“You know which cameras you want?”
“No, unfortunately. Any one of them for fifteen minutes before this guy appears.”
He set it up for her and sat back as she moved through the images. His curiosity had gotten the better of his politeness; he sat there and watched as if he had nothing better to do.
Fortunately there weren’t too many images to go through, since the recording was triggered by motion.
Seven minutes before Andrew Stadler had climbed the fence around Fenwicke Estates, scrambling like he was in hot pursuit, she found another figure. This one was smaller, wearing a leather jacket, moving nimbly and with great purpose.
Dr. Landis’s words: Stadler would go off his meds periodically. His wife was unable to stay married to the man, understandably, and she abandoned her child, then took her away from her father a few years later—a psychic wound from which the child might have recovered had she not had an inherited genetic predisposition.
As the leather-jacketed figure approached the wrought-iron fence, it turned its face to the camera, almost as if posing. A smile.
The figure’s face was now distinct.
Cassie Stadler.
Helen Stadler, Dr. Landis had corrected Audrey.
She changed her name to Cassie some time in adolescence. She thought it was a more interesting name. Maybe she liked the association with Cassandra, the Greek heroine endowed with the gift of prophecy whom no one heeded.
She had been the one who had repeatedly broken into Nicholas Conover’s house to spray ominous and threatening graffiti. The timing now made it clear that Cassie had been the one who had killed the Conovers’ dog.
Not her father, who had followed her to Conover’s house, just as he’d probably followed her many times before.
Knowing that his daughter was disturbed.
Andrew Stadler knew Cassie was afflicted with this disorder, talked about it with Dr. Landis obsessively, blamed himself.
With unsteady hands she picked up her cell phone and called Dr. Landis. His answering machine came on. After the beep, she began speaking.
“Dr. Landis, it’s Detective Rhimes, and it’s urgent that I speak with you at once.”
Dr. Landis picked up the phone.
“You told me Helen Stadler was obsessed with the notion of the family she never had,” Audrey said without giving her name. “Families she could never be a part of, families that excluded her.”
“Yes, yes,” the psychiatrist cut in, “what of it?”
“Dr. Landis, you mentioned a family that lived across the street from the Stadlers where Cass—Helen used to play all the time when she was growing up. A little girl she considered her best friend—she used to spend all of her time over there until they became annoyed and asked her to leave?”
“Yes.” Dr. Landis’s voice was grave.
“Andrew Stadler was questioned years ago in connection with a tragic house fire across the street in which an entire family, the Stroups, died. He apparently did some repair work for them. Was this—?”
“Yes. Andrew said his daughter had his mechanical ability, and he’d taught her how to fix all sorts of things, and one night after they’d asked her to stop coming over she slipped into their house through the bulkhead doors, opened the gas line, and lit a match on her way out.”
“Dear God. She was never charged.”
“I was quite sure this was simply a fantasy of Andrew’s, a manifestation of his paranoid fixation on his daughter. In any case, who would suspect a twelve-year-old girl? The authorities thought it was Andrew, but his alibi apparently held up under questioning. Something similar happened, you know, at Carnegie Mellon University during Helen’s freshman year there. Andrew told me that his daughter belonged to a sorority, and she was quite obsessed with them as a surrogate family of sorts. Much later, he said, he heard about the terrible gas explosion in the sorority house in which eighteen women perished. This was the same night that Helen drove home from Pittsburgh, quite upset that one of her sorority sisters had said something to make her feel rejected.”
“I—I have to go, Doctor,” she said, ending the call.
Bryan Mundy had rolled up to her in his wheelchair and was signaling to her. “Talk about coincidences,” he said. “We were talking about Conover’s house, and what do you know? We just got an alert on that system, maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago.”
“An alert?”
“No, not a burglar alarm or anything. Combustible gas detector. Probably a gas leak. But the homeowner said she’s got it under control.”
“She?”
“Mrs. Conover.”
“There is no Mrs. Conover,” Audrey said, heart knocking.
