She recognized the last name—Pastor. A prominent family in this town.
“Natalie.”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“Please find out who killed my wife.”
24
Natalie was on her way back to the station when she got the call from Dispatch about a reported drowning in the lake. It was all hands on deck. She turned her car around and headed east.
It wasn’t a call you wanted to get. It was never easy, emotionally, to recover a body. Occasionally, some misguided soul would take a dare and swim out to the island, thinking it wasn’t so far away. Often the water was choppier than expected. The cold could paralyze you. Hypothermia was a real killer. So was exhaustion.
During the summer months, motorboats and water-skiers buzzed across the lake and didn’t always notice the lone swimmer making his solitary way out to the tiny island. There were sudden drop-offs into deep water, where logs and other debris could snag you. Currents in the lake were powerful and unexpected. Drownings happened quickly—less than three minutes.
A common saying in these parts was, “You can’t legislate common sense.” Upstate New York had approximately six million visitors a year, and every year, a couple of people died in Burning Lake. Media campaigns and safety task forces weren’t enough. Warning signs and barbed wire fences were easily broached. Poison ivy wasn’t a deterrent. Park rangers writing tickets and public service announcements couldn’t prevent the next tragedy from happening.
By far, the most dangerous part of the lake was Devil’s Point on the eastern shore, where cliff jumping had been a tradition for generations. Here, the rocky outcroppings rose fifty to eighty feet above the water and attracted thrill seekers of all ages. It was a rite of passage for some of the locals to dive off the cliffs, even though such acts were forbidden.
The BLPD didn’t have the authority or the resources to patrol Devil’s Point, which was part of the state park. Jurisdictions needed to be respected. Park rangers were constantly issuing citations for alcohol-related offenses and trespassing, but it was an ongoing problem. The rangers were exclusively in charge, except in an emergency, when local law enforcement agencies got involved.
Now the waterfront came into view with its docked boats, food shacks, and designated swim area. A County Fire Rescue vehicle came tearing up the road toward Natalie and zoomed past her, grit from the blacktop swirling up. She let it go, then waited a beat before pulling into the public parking lot, where she found a spot and got out. The lakefront consisted of a manicured park with an information kiosk, several restaurants, three lifeguard towers, public restrooms, and a boardwalk nestled on the western shore of the lake. People took their kids swimming here in the summertime, where they were monitored by a team of lifeguards. Water-safety tips were posted on the menus of all the lakefront restaurants. SWIMMERS SHOULD ALWAYS WEAR A PERSONAL FLOTATION DEVICE. USE THE BUDDY SYSTEM. CLIFF DIVING AT DEVIL’S POINT IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.
A large group of people had already gathered on the sandy shore to watch the rescue efforts this morning. Members of the BLPD were out in force. Firemen from the surrounding townships had come to assist, along with an ambulance crew, a volunteer search-and-rescue organization, and a handful of forest rangers. Natalie wondered who could’ve been crazy enough to go swimming this early in the season, before the spring sun had warmed the region’s lakes. But it was also inevitable. It had been a thing for decades—proving your manhood.
Natalie crossed the waterfront and approached her old friend, Jimmy Marconi, and his elite cliff-and-dive-rescue team of rangers. They were packing up their gear. Nobody was suited up. They all wore their vinyl jackets with the DWW logo on back.
“What’s going on, Jimmy?” she asked.
“False alarm,” he explained, stashing an oxygen tank into his emergency bag. Slim and pallid, in his late thirties, Jimmy looked more like a computer nerd than a forest ranger, whereas the six men he supervised were athletic looking and deeply tanned. “Some jerk took his kids up to Devil’s Point, and after he jumped in the water, the kids couldn’t see any bubbles, so they called 911. Turns out the bastard was trying to scare them, just for laughs. He resurfaced in a reedy area and hid there where his kids couldn’t see him.”
“Just for laughs?” Natalie said, disgusted. “He did it deliberately?”
“Yeah. The idiot.”
