The Gold Dragon Caper: A Damien Dickens Mystery (Damien Dickens Mysteries Book 4)

by Phyllis Entis

  “Any chance of fingerprints?”

  “We’ve dusted, but no joy. There are too many different prints overlapping each other on the rental skis, and the only prints on the boy’s skis are his own. We were able to pull his prints from the furniture in his room at the Hegarty’s house, and they match the prints on his skis. The perp probably was wearing gloves.”

  “Speaking of the perp, what’s the story with the guy who fell off the ridge?”

  “He was badly injured in the fall: broken leg, cracked ribs, punctured lung, broken nose, possible concussion. He was unconscious when the rescue team reached him. There was some internal bleeding, and the medics aren’t sure if he’ll pull through. He’s in surgery now.”

  “Was he carrying any identification? Anything that would tell us who he is, or where he came from?”

  Laporte took a notebook out of his pocket and thumbed through a few pages before answering. “He had a Nevada driver’s license in his wallet. Name of Tyler Wilkins. No key ring or hotel key on him. No credit cards either. However, he was carrying close to a thousand dollars in cash. I have my guys checking all the inns and B&Bs in the area, to find out where he was staying, but it will take time. And he might have rented a room in Burlington or Montpelier, or even farther afield than that.” He shook his head. “I’m not optimistic. We couldn’t get a headshot of him when he was brought in, as he was swarmed immediately by the medics. Instead, my guys each have a photocopy of Wilkins’s driver’s license. It’s a lousy photo, though. I doubt his own mother would recognize him.”

  I held out my hand. “May I see it?”

  Laporte removed a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it before handing it over. “Photocopy’s even worse than the original. Doubt it’ll tell you much, but you’re welcome to look.”

  I squinted at the blurred image as I strained to make out the features. Defeated, I handed the sheet of paper back to Laporte with a shake of my head. “Useless. Where’s the original?”

  “Bob Tobias has it. He’s coordinating the canvassing of the inns in the area.”

  We were interrupted by a knock, and the door opened a crack. “There’s a phone call for you on line 3, Mr. Dickens,” the ER clerk announced. “You can take it in here. Just press the flashing button on the wall phone.”

  I looked at Laporte in a silent request. He nodded, said something about checking on the status of the investigation, and left the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a loud click. I pressed the button for line 3. “This is Dickens,” I said into the receiver.

  The call was from Susan, and she didn’t waste words. Her voice was crisp and controlled, and underlaid with tension. “I’m calling from the house. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I need to talk to you.”

  “Now?”

  “Not over the phone. How quickly can you get here?”

  “It will be a while. I’ll ask one of Laporte’s men to give me a ride once I’m done here.”

  “Right away,” she said, hanging up before I had a chance to protest.

  It wasn’t like Susan to be peremptory. The stress of Artie’s kidnapping must have unsettled her more than I’d realized. I stared at the receiver, which was now emitting a steady hum, and replaced it on the cradle with a shake of my head.

  Leaving Hershey in the examining room, I went in search of Laporte. The ER clerk told me he had been called to the surgical ICU ward. “Second floor. Turn left out of the elevator,” she said.

  I found him pacing the corridor, hands clasped behind his back, head down. He looked up when I called out his name. “Any news?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing concrete. Wilkins is out of surgery. They’re hooking him up now in there.” He gestured toward the closed door of the ICU with a wave of his hand. “I’m waiting to speak to the surgeon.”

  “Mind if I hang around? I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

  Laporte replied with a noncommittal grunt that I took to be assent. “Once we’re done here,” I asked, “could one of your constables run me over to the Sutherland place on Lois Lane? Susan is expecting a report from me.”

  “I’ll take you there myself, once I’ve spoken to the surgeon. I’m heading back to the station from here. It’s not far out of my way.” He resumed his pacing, and I fell into step beside him.

  “Captain Laporte!”

