It was a valid question, and one to which neither Finn nor I had an answer. Bornstein read as much in our faces. He audibly swallowed and said weakly, “Perhaps it’s time I take a vacation. I hear Paris is lovely in the spring.”
“We’ll have to ask you not to go anywhere for a while, Dr. Bornstein. At least not until we have a suspect in custody. Obviously, one of the pieces we’re looking at in both investigations is the Rayburn Diary. The fact that it disappeared around the same time as the deaths occurred is troubling and may be the connection we’re seeking.” I gave Bornstein what I hoped was an encouraging look. “I understand that it’s unique, one of a kind. But what exactly makes it so special? Surely the museum has other diaries, other journals of historical importance.”
Relieved to temporarily move to a new topic, Bornstein slipped his hand sanitizer into his pocket, sat back, and crossed his legs. “How much do you know about the history of this town?”
I shrugged. “What we learn in school and then some.”
Finn nodded. “Same here. I didn’t grow up in town, but I’m probably as aware as your average citizen of the local history.”
Bornstein tipped his head. “Excellent. Well, of course you’re familiar with Owen Rayburn. He was the brother-in-law of Stanley Wanamaker James. James ran the most successful silver mines in the region. He swooped in after the gold mines were tapped out. Rayburn and his family followed shortly thereafter. They arrived from Pennsylvania already quite wealthy. James and Rayburn and four other men established the Avery and Martin Mining Company and built Cedar Valley from the ground up. They were known as the Silver Foxes: Rayburn; James; Peter Johnston Avery; Jeremiah Martin; Thomas Aaron Johnson; and Rico Fioretti. The six of them ruled this town with an iron fist. You’ve seen the statue at City Hall?”
Finn and I nodded. The statue was bronze, a sculpture of six men sitting on a bench, each holding a mining tool of some kind, such as pick ax or a lantern. It was a popular place for city employees to picnic when the weather was nice.
Bornstein continued. “Of all the men, Owen Rayburn was the most ruthless and the most secretive. At all times, he carried a small leather-bound journal. In it were said to be the locations—secret locations, of course—of the last remaining seams in the valley that contained gold.”
I sat back, a smile on my lips. I’d heard these rumors before. “It’s been decades since any gold has been found in these hills. Assuming the diary does contain this information, and that the information is true, what would it be worth?”
Dr. Bornstein smiled, too, happy to be on a topic he clearly enjoyed. “Now that’s the interesting question. It all depends who you ask. As I’ve said before, the historical value is simply priceless. The damn thing is chockful of information. Rayburn recorded everything: the weather, maps, details of day-to-day life in the Valley, personal ruminations on life, death, and everything in between. It’s a local treasure and, in many ways, a national treasure.”
“And did you see any maps to buried treasure in it?”
Bornstein’s smile grew wider. “In addition to being ruthless and secretive, Rayburn was very, very clever. He considered himself an amateur cryptographer—of course it wasn’t called cryptography back then—and loved to encrypt secret messages in his day-to-day missives. If there is a map in the diary to gold in these mountains, it is written in code. That, or invisible ink.”
I waited for him to laugh. “You’re not joking, are you? Invisible ink?”
Bornstein nodded. “I’m deadly serious. Yes. The man was gaga for encryption and ciphers.”
Finn had been taking notes. Now he set his pen down and leaned forward. The talk of buried treasure had caught his interest in a big way. “So theoretically, there are two sorts of people who might be interested in Rayburn’s diary. Those who appreciate it from a historical perspective and those who are interested in gold. The scholarly and the greedy.”
Bornstein nodded, pleased. “The scholarly and the greedy. I couldn’t put it better. Of course, there’s a third possibility too: those who are interested in the diary purely as an object to sell.”
Finn gave Bornstein a small smile. “So which group do you belong to?”
Bornstein flushed at the sudden attention back on himself. He stammered, “I have dedicated my life to the scholarly pursuit of history. I am an academic, Detectives. I resent the implication that my interest in the Rayburn Diary is anything more than professorial.”
