“It’s a classic he said, she said. We want to believe that Sam is not a lovesick stalker. We want to believe that he could never kill someone. What if we’re wrong? I just hate to dismiss Sari’s diaries so quickly. Why would she lie? There’s nothing in her background to suggest she’s a liar. She had a gambling problem, sure. Addiction. A mean streak, perhaps, based on the nicknames she used in her diaries. And she was secretive. But a liar? Where’s the proof?”
Finn scratched at the back of his neck.
Chief Chavez strolled by, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. He stopped for a minute and scanned the board, then looked quizzically at me. “You’ve got the columns reversed.”
I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Sari disappeared—was killed—before Betty. Sari’s column should be on the left, in the first slot, then Betty’s should be on the right. You started with Betty, probably because you have more suspect names for her, and because her body appeared before Sari’s, but you should have started with Sari. Her murder came first,” Chavez said.
He moved on with a curt nod and I stared first at the whiteboard, then at Finn, thunderstruck.
“It all starts and ends with Sari Chesney,” I whispered. “We know the fibers on Betty Starbuck came from someone who’d been at Lost Lake. They came from Sari’s killer. One killer, two murders, some connection we haven’t figured out yet. But all along, we’ve been trying to make Starbuck’s killer work as Chesney’s killer. We’ve been working backward. We should be looking at Chesney’s killer for the Starbuck homicide. And if we stay with that thought, we have three viable suspects who had motive, means, and opportunity to kill Sari Chesney: Allison Chang, Mac Stephens, or a third subject, either known to us or not.”
“Well, we can eliminate Mac Stephens. He couldn’t have killed Betty Starbuck because he worked an overnight shift at the hospital the night of the gala,” Finn said, reading from his notes. “You verified that.”
“Yes.” I stared at the list of names in both columns.
Something was there, something we’d missed along the way. It niggled at the back of my mind, something I’d heard or seen but hadn’t realized the importance of in the moment. But what?
I replayed conversations from the last few days in my head. Patrick, Kent. Mac, Ally, Jake. James Curry, Alistair Campbell.
Jake.
I didn’t need to glance at the board to know his was the only name not there.
Why?
Why had we not considered him a suspect? He had the means, the opportunity, and a history of violence … but he’d just met Sari Chesney that day.
What reason could he have to kill her?
Out of all the suspects, Jake made the least amount of sense.
Still, to be thorough, I added his name under the Sari Chesney column.
Finn frowned. “Sure, Jake could have killed Sari … but he didn’t kill Betty Starbuck. Remember? His cousin Nicole is his alibi for Saturday night.”
“You’re right.” I drew a line through Jake’s name and stepped back.
I read the name that remained.
“Ally?”
“Maybe. Maybe Mac did Sari and Ally did Betty Starbuck.” Finn went to the board and tapped Jake’s name. “I want to talk to him. He knows more than he’s telling us.”
Chapter Forty-three
We found Jake Stephens at a tavern on the south side of town. The Jukebox was dim, with stale air that smelled of dusty peanuts and beer. The early afternoon crowd was mostly male, mostly blue collar. Jake sat in the corner booth, a half-eaten burger on the table in front of him and a rough-looking blonde in a halter top next to him. The woman slid out of the booth when she saw us coming and Finn murmured, “Tanya Green. She’s a working girl. I picked her up a few months ago for solicitation.”
Green slunk past us, studiously avoiding eye contact with both Finn and me, leaving a trail of musky perfume and pungent hairspray in her wake.
We reached Jake’s table.
“Mind if we join you?” I asked, and took a seat across from Jake. Finn eased in next to him and folded his hands on top of the table, a neutral expression on his face, his eyes scanning the crowd. Jake shrank back against the far end of the booth, putting as much distance between himself and Finn as possible.
“Are you going to eat those?” I asked, pointing at an untouched pile of crispy, curly sweet potato fries. There was a small bowl of what looked like gorgonzola cheese nestled in the basket.
Jake shook his head. “Help yourself.”
