If I Should Die

SEVENTEEN

After sending the bullet casings to his brother Duke at the RCK main office in California, Sean headed to the St. Lawrence County Sheriff’s Department. It was housed in a large building with numerous other county departments, including the property records.

In the sheriff’s office-a small, clean, functional space-Sean was pleased that they acted professionally, but frustrated he couldn’t get any real information. He used all his charm on the fifty-year-old secretary, but she just smiled sweetly and told him someone would contact him, or he could wait until one of the detective sergeants was available. Essentially, “kiss my ass” but in the nicest way possible.

Sean left his contact information, because waiting would drive him up a wall. If he was lucky, someone would call his cell before he left Canton. He much preferred face-to-face meetings because half of what he learned in conversation came from body language, which revealed what someone didn’t say.

He found the property records office, filled out the paperwork, and sat at one of the early 1980s monitors. They all fed into a larger mainframe but didn’t store any data. Searching for property records by parcel number was easy, but the actual records were on either microfiche or paper, depending on how old. New transactions were in a different database, but Sean wanted to learn more about the ownership history of the mine.

Bureau of Land Management leases would be federal, but Sean could get those online when he got back to Spruce Lake. Right now, he was more interested in the mine and surrounding property. He pulled all the files and didn’t see anything unusual.

He went to the new computer terminal that housed all property transactions for the last decade. He searched all parcels in the Spruce Lake area-and was surprised when Jon Callahan’s name popped up on almost every record. When Patrick told him Callahan owned the majority of the property, he hadn’t realized it was divided into so many individual parcels. To contrast, he looked up the Hendricksons’ property. They owned one large parcel of over five hundred acres; Callahan owned dozens of parcels anywhere from one acre-the lots in town-to upward of one hundred acres.

The transfer dates on Callahan’s properties were recent, starting about seven years ago. Most of them, however, were during the last two years.

Sean sweet-talked the clerk into letting him download the information to a flash drive, rather then waiting for her to burn a CD or print out the documents. He left wondering if Jon Callahan wanted Tim’s property, and if so, why? Property could be a good investment, but Spruce Lake was in a depressed area.

After finishing his research, he was almost back to the turnoff to Spruce Lake when he saw the sign to Colton, ten miles to the north. He glanced at the time. Nearly three in the afternoon-maybe he could get to the high school in time and catch sight of the teenage arsonist.

It was worth a shot.

St. Lawrence County had its share of crime, but compared to the rest of New York State, it was a safe place to live. In fact, Detective Sergeant Kyle Dillard had lived pretty much everywhere in New York and Pennsylvania, and he was set on raising his kids and retiring in Canton. While the bitter winter got to him from time to time, the St. Lawrence Valley was one of the most beautiful and serene places to live-without hordes of people to mess with his peace.

While Kyle handled a variety of calls from murder to petty theft, the bulk of his duties were investigating traffic fatalities. The roads were not kind, especially to inattentive drivers and those unfortunate enough to cross their path.

He’d just come from a particularly nasty crash-a truck went over the guardrail up on Route 56 outside Colton two nights ago, landing in the reservoir. They didn’t have the equipment to bring the vehicle up until this morning, and when they did, there was no dead driver behind the wheel. The truck was being taken to the police yard for inspection while a team was finishing up the preliminary accident report, based on the physical evidence. Kyle was certain drunk driving was the cause. Based on the skid marks leading to the crash site, the truck had been going far too fast for the road. While there was no body, the driver could easily have been thrown from the truck and be at the bottom of the lake. They’d searched up and down both sides of the lake downstream and found nothing. They’d send down divers this weekend.

The truck was registered to James Benson. He had a deputy working on finding next of kin for Benson, a firefighter stationed up in Indian Hills. He was a single man of thirty-two with no offspring.

All Kyle wanted to do now was go home to Laurie and the kids and forget the senseless accident. Play some games, maybe barbeque some ribs, and listen to his three boys laugh.

“Hello, Margo,” he said to the secretary/clerk/office manager. He didn’t remember Margo’s official title, but the Sheriff’s Department would fall apart without her at the helm.

“Mrs. Fletcher called about the duplex on the corner of Elm and Sycamore. Three visitors between midnight and four a.m.”

“Maybe Mrs. Fletcher should take an extra sleeping pill,” Kyle muttered. The woman slept so lightly that she could hear a fly snore.

