Dead in the Water

by Annelise Ryan

  “Maybe you did,” I say. “Maybe you honestly believed what you were doing was the best thing. But what I don’t understand is why you lied to me about my father. Why let me think he didn’t care? Why let me believe he abandoned me without a second thought?”

  “Because I was afraid you’d try to look for him, or talk about him. . . . I didn’t want your connection to him to be known. And there was Desi to think about, too.”

  “Ah, yes. Does Desi know the truth about her birth?”

  My mother’s eyes dart away momentarily. “No, and there’s no need to tell her,” she says. Then she looks at me again. “You won’t, will you?”

  Would I? I didn’t know. My head was still reeling from all the revelations, all the lies, all the potential truths I was trying to uncover. What benefit would there be in telling Desi the truth? Unlike me, she knew her father, and while he lived in another state, hours away, with a new wife and two other grown kids, her relationship with him was cordial. Why sully that?

  “I won’t offer the information,” I say finally. “But if she ever asks me, I won’t lie to her.”

  “She’d have no reason to ask unless you hint to her that something is up.”

  “She knows about your chest of secrets. She’s the one who told me about it. She’s going to ask me what I found in it.”

  “Fine,” my mother says, getting out of her chair in a huff and shoving it under the table. “Do what you want. But I’m telling you there is more to this than you know, so please consider the repercussions carefully before you go blabbing a bunch of half-truths. Don’t upset and hurt other people simply because you’ve been hurt.”

  With that, she strides from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  I look over at Hurley. “What a freaking mess.”

  “It will sort itself out.” He reaches over and starts massaging the back of my neck. “Maybe we can get more of the story from your father, if we can find him. We can follow up on the e-mail address for this Walter Scott, and the fingerprints Jonas found in the car. Maybe something will come out of those.”

  And with that his phone rings.

  CHAPTER 24

  I’m hoping the call will be Jonas with a report on the fingerprints. Turns out I’m halfway right. It’s Jonas, but what he has to report on has nothing to do with the fingerprints, nor does it move things along much.

  I watch Hurley’s face as he listens, frowns, and then says, “Thanks.” He disconnects the call and gives me a grim look. “Jonas and Laura have finished going through Hal and Tina’s computers and that USB drive they found in Hal’s truck. They didn’t find anything useful on the computers, and it turns out I was right about Tina’s connection to Lech Wyzinski. Jonas said she has a novel in progress that mirrors the Wyzinski case. But there are some files on the thumb drive that are password protected and Persephone doesn’t work to open them. So they’re going to send the drive to Madison to have someone there take a crack at it.”

  “Dang it,” I mutter. “This case is nothing but a bunch of stumbling blocks.”

  “Let me take a look at those letters of your mother’s.”

  I slide them over to him. Then I tap the manila envelope I also have. “In here are marriage and divorce certificates for my mother and father, and my birth certificate. Maybe they’ll have something to offer.”

  “We can run your father’s Social to see if anything pops, but if he hid as well as I think he did, I doubt we’ll get anything helpful. Those Gypsy families are masters at living off the grid, and I’m betting your father learned those lessons well.”

  We spend the next ten minutes reading—or, in my case, rereading—my father’s letters to my mother and looking over the other documents. Hurley’s phone rings again and this time I don’t see the caller ID. “What have you got?” Hurley says; then, “That’s great. I’ll be there in ten.”

  He disconnects the call and smiles at me. “We may have gotten a break,” he says. “Junior Feller was looking into who else might have been on the lake yesterday and he found someone who was in the area where Hal’s boat was anchored. He says they saw another boat there, too. Let’s go talk to him.”

  Before leaving, Hurley and I head for Richmond’s desk. “Anything on Keith Lundberg or Jeremy Prince?”

  “A little,” he says. “Keith Lundberg has disappeared, not hard since he didn’t have much of an existence in the first place. He popped up out of nowhere on the tax records two months ago, even though he supposedly died in a car accident four years ago.”

