“That somebody set the fire? Seems kind of pointless at this stage.”
“I agree. Still, I don’t know how the fire could have started on its own. Jim’s over there” —she pointed off to her right, where Pineland’s police chief was standing next to a squad car— “and he might be able to tell you more.”
Like Arne, Jim Meyers isn’t one of my favorite people. He can be arrogant and pushy, and he uses his bulk—he must weigh close to three hundred pounds—as a means of intimidation. He was talking on his cell, and I came up behind him and listened in, just because it seemed like a good idea.
“Has to be arson,” Jim was saying. “There’s nothing in the place that would cause a fire. Yeah, heat and electricity were off. An old biddy across the street claims she saw a guy running from the scene. Couldn’t describe him, of course. Young, old, tall, short, she didn’t have a clue. Could be kids. They fuck around here all the time. But I don’t know. Seems like too much of a coincidence. Yeah. Yeah. Right. Okay. Thanks, Jason. Bye.”
“Hi, Jim,” I said, slipping around in front of him. “Quite the fire, isn’t it?”
He didn’t look overjoyed to see me. “I guess so.”
“It must be arson, don’t you think?”
“Too early to say. The fire guys will have to deal with that.”
Liar, I thought, but didn’t say anything. Trying to keep me out of the loop had now become standard operating practice among the local doyens of law enforcement.
Jim’s cell jingled and he answered. “Gotta take this,” he said, moving away. “See you around.”
“Sure,” I said, “and, hey, say ‘hi’ to Jason for me. Look forward to learning more about the big arson investigation.”
I got out my phone and read Dewey’s message again. Was it possible he’d set the fire and invited me to watch his handiwork? If so, what was his motive? I didn’t know, but I believed the fire had to be intentional and a continuation of everything that had happened over the past week. All of it was directed, in one way or another, at Peter and his family, and there was a pungent smell of retribution in the air, as the Serenader’s messages demonstrated.
But retribution over what? Peter hadn’t led a blameless life—who has?—and his career was a litany of dodgy business deals and reckless behavior. Maybe he’d even bribed some public officials along the way. It was also well known he’d cavorted with more than his share of hookers, Jill Lorrimer possibly among them. Yet none of these offenses struck me as sufficiently awful to fuel someone’s white-hot urge for vengeance. There had to be something deeper—an old and terrible violation—behind what was going on. All I had to do was figure out what it was.
I finally spotted Arne talking to Pineland’s fire chief, Erik Shulstad. I joined them. The mansion was still burning fiercely, its wooden studs resembling prison bars as the clapboard siding peeled away. It was only a matter of time before the roof collapsed and the mansion fell in on itself, ready for its final consummation. I debated whether to mention Dewey’s message to Arne but decided against it. I wanted to talk to Dewey first. Maybe he could clear everything up.
“Well, I see you’re awake,” Arne said. “I thought you specialized in sleeping through explosions and fires.”
“I’ve learned the errors of my ways. So what do you think, chief? Is there a crime here?”
“Don’t know,” Erik said. “Arson is certainly a good possibility. We’ve got the state fire marshal coming up to take a look.”
“I take it you don’t think anyone was in there.”
“No one we know of. But it’s going to be a big mess come daylight and it’ll take us awhile to get through the ruins.”
“Don’t worry,” Arne said with all the insincerity he could muster, “you’ll be the first to know if we find anything.”
“Lovely of you to be thinking of me, Arne.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Keeping you happy is what I was put on Earth to do.”
I finally dragged myself away from the fire and got home at four-thirty with a marvelous plan for sleeping in. But once I’d sprawled out on the bed with Camus, my mind went into its racetrack mode, thoughts spinning around in an endless oval. So I got up and went out to the couch, thinking a change of position might improve my prospects. No such luck. I still couldn’t sleep and neither could Camus. We stared at each other for a while before he went back to the bedroom and dragged out his favorite toy, a plush squirrel I’d named Tree-rat. Time for a game of hide-and-seek.