“The courthouse called to let you know that Jeremy Fisher cut a deal on the assault charges and you won’t be needed in court on Monday.”

“My day just got better.”

Margo looked at him blandly and said, “And a private investigator stopped by regarding a case he said Deputy Weddle is working.”

Kyle took the business card and message from Margo. Sean Rogan, Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid Investigative Services, Eastern Office. Sounded impressive, but P.I.s liked to bullshit. When he’d been a cop in Philly, he’d dealt with enough low-life P.I.s that he didn’t hold out hope that Rogan was any different.

He expected a message from Margo, but Rogan had written the note himself.

Detective-

I’m inquiring about the status of the investigation into the missing body of the female victim found in the Kelley Mine on Travers Peak outside Spruce Lake, as well as the statement myself and Ms. Lucy Kincaid gave to Deputy Weddle regarding evidence visually identified in the mine this morning, specifically hair strands and insects first observed on the dead woman before she disappeared.

I’ve been retained by Tim Hendrickson, who owns the property adjacent to the mine and has been the subject of escalating acts of sabotage aimed at preventing him and his brother from opening a family resort, which was approved by the county. I am interested in the status of this investigation as it may be related to my own. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.

— Sean Rogan

“I’m lost,” Kyle said.

“According to Deputy Weddle’s report, he closed the case yesterday after Fire and Rescue determined it was a crank call.”

“Crank call?”

“No body was found in the mine.”

Kyle was royally confused. “Track down Tyler. I want to talk to him before I call this P.I. back.”

“Yes, Detective.” She picked up her phone.

Kyle went to his small office and pulled up the report on the computer. A call came in from Hendrickson on Wednesday about an arson fire and the corpse in the mine. Two different locations. The arson investigation was active and assigned to the county fire marshal’s office. Standard. The other call was a prank?

Something didn’t jibe. He read Weddle’s notes.

… No body was found in the mine at the location Ms. Kincaid identified. They searched the immediate area, but no sign of any body, or evidence of violence, was seen. The area where Ms. Kincaid claimed to have seen the body is heavily shadowed, and an overactive imagination could easily have “seen” a dead person. When questioned, Ms. Kincaid admitted she didn’t approach the “body” but ran back to the mine shaft. This officer doesn’t believe the false report had been malicious, but simply a scared young woman who saw “something” in the dark.

Weddle had closed the case. So what evidence was Rogan talking about?

“Margo?” Kyle called out into the main room. “Did Weddle log in any evidence today?”

“No, Detective.”

“Have you reached him?”

“He’s off duty. I left a message.”

Kyle glanced at the clock. 3:10. Typical of Weddle and a few others who didn’t raise a finger after they clocked out. When their budget was slashed and overtime had to be preapproved, half the deputies protested by clocking in and out right on time. Most went back to the old way, but a few, like Weddle, didn’t.

Kyle didn’t have a college degree, but he’d been a cop for over twenty years. A good cop. He smelled something rotten, and feared it was his own deputy. Kyle almost called the P.I., then decided to wait. He needed something more than his gut instinct before he brought the situation to the sheriff, who was currently in Albany fighting for more funding. Ever since the state screwed the counties in the last budget, they’d been unable to hire more deputies, upgrade their computer system, or perform more than minimal maintenance on the county jail. Tyler Weddle had better have a logical-and provable-explanation for the conflicting information or Kyle would string him up.

The only thing Kyle hated more than an unrepentant criminal was a bad cop.

Margo buzzed him. He didn’t want to answer-thirty minutes until he was off-duty-but of course he did.

“We found Mr. Benson’s next of kin,” she said. “He’s the legal guardian of his seventeen-year-old nephew.”

Kyle rubbed his face. Damn. A minor.

“Do you want me to have a deputy inform the family?”

“Where does he live?”

“Spruce Lake.”

“Send me the address; I’ll do it.” Kyle’s instincts were buzzing. Spruce Lake, of all places-he never heard anything out of that dead mining town for the last six years since Paul Swain’s drug operation was busted, and in two days there was a report of arson, a dead body, a missing dead body, and now a firefighter was apparently dead in a car accident, but his body couldn’t be found.

He definitely wanted to pay a visit to Spruce Lake.

As Ricky pulled out of the high school parking lot that afternoon, he thought he saw Sean Rogan, the guy he’d tricked into falling down the mine shaft.

