Lost Lake Page 9

  “Half of them would choose you, the other half Sari?”

  He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed again, his cheeks still flaming. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other, then Bornstein cleared his throat and stood up. “My wife is waiting for me in the car. As I said, it’s our anniversary. If you’ll excuse me…”

  I escorted Bornstein to the front entrance, then watched him walk down the front steps. By the time he reached the parking lot, he was nearly running.

  I wondered at his hurry.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Betty Starbuck’s murder was front-page news. Someone had left me a copy of the day’s The Valley Voice, and I read the article standing at my desk, furious by the time I was finished. There were details in the report, details about the crime scene, that could only have come from this department.

  It was clear the leaker had struck again.

  Already under pressure from Mayor Cabot and the city manager to solve the murder of one of their more prominent citizens and equally pissed off about the leak, Chief Chavez asked Finn and me for an update.

  We briefed him in his office, taking turns talking while he ate from a cup of soup. The shades were drawn and the room smelled of Vicks and chicken broth. The chief apologized more than once for his thick, wet cough. “Kids. They’re always bringing germs home from school.”

  Aside from the coughing, he listened quietly. An outsider might have thought he was paying more attention to his lunch than to us, but they’d have been gravely mistaken.

  Chief Angel Chavez was one of the smartest men I knew.

  When the chief heard Kent Starbuck was back in town, he held up a hand. “Anyone speak to him yet? Get an alibi? Do we have a viable motive?”

  “Talking to him is my next move, Chief. As for motive—Patrick Crabbe told me Kent and their mother had a troubled relationship. Kent’s been living off an insurance settlement that is running out, so there may also be a financial motive. Armstrong and I found a revised will in Betty’s office that lists Patrick and Kent as equal heirs.”

  “Authentic?”

  I nodded. “Yes, the will was notarized. Also, Crabbe himself has an alibi for the night of the murder. I spoke to one of his employees. She confirmed that Crabbe was there, at the Gas ’n’ Go, from eleven p.m. to seven a.m., working in the back office and covering for her while she took her breaks. He normally works the day shift, but one of his night clerks was ill. Crabbe staffs the station with two people at all times, in light of the vandalism he’s experienced.”

  “How about this other thing Crabbe mentioned, about his mom giving her money away—have we confirmed anything there? How about the man Crabbe witnessed yelling at Starbuck?”

  “I don’t know about the man, but I’m working on access to her bank accounts and financial records,” Finn said. “Her will paints a healthy financial picture, which is contrary to what Crabbe told Gemma.”

  “Okay.” Chavez nodded. “Any other suspects? Please tell me you’ve got something more than this.”

  “Sari Chesney,” Finn responded.

  Surprised, I shot him a look and said, “Sari Chesney is not a suspect. If anything, she’s a possible victim, with her disappearance tied to the Starbuck homicide. There’s been no use of her credit cards or cell phone in the last three days. If she’s on the run, she is truly in the wind. No disrespect to Finn, Chief, but the idea that Chesney killed Starbuck is so outlandish, so tenuous…”

  Finn interrupted me. “Actually, I’ve had some time to think about this. It’s the perfect crime. Chesney fakes her own disappearance, kills Starbuck, and walks away with the diary. No one’s the wiser.”

  “Chief, Finn and I haven’t had a chance to vet this … hypothesis yet,” I said, with another sidelong glance at my partner. I was fuming. He’d been so quick to dismiss a link between the three cases—Chesney, Starbuck, and the diary—and yet here he was, connecting dots and making a case for that very thing.

  Worst of all, the chief was nodding.

  Chavez rubbed his throat. “How long has she been gone?”

  “The middle of the night, Friday, was the last time anyone saw her,” I said quickly. “I’d like to recommend we devote more resources to finding her, Chief. It’s obvious these women are linked.”

  “I don’t doubt that. The question is how are they linked? Finn, you know what I’m going to ask,” Chavez said, coughing again. He turned away from us, spat into a handkerchief. “Gah, I’m going to hack up a lung at this point.”

