by Harry Dolan
“Derek Everly was beaten to death this spring in a storage shed at the Everly Landscaping Company,” Hiller said. “Someone staved in the back of his skull with the handle of a rake. Then hacked up his body with a lawnmower blade. So yes, he came to a very violent end.”
“Would it be safe to assume Anthony Lark was a suspect?” Elizabeth asked.
Hiller tipped his chair back. “Derek Everly was a prick, so it could be a lot of people wanted him dead. But Lark was at the top of the list. You know about the Marten girl.”
“Yes,” said Shan.
“So there’s no question about motive,” Hiller said. “The timing seems a little off. Lark waited three years after the girl passed.”
“But this spring—” Elizabeth said. “That’s when Lark’s father died.”
Hiller bobbed his head in agreement. “Exactly. You figure maybe once Dad was gone, he gave himself permission. Or he got to thinking about what was really important. Whatever. What I know is that Lark’s father died in March and Everly was killed in April.”
“But Lark was never charged?” Elizabeth said. “Did he have an alibi?”
“He said he was home with his mother that night,” Hiller explained with a shrug. “She backed him up. Maybe she was covering for him, or maybe he slipped out without her knowing. The bottom line is we never found the evidence to charge him. He didn’t leave prints. The first blow put Everly down, so there was no struggle. Lark didn’t have so much as a bruised knuckle.”
Hiller turned his chair slowly from side to side. “His mother got him a lawyer as soon as we came around, and the lawyer didn’t let him talk. If he had, I think we would have gotten a confession. In a case like that, it usually doesn’t take much. You sympathize with the guy, act like you understand why he did what he did. With Lark—well, I remember Susanna Marten, and I remember her father. I wouldn’t have had to act.”
CHAPTER 36
A few minutes after four on Thursday afternoon I walked down the steps of City Hall. I’d spent two hours with one of Elizabeth’s colleagues, a young cop named Wintergreen, going over the events of the night before. I told him everything I could remember about Anthony Lark, including what Lark had said about Lucy Navarro and the blue minivan that had taken her away.
I mentioned the semi truck from the hotel parking lot. Suggested that the driver might have seen something.
Wintergreen asked me about my dealings with Lucy, and I gave him a full account. I included everything she said she had learned from Terry Dawtrey and Henry Kormoran. Wintergreen wrote it all down without comment: Dawtrey’s story about Floyd Lambeau, who claimed to have been Callie Spencer’s real father; Dawtrey’s assertion that he knew the identity of the fifth bank robber; Kormoran’s story about seeing Lambeau and Callie Spencer together at the Great Lakes Bank.
I told Wintergreen about accompanying Lucy to her meeting with Callie Spencer. About Lucy’s belief that Callie knew the fifth robber and would try to contact him. “That’s what Lucy was doing up until last night,” I said, “watching Callie, waiting for her to make a move.”
Lastly I filled him in about Alan Beckett and his attempt to get Lucy to abandon her investigation.
As I went through the details I could tell Wintergreen was trying to keep his skepticism in check. Finally he looked up from his notes. “So Beckett wanted you to help him persuade Ms. Navarro to drop her story,” he said. “And he offered you funding for your magazine in exchange.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“And he made the same kind of offer to Ms. Navarro. She used to write novels, so he tempted her with a book contract.”
“Right.”
“And you want me to believe that when persuasion didn’t work, Beckett decided to take a more forceful approach.”
I turned my head to look around at the walls of the interview room. A small movement, but it made itself known in the wound at my side.
“I haven’t said that.”
“No. You’re just implying it,” said Wintergreen, gathering up his notes. “Do you expect me to go to my boss and tell him that Alan Beckett, either on his own or at the request of Callie Spencer, arranged to make Lucy Navarro disappear last night?”
I pushed my chair back from the table, wincing at the pain in my side.
“No,” I told him. “I really don’t.”