Mundy shrugged. “That’s how she identified herself,” he said, but Audrey was already running toward the door.
106
Todd immediately sprang to his feet, followed by Eilers and Finegold. Their faces were wreathed in anxious cordiality.
“Mind if I join you?” Osgood asked gruffly.
“Willard,” Todd said, “I had no idea you were coming.” He turned to Nick. “You see? The personal touch—some people never lose it.”
Osgood ignored him as he took the empty seat at the head of the board table.
“There isn’t going to be any sale,” Nick said. “The sale is wrong for Stratton, and wrong for Fairfield. We too have looked at the numbers—and by ‘we,’ I mean Willard and I—and that’s our considered assessment.”
“May I speak?” Todd said.
“We’re talking about an opportunity here,” Scott said. “Not something that’s going to knock twice.”
“An opportunity?” Nick asked. “Or a danger?” He paused, and turned to Stephanie Alstrom. “Stephanie, a few words? I know I haven’t given you enough time to prepare a PowerPoint presentation, but maybe you can do it the old-fashioned way.”
Stephanie Alstrom started sorting through the stapled sheaths in her file, making three separate stacks next to her. “Here’s the principal tort and criminal case law governing the salient issues, starting with federal statutes,” she began in her most juiceless tone. “There’s the Bribery of Foreign Officials Act of 1999, part No. 43, and the International Anti-Bribery and Fair Competition Act of 1998, and—oh heavens—the antifraud provisions of the securities laws, Section 10(b) of the Securities Exchange Act of 1934 and Rule 10b-5. And, though I haven’t read through the case law properly yet, there’s Section 13(b)(5) of the Exchange Act and Rule 13b2-1, to deal with.” She was sounding increasingly flustered. “And, of course, Sections 13(a) and 13(b)(2)(A) of the Exchange Act, and Rules 12b-20 and 13a too. But also there’s—”
“I think we get the picture,” Nick said smoothly.
“Pretty much what Dino Panetta told me back in Boston,” Osgood rumbled.
“That is ridiculous,” Todd said. Blood was returning to his face. Too much blood. “These are completely unfounded allegations that I dispute—”
“Todd?” Osgood’s craggy face formed a scowl. “It’s one thing if you want to go fly-fishing with your private parts for bait, but you do not put the partnership at risk. Question I was asking myself last night was, Where did I go wrong? Then this morning, I had the answer. I didn’t go wrong. You went wrong. You ignored company policy and made a huge bet on microchips, way more than you should have, and the entire firm almost went belly-up as a result. Then you figured you could save your ass, and ours, by doing a quick-and-dirty sale. A nice big pile of dough, and who cares how you got it. Well, not like this.” He struck the table, stressing each word. “Not. Like. This.” His eyes flashed behind his Coke-bottle glasses. “Because you’ve put Fairfield Equity Partners in a potentially ruinous legal situation. We could have brown-suited lawyers from the SEC camped out on Federal Street for the next five years, combing through our files with a jeweler’s loupe. You wanted to land a big fish—and you didn’t care if you rammed the boat through a goddamned barrier reef to do it.”
“I think you’r
e blowing this out of proportion,” Todd said, wheedling. “Fairfield is in no danger.”
“Damned right,” Osgood replied. “Fairfield Equity Partners is completely in the clear.”
“Good,” Todd said uncertainly.
“That’s right,” Osgood said. “Because the partnership did the responsible thing. Demonstrated it wasn’t party to the misdeeds. As soon as the errant behavior came to our attention, we severed our relations with the principals—former principals, not to put too fine a point on it, and took all possible measures to separate ourselves from the malefactors. Including the commencement of legal action against Todd Erickson Muldaur. You violated the gross misconduct clause of your agreement with the Partnership, which means, as I’m sure you know, that your share reverts to the general equity fund.”
