Maggie shuddered. She tried to imagine Rachel alone with Graeme in this house. Was it in the bedroom? In her room? On the bathroom floor? Did he take her on top, or did he make her straddle him? Did he take her from behind? Did he force her to her knees and make her suck him off?
Evidence. That was the troublesome part. Graeme was safe in denying the affair, as long as Rachel never showed up, because little proof ever remained that two people had been having sex. All they had was what Rachel told people—which was worthless in court.
“What’s in the filing cabinet, Pete?” Maggie asked.
The cop shrugged. “Tax records. Warranties. The guy saved everything.”
“Check every file, and box up the tax records. We’ll want to copy those.”
Maggie focused on the desk. She took each book from the desk, flipped through the pages, and returned it. She opened the drawers one by one, examined them from front to back, then got down on her knees and checked the bottom of each drawer to make sure nothing was taped underneath.
She booted up the computer. She didn’t have time to examine the hard disk byte by byte—that was Guppo’s job—but she at least wanted to do a search for e-mails and review the pages Graeme had been visiting on the Internet. To avoid accidentally altering the evidence, she first printed out a full directory listing on the laser printer, noting the details of every file on the hard drive. Then she hooked up a jump drive to the machine’s USB port and copied Graeme’s hard disk. When she was done, she swapped the drive to the laptop she had brought with her and called up a mirror of Graeme’s computer on her own machine.
When she called up Internet Explorer, she was surprised to find that the history of sites visited had been deleted and there was no listing at all in the Favorites box.
“This is interesting,” Maggie said aloud. “Looks like Graeme has been cleaning up after himself.”
“Huh?” Pete said.
“No Web sites at all. And yet the man is head of e-commerce at his bank. Does that make any sense? He doesn’t want anyone to see where he’s been surfing.”
Maggie loaded Outlook. The e-mail software was equally clean, nothing in his in-box, nothing sent, nothing saved. It was as if the man had never sent an e-mail on the computer, although Maggie knew that was absurd.
Something felt wrong. She wondered if Graeme had a drop box stored on one of the public Web sites like Yahoo or Hotmail, where he could send and receive personal e-mails without leaving a trail on his computer. That was going to be a lot harder to find.
Her walkie-talkie crackled, and Maggie picked it up. “Yeah?”
It was Guppo. “We’ve covered the basement.”
“Anything?”
“Clean as a whistle. Even the garden implements shine like brand-new. I don’t think he spends a lot of time down here.”
“Damn,” Maggie said. She was hoping they might find evidence of the murder itself, even if they couldn’t prove that Rachel and Graeme were having sex. Based on the evidence at the barn, though, she realized it was unlikely that he had killed her in the house. It was more logical that they had gone to the barn and that something had happened between them there—something that ended in Rachel’s death.
“Okay, Guppo, you and Terry go after the minivan outside, and work it over. Check out every inch, pull up the carpet, run the UV search for blood residue. Hair. Fiber. Semen. Fingerprints. Anything. I want to know if Rachel was in that van.”
“Gotcha.”
The next voice that crackled over the walkie-talkie belonged to Terry. “Son of a bitch, Maggie, you want me locked up in a van with Guppo? It was bad enough being in the basement with him.”
Maggie laughed. “Hey, I put up with it at the barn, Terry. You don’t get any sympathy from me. Over and out.” She hooked the walkie-talkie onto her belt again.
“I’m going to start on the bookshelves,” Maggie said, eyeing the wall of hardcovers with distaste.
“The computer’s clean?” Pete asked.
“At least on the basic stuff, yeah. Looks like Graeme kept it tidy. We’ll have to have Guppo do a more thorough search.”
“How about pictures?” Pete said. “You know, GIFs, JPEGs, that kind of stuff. Maybe he kept some dirty photos or other X-rated stuff around.”
Maggie nodded. She did a search of the jump drive. First she typed in “Rachel” and did a global search for any file that might include the girl’s name. That would have been too easy, she figured, and she was right. The search came up empty. She tried again with files starting with R but was overwhelmed by the results. She searched for “sex,” then “fuck,” then “porn,” but found nothing.