“Imagine doing that to your kids,” one of the team members, Samuel Winston, interjected. Natalie and Samuel had gone on an embarrassing date once, many years ago, while he’d been attending a firefighting seminar at the Massachusetts Firefighting Academy and she was a sophomore in college. She’d been so relieved to find another upstate New Yorker who missed the same things she did—Stewart’s ice cream, Duff’s wings, cider donuts, Saranac beer—that she gave Samuel her phone number. But then, during their date, they completely ran out of things to say as soon as they’d exhausted their nostalgia for back home. After an awkward farewell, they moved on. Now Samuel was married with kids, working for the DWW, and always happy to see her.
“It’s patently dumb,” Jimmy said. “You don’t take chances like that when your kids are watching.”
“It’s hubris,” Samuel said, stashing more gear into a duffel bag. “What if he died right in front of them? I have two little ones at home, and I can’t imagine doing anything like that to them.”
“You can’t fix stupid,” Jimmy said with a shrug.
“So the idiot’s okay?” Natalie asked them.
“Yeah, he waded ashore, unharmed,” Jimmy said. “Surprised by all the commotion—or so he claims.”
“Are any charges being brought against him for this stunt?” she asked.
“No. He received a severe talking-to by the fire chief, though,” Jimmy joked.
“A severe talking-to?” Samuel repeated. “They should fine his ass.”
“I’ll kick his ass,” muttered one of the other rangers on Jimmy’s squad.
Natalie counted at least fifty officers, firemen, and volunteers gathered on the waterfront, along with the dive team. False alarms cost money. “At least nobody died this time,” she said, looking on the bright side.
“Silver lining,” Jimmy said. “We got lucky.”
She remembered teasing Jimmy mercilessly about the mustache he was attempting to grow. She remembered laughing at his knobby knees. He’d been in Grace’s class, and he used to hang out with her and Daisy. He was an easygoing guy who used to butcher the lyrics of all his favorite songs. He’d attended the prayer vigil with her family. He was there during the days and weeks that followed, while Natalie and Grace dragged themselves to school in a grief-stricken stupor. He’d been part of the background her entire life, like wallpaper. Like elevator music. Bland but comforting. A nice guy with a poorly developed personality. He was oatmeal. He was vanilla.
Now Jimmy pinned her with his sincere gaze. “How’re you holding up, Natalie?”
She expelled a long breath. “Okay. Thanks for asking.”
“You never think it’ll happen here,” he said sadly. “I remember when Daisy and I had to dissect a frog for biology, and she was so squeamish about it I told her just think of it as plastic, you know? Not real. She did okay after that.”
“How much money did we waste today?” Samuel said indignantly, packing up the last of his gear. “This is the second time this year, right? How are we supposed to recoup our costs?”
“The taxpayers will have to eat this one,” Jimmy said with a shake of his head.
“Better misled than dead,” Natalie said, and they all laughed at that.
Dark humor was a comfort in the worst of times.
25
Natalie drove to downtown Burning Lake in record time, found a parking space, killed the engine, and stepped out of her Honda Pilot. The rain had blown away, the sun was making dramatic exits and entrances behind the swiftly moving clouds, and the maples and oaks swayed in the cool breeze. The weather changed quickly in the spring. Upstat
e New York was bipolar.
Sweat Central was a popular health-and-fitness club. Her heels splashed in and out of puddles as she headed for the low flat building. The large open space was full of fitness enthusiasts gazing into the mirror-paneled walls, serious-looking runners and lifters in colorful spandex. The banner above the reception desk announced, GYM RATS WELCOME—EXTERMINATORS NOT ALLOWED. The glossy brochure beckoned: ARE YOU A WORKOUT-AHOLIC? JOIN THE SWEAT CENTRAL REVOLUTION!
She caught the attention of one of the staff, a ripped, tanned man in his midthirties who came over and said, “Hi, can I help you?”
“Detective Lockhart.” She glanced at his name tag. “I need to ask you a few questions, Anthony.”
“Sure. How can I help?” He leaned one sweaty arm on the reception counter.
