell that Nelson was going to talk quite freely on his own—probably about his marriage, which was what Jake wanted to hear.
Then Nelson’s whole face tightened, and he quietly gasped.
The truth is hitting him, Jake realized.
Jake had seen this among many people he’d interviewed over the years. Grief tended to come in terrible waves as the reality of a loved one’s death became more and more of a reality.
In a choked voice, Nelson continued …
“I loved her—of course. But more than that, I admired her. She had a rare spirit—especially rare in a sleepy town like this. We got married when she was 18 and I was 35 …”
He chuckled a little and added …
“I know, that sounds stereotypically Appalachian—an older man marrying a teenager. But it wasn’t like that. Some 15 years ago, when I’d just become mayor, Warren Gardner came through Dighton campaigning for his first term as West Virginia’s U.S Senator. I supported Gardner, but most folks in the area were rather apathetic at first. It was Hope who turned his visit into a big local event, whipped up all kinds of support for him. She and I worked side by side during that campaign.”
He smiled and shook his head and said …
“The whole time, I kept thinking, ‘What a kid!’ I’d known her all my life, but the Gardner campaign was when I fell in love with her, and she with me. When Gardner won the election, we celebrated by getting married. And in all the years since …”
He paused as if he couldn’t find the words to describe their happiness.
Then he looked Jake in the eyes and said, “She’s been—was—my partner in everything, and more than just politics. We did a lot of business in town, owned a lot of property. I managed the political end of things, but she was mostly in charge of money and business matters. She had more of a brain for that kind of thing than I do. And now that she’s gone … well, I can’t imagine how I’ll manage on my own.”
Nelson took a sip of bourbon and pointed to a photo on the table in front of them. It showed a handsome, smiling teenaged boy wearing a prep school uniform.
Nelson said, “That’s our son, Ethan. He just started school at Liggett Academy this year.”
Jake started a little.
Liggett Academy!
It was one of the most exclusive and expensive preparatory schools in the Washington, DC area. One or two past Supreme Court Justices had gone there.
Nelson continued, “Ethan’s coming home for tomorrow’s service. When I told him the news, he took it hard, of course. But he’s tough and resilient, like his mom. He’ll pull through it. As for me, I might be another story. I’m not so young, not so resilient anymore.”
Jake asked Nelson a few more questions, but the mayor didn’t offer any revealing answers. Jake thanked Nelson for his help, then got into his borrowed car and drove away from the house.
As he approached the open gate at the edge of Nelson’s property, he saw a news truck parked just outside the open gate. The news crew was out and about, with all their equipment at the ready.
Jake groaned aloud. He’d been dodging them all day, but of course it had been easy for them to find out where he was right now.
The reporter that he’d bumped into yesterday stepped right in front of his car and Jake pulled to an abrupt stop.
Jake honked his horn. For a moment, nobody moved.
Jake reminded himself …
Running over him isn’t an option.
Then, to his relief, the reporter stepped aside and out of his way, still holding out a mike and mouthing an inaudible question
Without a glance in the man’s direction, Jake pulled past him and out onto the country road. When he checked his rearview mirror, he saw the team running around like cartoon characters, trying to load the equipment back in the van so they could follow him.
Jake allowed himself a smile. He’d be back in Dighton by the time they got themselves together.
His next stop would the Dighton police station, where he’d return the borrowed car, meet with his forensics team, and arrange for a helicopter to fly them all back to Quantico. Today the team had been to the crime scene near Hyland, but Jake knew they wouldn’t have found any evidence there, not after a week of country weather with at least one rainfall.
Tomorrow morning he an appointment for a personal briefing with Special Agent in Charge Erik Lehl …
Not that I’ve got much to report.
Jake knew he was getting nowhere with this investigation.
I missed something, he thought.
But what was it? Something about the mayor? The man’s grief and his love for his wife had seemed sincere. Besides, what connection could Nelson have had with the earlier murder?
Jake heaved a long, weary sigh. His usually reliable gut instincts simply weren’t kicking in on this case. He almost wished he had a partner who could give him some feedback, maybe even some new ideas.
He remembered again the reporters asking him if there would be any more murders, and him replying that he didn’t have sufficient information for a firm answer.
But at least one person did know—someone who enjoyed inflicting pain and wouldn’t abandon his pleasures …
Unless I stop him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Riley fought back the dizziness that threatened to slow her down. She was short of breath and her heart was pounding. Still, she rushed ahead.
She was determined to complete this exercise.
Dashing across the gym floor, pausing to crouch beside a plastic cone marker, getting back to her feet, whirling in the other direction, running again—Riley would wind up sprinting a total of 120 yards. Running was hard enough after the grueling work she’d already done this morning, but all the stopping and starting and whirling really made the shuttle run difficult. When she skidded to her final stop, she bent over and put her hands on her knees, swallowing down welcome gulps of air.
Riley wiped her forehead, feeling pretty pleased with herself. Before the shuttle run, she’d completed the required two-mile run without any trouble. That wasn’t really surprising. After all, back in DC she’d made the 1.5 mile run that was required for admission to the Academy. She’d also spent a lot of time working out in the gym over the summer. She felt confident about today’s tests.
Then she heard the whistle and hurried to line up with the rest of her group at one end of the gym. The trainees stood at attention while instructor Marty Glick paced back and fort
h in front of them.
He didn’t look pleased.
After several long moments of strained silence, Glick barked …
“I swear to God, you guys are a really sorry bunch of NATs, and right now I do mean of the insect variety. Some of you didn’t even finish the runs so far—and those who did were as slow as molasses. What the hell am I supposed to do with you guys?”
After a pause, he added …
“Well? Can anybody tell me?”
Since the group was standing at attention, of course nobody could reply—or even shrug.
Riley wondered—was she included in Glick’s criticism?
She thought she’d been doing just fine.
Had she been wrong?
Was she “as slow as molasses” as far as Glick was concerned?
Glick shook his head and looked at his clipboard.
He said, “We’ve still got pushups and sit-ups. You all need to do better.”
One by one, he watched as each trainee performed as many regulation pushups as possible before stopping. By the time it came Riley’s turn, she felt flustered and unsure of herself.
She drove her tired body as hard as she could, counting 14 pushups in all. When she finished and lay panting on the floor, Glick growled …
“I’m discounting two of yours, Sweeney. You didn’t lower yourself until your upper arms were parallel to the floor.”
Riley’s discouragement deepened. When it came her turn to do sit-ups she tried to summon up her remaining energy and determination.
This time the goal was to do as many sit-ups as she could do in a single minute—which she guessed would be an easier task than trying to keep on going until she couldn’t do any more, like she had with the pushups.
When Glick started the stopwatch to time her, Riley put her hands behind her neck and went to work. With each sit-up, she had to snap upright until her back was perpendicular to the floor, then lower herself until her shoulder blades touched the floor.
She moved fast, getting in as many sit-ups as she could as fast as she could. For a few seconds she amazed herself by how many she was getting done.