WHEN I DESCENDED the steps of City Hall, I took things slow. It seemed to help. I strolled along the sidewalk and the pain faded a little. The ibuprofen I’d taken seemed to be keeping it in check. I’d left the stronger stuff behind. I wanted to stay alert.
At a crosswalk waiting for the light, I got out my phone and dialed Lucy’s number. I’d already done it three or four times and I knew what I’d hear. You’ve reached Lucy Navarro of the National Current . . .
I pushed the cutoff button and called Bridget Shellcross.
“I’m finished,” I said.
“When I didn’t hear from you, I thought you changed your mind,” she said.
“No. It just took longer than I expected. Are we still on?”
“We’re still on.”
“Good. I’m on my way now.”
The light turned to green and I closed my phone and went looking for John Casterbridge.
IT’S NOT AS HARD as you’d think, tracking down a U.S. senator.
Anyone willing to do some digging could have discovered that John Casterbridge rented an apartment in the Dupont Circle neighborhood in Washington, D.C., and another in Lansing, the capital of Michigan. He had a house in Grosse Pointe that had been in his family for generations, and a bungalow in St. Ignace on the shore of Lake Huron.
You’d need to dig deeper to learn that the senator had a condo on Liberty Street in Ann Arbor. I never knew about it, but I had seen him Sunday night at the Spencer house, and again on Monday when he had his accident, so I assumed he must be staying in town. I asked Bridget, who has lived in Ann Arbor for twenty years and knows everyone worth knowing.
She told me about the condo. It was in a pile of steel and concrete known as the Bridgewell Building, put up seven years ago by Casterbridge Realty. The units sold out quickly for a million and a half apiece, and John Casterbridge wound up with one of them. He stayed there a few weeks out of the year and took most of his meals at the Seva Restaurant next door.
I passed the restaurant and walked up to the Bridgewell Building like I belonged there. The glass doors opened into a lobby with a scattering of plush armchairs and a concierge desk. A fountain bubbled near the elevators: water murmuring over a heap of river stones.
The kid behind the desk perked up as soon as I came in. His suit looked inexpensive, but he wore it well. I thought about heading for the elevators and wondered if he would chase after me. He looked like he might.
Getting chased wasn’t part of my plan.
I stopped at the desk and said, “I’m here to see Senator Casterbridge.”
The kid looked at me gravely. “I’m sorry, sir. The senator doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Why don’t you call him and let him know I’m here. My name’s David Loogan. He knows me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t call him, sir.”
“Why not?”
“If I did, it might disturb him. He doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
I had to smile. “You’re very pedantic.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
He smoothed his tie. “I know that, sir. But I’m expected to treat members of the public with patience and courtesy.”
“That must wear you out, some days,” I said. “Did you hear about the reporter who went missing from the Winston Hotel parking lot last night?”
He nodded. “I saw it on the news.”
“Her name was Lucy Navarro. She was doing a story on the senator’s daughter-in-law.”
“I see.”
“I’m curious to hear what the senator has to say about it. I’ve got a friend at C
hannel Four in Detroit who’s curious too. He should be along any minute with a camera crew. We may decide to camp out here. That’s how eager we are to talk to the senator.”
“I understand. But the senator doesn’t generally comment on news stories.”
“We’ll see.”
I turned and crossed the lobby and settled into an armchair. I pretended to watch the traffic on Liberty Street, but kept half an eye on the kid behind the desk. He picked up a slim black phone and punched a number. Spoke quietly to someone. I couldn’t make out what he said over the bubbling of the fountain.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then the glass doors opened and a young man walked in—the senator’s driver from Sunday night. Alan Beckett came in behind him.
The driver went and stood by the concierge desk. Beckett plopped himself into a chair across from me.
“You don’t have a friend at Channel Four,” he said.
“I could make one,” I said.
“I doubt it. What’s the purpose of your theatrics?”
He looked relaxed in the chair, but I heard a strain in his voice.