  We turned in unison at the sound of the nurse’s voice. “The surgeon will see you now. Please follow me.” We fell into single file behind her as she led us down a winding hallway, stopping outside the open door of a windowless cubbyhole. Two of the walls of the tiny room were lined with bookcases; the third held framed diplomas proclaiming Dr. Pritchard’s credentials in trauma and internal medicine. The digital clock on the wall, which indicated the time as 10:45pm, reminded me just how weary I was. Pritchard looked up as we entered his office, but didn’t stand. Judging from his rumpled appearance and the dark circles under his eyes, I figured he was too tired to waste energy on empty courtesies.

  Laporte took the lone vacant chair, and I leaned against one of the bookcases. The doctor got right down to business, addressing Laporte and ignoring my presence. “Your man is alive. It was a close thing, though.” He paused to rub his eyes with the palms of his hands. “His exposure to the cold was both a curse and a blessing. It debilitated him, and caused some incipient frostbite. However, it also slowed the internal bleeding, which probably saved his life. We managed to stabilize him and inflate the collapsed lung. But he could still go either way.”

  “When can I interview him?” Laporte asked.

  “No telling. Not tonight, anyway. He was unconscious when he was brought in, as you know. He’s heavily sedated now, as we don’t want him moving around. We’ll re-evaluate his condition in the morning.”

  “Can we have a look at him? Maybe take a photo to help our investigation?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’ve left clear instructions that no one is to enter his room tonight except for medical staff. Check with me tomorrow morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Laporte and I returned to the ER department to collect Hershey. We found him resting quietly on the floor next to the clerk’s desk, his muzzle cradled between his front legs. He raised his head at our approach, then stood and greeted me with a lazy stretch. I ruffled the dreadlocks on the top of his head and picked up his leash. “Time to go,” I said.

  Laporte dropped us off at the foot of Lois Lane with a promise to telephone first thing in the morning with any news. I unclipped Hershey’s leash, giving him a chance to ‘take care of business’ as we walked the 500 feet up the lane, my pocket flashlight illuminating our path with a pale, yellow glow. Susan must have been watching for us. As we reached the porte cochère, the front door flew open. She stood in the doorway, one hand clutching the door handle, the other clenched at her side, her face tight with suppressed emotion.

  “Inside. Quickly.” Her voice was quiet and controlled, but I could hear a tremble of fear beneath the surface. The instant Hershey and I walked through into the foyer, she slammed the door shut and engaged the deadbolt. “I’ll wait for you in the Great Room,” she said, striding off before I could respond.

  I took my time. Removing my jacket, I hung it in the closet, then used an old towel lying by the door to wipe Hershey’s feet. Some new development had upset Susan’s already fragile equilibrium. Unsure of what I would find, I went in search of her, Hershey following close behind.

  Chapter Nine

  Susan was waiting for me in the Great Room, an oversized sitting room with immense windows, which looked out over the treetops toward the Stowe Pinnacle. Her back was to the stone fireplace, with its mantlepiece formed from a split red cedar log, raised hearth, and Vermont Stove insert. She was hugging herself, her face a study in fear and anguish, her eyes moist with unshed tears.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  “I heard from the kidnapper again.”

  “
What did he say?”

  “He began by reminding me the clock was ticking. When I told him there was no way I could get the ransom money together within 48 hours, he made threats. Terrible threats.”

  Susan put her hands to her face, brushing away tears, taking a moment to collect herself. I walked across the Great Room and leaned an elbow against the mantlepiece. “What, specifically, did he say?” I asked, keeping my voice matter-of-fact.

  She looked at me, despair manifest in her eyes. “First, he told me to call off the cops. He said he would kill Artie if the cops interfered. Then… oh, Damien. He said he would send Artie back to us one piece at a time until the ransom was paid.” Sobbing, she buried her face in her hands.

  I put my arms around her, and held her close as her sobs shook her body, and her tears soaked my shirt. Unbidden, my mind flashed back to the summer of 1979. I’d held her sister, Celine, like this when she had come to me for help. The memories came flooding back, and I felt my body responding to Susan the way it had to Celine. This wouldn’t do. I released Susan from my arms, putting my hands on her shoulders for a moment to steady us both. Then, one arm around her waist, I guided her to the sofa and pulled up a chair for myself.