“Jesus, Camus, I’m running out of places to put the damn thing,” I said. No matter. Camus was up for a game and he’d nag me until we played. So I sent him back into the bedroom, closed the door, and started looking for a hiding spot. Under the kitchen sink? No, it would be the first place he’d look because he liked the smells there. Behind the brooms in the hallway closet? Too easy. Out in the garage? Bad idea. He’d try to squeeze under the car and probably hurt himself.
After a few minutes of wandering around the house, I gave up and went for the obvious. I stuffed Treerat under the cushions of the couch. Then I fetched Camus, who raced to the kitchen while I sat down atop his toy. To my surprise, Camus rummaged through every room in the house before he finally nosed out Treerat and earned his beef jerky reward. I theorized my smell must have disguised the toy’s or at least made it more difficult for Camus to hone in on the right scent.
While Camus chewed away, I stretched out on the couch and tried yet again to get some rest. But my mind wouldn’t let up. The richest man in town had vanished, his mansion torn to shreds by an explosion. Now his ancestral family home lay in ruins, destroyed by an arsonist who’d also undoubtedly set fire to a cross on my lawn. And then there was Cassandra Ellis, suddenly gone missing.
It didn’t take a genius to sense that an elaborate plan was at work, unwinding on its own terms and at its own pace. Was the Serenader the man behind it or was he someone who knew just enough to warn us about what might be coming? Hard to say. But whoever he was, he had to be, like Camus’s toy, so close at hand he was almost too obvious to see.
19
I managed a little sleep before ejecting myself from bed in time to reach the courthouse for a routine hearing at nine o’clock. On my way, I drove past the remains of the Swindell mansion. Two fire trucks, a fire marshal’s car and a bevy of squads were at the scene, along with a BCA mobile crime lab. A cluster of uniformed men and two technicians in white jumpsuits were sorting through the ruins. I wanted to stop and take a look for myself but I didn’t have time. Court was calling.
First, though, I tried calling Dewey from my office, which is just down the hall from the county’s main courtroom. His secretary said he wasn’t in but promised she’d have him call me back. That would be fine, I said, and rushed off to court.
The hearing, over a small-fry meth case sure to end in a plea bargain, lasted all of ten minutes. Afterward, the presiding judge, the Honorable Alan Arthur Anderson, invited me into his chambers for a talk. “A. A.”, as he likes to be called, is perfectly cast for his role. He has a leonine mane of white hair, craggy features, and an imperious manner. He’s been a judge for twenty years and he enjoys, far too much, the magical power of the black robe. His other defect is that he’s a weasel who politicks behind the scenes and sucks up to the rich and powerful. Also, he thinks I’m a big jerk who lacks proper respect for authority. Imagine that.
I’d won quite a few cases in Paradise County District Court as a private attorney, but most of them had been in front of another judge. A. A. wasn’t much for lawsuits challenging anyone in power, and I’d tried to avoid his courtroom whenever possible. He knew this, and it must have pained him when I was elected county attorney. But he liked sending people to prison and so hadn’t given me much trouble as a prosecutor. I had a feeling that was about to change.
His chambers, little changed since the day the courthouse was built, are
large and impressive. Trophy photos decorate the mahogany-paneled walls—A. A. travels to Africa every few years to kill whatever he can—and there are also pictures of his wife and children. The rumored mistress, said to reside in Minneapolis, is nowhere to be seen, however.
I took the usual hot seat, a rickety, uncomfortable chair strategically positioned in front of A. A.’s desk, a mammoth antique affair that, with the addition of a few heavy guns, could pass as a battleship. I’d been in the chair many times before. The arrangement was carefully designed to make you feel like a small child summoned to the principal’s office for discipline.
“So, how are things, Paul?” A. A. asked, leaning back in his leather chair and spinning a pencil between his fingers. “There’s a lot going on for you at the moment.”