“You’re joking,” Todd said, blinking as if there was a bit of grit lodged behind one of his blue contact lenses. “I’ve got all my money invested in Fairfield. You can’t just declare—”
“You signed the same agreement we all did. Now we’re activating the provision. Only way to show the feds we’re serious. You can contest it—I’m sure you will. But I think you’ll find most high-powered lawyers are going to want to see a hefty chunk of their fee up front. And we’ve already filed for a separate tort claim against you and your coconspirator, Mr. McNally, for a hundred and ten million dollars. We’ve requested that the judge place the funds we’re trying to recover in escrow, pending legal resolution, and we’ve received indications that he intends to do so.”
Scott’s face looked like a plaster death mask. He tugged robotically at a lock of hair at his temple. As Nick listened to Osgood, he found himself staring out the window at the charred buffalo grass. It no longer looked like a lifeless black carpet anymore, he noticed. The new grass had begun to grow back. Tiny green blades were now peeking through the black.
“That’s insane!” Todd spoke with a squeaky groan, a crowbar pulling out a long nail. “You can’t do that. I will not be treated this way, Willard. I’m owed some basic respect. I am a full-fledged partner at Fairfield, of eight years’ standing. I’m not some…some goddamn catfish you can play catch-and-release with.”
Osgood turned to Nick. “He’s got a point. You wouldn’t want to mix him up with a catfish. You see, one’s a bottom-feeding, scum-sucking scavenger…”
“And the other’s a fish,” Nick said. “Got it. And one more bit of business.” He looked around the table. “Now that Stratton’s future is secure, I’m hereby submitting my resignation.”
Osgood turned to face him, stunned. “What? Oh, Christ.”
“I’m about to face a legal…situation…which I don’t want to drag my company through.”
The men and women around the boardroom table seemed as astonished as Osgood was. Stephanie Alstrom began shaking her head.
But Nick stood up and shook Osgood’s hand firmly. “Stratton’s been through enough. When we make the announcement, we’ll just say that Mr. Conover resigned ‘in order to spend more time with his family.’” He gave a little wink. “Which has the added virtue of being true. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He got up and strode confidently out of the room, and for the first time in a long while he felt a palpable sense of relief.
Marjorie was crying as she watched him gather up his framed family pictures. Her phone was ringing nonstop, but she was ignoring it.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “I think you owe me an explanation.”
“You’re right. I do.” He reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out the rubber-banded stack of Post-it notes in Laura’s handwriting. “But first, could you find me a box?”
She turned and, as she passed her desk, she picked up the phone. A few seconds later, Marge looked around the partition, looking grim. “Nick, there’s some kind of emergency at your house.”
“Eddie’s handling it.”
“Well, the thing is—that was a woman named Cathy or Cassie, calling from your house. I didn’t get the name—she was speaking fast, sounding panicked. She said you’ve got to get over there as fast as you can. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
Nick dropped the picture frames onto his desk and broke into a run.
107
On his way to the parking lot he called home, let it ring.
No answer, which was strange. Cassie had just called from there—and what the hell was she doing there anyway? Plus, both kids should have gotten home from school by now to do their last-minute packing, both of them excited about the trip. Even, in his grudging way, Lucas, or so Nick thought.
But the phone rang and rang and the voice mail kept coming on.
Okay, so Lucas often didn’t answer the home phone, let the voice mail get it, but Julia always answered. She loved the phone. And Cassie—she’d just called. Weird.
No answer.
Lucas’s cell? He didn’t remember the number, too many numbers in his head and this one he didn’t call all that often. He hit the green call button on his phone, which pulled up the last ten or whatever calls he’d dialed.
There it was, LUCAS CELL. Had Marjorie programmed that in? Probably. He hit SEND as he ran through the parking lot, a couple of employees waving hello, but he didn’t have time for niceties.
Come on, damn it, answer the fucking phone. Told you if you don’t answer the cell, I take it away, that’s the deal.
A couple of rings and then his son’s recorded voice, adolescent-buzzy in timbre, curt and full of attitude in just a few words.
Hey, it’s Luke, what up? Leave a message.