  Hershey, who had been pacing the room, discomforted by our behavior, curled up at Susan’s feet, his muzzle resting on his front legs. She reached down absentmindedly to give him a pat, then leaned back and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I feel like such a fool. I’ve been trying to stay strong for Artie. For Mary and Zeb. But this has been overwhelming, and I feel as though I have no one to turn to.”

  “You have Millie and me. You know you can count on us.”

  “I thought I could. But after today, I’m not so sure.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told you over the phone I needed you right away. That was more than an hour ago.” Susan’s eyes glistened as she struggled to rein in her emotions. “Where were you? Why were you ignoring me?”

  “I was waiting with Captain Laporte to speak to the surgeon. We wanted to question the suspect. At the very least, we wanted to get a look at him. And I wasn’t ignoring you. I was half an hour’s drive from here when you called, and I had no car. I came as soon as Laporte could give me a ride over.”

  “Oh.” She lowered her gaze briefly, then raised her eyes to scrutinize my face. “But what about Millie? Where is she? She was supposed to interview the students on their way back to Lawrenceville.”

  “Hasn’t she called yet? She should have been back in Atlantic City by now.”

  “Oh, she called.” Susan bit off the words, her voice shaking with indignation. “About fifteen minutes before you arrived. She called from the airport.”

  “The airport? What airport? Where is she?”

  Her anger spilling over, Susan leaned forward and waved a finger in my face. “Don’t play games with me, Damien, and don’t you dare lie to me. Millie wouldn’t have gone off without telling you.”

  I reached out and grabbed her wrist, keeping my voice even, seeking to help her restore her usual self-control even as I struggled to maintain my own. “That’s enough, Susan. I’ve never lied to you, and I won’t be dressed down like an errant schoolboy, or one of your junior clerks. Calm down.”

  We remained frozen in place, my hand clutching her wrist. After a few minutes, I felt her arm relax. Releasing my grip, I sat back in my chair. “That’s better. Now tell me what Millie said when she telephoned.”

  “There was a lot of background noise: flight announcements, people talking, and so forth. I think I heard her say something about her brother, and needing to go to Las Vegas. The connection was bad, and I couldn’t catch the rest of what she was trying to tell me. Then her flight was called, and she hung up.”

  “Is that everything?” I could feel a wave of annoyance and frustration swell in my chest. Once again, her brother had said, ‘Jump!’ and Millie had responded like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

  “That’s all I could make out.” Susan sat upright, her eyes searching my face. “You mean to say you didn’t know she was planning to fly off?”

  I shook my head. “No, I had no idea, and I don’t blame you for being upset.” My fists clenched and unclenched as my loyalty to Millie warred with my anger at her impulsive action. “Millie must have a good reason for what she’s done.”

  Susan slumped forward, elbows on her thighs, resting her head in her hands. “I’m sorry. I …” Her muffled voice trailed off and she looked up, tears in her eyes. “It’s just that…” Her words ended in a sob, and she buried her face in her hands. I moved over to the sofa, sat beside her, and put my arm around her once again. She half-turned, burying her face in my chest. I rocked her back and forth, making soothing sounds as though I was comforting a child. At last, she swallowed convulsively, took a deep breath, and turned her tear-stained face to look at me. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  I leaned forward to kiss her forehead, but she tilted her face upward to intercept me, and our lips touched, separated and touched again. Her arms slid around me, pulling me close. I placed my hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length. Putting my fingers under her chin, I tilted her head upward to search her face. Her eyes were guileless, her expression open and trusting.

  Standing, I shook my head. “This is wrong, Susan. It’s happening for all the wrong reasons. You’re exhausted, upset, and off-balance, and so am I.” I returned to my chair, and leaned forward to take both of Susan’s hands in mine. “You understand, don’t you? If we let this happen, nothing would ever be the same again.”

  She didn’t speak for a while, just stared at me, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “Damien, I…” Her voice broke and she swallowed hard. “I meant it when I said I have no one to turn to. No friends.”