“Is Brandon Buckner a member of this gym?”
He nodded. “Sure, I know Detective Buckner.”
“Was he here on Wednesday evening?”
“As far as I recall. I mean, it gets pretty busy on weekday evenings. Our peak hours are between five and eight P.M., but yeah … he was here.”
“What time did he arrive?”
“Let’s see. He came in around five thirty to do some squats and lifts.”
“Five thirty? Are you sure?”
“Well, I’m a trainer, and I have a lot of clients. It was pretty busy that night, like I said. But yeah, he was here … lifting and resting between sets. He wanted to use the squat rack, but we only have two racks, and there’s always a power struggle over who gets to use them. Most of the beefs between gym bros are over the racks.”
“Was there a confrontation that night?” she asked.
“Oh, no. Don’t get me wrong. Brandon plays by the rules.”
“Are you his trainer?”
“No, Brandon doesn’t need one. We’re gym buddies. Whenever I’m not working, I’ll spot him on the rack or something like that.”
“Did you spot him this past Wednesday?”
He shook his head. “I was jammed, like I said.”
“Where’s his locker?”
Anthony furrowed his brow. “Don’t you need a search warrant for that?”
“Just a quick look around,” Natalie suggested. “Will that be okay?”
“Sure, I guess.” He shrugged. “It’s this way.”
They passed a fresh stack of towels, water bottles, yoga mats, and a group of intensively peddling women who were using their phone apps to monitor their heart rates on the exercycles. Anthony led Natalie toward the back of the club, where the lockers and showers for customers were located. He pointed out Brandon’s locker, and she went over to inspect it. No blood smears. Nothing out of the ordinary. The door was locked.
“When you’ve spotted him in the past,” she said, “what do you two talk about?”
He shrugged. “We don’t spend a lot of time on banalities. We’re here to work out. A gym is a place to get things done.”
“So—no small talk between reps and sets?”
“Nothing memorable. Sports, NBA finals. Clean and jerk. Quads and traps.”
“Did anything unusual occur that evening?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.” He frowned and combed his hand through his short-cropped, highlighted hair. “Just busy. Like I said, peak hours.”
“What did Detective Buckner look like when he entered the building?”
“A little disheveled, wearing sweats. Why? What’s this about?”
“Just routine. Thanks for your help,” she said and left.
Natalie drove eight blocks north to the police station, where she parked around back and went inside. Right away, she noticed the low body count—half the staff was out in the field today. She poured herself a cup of coffee and took an elevator up to the third floor, where she bumped into Luke in the hallway.
“My office,” he said.
She followed him down the hallway and took a seat, while he closed the door.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked. “It’s like World War Three around here.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I spent half the morning putting out fires.” He took a seat behind his desk, which was stacked with paperwork. “From now on, whatever you say about this case, the press is going to run with it, so act accordingly.” He took a breath. “Where were you, Natalie?”
“Talking to Brandon.”
His eyebrows lifted with surprise. “How did that happen?”
“He called this morning and asked me to meet him in Chippaway. You know the old farm he wants to buy? He told me to come alone.”
“Does his attorney know about it?”
“No.”
Luke nodded thoughtfully. “What did you two talk about?”
“He had a lead for me,” Natalie said. “A guy named Jules Pastor.”
“Yeah, I know Jules. That’s Jacob’s and Brandon’s snitch.”
“He thinks Jules might know what Riley was up to on Wednesday.”
“Okay. Pursue it. What else?”
“I asked him where he was on Wednesday, and he gave some bullshit response. First he said he was at the gym between four and six o’clock. Then he changed his story and told me he went to the gym around five. But when I spoke to one of the trainers at Sweat Central, he said Brandon showed up at five thirty. Only he couldn’t be sure, because it was a busy night.”
“Don’t they have membership verification? A mobile check-in app?”
“We’d need a warrant.”
“Okay, let’s initiate one.” Luke leaned back. “So where was Brandon between four and five thirty?”
“He says he drove up to Chippaway to check out the farm.”
