Jumping Rise

by S. W. Hubbard

  Frank could hear Lew shuffling some papers. “During and after dinner, the three Hales were in the presence of you and Penny. Couldn’t have a better alibi.”

  “Desmond and Justin disappeared onto the lake right after the race started and I didn’t see them again until one AM,” Frank clarified. “I don’t know how long it takes to race across the lake, but it felt like they were gone a while.”

  “But the motorboat was still at The Balsams’ dock when you took Keith back up to the house after the rescue,” Meyerson said. “No one remembers exactly what time the race started, but it was after 10:30. There wouldn’t have been enough time for them to get to and from the Verona dock before midnight.”

  “Penny heard the woman’s voice at three AM,” Frank said. “If that was Caitlin, she must have arrived between one and three. Unless she was there all along.”

  Meyerson made a click of frustration. “It was pitch black that night—no moon. You’re asking me to believe Justin or Desmond went back out after the race and picked Caitlin up at the dock? Where was she between the time Enright dropped her at the trailhead and two AM? If she was in the house, why did she stay hidden and then start arguing with someone in the middle of the night? None of it adds up.”

  “You’ve found no forensic evidence of Caitlin’s presence in the house? Not a strand of that long blond hair?”

  “We weren’t able to get a search warrant until the autopsy proved she’d been murdered,” Meyerson replied. “By that time, the Hales would have had plenty of opportunity to clean up. Plus, the house is huge. We did confiscate the vacuum. It had a fresh bag.”

  “Did you get any info out of Chet and his wife?”

  “I’ve met Army Rangers who give up more intel than those two,” Meyerson grumbled. “They’re totally loyal to Hale, for sure.”

  “What’s the deal with the Etheridges?” Frank asked.

  “There were eleven adults at the compound, if we don’t count eighty year old Aunt Violet, who’s legally blind. They’re members of two branches of the family, plus three friends. They own two motorboats, and a variety of canoes and kayaks. The two motorboats were out at different times during the day and evening. We interviewed each person individually and they all contradicted each other and remembered details of the day differently.”

  “You think they’re lying?”

  “If they were lying, they’d have gotten their story reasonably straight. They’re just a big group of fun-loving, half-drunk people who can’t remember what they were doing, when they did it, or with whom.” Lew heaved a sigh. “Looks like they throw a helluva party. You and Penny should try to get yourselves invited over there.”

  “But with all that commotion, one of them could have easily slipped away to pick up Caitlin.”

  “Could have,” Meyerson admitted. “What I need is something to connect Caitlin to one of the Etheridges or the Hales. We really need to talk to the parents and the sister. Figure out who Caitlin’s friends were.”

  And none of that could happen until they emerged from the Romanian mountains.

  Frank ventured into rough water again. “What about Kinsella—”

  “How can I track that long-shot?” Meyerson snapped. “A vague eyewitness description from the Patels, a cheesy fake ID—I have nothing to go on.”

  Frank could hear someone calling for Meyerson in the background.

  “Gotta go,” the lieutenant snapped, and hung up.

  Chapter 20

  Frank sat contemplating his position. Would he obey the chain of command as he should? Or would he yank Lew’s chain by following his own best instincts?

  It wasn’t that Meyerson was a bad cop. He was smart and ethical and hardworking.

  But he was rigid.

  He had a hard time understanding criminals who weren’t run-of-the-mill dirtbags. Really, Lew had trouble understanding anyone who was different from him, including Frank himself.

  Meyerson was relentlessly logical, so people acting on pure emotion baffled him. When searching for motive, Lew looked at basic needs: money, drugs, sex. Not a bad place to start—in a vast majority of cases, the answer could be found there. But Frank suspected this case might be different. The motive might hinge on desire. Desire for power or prestige or acceptance or respect. This is what caused a teenager to kill a friend over a designer ski jacket. If you’d never felt a particular desire yourself, it could be hard to spot it in others. Hard to take it seriously as a motive to commit the most terrible crime: murder.

