Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Box Set

by S. W. Hubbard

  Paul shrugged. “I can’t remember—what difference does it make?”

  "Because that person could only know if he—or she—was the person who planted it.”

  Lew Meyerson sat in his office with Frank, looking none too pleased. “Well, you’ve certainly been busy, haven’t you?”

  “I’m sorry if the truth undermines the basis of your case against Petrucci.”

  The two men glared at each other. Lew was first to look away.

  “All right, let’s review what we have.” Lew tapped the corners of an already straight stack of papers on his immaculate desk. “Petrucci was being paid to provide inside information about the academy for Dawn Klotz’s so-called expose. And you think Costello is actually providing the money?”

  Frank leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “He might be behind what’s going on at the academy. Paul said Dawn approached him about doing a story on the academy as soon as she learned that Payne had opened a school in New York, and that someone she knew was teaching there. She set up Paul as her inside source as if she knew something would soon be happening. And sure enough, a couple weeks later, Reiger was attacked.”

  Lew regarded him with expressionless eyes. “So, we’re back to this notion that the bear attack was sabotage.”

  Frank sprang out of his chair. “How can it not be? Why are you fighting me on this? Justin Levine and Steve Vreeland were both present when Reiger died. Steve Vreeland was present when Paul learned about the bacon grease. Steve, Jason, and Oliver all had access to the keys to the isolation room when Heather was murdered. Someone at the academy—maybe more than one person—is responsible for both deaths. I want to bring in Levine tonight, then I want to interrogate everyone until I get some answers that make sense.”

  Lew nodded. “What about Dawn Klotz?”

  “Get your boys to track her down. It shouldn’t be hard—she strikes me as a woman who can’t survive long without her credit card and cell phone.”

  “What’s the plan for apprehending Levine?”

  It wasn’t lost on Frank that Lew said “the” plan, not “your” plan. They were back to collaborating, but Lew would never cede control of the investigation.

  “Rachel Portman has described where she meets Levine. He’s been camping in a lean-to near Owl Pond, but he keeps out of sight during the day and walks down to meet her at a spot between the lean-to and the trailhead. I thought we’d send in a few officers dressed as hikers to conceal themselves along the trail. Then I’ll ride with Rachel in her father’s pickup so Levine isn’t suspicious.”

  “I don’t like involving a civilian in this.” Lew’s jaw clamped in a hard line.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Frank said. “Levine’s not armed. It will work out.”

  Frank sat slumped down in the passenger seat of the Portman family’s pickup. He had driven most of the way to the Owl Pond trail and nervously turned the wheel over to Rachel a half mile from the trailhead. But his fears were groundless—Rachel proved to be a perfectly competent driver, despite her lack of a license.

  The trail was accessed from a dirt road off Route 12. They passed a few vacation cottages nestled in the woods, then the forest closed around them. The truck’s headlights sliced into the night ahead of them, making the blackness to their sides more intense. If Frank had been driving he would have missed the trailhead, but Rachel expertly pulled the truck off the road into a small clearing. Frank could just about discern a wooden sign with “Owl Pond” and an arrow painted crudely in yellow.

  “This is it,” Rachel said. “I beep the horn three times to let him know I'm here. Then I head up the trail. He usually meets me in less than five minutes.”

  The plan was for Rachel to head up the trail with a flashlight, with Frank following behind without a light, keeping her beam in view. But when he stepped out of the truck and realized how absolute the darkness was, he began to doubt he could pull it off.

  “Don’t look at the light. Give your eyes some time to adjust,” Rachel advised. “You’d be surprised how much you can see.” Then, without waiting for his okay, she reached through the window of the truck and gave the horn three long blasts. The sound reverberated through the forest, sending unseen creatures skittering through the underbrush. No choice but to proceed.

  Rachel set off briskly up the trail. Now that she had agreed to help bring in Justin Levine, she seemed determined to get it over with as soon as possible. Frank struggled to keep her flashlight beam in sight, turning his ankle on indiscernible rocks on the trail, and scratching away branches that lashed at his face.