“What’s the matter?” Finn turned in the booth and stared at Jake. “No appetite?”
“Not really. I can’t stop thinking about Sari. Imagining her in the water … knowing that she was scared of drowning. It’s awful.”
I dipped a couple of fries into the cheese and ate them, then pushed the plate away and wiped my fingers on a paper napkin. “Those are good. You should try them, Jake, before the cheese gets cold. You know what I can’t stop thinking about?”
Jake peered at me and shook his head. “I have no idea.”
I smiled and grabbed another sweet potato fry. “I think you know more than you’re telling us. We know about the affair. We know Ally and Mac have been seeing each other for months.”
“Affair? Ally and Mac?” Jake’s jaw dropped and, behind his thick glasses, his eyes grew wide. “What are you talking about?”
I leaned in over the table, holding Jake’s gaze. “We’re talking about motive for murder, Jake. We’re talking about a cold night at an even colder lake, and a young woman discovering her beloved boyfriend has been sleeping with her best friend.”
Finn added, “She’s upset, maybe she threatens Mac. Or maybe it’s Ally that she gets into it with. Things turn ugly, and Sari ends up in the water. She dies, Jake. That is what we’re talking about.”
“And now,” I said, “would be a great time for you to tell us what you know. What did you see that night, Jake? What did you hear?”
“I didn’t see anything! There is no way Mac could have killed Sari.”
“You didn’t hear a scream in the dark? A strange noise? Maybe it woke you up and you lay in the tent, wondering if you were dreaming?” Finn asked.
He edged closer to Jake.
In response, Jake shrank even farther back into the booth. “No! This is crazy. It was supposed to be a fun camping trip. Now someone is dead and you think her boyfriend—my cousin—killed her. That’s horseshit. I’m telling you, Mac couldn’t hurt a fly, much less Sari. Mac was in love with her. The idea that he’d hit her … drown her … it can’t be true.”
He looked genuinely aghast, and I felt a cold trickle of doubt crawl down my spine. Were we wrong? Had we gotten so focused on the affair that we’d somehow missed something?
Finn asked Jake, “So what about you?”
“Me?”
Finn nodded. “Yeah, you. You were at the lake that night. You’ve got a record for assault. Maybe we should be looking at you?”
Jake paled, and his shoulders sagged. “I’m never going to get away from that stupid mistake. I haven’t done anything. I’m fulfilling all the requirements of my parole. Talk to Stinky Nuts, he’ll tell you. I’m clean.”
“Good for you.” Finn leaned back, thinking. “Okay, you’re certain about Mac. How about Ally?”
“I barely know her! I met her for the first time the day of the camping trip. She struck me as a snooty, stuck-up bitch. That doesn’t make her a killer! I’m telling you, there was someone else there that night. There had to have been,” Jake said. His voice got low. “I’ve been doing some research into the history of this town, and I’ve read the stories about the Lost Girls. I’ll tell you this much: you couldn’t pay me to go back to that lake. That place isn’t just haunted. It’s evil.”
* * *
“Well, at least the fries were good,” I said as we exited the Jukebox into the bright light of day. We both pulled sunglasses out and slid them on.
“I’ve
never met anyone who thinks about food as much as you do. You’re lucky you’ve got a fast metabolism. At the rate you eat you should be four hundred pounds. You should have your own television show,” Finn said. “You could make a fortune.”
“That’s mean.”
“What?” Finn protested. “I meant it as a compliment. Gemma Does the Buffet.”
“Will you quit. I’ll drive.”
Back at the station, I was surprised to see a wrapped package waiting for me on my desk. I read the attached note. It was from Bryce Ventura, and it was an apology for how he’d behaved.
“Jerk,” I muttered under my breath. With Chloe Parker out of the picture, Ventura’s connection in the police department was gone. If this gift was the weasel’s way of trying to get in my good graces, he was going to be sorely disappointed the next time we saw each other.
I opened the box and lifted out a gorgeous hardbound book. Flipping it open, I saw it was a commemorative album of photographs, commentary, and clippings from the previous week’s sesquicentennial celebration. All week long, photographers for the paper had staked out the various events in town, capturing the gala, the street fairs, the band performances.