Finn waved a hand. “Calm down, Dr. Bornstein. Two of your colleagues are dead. Now is the not the time for indignation. Let’s switch gears for a moment. Have you been to Lost Lake in the last few weeks? Maybe for a hike or some bass fishing? Perhaps a camping trip with the boys?”
At this, Bornstein practically sputtered. “Are you accusing me of killing Sari Chesney? This is beyond absurd. I’m no longer comfortable with the direction this conversation is going. In fact, I think I’d like to call my attorney.”
I nodded. “By all means. That’s your right. Please understand, though, this is not an interrogation. We’re simply trying to understand what’s been happening at the museum, what’s been happening in the lives of these two women, where they may have intersected. You are a common denominator, that’s all.”
Bornstein ignored me and slid a cell phone out of his pocket. He tapped a few keys then put the phone to his ear. After a moment, he began to speak, and Finn and I looked at each other. We both knew that Bornstein’s lawyer would advise him not to say another word. They talked a few minutes longer, then Bornstein hung up.
“Ms. Martin will be here shortly.” He pursed his lips. “She’s advised me not to say anything more until she arrives.”
Eyes widening, Finn coughed into his fist. “Susannah Martin?”
“Yes. Do you know her?”
I watched as Finn compressed his lips and gave a curt nod.
Inwardly, I cringed. Finn had a well-deserved reputation in town as a ladies’ man. His past paramours had a funny way of turning up in our cases at inopportune times, and Finn’s current expression was not giving me any reassurance that this would be any different. If Susannah Martin turned out to be another one of Finn’s ex-girlfriends, I was going to scream.
“Well, let’s break for coffee,” I said and stood up. “Dr. Bornstein, can I get you anything?”
He shook his head. “I’ll stay right here.”
Outside the interview room, I grabbed Finn’s sleeve. “Please tell me you and Ms. Martin don’t have a history. Please tell me she’s not going to walk in here with an attitude.”
He straightened up, a grim smile dancing on the corner of his mouth. “Gemma, I’m not the problem. This town is. There’s a serious shortage of eligible women—”
I walked away as he was still defending himself, shaking my head. He needed to move to New York City, or Los Angeles.
But I knew he never would.
Finn enjoyed being a big cop in a small town too much to ever relocate.
* * *
Susannah Martin was as I expected, attractive and confident, a willowy blonde with slicked-back hair and serious eyes. She was also a professional, and her demeanor, while cool and reserved, remained steadfastly polite.
Bornstein seemed vastly relieved to see her. Martin took a seat next to him, then folded her hands and placed them on the table. She spoke in measured tones without smiling, her dark gray eyes unblinking.
“My client is here voluntarily, in response to your request to interview him. I understand he’s already provided you with information about the Rayburn Diary.”
“That’s correct,” I confirmed. “We would now like to know Dr. Bornstein’s whereabouts on the evening of May thirteenth, the evening of May fourteenth, and the early morning hours of May fifteenth, specifically between the hours of one a.m. and five a.m.”
Bornstein started to speak, but Martin stopped him by placing a hand on his forearm. She leaned over and whispered something in his ear, then Bornstein nodded. Mar
tin drew back.
“May thirteenth was a Friday. I was home with my wife, Lee. We ordered in a pepperoni pizza and watched a movie on Netflix. I believe we were in bed and asleep by ten p.m.,” Bornstein said.
“How can you be so sure? That was nearly a week ago,” Finn asked. He looked down at what he’d written, surprised. “‘Pepperoni pizza.’ I barely remember what I ate yesterday, let alone a week ago.”
Bornstein smiled triumphantly. “I remember because Lee and I specifically decided to have a low-key evening at home on Friday the thirteenth, knowing the following night—the night of the gala—would be a long and late evening. Pepperoni pizza with a pesto-stuffed crust is our standard order from Chevy’s.”
“And how about the gala on Saturday the fourteenth. What time did you leave the museum?” I asked.
Bornstein thought a moment, then said, “About eleven o’clock, with most of the other guests.”
Finn asked, “Did you go straight home?”