  “Yes, motive,” Finn replied. “Financial is the most obvious. Chesney could sell the diary for a significant amount. In addition, it sounds as though Chesney and Starbuck weren’t on the best of terms. Maybe killing Starbuck was the icing on the cake.”

  “The thing is, the diary disappeared before Starbuck was killed. Why go back and kill her? Could the thief have hidden the diary in the museum, gone back to retrieve it, and encountered Starbuck?” The chief finished his soup and wiped his mouth with a paper towel. Then he leaned back, thinking. “Wherever Sari Chesney is, she’s in trouble. If she’s guilty of something, if she’s on the run, she’s not going to get far. Worse, if something’s happened to her … if she’s the victim of a crime … guys, you’ve got to find her.”

  “We need more manpower, though, Chief. Whatever you can spare. If we’re going to find Chesney, we’ve got to understand who she is first.”

  “Just a minute,” Finn said. “If Sari Chesney is dead, where’s her body? Betty Starbuck’s killer made no effort to hide her body, or alter the scene of the crime. Why hide one and not the other?”

  “Finn makes a good point.” Chavez said. He looked conflicted. “We’re tight on resources as it is, but I’ll see what I can do about getting you two more help. In the meantime, talk to Kent Starbuck. What about Betty’s other co-workers, this guy with the germs, Bornstein?”

  “He’s suspicious. He stands to inherit Betty Starbuck’s position as director of the museum. Seems an awful reason to kill someone, but we’ve all seen worse motives for murder. I actually just got out of a meeting with him and Lois Freeman. Freeman—who is on the museum’s board of directors—is convinced that Patrick Crabbe had something to do with Starbuck’s death because of some concerns Starbuck shared about Crabbe. But as I said, Crabbe has an airtight alibi for the night of the murder.”

  “I know Lois Freeman by reputation. In the old days, she’s what we would have called a busybody. Look, maybe Kent Starbuck and Patrick Crabbe are closer than anyone realizes … maybe together they decided to get their hands on their mother’s money a bit earlier than she planned.” Chavez retched through another coughing fit. “Okay, you two. Keep after it.”

  Finn and I stood to take our leave, but the chief added, “Gemma, stay a moment, please.”

  I sat down. Chavez waited until Finn had gone, then he said in a low voice, “I want the turd who’s sharing information with the press caught. Yesterday wouldn’t have been soon enough. Put your ear to the ground, see what you can figure out.”

  Taken aback, I said the first thing that came to mind. “Why me, Chief?”

  “You’re well liked, respected. People trust you, and rightfully so.”

  I nodded slowly, thinking. “Yet you’re asking me to betray that trust.”

  Chavez tapped his fingers on the table. “Do you think the leak is acceptable?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He tilted his head. “Then what’s the problem? I’m not asking you to do anything dishonorable, Gemma.”

  “I understand.” I asked the obvious question, albeit with a wry smile. “Sir, what if I’m the leaker?”

  “Let me worry about that.” Chavez stared at me, an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Dismissed.”

  I left the office, upset but trying not to show it. I didn’t appreciate being asked to investigate my colleagues. It felt like something a rat would do. I was
nearly to the squad room when I came upon Finn, who was lingering in the hall, staring at one of the framed photographs on the wall. Fresh frustration at being blindsided by him in the meeting bubbled to the surface, and I let him have it. “What was that all about?”

  He moved away from me, taken aback by the anger in my voice. “What was what all about?”

  “Your little theory that Sari Chesney killed Betty Starbuck. There’s nothing to suggest that she had anything to do with Starbuck’s murder. You practically had her on trial back there,” I said. I stopped talking as an officer passed us, then hissed, “You’re muddying the waters.”

  Finn pulled his tie from his neck, loosening it with a jerk. “Oh, give me a flipping break. The chief asked for our opinions. The more I’ve thought about it, the more it seems impossible that the Chesney disappearance and the Starbuck murder are unrelated. You said it yourself, it’s too big a coincidence. What do you want me to do, walk back there and tell Chavez you thought of it first? Cry me a river, Gemma. Just because we’re partners doesn’t mean I have to run every thought I have by you for your approval.”