Then she had another idea. She narrowed the search list to identify any file that had been created or edited in a two-week span surrounding Rachel’s disappearance.
The search turned up only a handful of files. She scrolled down slowly, ruling out the system files and checking out anything that looked like a word processing document or spreadsheet. Everything seemed work-related, full of details about online mutual fund transactions and branch profit-and-loss statements. She went through the files one by one, mentally crossing them off her list, doubting this search was going to be any more productive than the others. Graeme was too smart.
And then she saw it.
Fargo4qtr.gif. A picture file created two days before Rachel disappeared.
The name sounded like a business file, but it was in the wrong directory. And she hadn’t seen any other GIFs among Graeme’s work files. She moved the mouse over to highlight the file, and she hesitated before clicking on it. She held her breath. With a flutter of her fingertip, she clicked and watched the screen go blank. The picture seemed to take forever to load, although she knew that it was only a second or two as she heard the laptop’s hard drive whirring. Then the screen refreshed, and a photo jumped onto the screen, filling it in full color.
Maggie gasped. “Oh my God.”
She heard Pete turn curiously behind her. Then, seeing the screen over her shoulder, he exhaled, too. “Shit.”
It was one of the most amazing pictures she had ever seen. Maggie considered herself a staunch heterosexual, but even she found herself wetting her lips with her tongue. Rachel’s eyes drew hers like a magnet.
In the photo, Rachel was naked. She was in the wilderness somewhere, with trees out of focus behind her. The rain was falling, coating her bare skin, running in silver rivulets down her body. The photo captured drops of water on her breasts and little streams of water running into her damp crotch and slipping to the ground. Rachel’s knees were bent. She had one hand between her legs, two fingers pushed out of sight into her slit. Her other hand cupped her right breast, reaching up to graze her nipple. Rachel’s mouth had fallen open in pleasure, but her bright green eyes were open, staring into the camera.
Maggie realized Pete was beside her, practically panting. “God, I hope the girl’s not dead,” he said. “What I wouldn’t give to fuck that.”
“Shut up,” Maggie said sourly. She fed the photo to the printer. It printed slowly, line by line, inking out the image of the teenager masturbating in the woods.
“That son of a bitch,” she murmured.
The porch was silent. Emily and Graeme sat in dueling recliners. Emily stared vacantly into space, motionless, her hands folded in her lap. Graeme examined a file through his half-glasses, studiously ignoring Stride. When the detective had run out of questions, Graeme had simply gone back to work, as if he had nothing at all to be concerned about.
Stride knew that at least part of Graeme’s calm demeanor was an act, because the insinuation alone would be enough to destroy his reputation. Like it or not, Graeme Stoner was finished in Duluth. And the man knew it. The only question was whether he would be free to go somewhere else or whether they would find what they needed to put him away for a long time.
The waiting game got old as the hours dragged by. Stride heard Guppo and Terry trudge back upstairs, then heard them disappear thr
ough the front door. He assumed Maggie had directed them to search the van, although he didn’t hear the conversation. He had turned off his walkie-talkie rather than let the Stoners hear their dialogue.
He stared at Graeme, studying the man’s face. He knew that Graeme could feel his stare even as he turned pages in the file, but the banker didn’t flinch. It would be interesting to watch Dan Erickson do battle in court to put the man behind bars. Assuming they ever made it to court.
More time passed.
Stride heard Maggie’s footsteps. She marched into the room, a piece of white paper flapping in her hand. This time, Graeme looked up with genuine curiosity and a faint nervousness.
Maggie whispered in Stride’s ear. “Check this out.”
Stride looked at the photo and blinked at the sight of the naked girl. He had to remind himself this was the teenager who was missing and presumed dead.
He looked up from the paper to find Graeme staring back at him. Stride suddenly felt he had an edge over the arrogant bastard.
“Tell me, Mr. Stoner, do you own a digital camera?” Stride asked.
