“About fifteen years ago, you were working at Remsen Hardware, in Cold Brook.”
“That’s right.”
“There’s a report where you called the police, concerned that someone had left their child in a car on a hot day.”
Now Hoffnagle blanched with the memory, his eyes went a bit glassy, as if the whole thing still pained him. “That’s right. I was outside, um, this was right in the dead of summer. And so I’m out there having a cigarette break – I don’t smoke anymore…”
“Good for you.”
“… and I heard, like, a baby crying. And I’m just standing there, and I don’t think much of it – it’s sort of a muffled crying – but then I kind of walk around, you know – it’s this big parking lot – you know where Ames used to be?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah; Dollar Tree is there now.”
“Right. So the parking lot is pretty big. But so I walk out a ways, and I see this kid, really just a baby, in their car seat, in the back of this… well, it’s a pretty junky kind of car. And the kid is…” Hoffnagle looked off, eyes unfocused. His voice took on a dreamy quality. “He’s just beet-red, looks like he’s burning up in there. I mean it was so hot out. So I went in and told the manager, and we called it out over the PA to see if the parent was in the store, or something. But no one responded.” His gaze sharpened up and he looked at Mike. “So that’s when I called the cops.”
“You did – not your manager?”
“Yeah, I did. I mean the manager… I think he would have. But at this point he hadn’t seen the kid. But I’d tried to open the car doors, everything. It was… you know, I was really worried for the kid. I was panicked.”
“And so,” Mike said, remembering from the report, “cops came, and while they were there, the parent returned to the car…”
“Right, from the Radio Shack or something. Whatever else was down there at the end of the plaza. Or maybe it was the grocery store…”
“And he saw you?” Mike asked.
Hoffnagle just stared a minute, then nodded. “Yeah, he saw me. I was there. I mean, not right there, I was back under the awning, you know, watching with some other people. But he – I swear, and I told the cops this later – he looked right at me.”
“Later – you mean when you called the police two days after that.”
Hoffnagle took the rag from his shoulder and buffed the bar, like he was nervous and needed something to do with his hands. “Yeah, I called. I mean, I’m not the type to freak out and call the police over everything…”
“You had someone call you, according to the report.”
Hoffnagle lowered his head and drew a deep breath through his nose. Then he looked up. “This guy calls, says, ‘You better mind your effing business.’ I mean, but he actually swore.”
“But you didn’t call the police that day.”
“No. I laid awake that whole night, and I heard stuff outside, and I’m sure someone was out there, and the next day, the next morning, that’s when I called them.”
“And you think it was the guy, the parent of this little child in the car, the one who called you, was maybe prowling around your house?”
Hoffnagle nodded.
“Can you confirm the name for me?”
He bit his lip a moment and then said, “Dodd Caruthers.”
It all matched up with the information Mike had. He smiled and thanked Hoffnagle, who looked a bit jarred by the whole memory now that it was all out in the open again. “You did good,” Mike told him.
Hoffnagle offered a strained smile and didn’t know where to look. Then he said, “Can I get you anything?”
Mike pulled a twenty from his wallet and plunked it down.
“Actually, you think you could get the guys in the kitchen to put together a couple of sandwiches?”
* * *
Back in the records room, Mike set down a paper bag and Lena peered inside. “Roast beef?”
“It’s from The Lodge. So: Dodd Caruthers.”
She checked her watch, leaned back in her chair, and folded her arms. “Okay.”
“He’s got this report against him, about leaving his kid in his car on a hot day, but comes back unfounded. But that’s not the end of it. Caruthers and his wife have got all sorts of drinking and drug problems, they get in trouble again the next year. Caruthers goes to jail on charges that include drug distribution and beating up his wife. She’s briefly in jail while the kids go into foster care. Their older son, Tommy, has an accident while he’s with a foster family – I don’t know what yet. Anyway, Caruthers was thirty-two at the time so he’d be forty-six right now. I bet he does his time, maybe he gets out, feels like his life is ruined because of what happened, losing his wife, his kids.”
Her face fell as she sorted through the file. “That’s one disturbed human being who has his abused children put in a safe place, his wife move on, and then blames the caseworkers for it.”
“Yeah,” Mike agreed, “but that’s what we’re looking for.”
“There’s a Caruthers, I think, right here in Lake Haven…”
Mike took out his phone and called BCI headquarters in Albany. “Need you to get me a full work-up on Dodd A. Caruthers,” he said to Stephanie. “Department of public safety, corrections, all that. Current and prior addresses, car, phone, whatever you can get. He might be local.”
“You got it,” Stephanie said. “Hey – listen, I was just going to call you.”
“What do you have?”
“So, Marlene Blackburn, right?”
“Yeah?”
“That was your potential witness? Alibi for Steven Pritchard?”
“Correct…”
“She’s the wife of a cop. Tribal police.”
“Oh boy,” he said, and Lena gave him a look. “Blackburn is married to a tribal cop,” he told her.
He said to Stephanie, “Email me everything you got, okay? Get me a photo of him, if you can. CC Overton on all of it.”