  Only a few minutes passed before Frank heard a low, indecipherable male voice. The meeting was coming sooner than expected, which meant the state troopers were posted too far up the trail.

  “How are you holding up?” Rachel asked.

  “Terrible. I'm so damned cold. Rachel, I can’t last out here much longer. You gotta take me to Albany. C’mon—you promised you’d help me.”

  “I am going to help you, but I—”

  Frank stepped into the circle of light created by Rachel’s flashlight.

  “You bitch!” Justin screamed. “You tricked me!”

  Justin lunged at Rachel. Frank stepped forward to stop him, but his eyes, which had dilated fully to accommodate his hike in pitch darkness, were now blinded by the flashlight that Rachel swung from side to side.

  In a flurry of confusion, the flashlight fell, Frank stumbled into a tree, and Justin grabbed Rachel. When Frank regained his balance, Justin stood before him with his arm crooked around Rachel’s neck. Her hands clung to his sleeve, trying to pull the vise open; her feet kicked ineffectively at his shins. Was this how Heather had spent her last moments of life?

  “Justin, let her go." Frank rested his hand lightly on his service revolver, but did not draw the weapon. He noticed Justin’s gaze following his movement. “There are three state troopers heading down the trail right now.”

  “You’re ly—” But the sound of running and a cascade of small rocks choked off his words. His eyes darted wildly. “Don’t send me back there! I’m not going back to that school!”

  "No, Justin.” Frank spoke in a low, soothing voice. “You’re not going back to North Country Academy. I’ve been in touch with your dad. He wants to bring you home. But first I need you to tell me everything you know about Heather LeBron’s murder.”

  “You won’t believe me.” Justin pulled Rachel more tightly into his grasp. “No one will take my word.”

  Chapter 32

  Twelve hours had passed since the arrival of three burly state troopers on the Owl Pond trail had put an end to Justin Levine’s hopeless siege. They had their man, and now Frank and Lew sat at the Ray Brook Barracks trying to decide what to do with him.

  “You know what we’re up against with his old man,” Lew said. “If we interrogate him without a guardian present, Morton Levine and his lawyers will have anything the kid says ruled inadmissible in court.”

  And Morton Levine was nowhere to be found. They'd called his home and cell phone numbers and left messages. When they called his office number, Levine’s recorded message informed them he would be out of the office for the next week. They left one of Meyerson’s staff trying to rouse a human being at Levine’s office who could track him down.

  “I can’t stand this.” Frank paced around the office like a tiger in a cruelly small cage. “We can’t wait days for Levine senior to show up. Any minute now, the Portman kids will start talking about what happened last night and the news that we’ve got Justin in custody will be out. However that kid’s involved in the deaths at the academy, I’m sure he’s not in it alone. We’ve got to act fast to reel in everyone who's responsible.”

  Lew looked unmoved. “The proper procedure would be—”

  With his rigid expression and pontificating tone, Lew bore an unpleasant resemblance to Steve Vreeland in that moment. Frank had heard quite enough about procedure. Unyielding adherence to some arcane ru
les was precisely what had gotten poor Heather killed. He wasn’t going to stand by and let her killer do more damage or escape, just so procedure could be followed. His gut told him he needed to act now.

  Frank headed for the door. “I’m going to talk to Justin off the record.”

  “Risky. You could blow—”

  The office door opened as Frank reached it and a trooper stuck his head in. “Chief Bennett, Justin Levine is requesting to see you.”

  Lew’s lips barely moved when he spoke. “Go. Go see what he has to say.”

  When Frank entered the interview room, Justin Levine had his head cradled in his folded arms on the table. He raised it slowly and Frank could see that the cockiness of their previous meetings had disappeared, replaced by exhaustion and maybe fear. Someone had given him an extra-extra-large state police sweatshirt, which made him look scrawny and very young.