“I called you this morning,” I said. “You didn’t answer. I thought this would be the easiest way to get your attention.”
He rubbed a palm over his scalp. “I didn’t want to talk to you. The senator doesn’t either. You’re presuming a great deal by coming here. You’re not his pal because you’ve shared a drink of whiskey with him.”
“If he doesn’t want to see me, that’s fine. My business is with you.”
“What business?”
“Lucy Navarro. I told you to leave her alone.”
He scowled. “I’ve done nothing to Lucy Navarro.”
“This is the way it’s going to work,” I said. “If she turns up safe, then all’s forgiven. You got carried away; I can understand that. There’s a lot at stake. You want to get Callie Spencer elected to the Senate so you can be her adviser. I don’t care. I don’t care who gets elected or who the power is behind her throne. I especially don’t care who robbed a bank seventeen years ago. As long as Lucy turns up alive.”
Beckett tilted his head. “And if she doesn’t?”
“Then you’re done.”
A pause while he thought it over. “So you think you can keep Callie out of the Senate?”
“I’m not talking about the Senate, Al. I’m talking about you. If Lucy’s dead, you’re done.”
He held himself very still. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Loogan?”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes. I thought that was obvious.”
“You’re threatening me with violence?”
“I told you she was under my protection. What did you think I meant?”
He crossed his arms over his stomach. We listened to the murmur of the fountain.
“I don’t look kindly on threats, Mr. Loogan.”
“I don’t care how you look on it. As long as I get Lucy back. You haven’t killed her, have you?”
“I’ve done nothing to Ms. Navarro, as I told you.” He uncrossed his arms and hauled himself to his feet. “I’ve heard enough. I’m asking you to leave now.” He glanced at the driver and the kid behind the concierge desk. “You can walk out on your own, or those two young men can escort you.”
I got up and fixed my eyes on his, a nice long glowering stare. Then I walked out on my own. Through the glass doors and down the steps. I crossed Liberty Street and looked back to see Beckett leaving the building. The senator’s driver stayed behind, presumably to guard against my return.
I pulled out my phone as I watched Beckett retreating through the alley between the building and the restaurant next door. There was a parking lot back there where he would have left his car. I pressed a number and listened to the phone dialing Bridget Shellcross.
“Hi, David.”
“He’s coming back now.”
“I see him,” she said.
I PICKED UP MY CAR at a garage on Washington Street and drove to Bridget’s townhouse. Got out and walked up onto her stoop. The sky was full of low gray clouds getting ready to rain.
After a few minutes Bridget rolled up in her sporty little Nissan. Another car trailed after her, something compact and electric. Bridget’s girlfriend got out of it: Ariel or Amber. The lute player. They came up the walk and I stepped down to meet them.
“Summit Street,” Bridget said. “Number 315. He drove straight there.”
“He didn’t spot you?” I said.
“No way. It was a perfect tail. Amber’s a natural.”
Amber, then. Not Ariel. I watched the woman take hold of Bridget’s hand. “Tell him about the fence, Bridge,” she said.
“There’s a driveway along the side of the house,” Bridget said, “and a tall privacy fence that surrounds the place on three sides. You could back a van in there and get someone into the house without any of the neighbors seeing.”
I nodded at that. “What about the other thing we talked about?”
She let loose Amber’s hand and asked her if she wouldn’t mind leaving us alone. Amber rolled her eyes and said, “The grown-ups need to talk.” She brushed past me with a wink, and a moment later I heard the door of the townhouse close behind her.
Bridget said, “Are you sure you want it?”
I left the question unanswered and she reached into her handbag—a bigger one than she’d been carrying the last time I saw her. She took out a makeup case, a zippered cloth pouch with a flowery design.
I felt the weight of it when she handed it over.
“It’s a revolver,” she said. “I got it last year from an admirer.”
“Is it registered?” I asked. “I don’t want to make trouble for you if I have to use it.”