“Can do.”
He ended the call and stood up, watching Lena watch him. She said, “So?”
“Can you keep going with this while I check on this thing with Blackburn? I mean, we gotta know whether we can finally clear Pritchard from this or not.”
Lena dropped her gaze. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’ll ride out, see if I can talk to Blackburn, or at least find out what the deal is between her and Pritchard, then we’ll come back to Caruthers. Okay? I’ll be good, I promise.” He grabbed his sandwich.
“No gambling,” she said.
Seventeen
Mike raced back west on Route 3 again, almost to the motel where he’d spent the past night with Lena. He could feel himself getting hooked on her, everything from the way she smelled to the way she took notes. She was a good case manager, a multi-tasker unparalleled, whereas he seemed to not be able to walk and chew gum at the same time.
But the guilt was creeping up his spine. He didn’t understand it. Molly had been gone a decade, yet his back was hurting, his neck stiff with a tension he couldn’t break. It was the case, it was having to solve the first murder in almost two decades, it was the way the case seemed to have multiple personalities, but then it was this sense he’d betrayed his departed wife, even though he’d taken off the wedding ring six years ago.
He veered north, toward the Canadian border, sticking a CD into the console, letting the sounds of Don Covay overpower his restless mind.
He liked the old guys, like Covay, with his upbeat rhythm and blues. People didn’t know the extent of Covay’s influence on more popular artists like Aretha Franklin, groups like The Rolling Stones. Mike liked that – a guy behind the scenes, making it happen.
* * *
The casino resembled a Holiday Inn from the outside – a nine-story hotel attached to a sprawling, ground-level section. The surrounding land was flat, empty; just the casino, shimmering in the heat like a mirage. Mike put his gun in the glove box, locked the car, and walked inside.
&
nbsp; The interior was an assault to the senses: hallucinogenic carpeting, a ceiling of glass panels with ornamental twists of fire suspended like billows of dragon breath. Rows of slot machines clanged and burbled; roulette wheels spun like the ruse of a hypnotist; gift shops broadcast pinkish light with shelves abounding in shiny souvenirs. There were two brightly decorated bars, a busy restaurant, everything interconnected and walkable, like being inside a massive pinball machine.
The scattered customers were mostly older, white, faces vapid at the slots or fixed in concentration where they sat belly-up to a green felt table, watching the cards come out. A security guard stood nearby, dressed in a dark blazer. Mike approached, keeping his badge in his pocket. “Hi, looking for a friend who works here – Marnie Blackburn?”
The security guard was beefy, had pockmarked skin, and wore his dark hair back in a thick braid. He shook his head. “Sorry, haven’t seen her today, don’t think she’s on. Can I help you?”
Mike watched an older man at a blackjack table as the cards came out.
“I was just in town,” Mike said. “Thought maybe I’d say hi. Guess I’ll play some cards while I’m here…”
“Would you like me to get a message to her?”
Mike flapped a hand. “That’s alright.”
The heavyset guard asked Mike his name and then scrutinized him. “And how does Marnie know you?”
“Oh well, long story.”
After the call from Stephanie, the picture had become instantly clearer: If the tribal police were dragging their feet, it was because Marlene’s husband, Cody Blackburn, was one of them. And if Marlene was shacking up with Steve Pritchard, it sounded like the marriage was on the rocks.
The guard continued to clock Mike then unclipped the two-way radio from his belt, held it up. “We’re in communication with the tribal police if it’s any kind of emergency.”
A cocktail waitress was scooping empty glasses onto a tray and seemed to take notice.
Mike put out both hands in a stop gesture. He took a half step closer to the guard and dropped his voice. “That’s not necessary.”
The guard stared at Mike then put away the radio. “Well, like I said, Marnie’s not here.” His tone was flat. “Enjoy your time at the casino.” He moved off.
Mike hoped the guard hadn’t inferred there was something scandalous about his relationship to Marlene Blackburn. He wasn’t here to start rumors, just fly under the radar, and he followed after the guard to straighten it out when he heard a voice.
“Hey.”
The cocktail waitress had moved closer, balancing the tray of glasses over her shoulder, eyes darting to the guard, who sank into the colorful, jangling chaos. Then she looked Mike up and down.
“You’re a friend of Marnie’s?”
“Yeah. You know her?”
“You look like a cop.”
Mike said nothing.
“What do you want to talk to her about?”
It was best to come clean. “Steve Pritchard.”
The cocktail waitress, who was Caucasian, short, and either twenty-five or forty, it was impossible to tell, said, “Meet me over at the bar in five minutes. Take one of the open tables.”
* * *
She showed up where he was sitting, watching as a senior woman in a peach blouse blew on a handful of dice at a nearby craps table. The cocktail waitress had a tray of fresh drinks; highball glasses quivering with red liquid and floating cherries. “You’ve got about thirty seconds. I can come back, but it’s got to be quick.”
She set a drink in front of him and offered a fake smile. Mike took a sip for show then asked, quickly, “You’re friends?”
“I know her. Marnie’s one of the event coordinators.”