Bornstein shook his head. “No. Lee was engrossed in a conversation with Mayor Cabot, and we were invited to join the mayor and her companion for drinks at the bar at the Tate Lodge Inn. We saw a number of other guests downtown, continuing the party at various bars. We left the Tate close to one a.m. and were home soon after.”
I took a moment to think. Susannah Martin stared at me, the expression on her face unreadable.
“Besides your wife, can anyone corroborate your whereabouts the night of Friday, May thirteenth, and your actions after you left the Tate on the night of the fourteenth?” I asked. “Maybe the pizza delivery man?”
Bornstein shook his head. “No. Lee answered the door for the pizza. On the fourteenth, we drove straight home from the Tate. Frankly, I find these questions insulting. I had nothing to do with Betty’s murder or Sari’s death. You’re wasting your time.”
Martin nodded in agreement and stood. “If there’s nothing else, Detectives, we’ll be on our way. You can call me directly if you have further questions for my client.”
She stood, opened the door, and beckoned Bornstein to follow her. They left without a word, but as he passed through the doorway, Bornstein turned and met my stare.
The arrogance and triumph in his eyes was shocking.
Then he was gone and I sat back, uncertain if I’d really seen what I thought I’d seen.
Finn exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, then leaned back. “That went better than I expected. I half thought she’d come in with a glass of water and throw it in my face. Suzie and I didn’t end things on a good note.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Finn started to respond, and I cut him off. “It doesn’t matter. Bornstein’s wife is his alibi. We’ll get no further with him unless forensics comes back with hard evidence.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I warmed up a cup of coffee and microwaved a bag of popcorn, remembering just as the popcorn finished that the chief had asked us to avoid it as the smell filled the whole station.
“We’re not a movie theater,” he’d written in a department-wide memo that some smart-ass had photocopied a dozen times and plastered all over the break room.
“Chief’s going to have your butt,” Armstrong said as he walked into the kitchen and grabbed a handful of the popcorn.
“Yeah, I forgot.”
At my desk, I returned a call to the medical examiner’s office and spoke with Dr. Bonaire at length. Because Finn and I had been canvassing Lost Lake, neither of us had attended the autopsy of Sari Chesney.
Given the condition of her body, I wasn’t sorry to have missed it.
Bonaire was officially ruling the death a homicide and he shared with me his preliminary findings. “In the final moments, the victim’s cause of death was drowning. There are a few other things that you should be aware of. At some point before she went into the water, the victim suffered a significant head injury. In addition, there are scratches and lacerations on her face and forearms that occurred before death.”
Face and forearms …
“She was dragged?”
“It appears so,” the doctor said. “Facedown, by the feet, for a distance of say, a few dozen yards over a terrain with small rocks and twigs.”
“That sounds like a match for the area around the lake, on the trail, and at the campsite,” I said, picturing the land. “And the head injury?”
“Hard to say how it was sustained. Something collided with her skull, but what it was, I don’t know. She might have been unconscious when she was placed in the lake,” Bonaire stated. “Let’s hope she was. It’s a terrible thing all the way around.”
“Yes. Any defensive wounds?”
“No, nothing to indicate she put up a struggle. I’ll call if I find anything else.”
I thanked him and hung up, then wrote up notes from our findings at Lost Lake and the conversations with Bonaire and Bornstein. All of it would go in the murder book, the thick black binder that contained all the evidence and information to tell the story of Sari Chesney’s death. If we caught her killer, the book would help prosecute him or her.
I was finishing up as Moriarty walked in. His thick white hair was brushed back from his lined forehead, his eyes bright. He bit into an apple, chewed, and swallowed. “Guess who I just picked up for a drunk and disorderly?”
“I have no idea.”
“Kent Starbuck.”
“What?” I sat back, surprised. “What happened? And how did you get dragged in instead of patrol?”
“Dave Zusak called it in,” Moriarty said. Zusak was the owner of the Crimson Café, a coffee and wine bar a few blocks off the downtown strip. The Crimson was popular for its homemade cinnamon taffy and generous pours.