  The mystery of why a middle aged man had brought young, beautiful Caitlin Lupton to an obscure motel in the High Peaks and left her there didn’t interest Lew Meyerson. He couldn’t make that piece fit into a puzzle whose edges suggested a young woman in an ill-advised sexual encounter with a violent man.

  And he could be right.

  But wouldn’t it be best to rule out every other possibility?

  How could he do it without bringing Meyerson’s wrath down on his head?

  When Earl returned from the afternoon patrol, he naturally enquired why Frank was staring at the ceiling, so Frank brought him up to date on the latest jam in the Lupton case and Meyerson’s continuing reluctance to pursue the Kinsella lead.

  A thick silence hung in the office.

  “Is registering for a hotel room under a false identity a crime?” Earl said after five minutes passed.

  “You’re the one who just graduated from the police academy. You know New York State Code better than I do,” Frank said.

  “I think I might have missed that question on the final exam.”

  Frank swiveled in his desk chair. “And being young and over-eager, you might pursue this mistakenly.”

  “I really require a lot of supervision so I don’t run off the rails.” Earl grinned. “And you’re often too busy to provide it.”

  Frank laughed and rubbed his hands together. “If you were to run off the rails, where would you start?”

  “Mmmm—well, the music festival must have someone who’s met Rachel and her parents. Maybe someone there could tell us something that would give us a lead on Kinsella.”

  “Get me a phone number and I’ll call.”

  Before long, Frank was talking to a Mrs. Hartwig, a woman clearly passionate about music. All she needed was a few vague questions about the festival and she was off on a dramatic description of the essential role her organization and other competitions played in developing the classical musicians of tomorrow by helping them get their first solo opportunities with orchestras.

  “So, it’s like the Olympics of classical music—you have to work your way up to the final rounds,” Frank clarified. “And then you win a spot playing with an orchestra?”

  “Er...that’s one way of looking at it.”

  Clearly the wrong way in Mrs. Hartwig’s eye. But Frank pressed on. “So you saw Rachel Lupton perform at the National Festival?”

  “She was magnificent! When she finished the Prokofiev Violin Concerto No. 1, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. It was clear to me she’d won and would get to go on the recital tour.”

  “Her parents must’ve been very proud.”

  “Her parents weren’t there. That’s what made her win even more impressive,” Mrs. Hartwig gushed. “Parents play a vital role in the competition process. Musicians, especially violinists, are exquisitely sensitive creatures. Parents do so much to soothe jitters, provide reassurance, solve last-minute problems.”

  “And Rachel’s parents didn’t bother to come to see her play?”

  “I wouldn’t say, ‘didn’t bother.’ I’m sure they wanted to be there. But I’ve heard there were....issues...with Rachel’s sister that prevented Mr. and Mrs. Lupton from attending the National Competition.”

  Frank felt a premonition that his afternoon’s work was about to pay off. “What kind of issues?”

  Mrs. Hartwig sniffed. “I have no idea. I hold myself apart from all the catty infighting among the parents. I just got the impression that th
eir other daughter required their attention even more than Rachel.”

  A medical emergency could cause the parents to stay behind with Caitlin, but her autopsy showed no signs of disease. She was a healthy young woman—never even had a broken bone. So, some sort of emotional breakdown? But if she were having psychological problems, why would they sentence her to virtual solitary confinement at the Mountain Vista?

  “So Rachel performed all alone, with no one in the audience to cheer her on?” Frank moved on with Mrs. Hartwig.

  “Well, I certainly cheered for her! And after the winners were announced, I went over to congratulate Rachel. A man was with her, taking pictures and sort of shielding her from the crowd of well-wishers.”

  Frank’s antennae went up. “What did he look like?”

  “Nothing special. Early fifties...tall...brown hair.”

  Sounded like it could be Kinsella. “Did Rachel call him by name?”

  Mrs. Hartwig hummed as she thought. “I think she called him Uncle Something.”

  So close. “Uncle what? It’s very important. Try to imagine yourself at the scene and rehear what Rachel said.”