“And you know who Steve Pritchard is?”
“I know the name.”
“I’m trying to find out where he was on the night of July twelfth. He says he was staying with Marnie.”
“So you are a cop.”
“My understanding is she’s married to Cody Blackburn. Are they separated?”
She blinked at him, glanced around a bit, perhaps to see if anyone was watching, while saying, “Look, I got to go deliver these. I’ll come back in a minute.”
She moved off before he could say anything else. Mike watched her go then pulled out his phone. He googled Mohawk marriage customs, in case there were any big differences he should know about. The Mohawk Nation had to approve of a marriage, and in order to do so, the betrothed had to be from separate clans, to promote genetic diversity. After the ceremony, the groom went to live with his wife’s family. Other than that, it all seemed pretty normal. Divorce was frowned upon.
The ageless waitress – Mike still hadn’t gotten her name – returned to the table. He held up his mostly full drink and pointed at it, playacting a displeased customer for the cameras. She played along, asking, “Something the matter, sir?”
“So, Officer Blackburn lives with Marnie? Or her family?”
“At this point, she’s got her own place. I think they’re legally separated.”
“And what do you know about the night of the twelfth? Almost one week ago?”
The waitress sighed, picked up Mike’s drink, and set it on her tray. Raised her voice a little, as if people were listening in, too. “So, I’ll get you something else, then?”
“Was Pritchard there, or not?”
“She talked about it. Told me a couple days ago the tribal police had come around, asking her if he’d been there.”
“Know what she told them?”
“No. But she told me that she was working until midnight, went home, and he was there – Pritchard – passed-out drunk. They just had this thing, and it’s over… That’s all I know.”
“She wants to get back with her husband?”
“I don’t know if she wants that either.”
“How did Pritchard meet her in the first place?”
“Here,” the waitress said. “About – I dunno – couple months ago? There was still some snow on the ground.” She scanned the area again. Mike noticed the security guard, standing with a bald man in a suit, gold name tag shining. Looked like a manager.
The waitress saw them, too, raised her voice again for show. “Alright, sir. I’ll be right back with that.” She walked toward the bar as the security guard and manager made their way to Mike.
He stayed seated, looking up as they gathered around.
“Sir,” said the manager-type. His name tag read P. Merriweather. “I’m the head of security here at the casino. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Like I told your associate, here—” Mike nodded at the heavyset guard with the ponytail “—I was just in town, thought I’d see about an old friend.”
“Uh-huh.” Merriweather exchanged looks with the guard then said, “Sir, I’ve pulled video and watched your arrival to the casino. Your plates are state police. I respectfully request that you coordinate with Chief Perkins for matters concerning an investigation.”
Mike bowed his head, nodded. “I understand that.” He rose from the table and both Merriweather and the security guard took a step back. Mike pulled out his wallet, fished out a twenty, and dropped it on the table.
Merriweather stared at the money. “Sir, drinks are complimentary.”
“This is for my waitress. What’s her name?”
“You mean Penny?”
Mike glanced at her as she loaded fresh drinks onto her tray. She was looking back at them with a worried face.
“I thought I’d ask Penny about Marlene Blackburn,” Mike said, “but she was very discreet, wouldn’t say anything.” He looked directly at the guard. “And you’re right, this has been police business. I have no relationship to Mrs. Blackburn.”
* * *
Outside in his car, Mike found the number online for the casino’s human resources department, gave them a call. He wanted Penny’s last name so he could question her further. The sun was almost down, blasting thro
ugh the driver’s side window, making Mike squint. “Hi, I’m looking for a reference?”
“Sure. What’s the name?”
“Okay, it’s Penny… oh boy, well see, I can barely make out the last name. That’s not a good sign, is it?” He laughed.
“What department is she in?”
“Food and Beverage.”
“And the first name was Penny? Okay, so that’s Penny Zuliani.”
“Zuliani… There we go; that makes sense. A hard one to decipher.” He scribbled it down on his notepad, which was sitting open on the passenger seat.
“So, Penny has been here eighteen months. I’m not seeing any no-shows; she’s pretty reliable, a good worker. She’s, um – she’s applied with your…?”
“Wait a minute,” Mike said. “Oh, no. That’s not Penny, that’s Jenny. My mistake.”
“Okay… would you like me to—?”
“No, no. I’m so sorry. We just opened a new restaurant in Alex Bay and we’re scrambling. Too many applications. I must’ve gotten something mixed up.”
“Oh… Okay. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Mike rang off, dropped the phone on the seat, ran his hands through his hair, and looked out the window. He had to shield his eyes from the hard sidelight but saw that the security guard had come out the main entrance and was standing on the curb, talking into his radio, and looking at Mike.
Mike dropped the shifter in drive and pulled away, waving a hand at the guard as he passed.
* * *
It was dusk as he drove out of Hogansburg. He could choose a route that took him a bit further north to Fort Covington, then south to Lake Haven, but he decided to go through Bombay instead. The road was worse but it would be quicker.
Next to Die: A gripping serial-killer thriller full of twists Page 16