Graeme nodded. “Of course.”
“We’ll need to take it with us,” Stride said. “Do you recognize this photograph?”
He handed the paper to Graeme. Stoner’s reserve cracked, and Stride saw his hand tremble as he tried to hold the paper steady. Emily saw what was on the page, and her hand covered her open mouth as she stifled a scream.
“Where did you find this?” Graeme said, trying to keep his voice even.
“On the computer in your office,” Stride told him.
“I have no idea how it got there. I’ve never seen this before.”
“Really?” Stride asked. “You didn’t take the photo?”
“No, of course not. I told you, I had no idea it was on the computer. Rachel must have put it there. As a joke.”
“A joke?” Stride asked, his eyebrows climbing. “Quite the joke.”
“Who knows why she did it?” Graeme said.
Stride nodded. “You have no idea where or when this was taken?”
“None at all.”
Maggie studied the man with cold eyes. “The file was added to your computer two days before Rachel disappeared.”
“Two days?” Graeme asked.
“That’s quite a coincidence,” Stride added.
“Well, as I say, Rachel must have left it there. Maybe it was her way of saying a bizarre good-bye before she ran away.”
Stride stepped closer to the man. “But she didn’t run away, did she, Mr. Stoner? You and she went out to the barn that night. You went to have sex with her, like you had been doing for years. Did she say no this time? Did she try to run away? Did she threaten to tell your wife?”
“Graeme,” Emily begged him in a weak voice. “Please tell me none of this is true.”
He sighed and looked at her. “Of course not.”
“We know Rachel was at the barn that night, Mr. Stoner. We know she made it back to your house, and that you were the only one here. Would you like to tell us what happened then?”
Graeme shook his head. “I never heard her come in. And I think that’s all I have to say until Mr. Gale gets here.”
He looked dazed. Stride was pleased to see that the man was capable of human error after all, that he could make mistakes, leave clues behind, and not know how to react when his lies were uncovered.
“Keep searching, Mags,” Stride told her.
Maggie was about to return upstairs when her walkie-talkie squawked. Everyone in the room heard Guppo’s voice.
“Maggie, Stride, we need you out here. There’s residue of blood on the floor under the carpet in the back and on a knife he’s got in a toolbox.”
Maggie quickly switched off the handset, but it was too late.
Emily screamed.
Stride and Maggie both watched her, feeling the raw pain that sliced her voice.
She bolted up from the recliner, her face ashen. She turned and stared in horror at Graeme, who sat with a curious smirk frozen on his face, like a cat who had swallowed a canary. Emily sank to her knees.
Stride jumped forward, ready to catch her if she crumpled into a faint.
Instead, Emily moaned, then got down on all fours and vomited over the white carpet.
PART THREE
18
The Kitch, as the Kitchi Gammi Club was known, was Duluth’s attempt to emulate the elegance of New England city clubs. It was a four-story red-brick mansion with tidy, manicured gardens flowering in the warmth of springtime, wide gables, and a stately porch. The club boasted cozy upstairs libraries, with cherrywood antiques, elegant recliners, and all the day’s news from Minneapolis and New York neatly placed on the lion’s-paw coffee tables. This was where politicians and investors enjoyed snifters of brandy while they conducted the city’s important business.
The doorman, a wizened Norwegian in his early eighties named Per who had worked at the Kitch longer than many of its members had been alive, drew to attention as a tall, stout man approached the steps of the club. The man was whistling a Sinatra song, as he had been doing for all of the thirty years Per had known him. He was in his late fifties, and nearly as wide as he was tall, but he had an energetic bounce in his step. He had gray curly hair neatly trimmed and receding well behind his forehead. His face was florid and wide, with razor-sharp blue eyes, tiny owlish glasses, and a peppery goatee. He wore a charcoal pinstripe three-piece suit with a white shirt. Gold cufflinks peeked out from the ends of his coat sleeves. A flower was poked into the slit of his lapel. An aroma of cologne trailed him up the steps.