  Long silence. “Uncle Regis. Yes, that was it. A rather unusual name.”

  Now he was making headway! “Thank you, Mrs. Hartwig. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Could it be so simple that Regis was Mr. Lupton’s brother and shared his last name? Frank quickly Googled Regis Lupton and came up cold—one five year old obituary under that name. So perhaps Regis was Mrs. Lupton’s brother, in which case he needed her maiden name.

  Earl flexed his fingers. “Let’s see what social media can tell us. Lots of women include their maiden names on their profiles so old friends can find them.”

  Frank rolled his desk chair next to Earl’s and watched him work his wonders.

  Earl clicked a few times and brought up a Facebook profile for Denise Dunwoody Lupton. Earl searched for Regis Dunwoody and came up blank.

  “Maybe he’s not an actual blood relative uncle,” Frank suggested. “Maybe he’s a family friend uncle, the way Sarah Patel calls me Uncle Frank.”

  “Let’s see if Denise has any friends named Regis.” Earl scrolled through Denise’s hundreds of Facebook friends. “Ah, look here: Regis Anthony Kendall.” A few more clicks. “A-a-a-n-d, he’s a friend of Mr. Lupton as well.” Earl pulled up the man’s profile photo: tall, thin, mid-fifties.

  “He has to be our Anthony Kinsella.” Frank said. “Best to stay close to the truth when choosing your fake name. Send that photo to Sanjiv so he can verify that’s our man.”

  Within minutes, Sanjiv Patel confirmed their hunch. Frank and Earl high-fived. And then Frank’s luck got even better. Regis Anthony Kendall lived in Colonie, New York, just two hours away.

  The closest town with a Trader Joe’s.

  Chapter 21

  Frank parked his truck in front of Kendall’s house, a pleasant one-story rambler with a long front porch, a shade-throwing maple tree, and a briskly rippling flag. He rang the doorbell, setting off a chorus of frenzied barking inside.

  Frank stepped away from the front door and retreated to the porch stairs.

  The blue front door opened with a jerk. Flanked by two decidedly antagonistic dogs, a tall, thin man matching the Facebook profile photo of Regis Kendall scowled at Frank. “I don’t need my driveway sealed, my chimney cleaned, or my windows replaced.” He began closing the door.

  “Good to hear.” Frank flashed his badge before the door closed. “Police Chief Frank Bennett, Trout Run, NY. I’d like to talk to you, sir.”

  Immediately, the man’s belligerence disappeared. His shoulders slumped, his head drooped. “Oh, God—what has she done?”

  What has been done to her? was the more relevant question. Frank could see Kendall had no clue the dead body reported on all the New York news shows was Caitlin. “May I come in, sir?”

  Kendall sent the dogs away with one command and led Frank into a comfortable den. He flopped into a big club chair and waved Frank into the other. Staring straight ahead with his fists clenched, he looked like a man preparing himself for the firing squad.

  “You know Caitlin Lupton?” Frank began.

  Kendall nodded, keeping his eyes focused on the far wall, where a reproduction of Washington Crossing the Delaware hung.

  Frank decided not to inform Kendall of Caitlin’s death until he got as much information out of him as possible, worrying that the murder might cause the man to change his story. “And you reserved a room for her at the Mountain Vista Motel, paying for two months in advance.” After Kendall nodded again, Frank asked, “Why did you reserve the room using a false name and a fake ID?”

  Kendall’s gaze shifted to the ceiling. “That’s not illegal. I checked. Look, if she’s damaged the room, we’ll take care of it.”

  We, not I, Frank noted. “The email and phone number you left with Mr. Patel are both non-functioning. Why did you leave him with no way to contact you?”

  Kendall slapped his knee. “Dammit, can you just tell me what Caitlin’s done? You’ve obviously arrested her and she gave you my name.” After the words left his mouth, suspicion crept across Kendall’s face. Frank could see it dawned on the man that the police chief of the town where he’d left Caitlin would not have driven all this way to tell him in person that she’d been arrested. “Wait...why didn’t you call? What’s going on?”