  “How’s it going?” Frank asked. “Did they give you something to eat?”

  “Eggs. They were good.” Justin pulled himself up straight and locked eyes with Frank. “I am truly fucked this time, aren’t I?”

  No pleasantries; Justin wanted to cut to the chase. That was fine with Frank.

  “You’re in trouble, Justin, I won’t deny that. But you’ve got two things going for you: you’re smart and you’re rich. The vast majority of people on this planet don’t hold those two aces. You don’t have to bluff and cheat to win—you could win playing the hand you’ve been dealt.”

  “That’s not too exciting.”

  “Excitement is overrated.”

  “You got a point.” Justin sighed. “All right, I’m gonna tell you what I know. Some of it doesn't make sense, even to me, so you’re probably not going to believe it. But I don’t care—I just want this thing over with.”

  “So do I. Tell me about Heather.”

  Justin pushed the sleeves of the huge sweatshirt up, revealing sinewy arms and long, nimble fingers. “Heather was one of the first people I met at North Country Academy. I could tell right away she was the kind of girl who could be useful to me.”

  “Useful?”

  “Heather was the kind of chick who needs a lot of attention. If you gave it to her, you could get her to do anything for you.” Justin studied Frank’s stem face. “Hey, that’s the way of the world, man.”

  Frank thought it was sad to understand the way of the world so well at only sixteen, but merely nodded encouragement.

  “Anyway, Heather told me right away she had an ally who was going to get her out of the school. She said she’d take me with her. I knew it was bullshit, but I played along. Because I had a plan of my own—”

  “And you thought she might come in handy.”

  “Exactly. But after the bear attack, Heather started acting sort of scared. She said things hadn't worked out like she expected, as if she had something to do with what happened on the campout. I couldn’t tell if she knew something, or she was just acting like she did to get attention. Then she said it didn’t matter because Jake Reiger got what he deserved.”

  Frank sat forward. "What did she mean by that?”

  “I’m not sure. With Heather, it was always yak, yak, yak.” Justin mimicked a talking mouth with his hand. “I tuned out most of what she said. But I remember she said Reiger had something to do with the death of a kid named Tristan.”

  “Tristan Renfew. He died at MacArthur Payne’s school in Utah. How did she know that?”

  Justin shrugged. “If I asked too many questions, she’d go all mysterious and secretive. Honestly, I wasn’t that interested.”

  But Frank was. Steve Vreeland and Payne himself were the only ones at the North Country Academy who knew about Tristan Renfew’s death. But no, Paul Petrucci knew as well, because Dawn had told him about Payne’s past. He resisted the urge to question Justin at this point and just let him talk.

  “Then on the morning of the day she died, Heather told me this was it—she was getting out tonight and she’d make sure her friend got me out, too. I was like— ‘yeah, right.’ I had my own plan for that night, but I didn’t tell her that.”

  Justin flexed his long fingers and twined them together. “She was all hyped up—she kept talking and talking even though we’re supposed to be silent when we walk between classes. I was trying to ignore her so I wouldn’t get in trouble. Then the Pathfinder in charge gave Heather a warning, but she still muttered one more thing. Something like, ‘This whole school’s coming down to make up for what happened to Juice’s brother.’ ”

  “Tristan Renfew had a brother nicknamed Juice,” Frank said.

  “That makes sense. At the time I didn’t know what she was talking about, and I didn’t care.” Justin rose and pulled off the baggy sweatshirt. The atmosphere in the tiny interview room was getting stuffy.

  “Rachel probably told you what happened next: I got out of my room, met up with Brad, he took me down to Keene Valley, and you guys brought me back the next day. I didn’t find out about Heather and the isolation room until you told me about it when I got back. So I kept my mouth shut, because I figured it must be part of Heather’s plan, and I wasn’t going to screw it up for her.”

  Frank said nothing, but anger radiated from his taut face.