It was actually a lovely gesture, and it made me think of something that might help our case.
I called Ventura.
“I considered flowers but decided this was more appropriate.”
“It’s beautiful, and thank you. But there’s no way in hell I’m going to share information with you,” I said.
He laughed. “Believe me, I’m not going to ask. I just want us to be friends. Okay, okay, maybe not friends. But respected professional colleagues. I see a lot of things, Detective. We should be able to help each other out.”
“I’m so glad you think that, Bryce. I’d like access to all the images taken the night of the gala by your paper’s photographers. I know there was at least one guy stationed at the museum.”
Ventura hemmed and hawed and finally realized it would be futile to resist me. I could get a court order, but if I had to waste my time doing that, I’d be angry … and his little gift would be for naught.
“I’ll bring you a flash drive. It’s too big a file to send electronically, and I’m not giving you access to our servers,” Ventura said. “I just hope you remember in the future how helpful I am.”
“I’ll remember. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
“Twenty. I’m not your toady. I don’t hop to at your every command.”
“Fifteen and you get the scoop on the museum murders.”
“Deal.”
Ventura was as good as his word; he arrived twelve minutes after we ended the call. He handed over the flash drive, and then I made him leave. I didn’t have time for small talk.
“What’s that?” Finn asked as I started to scroll through the photographs on my computer.
“A little gift from Bryce Ventura. Pics from the night of the gala. There were photographers at the event, and in town, taking pictures all week. I got to thinking, what if they captured something? Something important?”
“Want some help reviewing them?”
“Sure.”
Finn pulled up a chair and, together, we scrolled through picture after picture. My eyes grew heavy, and twice we stopped for a break. The second time, Finn ran to the gas station and brought us back cherry slushies. The sugar helped, and we moved from one image to the next, not sure what we were looking for, but we had faith that we’d know it when we saw it.
“There. Is that who I think it is?” I stared at the screen and rubbed my eyes.
Finn squinted. “Can you enlarge it?”
I moved the mouse and hit a few keys on the keyboard, and suddenly Jake Stephens’s face filled the screen. It was a blurry photograph, but it was definitely him, in a bar downtown, the night of the gala.
Finn took the mouse from my hand and moved the arrow to the bottom right of the screen. “There’s a timestamp. Eleven thirty p.m. And look what he’s drinking.”
It was a bottle of Corona.
I sat back. “Nicole Stephens lied to us. She said she and Jake were home, watching a movie, playing pool. They fell asleep sometime after midnight. She lied to us, Finn.”
He stood up and checked his watch. “What are the chances that Jake’s still at the bar?”
“The man has nothing else to do. Finn, this doesn’t mean he’s our guy.”
“I know. But it means something.”
Chapter Forty-four
As we drove back to the Jukebox, I thought through our earlier conversation with Jake Stephens. He’d been shocked by the affair … defended Mac …
Then it hit me, and I pounded the steering wheel in both frustration and exhilaration.
Sari’s killer had been right in front of me the whole time.
From the first day I was called out to Lost Lake, he’d always been there.
“It’s Jake. Jake’s the killer.” I parked outside the Jukebox. “He admitted as much. Come on.”
Jake groaned when he saw us. His food had been cleared and a fresh beer sat on the table in front of him, the foam still high in the pint glass. We took the same seats we’d taken before, Finn sliding in next to him, me across the table.
“My food’s long gone, lady. You want something, order it yourself.”
“I’ve lost my appetite, Jake. See, the thing is, something you said earlier stuck with me. You said you couldn’t imagine Mac—your cousin, the nurse, the all-around good guy—hitting or drowning Sari.”
Jake nodded. He picked up his beer and took a deep swallow. “You’re right, I did say that. Because it’s the truth. There’s no way he did that.”
“I know he didn’t. Mac didn’t kill Sari,” I said. I caught Finn’s eye, and he nodded, suddenly knowing exactly where I was going with this. Jake must have seen something pass between us because the color began to drain out of his face.