“So I’ve noticed. I’m doing all right.”
“Well, that’s all we can ask, isn’t it? Still, I see you’ve filed a motion claiming the county board can’t replace you with a special prosecutor in this business with Peter. I’ll be handling the motion. Now, let me ask you this: do you think your motion is a wise thing to do? It doesn’t seem to me Vern and the board are being unreasonable given the circumstances.”
Vern, I knew, had A. A.’s ear. The two of them are long-time golfing buddies who spend their summer afternoons at the Paradise Pines championship course. There’s nothing like golf to weld old white guys together. I don’t play, which is probably why I’m widely viewed among Pineland’s elite as a suspicious character.
“Well, judge, I believe there’s a genuine legal issue involved and that’s why I filed my motion.”
“I don’t see it that way. The facts aren’t in your favor. This fellow who’s writing the messages and causing trouble seems to have you on his mind. Of course, you’re the one who’s been finding the messages, which is also a peculiar thing. And with Peter missing and now his old family mansion burned down, well, it’s just a very messy situation. It puts you in a bit of bind, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
I was being deliberately dense. A. A., no doubt at Vern’s bidding, was ready to rule against my motion and thus clear the way for removing me from the investigation. But he really wanted me to step up like a good boy, recuse myself and thereby save him the trouble of kicking me off the case.
“It should be obvious,” he said, irritation edging into his voice. “You’ve become entangled in the investigation. I’m not saying it’s your doing, but it’s happened and you have to deal with it. You’re simply not in a good place for a prosecutor to be, wouldn’t you agree?”
Even bad judges can be right sometimes and A. A. had a valid point. But I wasn’t in a mood to please. Too many people in power were eager to push me out the door. There was a stink in the air, and it was in my town and my father’s town and the town of all the Zweifels before them. I just didn’t like what was happening.
“Maybe you’re right, judge, but I don’t think we’ll be in a better place if I’m off the case. I’m not afraid of finding out the truth.”
“Oh, so you’re a shining light who’s going to do that for us, is that it?”
“More like a flickering candle,” I said. “But I want to see this thing through. If you and Vern want me off the case, then you can sign an order to that effect and I’ll fight it at the Court of Appeals. Could be interesting and there’d probably be lots of publicity, don’t you think?”
“Vern has nothing to do with this,” A. A. said, rising from his chair, and I knew the lion was about to roar. “You’re being an insolent son-of-a-bitch. I’m denying your motion and the appeals court, I guarantee you, will do the same. Now get out of my office.”
As I was leaving A. A.’s chambers I ran into Ken Michaels.
“Suing somebody?” I asked, “or just here to take in the wonders of the courthouse?”
“Naw, I just delivered coffee and donuts to the soil and water conservation board. They’re having a big meeting of some kind.”
I figured the town’s caffeine provider-in-chief might have some good, lively dirt, so I asked him about the latest gossip at his coffee shop. Cops and sheriff’s deputies are among Ken’s clientele, and I consider his place and the Dead Lumberjack to be Pineland’s most reliable sources of useful, if not necessarily accurate, gossip.
“Everybody’s talking about that Black lady,” he said.
“I imagine they are, especially after Tommy Redmond spilled the news about her possibly being Peter’s daughter.”
“Yeah, but here’s the funny thing. Nobody’s like crazy surprised about that. Peter was an old horndog. He probably slept with the entire United Nations. But some of my regulars are convinced the woman is up to something.”
“And that would be?”
Ken’s gravelly voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper even though nobody else was around.
“They think she’s an undercover cop. Maybe for those state guys or even the FBI. Word is Peter was into all sorts of dirty stuff—money laundering and things like that—and they’re trying to track where all the money went.”
“By sending in a Black lawyer from Chicago? How’s that supposed to work? It’s pretty hard for her to keep a low profile here, don’t you think?”