“The gentleman who gave it to me doesn’t believe in permits or registrations. . . . I imagine it won’t do any good to tell you to be careful.”
“You can try.”
She didn’t try. Instead, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against my cheek.
CHAPTER 37
Rain speckled my windshield as I drove along Summit Street. I passed number 315 and saw Alan Beckett’s Lexus in the driveway. The tall fence leaned in over it.
I parked half a block away. The house across from 315 had a FOR RENT sign on the lawn. The rental company was Casterbridge Realty.
It didn’t take much of a leap to assume that number 315 might also be owned by Casterbridge Realty. It would explain a great deal. I knew Beckett lived in Lansing. But if he wanted to stick close to Callie Spencer, it would help to have a place to stay here in town. I had called the major hotels and he wasn’t registered at any of them. An empty Casterbridge property would make a good place to stay.
It might also make a good place to keep Lucy Navarro.
I unzipped Bridget’s makeup pouch and drew out the revolver, a silver .38 with black grips. All the chambers were empty when I cracked the cylinder. I loaded them with six rounds from the pouch. There were six left over.
I thought about waiting. If Beckett were to leave, it would make things much easier. I could go in and it would still be breaking and entering, but I wouldn’t have to threaten him with the gun. There was something to be said for committing as few crimes as possible.
I sat watching the front of number 315. The seconds ticked by. A minute. Two. Beckett didn’t leave.
My phone rang.
The sound startled me. I checked the display. “Hello, Nick.”
“Hey, sport. I heard you got shot.”
Fine flecks of rain gathered on the window beside me. “Where’d you hear that?”
“We got the Internet up here. Is it true?”
“It’s true. But it’s exaggerated. I only got shot a little.”
“A little?”
“Hardly at all. What are you doing?”
“I’ve been watching Sam Tillman’s house. He slept on the couch again last night. I don’t think his wife’s happy with him.”
I looked at the front of number 315.
“You shouldn’t be watching people’s houses, Nick.”
“It’s down to one house now,” he said. “Used to be three, but I hear Sheriff Delacorte won’t be coming back no more.”
“That’s right.”
“Can’t say I mind. And I hear Paul Rhiner got stomped on pretty hard.”
“Yes.”
“I figure that’s a good start. So all that’s left is Tillman. How much trouble can I get in, watching one house?”
“This isn’t a game, Nick.”
“You sound tired, sport. Did I wake you up? Maybe you should go back to sleep.”
I felt a rush of annoyance. “I wasn’t asleep. You need to leave Tillman alone. Stop screwing around.”
“I can barely hear you, sport. You get some sleep. We’ll talk again when you’re awake.”
He ended the call before I could respond. I snapped the phone shut and slipped it in my pocket. Picked up Bridget’s revolver from the passenger seat and opened the driver’s door.
My phone rang again as I stood in the rainy street wondering where to conceal the gun. I decided it could go in my right back pocket with my shirt hanging over it. I listened to two more rings before I pulled the phone out. It was Sarah.
“Are you about to do something reckless?” she asked.
I had to suppress a laugh. “Where’d you get that idea?” I said.
“Mom figured you’d go blundering around today, looking for Lucy Navarro. I thought you might be too tired, and you’d have to wait a day. Which one of us was right?”
“I haven’t been blundering around.”
“In that case, could you pick me up?” she said. “I’m at the library. I’ve got my bike here, but it’s raining.”
THE ANN ARBOR District Library sits on the corner of South Fifth Avenue and William Street. I got there in five minutes and found Sarah waiting in the shelter of the entryway. The front wheel of her bike had a quick-release lever; she already had it off. I popped the trunk and helped her stow the bike.
The rain had tapered off, and it had never been very strong to start with. But I knew Sarah hadn’t called me for a ride because of the rain. And I hadn’t come here to save her from bad weather. I’d come because her question had hit too close to the mark.