  I stared at him through narrow eyes, angry at his unexpected words. This all seemed to be coming out of left field. “No, but partners use each other to vet ideas and theories before they take them to the chief. We looked like fools back there, asking for more resources on the one hand and disagreeing on the other hand about how to approach our cases.”

  “I had no idea you were so concerned with protocol, with how things looked. Maybe you’d do better with a different partner, someone who’s as straight and narrow as you. Someone who doesn’t like to color outside the lines. You should know by now that my methods tend to be a little … risky.” Finn started to walk away, then turned around and added, “Life’s too short, you know? I didn’t become a cop to follow some personnel handbook. Not when it comes to closing cases.”

  He moved on, down the hall and out of my sight, and I exhaled all the air in my lungs in one big whoosh. Was I too straitlaced, too rigid? I’d thought all along that Finn and I complemented each other, that we brought different strengths and weaknesses to our investigations and that this made us a good team. To hear him, though, I was a puritanical rule player who cared more about staying in my lane than catching the bad guys.

  I wondered if there was something else bothering him, something he wasn’t saying.

  Anyway, he was dead wrong. I didn’t care about those things, not the way I cared about solving Betty Starbuck’s murder, about finding Sari Chesney.

  I went to the photograph that Finn had been staring at. Like the others that hung on the wall, it was a picture of a handful of fresh-faced rookies. This particular one was the previous year’s graduating class, from which we’d been lucky enough to snag Sam Birdshead. Sam was a driven young man with a promising career. Tragically, after only a few months on the force, he’d been terribly injured during the course of a murder investigation. Though we would have happily kept him on, Sam resigned from the police department and accepted a position with Alistair Campbell’s construction company, Black Hound Construction.

  I slowly walked back down the hall, scanning the other photographs of recruits, young men and women who’d joined the force full of dreams and ambitions. Where were they all now? I recognized few of the faces, and stopped walking when I came to my class picture.

  It was six years old.

  Six years I’d been a cop and, some days, I felt as though I knew no more than the woman staring back at me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I met Kent Starbuck at a coffee joint that operated out of what used to be a mechanic shop. The large rolling steel doors that had once admitted cars into the bay were open to catch the gentle spring breeze. It was my first time visiting the shop, and I couldn’t help but notice that their baked goods selection was limited to a few dry-looking bagels and a couple of plastic-wrapped slices of what appeared to be banana bread. After my ugly confrontation with Finn, I could have used a slice of cheesecake, or a fresh doughnut—hell, even a stale cookie would have done the trick.

  Starbuck sat at a table near the open doors. Though they were half brothers, he and Patrick Crabbe could have been twins, with identical narrow faces, lanky bodies, and thinning blond hair that receded dramatically at the temples. Starbuck had a thick mustache, though, while Crabbe was clean-shaven. And though I’d never seen Crabbe in anything but khakis and dress shirts, Starbuck was dressed casually in faded denim jeans, tan boots, and a long-sleeved checkered flannel shirt.

  Starbuck had a voice that sounded like gravel falling from a wheelbarrow, rough and rhythmic at the same time. A cup of coffee and a small, open notebook lay before him. As I sat down, he casually closed the notebook. A young woman came by and took my order, an espresso and a glass of water. A handful of bees buzzed about a row of flower pots that bordered the edge of the patio, and from down the street came the sound of heavy construction equipment. Cedar Valley was changing in more ways than one, it seemed.

  Starbuck stared at me expectantly.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Starbuck. I’m so sorry about your mother. Please know that we are doing all we can to bring her killer to justice,” I began.

  He nodded slowly. “Appreciate that. Mama was a tough nut. It’s hard to believe she’s gone. I thought she’d outlive all of us.”

  “I know this is a difficult time. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  Starbuck nodded. “Of course, but I probably won’t be much help. I only saw Mama a handful of times in the last thirty years. You should be talking to my brother instead.”

  The waitress brought my espresso, and I took a moment to sip from the tiny white cup, thinking.

  “Are you aware of anyone who might have had reason to hurt her?”