“I was a few blocks away, on my way here, so I responded. Zusak and I play ball at the rec center on Thursdays. Anyway, I found Starbuck three sheets to the wind. He’d entered the café ready for a fight. He knocked over a newspaper stand, called one of the waitresses a ‘whore.’ Zusak refused to serve him and asked him to leave. Starbuck went ballistic. He threatened Zusak and said, quote, ‘Don’t you know who I am? I’m a convicted felon. I’ve done terrible things.’ That was when Zusak called us.”
“It’s the middle of the day. Kent must have started drinking early.”
“No kidding. He came with me easily enough. By the time I booked him, the guy was weeping. He spoke of the waste of trying to make amends, the fatigue of convincing people you’re something they think you’re not.”
Moriarty sat down at his desk and rubbed a hand over his jaw. For some reason I’d never noticed the pale scar on the back of his right hand. “Some people never change.”
I stretched my legs out in front of me and clasped my hands in my lap. “My first year here, as a rookie, I busted a little old grandmother for poisoning her neighbor’s dog. The dog barked too much, she said. The neighbor was this big, burly, bald motorcycle dude, easily three hundred pounds, all muscle. He cried like a baby over that dog. And the grandmother? I brought her into booking in pink hair curlers and a muumuu. Her children and grandchildren refused to appear in court on her behalf. Mr. Motorcycle had fifty people lined up in the back of the courtroom, all testifying how much he loved the dog.”
“What was the sentence?”
“Funny, I can’t remember. Probably wasn’t long enough.”
“It rarely is. Listen, I got a bad feeling about Kent Starbuck,” Moriarty said. He rubbed his jaw again, then moved his hand through his thick hair.
“You’ve had a bad feeling about him for thirty years,” I replied.
Finn caught the tail end of our conversation and joined us. “Lou’s got good instincts. I still believe Kent is the perfect suspect for the Starbuck homicide: He’s got a violent past and he stands to inherit a tidy sum. He was observed at the scene of the crime, and he’s obviously got an attitude problem. I got to say, I think we need to push harder on him.”
“That all sounds great in theory, but the location of th
e murder troubles me. Why would Kent kill his mother at her office, in the middle of night?” I asked. “Even if Betty Starbuck had summoned him to the museum, it still would be a hell of a lot easier to kill her at home, some other time … unless the killing wasn’t planned at all. If Kent’s unstable … maybe they got into an altercation?”
Moriarty stepped out, and Finn was about to respond when his eyes moved to something behind me.
A look of dismay flashed in them, and I turned around.
The Squirrel stood behind me and grinned, his long teeth gleaming in the pronounced overbite that, together with his last name, had earned him his infamous nickname.
He moved to the side of my desk. “Gemma, Finn.”
“Squ—Richard. What’s up?”
Field Parole Officer Richard “the Squirrel” Nuts looked down at me with watery eyes, his basketball-sized paunch hanging dangerously close to my bowl of popcorn. The parolees he oversaw for the Trenton County Justice System called him Dick Nuts. A recent unwillingness or lack of care to wear deodorant didn’t help things for the Squirrel, and some on both sides of the law had decided Stinky Nuts was an even more appropriate nickname.
Suffice it to say, the man was not well liked.
“How’s it hanging, my lady?” The Squirrel helped himself to a handful of popcorn. “I thought Chief Chavez forbade this stuff.”
“Yeah, I forgot,” I said, and leaned back, stretching. I stopped stretching when I realized the Squirrel’s eyes were starting to taking an elevator ride down from my face to my chest.
I gritted my teeth. “Eyes up here, Dick.”
He snorted. “No one calls me Dick.”
Not to your face.
He stood there, waiting for more conversation. I knew he wouldn’t leave until we made at least a bit of small talk, so finally I asked, “So, how are things in Trenton?”
He shrugged and talked around another mouthful of popcorn. “You know what they say.”
I didn’t know and, to be frank, I didn’t care.
The Squirrel had a territory of sixty square miles, coordinating parolees who took up residence in Avondale, Cedar Valley, Black Rock, Trenton, and Jasper Lake. He reported to the warden at the penitentiary. The Squirrel was the worst kind of administrator, a lazy bully.
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