“Good evening, Mr. Gale,” Per said, swinging open the door.
“Per, it is a pleasure to see you, as always,” Archibald Gale replied in a booming voice. “What an astonishing spring day, isn’t it?”
“Oh, that it is, Mr. Gale. I’m guessing you have another big case, then, don’t you?”
“I do, Per, I do.”
“Well, I always say there isn’t anyone better than you.”
“From your mouth to the jury’s ears, Per,” Gale replied.
He patted the old man affectionately on the shoulder and entered the dark foyer of the club. The door, with its heavy oak panels and stained glass, closed gently behind him. He checked his watch and noted that it was four forty-five, fifteen minutes before his appointment with Dan Erickson, the county attorney. Gale liked to arrive early, situate himself in one of the libraries with a single-malt scotch, and await his prey.
Although Gale was one of the state’s most notable criminal trial lawyers, it was rumored that he won most of his cases at the Kitch, by demoralizing his opposing counsel over a cordial drink. His innocent hints and dark innuendos so thoroughly unnerved prosecutors that they began second-guessing their strategy and fumbling their presentations in court. Gale’s reputation for psychological warfare had become so well known that prosecutors were now turning down his traditional offer of a chitchat at the Kitch on the night before a trial began.
But Daniel had too much ego to turn him down. It was more fun that way. Gale had dealt with many ambitious, politically minded attorneys over the years, and he enjoyed poking holes in their arrogance. Daniel was more ruthless than most. Initially, when Trygg Stengard, the previous county attorney, had hired Daniel, Gale had given his old friend and adversary words of caution about his new number-two man. But Stengard, unlike Gale, was a politician with a soft spot for naked ambition.
“I expect you to soften the kid up, Archie,” Stengard had told him. “Kick his ass a few times. It’ll be good for him.”
Gale had done just that. He was not surprised to find that Daniel was suave and effective in court and had done a good job as county attorney after Stengard died. Daniel had lost two big cases, though—both at the hands of Archibald Gale.
The trial of Graeme Stoner would be either Daniel’s revenge or a humiliating strikeout.
Gale knew that Daniel was confident, and Gale wa
s fully aware that the prosecutor had reason to be. Even without a body, the forensic evidence alone would be enough to sour a jury on a client who looked even more arrogant than the prosecutor, and if Daniel could make them believe that the man had truly been screwing his stepdaughter, Gale would have a difficult time keeping Stoner out of jail for the rest of his life.
But Gale enjoyed a challenge—and he had a few surprises of his own waiting.
Gale hopped into the ancient elevator and felt it sag under his weight. He usually took the stairs to stay in shape, but for his pretrial meetings, he didn’t want to risk being winded. When the elevator finally creaked to a halt, he got out and headed down the hall to the large Ojibwe Library, with its three sets of chambered windows overlooking the lake. Margaret emerged from the kitchen, and he bent down merrily to give her a peck on the cheek. The old woman giggled and blushed.
“I’ve got your glass of Oban on the coffee table for you, Mr. Gale.”
“Oh, Margaret, you’re too good to me. Let’s run away together, shall we?”
Margaret giggled again. “Do you know what Mr. Erickson will be drinking?”
“Make sure you have a Bombay gin with lots of ice waiting for him. Put it on my account. And I imagine he’ll quickly want another.”
Margaret smiled, as if they were sharing a little secret, and retreated back to the kitchen.
Gale made himself comfortable. He spent a moment or two reflecting as he stared out the windows, glanced at the headlines of the Star Tribune, which he had already read, and settled himself into a 1920s sofa, where he allowed his Oban to warm in his palm. He was calm. He was always that way before a trial. Other lawyers became energetic and restless. Gale became focused. He could feel his pulse slow down and feel his brain slowly bring itself to bear on the big picture of what lay ahead.
Five minutes later, Dan Erickson burst into the library, carrying a double shot of gin in a lowball glass, which he swirled in his hand, clinking the ice cubes. Drops of gin slurped over the edges and onto the carpeting.
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