  He shook his head. “No, of course not. As I said, I barely knew her. Patrick is convinced that she gave money to some bad people … but I have trouble believing that. The woman I knew was righteous. She prided herself on self-control. She thought miser was a compliment.”

  “Did you ever know her to associate with the wrong kind of people?”

  He shook his head again. “No, never. She thought finishing a glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve was living dangerously. But keep in mind what I’m trying to tell you: I didn’t know her. Not anymore.”

  “How about a woman named Sari Chesney? Does that ring any bells?”

  Kent thought a moment, then: “No. Is she a suspect in the murder?”

  “Ms. Chesney worked with your mother at the museum,” I said, and left it at that. I wasn’t getting much from him, so I chose my next words carefully. “Patrick told me that you’ve had a rough go of it over the years. I understand you spent some time in prison.”

  “Honest Abe, that one,” Kent said, and smiled ruefully. “Patty never could tell a lie, even as a child. Detective, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that deception lives comfortably in honesty. Do you understand that? No one ever goes below the surface with honest folks because they tell you the truth. Yes, the state determined that I did the crimes and so, as they say, ‘I did the time.’ That’s all in the past, an old scab, long healed. I’m done with that life now. I fulfilled my parole obligations and then I flew away, free as a bird. Like that old fellow.” He pointed to a fat gray pigeon pecking at crumbs on the ground, then linked his thumbs together and fluttered his fingers through the air. “Do you want to hear something fascinating? A bird in captivity will live three times as long as a bird that is free. I’ve traded a long life behind bars for a short stint out on my own. What a deal, huh?”

  I was stuck on his earlier words. “Are you saying your brother is not trustworthy?”

  “I don’t know my brother. Patty and I may be cut from the same cloth, but we are most certainly different suits, if you catch my meaning.” Starbuck’s expression sobered. “He walks to his own tune. I was five years old when he was born. Mama was in love with Patty’s father, and I tol
d her that I would run away from home if she married him. Can you imagine the balls on that little five-year-old? I’m lucky she didn’t slap me silly. ’Course, the real tragedy was that she took me seriously. Patty’s hated me ever since.”

  “Why did you come back here, then?”

  Starbuck leaned back and pushed his coffee cup to the edge of the table. He looked down at his hands. They were rough and callused, with marks from so many years in the sun and faded scars from long-forgotten injuries.

  They were hands that had seen life.

  “To be honest, this was the last place I thought I’d ever wind up. I headed east after I was released from parole, spent some time in St. Louis, then Atlanta. I was searching for something, but what that was, I didn’t know. At least not then. I ended up in Asheville, doing handyman work at a spa. There was a woman there, Helen, who taught yoga classes. She took me under her wing and helped me see what I was missing, what I’d always been missing. It was balance, Detective.”

  “And you came here hoping to find it?”

  Starbuck nodded. “I started making my way west, not sure where I was going, but called to the mountains nonetheless. I was in Denver on a moonless night in February, talking to a bum at Union Station. I bought him a cup of coffee, and in return he showed me a postcard. The guy had been carrying the card around in his backpack for five years, and it was beat-up, frayed at the edges. It was a photograph of a lake, a deep, clear beautiful lake, surrounded by the most gorgeous peaks you ever saw.”

  “Let me guess. Lost Lake?”

  Starbuck looked surprised. “How did you know?”

  “Let’s just say it’s been a topic of conversation lately.”

  “I spent weeks up there as a kid, camping, fishing. At the time I saw this postcard, I hadn’t thought of that lake in years. Anyway, this bum told me the only thing that kept him going these days was the thought of someday making it to that lake. The very next day, I kid you not, that poor guy died of a heart attack. I took that as a sign of divine intervention. An hour later, I was in a rental car, on my way here,” Starbuck said. “I know it sounds crazy but I truly believe someone upstairs sent the man to me as a messenger. I decided there must be something worth returning to. Maybe Mama, maybe Patty. Maybe just some old baseball cards in a shoebox and a dusty jersey in the back of a closet, souvenirs from a dumb kid’s dream.”