  Hurley gives him a grim smile. “So I take it Keith was a stolen identity?”

  Richmond nods. “Now our Mr. Prince is another story. He has a military background and a degree in chemistry.” He gives us a knowing look. “That would make it easy for him to figure out how to distill nicotine out of tobacco juice, which I understand is a relatively easy process. It’s not that hard to get it out of ordinary cigarettes. Anyway, he left the military six years ago and these days he makes his money as”—he pauses and makes air quotes—“a ‘business’ consultant.”

  “Any idea where he is now?” Hurley asks.

  “Nope. I’m watching. I traced back on the credit card he used to buy the tobacco juice, but the address for it is a mailbox store in Minneapolis. If he uses it again, I’ll be on it. But for the moment, he’s flying below the radar. I found another address on some bank records, but it’s a mailbox store, too, this one in Milwaukee.”

  “Cell phone?” Hurley asks, sounding frustrated, and Richmond shakes his head. “What about a vehicle?”

  “Can’t find any registered to him, though he does have a driver’s license tied to the bogus Milwaukee address.” He turns his monitor to show us Jeremy Prince’s DMV photo. It’s ordinary: an oval face with brown eyes and brown hair; no moles, birthmarks, quirky-shaped features, or dimples. According to his stats, he’s five feet ten inches tall and weighs 170 pounds. Jeremy Prince is your basic everyman, and that makes it easy for him to blend in and hide.

  “Now check this out,” Richmond says, tapping away on his keyboard. A moment later, another DMV photo pops up on the screen next to Jeremy’s. It’s another ordinary face with ordinary features. It’s not the same man—the chin is a tad bit squarer and the nose a little longer—but the similarity is startling. “That’s Keith Lundberg’s DMV picture,” Richmond says. “I’m guessing Prince picked it because of the resemblance and perhaps because Lundberg worked as an auto mechanic down in Texas. Given all the security measures in place for driver’s licenses these days, Prince must have some good connections to get a fake one made.”

  “Good work, Bob,” Hurley says. “I have something else I’d like you to work on while you’re waiting for Prince to emerge from whatever hole he’s crawled into.” He hands Richmond the wedding and divorce papers, and then writes down the phone number for the mysterious Dan, who was mentioned in one of the letters. “See what you can dig up on Cedric Novak using the Social Security number and the other info in here,” Hurley says. “And this phone number is from over thirty years ago. I don’t know if there’s any way to trace it, but can you look into it for me? It’s currently assigned to a real estate company, but I’m guessing it belonged to something else back then.”

  “On it,” Richmond says, nodding. He glances from Hurley to me. “You doing okay?”

  “As well as can be expected,” I say with a wan smile. “Thanks for asking.”

  With that, Hurley and I head out to his car, with him once again behind the wheel. “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “To the park on the south side of the lake. Apparently, there’s some sort of church retreat group there for the week and they spent yesterday out on the water in several boats, one of which was near Hal’s.”

  “You know, Beckwith told me that Tomas Wyzinski has a degree in chemistry, just like our mysterious Mr. Prince. Another coincidence?” I let the question hang while Hurley dwells on it.

  “Well, we know Tomas didn’t kill th
e Abernathy woman.”

  “True, unless he somehow arranged a hit from jail.”

  “I doubt that.”

  So did I, but the coincidences were adding up and it was making me uncomfortable.

  It takes us a little over fifteen minutes to get to the park and find our way to the area where the church group is located. We see Junior in the parking area waving us down, but since there are no open parking places Hurley pulls in behind a couple of parked cars, blocking them in, and turns off the engine.

  It’s a beautiful day to be at the lake. I climb out of the car and close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the warm sun on my head and the cool breeze on my face. I make a mental note to bring Matthew out here soon, maybe make a day of it with all four of us, a picnic with the entire family.

  “Give me the short version,” Hurley says to Junior, bringing me back to harsh reality.