  “All right, all right, so I should have said something. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it since I’ve been alone in the woods all those days. Do you want to hear the rest, or what?”

  “Continue.”

  “Two nights later, I made my second escape from my room after Brad set the fire and picked the lock on my window. We were supposed to run into the woods together, but we ran in different directions when we heard someone coming.”

  “Yes, Brad told me that.”

  “Did he tell you who it was who saw us?”

  “No. He didn’t know."

  “It was Oliver Greffe. We looked right at each other. But he didn’t try to stop me; he didn’t call for help. He let me get away.”

  Frank stared at Justin and tried to absorb what he’d just said.

  “See, I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” The boy’s expression turned sulky. “Because it doesn’t make sense. Why would Oliver—”

  Frank held up his hand for silence. Little bits of information were floating into his consciousness, and he had to grab them before they got away. He pictured the form Oliver had filled out before Al towed away his car. He had printed “Oliver J. Greffe.” O. J. Greffe.

  Juice.

  Oliver had told him he was an only child, but now Frank remembered something Penny had said at that dinner party, about overhearing Oliver say that Ernie behaved as Oliver had done. The significance hadn’t struck him at the time, but she’d meant that Oliver had been an admiring brother, just as Ernie was.

  He remembered that time he had walked in on Matthew’s organ lesson in the church. Matthew had asked, “Do you think T.J. would like it?” T.J. must be Tristan J. Renfrew. The brothers shared a middle initial although they didn’t share a last name.

  Oliver had sought out the job at the North Country Academy, not for money but for revenge. No wonder he had tried to cover up by saying Payne had recruited him.

  “Did Heather really have someone helping her escape?” Justin asked. “Was it Oliver? Then who murdered her?”

  Frank’s only reply was a weary shake of the head.

  Chapter 33

  Weak winter sun shone through the dusty leaded-glass windows of Trout Run Presbyterian, dressing the sanctuary in long shadows. When Frank had gone to the North Country Academy to talk to Oliver, the gatekeeper told him he’d gone to the church to practice. But the church was silent.

  A slight rustle made him look up. Oliver was visible to Frank only as a darker darkness behind the ranks of organ pipes in the loft.

  “Oliver, couldn’t you come down from there? We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Your brother, T.J.”

  In answer, a shot rang out, its report obscenely loud in the solemn stilln
ess of the church.

  “Oliver! Don’t be—” Frank had been about to say “crazy” and Oliver knew it.

  “Get out of here, Frank. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m waiting for MacArthur Payne. I’m going to make him explain why he did what he did to my brother. Then I'm going to kill him.”

  Crisis negotiation required infinite patience and delicacy, qualities Frank knew he didn’t possess. One ill-considered response could trigger disaster. He reached for his radio. The call might provoke Oliver, and it could be half an hour before any backup arrived, but what choice did he have? "Trout Run One, requesting assist—”

  Another shot whizzed overhead, embedding in the column behind him.

  "Don’t say another thing into that radio, or my next shot will be through the window. Maybe I won’t hit anyone outside; maybe I will.”

  Frank decided to simply leave the radio switched on so that everything that transpired in the church would be broadcast. With a little luck, Earl would catch on to what was needed, and intercept Payne before he barged into the church. But if only Doris heard him .... There was no point in worrying about what he couldn’t control. He would keep Oliver talking, and hope for the best. Maybe he could calm him down, reason with him.

  He wasn't feeling all that compassionate toward Payne, but he didn’t want him gunned down in the center aisle of the church. More even than protecting Payne, he wanted to protect Oliver, to keep him from doing this last terrible thing that would seal his fate forever.

  “Tell me about Tristan. Was he a musician, too?”

  “He sang like an angel, the purest tenor you ever heard. And he used to play the flute until our stepfather discouraged him so much he gave it up.”

  Just keep him talking. “Why did he discourage him— the money?”

  “No, money was never an issue. Our stepfather wanted to erase everything in us that he felt came from our real father—our music, our names ... our insanity.”