A beep, then a female voice: Please leave your message after the tone. Press One to send a numeric page—
Nick ended the call, heart drumming and not from the run. He fumbled for the Suburban’s key-fob thing, pressed it to unlock just as he reached the car door.
Roaring out of the parking lot, he tried Eddie’s cell.
No answer.
“She’s not here,” Bugbee said. The cellular signal began to fade…“Patrol units, but no Cassie Stadler at her house.”
“She’s at Conover’s,” Audrey said. “Gas leak.”
“Huh?”
“I’m heading over there now. You too. Right away. Notify the fire department.”
“You know she’s there?”
“She answered the phone when the alarm monitoring service called. Get over there, Roy. Right now.”
“Why?” Bugbee said.
“Just do it. And bring backup.” She ended the call so he didn’t have a chance to argue.
Gas leak. The Stroups, her neighbors when she was twelve.
She lit a match on the way out.
Her sorority house at Carnegie Mellon when she was a freshman.
Eighteen young women perished.
The families she desperately wanted to be part of. Who all rejected her.
Then Audrey called Nicholas Conover’s office at the Stratton Corporation, but she was told he wasn’t there.
Tell him it’s urgent, she said. It’s a matter of safety. His house.
The secretary’s voice lost its hard edge. “He’s on his way over there, officer.”
The alarm company?
Nick didn’t even remember the name.
A gas leak? He tried to imagine what that was all about—something goes wrong in the house, the kids smell gas, maybe they’re smart about it and get the hell out of the house, that’s why the house phone line went unanswered—but what about Lucas’s cell?
Say he left it inside in the rush to get out. Sure, that was all.
But Eddie?
Guy lived with a cell phone planted to his ear. Why the hell would he not answer either?
Twelve minutes he could be at the gates of Fenwicke Estates. Assuming he caught the lights right. He gunned it, then slowed just a bit, keeping it no more then ten miles an hour over the speed limit. An overzealous cop could pull him over, slow things way down even if Nick told him it was an emerg
ency. Ask for my license and registration, maybe decide to take his fucking time about it once he caught the name.
He drove the whole way in a mental tunnel of concentration, barely aware of the traffic around him, thinking only of getting to the house. Kept hitting REDIAL for Eddie’s cell, but no answer.
A moment of relief as he pulled up to the gatehouse. No emergency vehicles here, no fire trucks or whatever, probably no big deal.
A gas leak is not the same thing as a fire, of course.
Could the kids and Eddie and Cassie all have been overcome by gas fumes, maybe that’s why they couldn’t answer? He had no idea if natural gas did that.
“Hi, Mr. Conover,” said Jorge, behind the bulletproof glass in the booth.
“Emergency, Jorge,” Nick called out.
“Your security director, Mr. Rinaldi, he came through here already.”
“How long ago?”
“Let me check the log—”
“Forget it. Open the gate, Jorge.”
“It’s opening, Mr. Conover.”
And so it was, glacially slow. Inching open.
“Can you speed it up?” Nick said.
Jorge smiled apologetically, shrugged. “You know this gate, I’m sorry. Also your friend came by.”
“My friend?”
“Miss Stadler? She came by too. Hour ago, I think.”
Did the kids call Cassie to come over? he wondered. Why didn’t they call me? They know how to reach me. More comfortable calling Cassie, that it?
“Goddammit,” Nick shouted in frustration. “Speed this fucking thing up.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Conover, I’m sorry.”
Nick floored it, the Suburban lurching forward, hitting the solid iron bars of the gate, a crunch of metal that he knew wasn’t the gate. Even the goddamned Suburban is a fucking tin can, crumples like a wad of aluminum foil. Front-end work. Fuck it.
It didn’t budge the gate, which continued its stately pace, oblivious, arrogant, taking its goddamned fucking time.
Jorge’s eyes widened. Finally the gate was open just enough, Nick calculated, to get through. He gunned it again, the squeal of metal against metal as the car scraped against the gate but got through, just barely.
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