  “Please answer my question,” Frank insisted. “Why did you use a false identity to reserve the room?”

  Kendall’s eyes widened in fear. “To protect her. My god, something’s happened! What? Is she all right?”

  “Protect her from whom?”

  “From those damn drug dealers!”

  Drugs? This wasn’t what Frank had expected. Caitlin had appeared healthy and beautiful, nothing like Blaine Timmons.

  “We didn’t want them to get to her and give her more of that poison.” Kendall leaned toward Frank. “But they found her, didn’t they? Has she OD’d? Please—just tell me. Is she alive?”

  Frank shook his head. “I’m sorry sir, Caitlin was found dead in Mallard Lake on July 21. We identified her through family photos we found on her camera. We tried to contact her parents, but they’re out of the country. I finally succeeded in tracking you down.”

  Kendall stared at him, speechless with shock. Finally, he whispered, “Mallard Lake? How did she get way over there?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping you can help us with. Caitlin didn’t die of an overdose. She was murdered.”

  Chapter 22

  Frank fetched Kendall a glass of water and a box of tissues and gave him a few minutes to collect himself. Then he resumed the questioning.

  “We’re trying to determine how Caitlin came to be at Mallard Lake, which, if you know the area, is quite remote. There are only three houses, and they can only be reached by boat, starting from the dock in Verona. Can you tell me who she knew in Trout Run?”

  “No one. That was the whole point of taking her there.” Kendall kneaded his eyes. “I have to start at the beginning.”

  “Please do.”

  “Jack Lupton and I met at summer camp when we were kids. We’ve been friends ever since, and our wives and kids were friends. When the kids were little, we’d take vacations to the Adirondacks because we loved the area. A couple years in a row, we stayed at the Mountain Vista Motel.”

  “Before it was owned by the Patels,” Frank confirmed.

  Kendall nodded. “Once the kids were in high school, we couldn’t take group family vacations like that—too many conflicting schedules. But we stayed close friends.”

  Frank saw no wedding band on Kendall’s left hand, and the house had a bare-bones bachelor vibe.

  “Caitlin was always artistic, and when she graduated high school she didn’t want to go to college, she wanted to go to art school in San Francisco.” Kendall shook his head. “Within six months, she was caught up in the drug scene. Her parents brought her home and sent her to reha
b. She stayed for a month and everyone thought she was cured.” Kendall gave a bitter laugh. “She started using again within days. That was just the start of a terrible revolving door. Inpatient treatment. Outpatient. Family counseling. Narcotics Anonymous. You name it, they did it. Caitlin stole from them. Gave the key to their house to some drug addict friends, and they cleared the place out when Jack and Denise were at one of Rachel’s concerts. Her parents had to watch Caitlin like a hawk. Finally, the money simply ran out. Insurance wouldn’t cover any more treatment. Neither Jack nor Denise could afford to take any more time off work to supervise Caitlin. And worst of all, Caitlin’s problems were taking a terrible toll on Rachel, her younger sister.”

  “Rachel is a talented violinist, I hear,” Frank said.

  Kendall threw his head back on the chair. “I care about both girls, but Rachel is special to me. She’s a hard worker, the one who studied and practiced and did everything right. And what was her reward? She got neglected by her parents because they were always preoccupied with Caitlin. When Rachel won that big competition and her parents weren’t even there to see it—that was the final straw for me. I told Jack, you can’t let Rachel miss this opportunity to perform recitals in Europe. She’s only sixteen—she couldn’t go alone. I told Jack and Denise they had to go with her, and that I had come up with a plan for what to do with Caitlin.”

  “Install her at the Mountain Vista with food, but no money, no car, no phone, no internet.” Frank said. There was an impressive simplicity to the plan: Caitlin would live in a pleasant prison. She could walk out, but there was no place to go. Her druggie friends were far away. She had nothing to steal and no one to sell to.