Ken shrugged. “Hey, don’t ask me. But something’s going on that ain’t quite kosher, if you know what I mean. She was in my place yesterday afternoon. Have to say she isn’t hard on the eyes.”
“Glad to hear you admire her pulchritude, Ken. So did the two of you have a little chat?”
“As a matter of fact we did. She wanted to know all about Peter and Dewey. Family background stuff, mostly. I’m kind of a history buff so I tried to help her out.”
“I didn’t know you’re an expert on the Swindell family.”
“Hey man, I’m no expert, but I know a few things. Anyway, I filled her in on what I could, and she seemed to eat it up. You know what else? She told me something very interesting before she left. She said a lot of people here have the wrong idea about the Serenader.”
“How so?”
“She said the Serenader is actually trying to help solve Peter’s disappearance. She said he may even know where Peter is but can’t say for some reason.”
“Well, that’s an interesting theory.”
“I said the same thing. I think she’s a nice lady. Left me a ten-dollar tip.”
“How sweet of her,” I said. “Glad she’s found at least one person in town she can trust.”
The rumor that Cassandra was an undercover agent didn’t surprise me, especially coming from Ken, who suspects almost everyone is plotting something. Still, I was intrigued by his claim that Cassandra seemed to view the Serenader in a positive light. Did she know something I didn’t? I’d have to ask her when I got the chance.
An hour later, I was about to step out for lunch when Doug rushed into my office. He had the eager look of a retriever carrying a freshly dead duck.
“They found a body in the old mansion,” he announced. “It was down in the basement, all covered up by debris. That’s why they didn’t find it last night. They haven’t made an ID yet because the body is so badly burned. A regular crispy critter, I guess. But they’re sure it’s a man.”
I thought I knew the answer but asked the question anyway: “Any clues as to who he might be?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
Doug smiled, and it was the smug, knowing smile of someone in possession of a tantalizing secret.
“Out with it,” I said. “What do you know?”
“Well, maybe it’s just a coincidence, but Dewey Swindell was reported missing this morning.”
20
It wasn’t a coincidence. Dewey went missing because someone put a bullet through his head and then set the mansion on fire with him in it. Using dental records, the regional coroner in Duluth made the
official identification the next morning. A .38-caliber slug was recovered from Dewey’s skull, and the autopsy showed he was dead before the fire turned him to char. The coroner calculated Dewey had been killed around midnight, two hours before the fire broke out.
Arne and the BCA investigators were able to trace Dewey’s movements in the hours before his death. A security camera at the Paradise Pines Hotel, where he maintained his offices and a large apartment, showed him walking out the front door at two minutes before eleven Thursday night. He was dressed informally in chinos and a light jacket and walked quickly as though he might be late for an appointment. Moments later, a parking-lot camera caught him getting into his gray Mercedes and driving off in the direction of the interstate and Pineland.
Investigators then asked the obvious question: Where was the Mercedes? It wasn’t parked anywhere near the mansion, suggesting Dewey had either walked there or been driven by someone. A search began for the car, and early Saturday afternoon a patrolmen spotted it parked behind a building Dewey knew well, the historic Glenning Apartments, the crumbing old heart of what’s left of downtown Pineland.
If you’re looking for the Disneyesque version of small-town America—the one with quaint brick buildings, jolly Victorian houses sporting gingerbread porches, and tidy little shops overseen by kindly grandfathers in aprons—you won’t find it in Pineland. Rebuilt quickly and none too well after the Great Fire, “downtown” Pineland even in its most auspicious days wasn’t much to look it. Even so, there was a solid commercial corridor along Paradise Avenue. When I was a kid the avenue’s lineup included a Woolworth’s, a sporting goods store, two hardware stores, men’s and women’s clothing stores, a drug store, a liquor store, two banks, three bars, a Ford dealership, a couple of restaurants, an old movie theater, a Super Valu grocery and a seedy motel named, predictably, the Starlight, where my aunts believed people did terrible things such as having sex.
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