  Junior nods toward a wayside area. “That guy over there, with the white hair and beard, is the leader of a ministry, and apparently they’re here for a weeklong retreat of some sort that involves”—he pauses and consults what he has written in his notebook—“building trust, finding inner peace, and getting in touch with your higher power.” He says this with a healthy dose of skepticism and a hint of sarcasm. “Yesterday was a find-your-inner-peace exercise and it involved having them all go out on the water in boats and then float in deep water or something like that.” Junior shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Anyway, the group Cullen French—that’s Mr. White Hair—had with him was moored not too far from Hal’s boat at one point. They estimated they were a couple of hundred feet away, close enough to see there was a man and a woman on Hal’s boat when it motored out to the spot where we found it and dropped anchor. About an hour later, another boat came up alongside Hal’s and the ministry group heard some yelling going back and forth. So they decided to move to a quieter location, though trying to find a quiet section of lake this time of the year is pretty much impossible.”

  “Did they give you a description of this other boat?” Hurley asks.

  Junior nods and consults his notebook again. “‘Blackand-white ski and fish boat,’” he reads. “Probably a Chaparral brand, according to one of the participants. They said it looked to be around the same size as Hal’s boat.”

  Hurley nods, writing all this down in his own notebook. When he’s done he looks up and says, “Where are the people who were on the boat? Are they the ones standing around Mr. White Beard over there?”

  There are about thirty people milling about along the shoreline, some seated at tables, others standing in a circle, a few sitting in the grass. Junior nods and points to the standing group: six people, two men and four women, plus Cullen French, nicknamed “Mr. White Beard” and “Mr. White Hair.”

  Hurley and I head toward the group, and as we draw closer, I realize they’re doing some sort of meditation. They are standing with their feet apart, their faces tilted back, and their eyes closed. Their arms are at their sides, bent slightly at the elbow with the palms of their hands facing the sky. I hear Cullen French telling them to visualize their goal, to create a scene in which they achieve their greatest expectations and let it play out in their minds.

  As we draw closer, French opens his eyes and beams a smile at us. “Stay the way you are for a few minutes and let your scenario play out,” he says, holding up a hand to stop us. “Replay it if you like, or, if you prefer, you can explore an alternative approach and run it through. Once you are done with that, I want you to imagine you are at the pinnacle of your success, with all the things, all the wealth, all the happiness you want, all around you. And then imagine the first three things you will do with it. How will you spend your wealth? Who will share in your happiness? What will your life look like? Where will you be? What will your house look like?”

  French finally stops talking, steps out of the circle, and makes his way toward us just as beatific smiles start creeping over the faces of several of the participants. He motions us back toward the parking lot and puts a finger to his lips, indicating he wants us to remain quiet. As he passes us by—clearly assuming we will meekly follow his commands and his steps—Hurley and I share a look that tells me we are both on the same trail of thought with regard to Mr. French. Still, we follow him, and when we reach the parking-lot area, Hurley wastes no time declaring his in-charge status.

  “Mr. French, I don’t have a lot of time and I need to speak with you and anyone else in your group who saw the two boats out on the lake yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes, I see you are pressed for time, which is very unfortunate. That causes stress, and stress interferes at the most basic levels with your ability to succeed in life. One must strive to achieve sublime happiness if one hopes to reach the goals they desire.” His serene little smile hasn’t faltered once, and for some crazy reason, I have an overwhelming desire to try to slap it away.

  Hurley chuffs his impatience. “I deal with the dead on a regular basis, and I can assure you there is nothing sublime or happy about it for me, the victims, or their families.”

  “Ah, but those who go on living have goals, achievements, and desires. That includes you. Perhaps you should join my group and search for your bliss in an effort to help you deal with the stresses of your work.”

  Hurley looks like he wants to punch the bliss right off French’s face, so I step in, hoping to defuse the situation. “Mr. French, the people who were on one of those boats you saw yesterday were friends of mine. One of them was a coworker. They were murdered in cold blood. One person had his throat slit; the other was tossed into the lake with a weight attached and left to drown. I’m sure bliss was the last thing they were seeking. And unless you feel comfortable knowing the cold-blooded killer who did this might come after you next or someone you love, I suggest you stop with the life-coaching rhetoric and answer our questions.”