“See, here’s what I’m struggling with.” I stared at Jake. “How the hell did you know she was hit?”
Jake’s mouth moved like a fish, open and shut, but no words came out. Then suddenly Finn was grimacing, and I saw a glint of silver in Jake’s right hand as he pushed the gun harder into Finn’s side.
Damn it.
“I’m not going back to prison.” Jake pushed his eyeglasses up his nose with his left hand and sniffed. “You’ll have to kill me.”
“Don’t do this, Jake. There’s no need to make matters worse for yourself,” Finn said in a low voice. “There are a lot of people here, innocent people. Let’s take this outside.”
My mind was going a million miles an hour, trying to figure a way out of this situation with the least collateral damage.
Jake grinned. “That’s an excellent idea. Nice and slow. Ladies first. Hands on your shoulders, like you’re giving yourself a massage. Then Detective Nowlin. Anything funny and he gets a bullet to the spine. From what I hear, that’s worse than death. You’ll be in a chair the rest of your life.”
Finn and I nodded. What choice did we have? We had to get Jake and his weapon out of the crowded restaurant, away from these people. He was a loose cannon and there was no telling what he’d do. As we moved through the restaurant, I tried to catch the bartender’s eye, but he was comparing shoulder tattoos with a burly biker at the bar.
Just outside the front door, Jake said, “Stop a minute. I need to think.”
Finn and I waited. We were both carrying our service weapons, but it had been too risky to draw them inside the restaurant. I slowly lowered my hands.
“Hey! Put them back up. Jesus, you think I’m an idiot? I know you’ve got a gun. Both of you do. So unless you want to see your partner split in two, keep those hands where I can see them,” Jake said.
I took a deep breath, showed him the palms of my hands. “Let us help you, Jake. You’re making a bad situation worse. Put the gun away and let’s go to the station, where we can sit down and talk—”
“Shut up! I told you I need to think!
” Jake howled. Finn tensed up as Jake pushed the gun against him, hard. “Why the hell do women talk so damn much? You’re all the same! Where’s your gun?”
I lifted my jacket, showed him my hip holster. Finn watched my every move, and I saw in his eyes that he wanted me to draw on Jake. But I couldn’t risk it. In that moment, there were too many factors out of my control.
Jake smiled. “Take it out slowly. Slowly. Now throw it in the bush.”
I did as he said.
“Now do the same with Finn’s weapon.”
“It’s a shoulder harness,” I replied. “I’ll have to get close.”
“Forget it,” Jake said. He kept his gun trained on me while he reached for Finn’s. In a moment, he had it, and he threw that one, too, in the bushes. “Now, each of you, take one foot and lift up your pants leg. Then the other. Good, no ankle weapons. Very good. Where’s your car?”
I looked at Finn. We were disarmed, but if we were going to make a stand, this was the place to do it. Once we were in the car, there was no predicting what would happen.
“I said, where’s your car? You think I’m playing games here?” Jake screamed. The bartender must have heard him, because he stuck his head out the front door. When he saw Jake’s gun, he ducked back in, and I heard him bolt the door. I prayed he was calling the cops.
“My car is right there, Jake. Just put down the gun—”
Before I could finish my sentence, there was a loud pop. Finn fell face first to the ground with a single, heart-stopping cry. He went still.
I dropped to my knees beside him.
“Ah, fuck! Fuck!” Jake screamed. “He moved and the gun went off! Ah god, I’ve killed a cop!”
I rolled Finn over. He was pale but alive. Blood seeped into the dirt and, above me, Jake let out another scream. Finn tried to sit up, then fell back to the ground.
“Finn, honey, don’t move, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be fine. Where are you hit?” I was talking a mile a minute, willing myself to stay calm when all I wanted to do was stand up and blow Jake’s head off.
“My … my side. Don’t think … it’s too bad,” Finn gasped. I pulled my hand away from his body and felt my throat lurch when I saw how much blood there was. It was serious.
Lost Lake Page 29