He had to be wrong.

When he looked again, he didn’t see anything but a blur of the white truck as it made a U-turn and went in the opposite direction. Ricky tried to breathe easier, told himself his mind was playing tricks on him, but that didn’t help. It was guilt, he knew, that had him on edge. He was relieved Rogan hadn’t died, but he hadn’t been able to eat or sleep much in the last two days. He knew he’d survived the fall-everyone in town had heard about the friend of Tim Hendrickson’s who’d fallen down the mine in pursuit of an arsonist-but that didn’t appease Ricky.

He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror until he was confident that Rogan, if it had been Rogan, wasn’t following him. He decided to take a roundabout way home, partly because he really didn’t want to face his uncle right now. Uncle Jimmy had been furious when he first found out Ricky had been working for Reverend Browne. That was months ago.

“I’ve done everything to keep you safe and out of harm’s way,” Jimmy had said. “Make sure you go to college and get out of this backwater. And you’re walking right into the shit. Who are you, Rick? Are you your mother’s son or your father’s son?”

Ricky hadn’t spoken to Jimmy for a week after that. His uncle knew how he felt about his father. Ricky wanted to do the right thing, but he no longer knew what was right. And Jimmy was a hypocrite. He was in deeper illegal shit than Ricky.

He promised to lay low, but Ricky had been terrified after Rogan had fallen down the mine shaft, and he had to tell Jimmy the truth. Maybe Jimmy wasn’t still upset with him. He couldn’t be madder at Ricky than Ricky was at himself.

He felt awful about setting the fire. He hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to do anything to Joe Hendrickson’s place. He’d liked the old man, missed him more than he’d miss his dad if he croaked.

The reason he agreed to help Reverend Browne was because he hated Adam Hendrickson. Adam hadn’t even remembered him.

Ricky didn’t know Tim, the older brother, but Adam spent nearly every summer here. They’d gone fishing half a dozen times. The last time, Adam was seventeen and Ricky was twelve, two months before his mom died. Joe had taken them on an overnight fishing trip. They’d camped under the stars and Ricky desperately wished that Joe was his dad and Adam was his brother and his mom wasn’t dying.

Stupid, stupid childish fantasy.

Adam didn’t even remember Ricky, and why should he? Ricky had been a runt until recently, and when Adam went to college he stopped visiting Spruce Lake. That was fine with Ricky. He had Joe all to himself. He started helping him with chores every Saturday. Joe paid him, but Ricky did it for the company, not the money.

Then he died. A heart attack, Doc Griffin said. Ricky had found Joe on the kitchen floor when he’d come by the first Saturday in March, over a year ago. After that, he started doing odd jobs for Reverend Browne.

“I’ll help make this right. I mean what I say.”

Ricky felt queasy as he remembered Rogan’s words. Why would a stranger offer to help him? Rogan was a friend of Tim Hendrickson, which meant he was one of them. And even if he tried to help, what could he do? Ricky just needed to lay low, stay out of Rogan’s sight, and eventually the dude would go home. The resort wouldn’t open, and everyone would finally relax. Get back to business as usual. It was the whole resort thing that made everyone crazy. And while Ricky understood the resort wouldn’t be good for the town’s illegal business, he didn’t understand why everyone was so freaked out.

He turned down a long, bumpy street that bordered the so-called town of Spruce Lake. The potholes were so bad he had to work on his alignment damn near every month. The sad houses mirrored their occupants-tired, sagging, appearing older than their years. Everyone had big lots filled with cars and junk. The skinny Doberman across the street from his house barked at Ricky, teeth bared. The chain-link fence didn’t keep the attack dog in the yard, but the rope he was tethered to did. Ricky suspected that one day, the dog would bust the rope and rip out someone’s throat.

He pulled into the carport, relieved Uncle Jimmy wasn’t home yet. He worked a three days on, three days off schedule at the fire station. Ricky went in through the side door, dumped his backpack on the kitchen table, and opened the refrigerator. Nearly empty, but at least the milk was fresh. He took the container, drank half from the bottle, and put it back.

As he closed the refrigerator door, his peripheral vision caught movement to his right. He glanced around, looking for something to defend himself with, when he recognized the intruder.

“Hello,” Sean Rogan said. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you tried to kill me? Spare no details. I’ve got all the time in the world.”