Luke rubbed his lined forehead, trying to rub away all the nuisance paperwork in his mental in-box. “Did anybody see him? Did he stop for gas?”
“No. And he could’ve mentioned that right away, but he fudged the truth. He didn’t help himself today.”
“Why would he lie about it? Do you think he could’ve killed her?”
Natalie lightly touched her cheek. She experienced deep discomfort at the thought. On the surface at least, everything had come so easily for Brandon. Rich parents, classic American good looks, a sports car at sixteen, married to his high school sweetheart. He got into Cornell, where he’d majored in pre-law and finance and could’ve landed a job anywhere—the UN, Wall Street, the tech industry. His decision to become a cop had cost him dearly, creating a deep rift between him and his father, and the other recruits used to complain about Brandon’s penchant for noogies and other frat boy nonsense. But he had a solid record and a good heart. “Honestly? It raises a lot of questions, but I just don’t see him for the murder. And I’m being as objective as I know how.”
Luke rubbed his chin distractedly. “Did you tell him about the sonnets?”
“Brandon admitted their marriage was less than perfect, but he was extremely upset at the thought of Daisy’s infidelity. He seemed genuinely shocked. And if Daisy was having an affair, I doubt he knew anything about it. He also suspects Riley could’ve written those sonnets.”
“Riley was hot for teacher? What do you think?”
“It doesn’t make sense. If Riley wrote them, why would she keep them hidden in a sealed envelope? Why not show them to Seth Truitt? Why mark her calendar T and I for Tristan and Isolde?”
They sat for a moment in contemplative silence.
“Maybe Riley and Daisy were having an affair.” Luke said.
“You’re playing devil’s advocate again.”
“I’m just saying…” He shrugged and let the words sit there.
She rolled her eyes. “Anything’s possible, but I can’t imagine Daisy doing such a creepy thing. Besides, the sonnets aren’t Riley’s style. He’s into rap and hip-hop. He would’ve recorded a song in her honor, not copied from Shakespeare.”
“Maybe he did, and we don’t know about it yet.”
“I’ll talk to Kermit again. See if he has any ot
her videos.”
“In the meantime,” Luke said, “we need to find out who Tristan is.”
“I’ll ask my sister. See if she has a clue.”
“Good. What about the traffic light cams?”
“I’m still waiting on DOT, but Lenny’s got a stack of videos from the city cams and gas stations along the route. He’s compiling a list of DMV plates and unidentifieds. Since the murder happened during rush hour, he figures we’re going to end up with hundreds of vehicles, maybe as much as a thousand.”
“Anything so far?”
“After reviewing the videos from three of the surveillance cameras within a two-mile radius of the Buckners’ residence … zero sightings of Riley’s vehicle, or the other two on our list. But we’re still in the early stages of the process.”
“How’s the canvassing going? Neighbors? Witnesses?”
She shook her head. “Nothing new to report.”
“Okay,” he said. “Go talk to Brandon’s snitch. See if he’s got anything for us.”
She got up to leave.
“And Natalie?”
She paused with her hands on the back of the chair. There was a long line of single ladies in Burning Lake who were anxious to try their luck with Luke. He stood tall, with broad shoulders, and had an intimidating look that rubbed some people the wrong way. He could be abrasive and a bit too honest, and he could bust your balls if he thought you deserved it. But in unguarded moments, whenever he smiled at Natalie like that, the warmth of his generous nature shone through.
“Keep up the good work,” he said.
26
Although Burning Lake was not as famous as Salem, Massachusetts, it occupied a unique place in history for a brief period of madness at the beginning of the eighteenth century, when three innocent women were executed for witchcraft on Abby’s Hex Peninsula, a slender piece of land jutting into the lake like an accusing finger. More than three hundred years ago, onlookers had gathered at the water’s edge to celebrate their deaths, while flames flickered across the lake. Now the shops along Sarah Hutchins Drive sold casting kits and tarot cards, and the waterfront was a popular tourist destination.
Trace of Evil Page 18