  “What about Mary and Zeb? What about all the people you know in Atlantic City? What about Millie and me? I thought you considered us your friends.”

  She shook her head. “Mary and Zeb have their own lives here in Stowe. I love them dearly, but we have little in common other than Artie. I can’t confide in them. And the people I know in Atlantic City are either business acquaintances or employees. You and Millie are the closest friends I have. I was on pins and needles waiting for you to get here tonight. Then Millie called to say she was flying off to Las Vegas, and I felt deserted by both of you. Betrayed.” She reached out and touched me on the arm. “I feel ashamed of the way I’ve behaved tonight. And you must be exhausted. I’ll make up the bed in the guest room for you.” She stood, paused to take a deep breath, squared her shoulders and walked out of the room.

  I figured it was better to let Susan set up the guest room alone. It would give us both a few minutes to compose ourselves. While she was busy upstairs, I found the liquor cabinet and poured generous portions of Calvados, an apple brandy from France, into two snifters. When Susan returned to the Great Room, I handed one of the glasses to her before resuming my seat. She kicked off her loafers, and curled into a corner of the sofa, her legs tucked up under her. After cradling the snifter in the palm of her hand for a couple of minutes to warm its contents, she took an exploratory taste. I sipped my brandy and rested the base of the snifter on one of the flat, wooden arms of my chair.

  “Feel better?” I asked.

  She took another swallow of brandy before answering. “Yes, a little. Please fill me in on what happened on the mountain today. Zeb told me you found an injured man while you were searching for Artie. I didn’t want to press him for details, because I knew he was in a hurry to see Mary. She’s devastated over Artie’s disappearance.”

  I summarized for her the outcome of my search, told her about my meeting in the hospital with Laporte, and about the surgeon’s report. “You can understand why I was hanging around the hospital. Judging by the tracks in the snow where the man went over the ledge, I’m convinced he snatched Artie. My best guess is that Artie managed to get away from him and, during
the struggle, the perp fell off the ledge. There must have been a second man waiting at Sterling Pond. An accomplice who made off with the boy. There’s no other explanation that makes sense to Laporte and me.”

  I paused for a swallow of the brandy, and felt it burn its way down my throat. Looking over at Susan, I could see her eyelids drooping with fatigue, and I knew the day’s events, combined with the strong alcohol, would soon overwhelm both of us. It was time to wrap this up. “Other than the calls from the kidnapper and from Millie, have there been any other developments I should know about?”

  “Yes, there was one more thing. I had a phone call from a Special Agent Theodore Proxmire of the FBI. He’ll be here tomorrow to speak with Mary, Zeb and me.”

  “Is the FBI taking over the investigation?”

  “I think so. That is, he didn’t say, specifically, but why else would he be coming here?”

  The brandy was flowing straight from my stomach to my head, clouding my thoughts. I pressed my fingertips to my temples, trying to squeeze some clarity back into my brain. It didn’t work. I shook my head, and pushed myself out of the chair. “I’ve just run out of steam,” I told Susan. “We both could use some sleep. Let’s continue this over breakfast.”

  Chapter Ten

  February 22, 1983

  I was awakened by a cold, wet nose nuzzling my ear. Once satisfied I was conscious, Hershey ambled over to the bedroom door and scratched at it. I rolled out of bed, hitting my head on the low ceiling of the dormer, shambled over to the door, and let the dog out. I heard his toenails click-clicking along the hall and down the stairs, heading in the direction of the doggie-door at the back of the house.

  The aroma of fresh-perked coffee wafting up from the kitchen directly below cleared some of the sleep-fog from my head. By the time I’d shaved and showered, my body was ready for breakfast, and my brain was as sharp as the February Vermont air. I dressed and went down to the kitchen. Susan was already busy, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Thought I’d scramble up some eggs for breakfast,” she called out over her shoulder. “There’s orange juice in the fridge. The dishes and glasses are in the cupboard to the left of the sink. Help yourself.”