  French has turned his pacific, calm face toward me and he nods slowly, still beaming his irritatingly serene smile. “Of course,” he says, with an expression that suggests he knew this all along. “Please ask away.”

  “Tell me about the people you saw on the boats,” Hurley says.

  “We weren’t that close to them. Our trust exercise requires calm, quiet waters, so we try to avoid other boaters as much as possible. That’s why we were in that particular spot. It tends to attract fishermen more than skiers and partiers. I was able to see that the first boat, the one I understand your friends were in, had a couple of lines in the water. And I was able to tell the occupants were a man and a woman, based on the clothing, general builds, and hair. The woman wore a floppy sunhat, the man had on a red baseball cap.”

  “How long were you in the same vicinity they were?” I ask.

  “I’d guess about an hour, give or take,” French says. “Though I can’t be sure. Time is such a constraining concept. I prefer not to give it much credence.”

  Hurley’s face is a mass of thunderclouds and I can tell he’s ready to say or do things he’d most likely regret later. So I continue with the questions in an effort to keep French talking and keep Hurley quiet.

  “Do you have any idea how long it was, or what time it was when the second boat showed up?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Once the second boat arrived, it became obvious the serenity we sought wasn’t going to continue. The second boat drove around in circles several times, creating big wakes that disturbed our process. And when it pulled up alongside the first boat, I heard them start to argue.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” he says with an apologetic smile. “My group was quite chit-chatty, and while I was able to hear raised voices, I have no idea what the argument was about. At that point, we motored out of the area and away from the two boats. We headed for shore and I remember Mason—he’s the balding gentleman in my group over there—saying he was hungry. Someone else pointed out it was almost noon and a group decision was made to have lunch.”
/>
  “Can you tell me how many people were in the second boat?”

  “Only one, a man,” French says without hesitation.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “He had a beard. And the voice was definitely masculine.”

  “Any more description you can give me?”

  French frowns, and the disappearance of that annoying smile almost makes me sigh with relief. “Not much,” he says. “He was white, shorter than the man on the first boat, and wearing a camouflage-colored baseball cap. His beard was brown, but I couldn’t see his head hair clearly, assuming he even had any, because of the cap. Other than that . . .” He shrugs and that damned smile returns.

  Hurley asks, “Did you notice anything in particular about the boat, such as markings, printed words or numbers, unusual rigs of any sort, anything like that?”

  French strokes his bearded chin and gazes toward the sky. “Can’t recall anything specific. Sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry.

  “We need to speak to the other people who were on your boat,” Hurley says.

  “Of course.” French glances back at the group, all of whom have abandoned their sun-worshipping poses. “It appears they have finished their exercise.”

  Indeed, the group is now milling about, chatting among themselves. Hurley and I abandon Mr. White Beard and infiltrate the group. The women are of no help at all, but the bald guy in the group, who tells us his name is Mason Chambers, provides an exciting clue.

  “There was a name on the boat,” he says. “I remember it because I thought it was clever. It said Court A’Sea, which I took to be a take on the word ‘courtesy,’ although I suppose it could belong to a lawyer or a judge.”

  Chambers spells out the name for us, and after Hurley dutifully jots it down in his notebook, we thank Mr. Chambers and head back to the car. On the way, Hurley’s cell phone rings. He looks at the caller ID and frowns.

  “Detective Hurley.” He listens, and when we arrive back at the car, he stands outside the driver’s door, still listening, uttering the occasional “Yeah,” or “Uh-huh.” Finally he says, “He’s a key witness, maybe a potential suspect in a triple-homicide case I’m investigating.” After listening some more, he says, “Yeah, I can do that.” He thanks the caller, disconnects, and gets into the car. I climb in on the passenger side, staring at him, burning with curiosity.