Lost Lake

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Ami caught a night flight to San Francisco and rented a car at the airport a little after midnight. It took two hours to drive to Lost Lake, and she spent what was left of the predawn hours in a motel on the outskirts of town. When her travel alarm went off at eight o’clock that morning, she felt as if her head were filled with cotton. She felt a bit better after her shower and better still when she stepped outside into the crisp mountain air.

Behind the motel was an arm of Lost Lake, and Ami could see a slice of blue through the pine trees. She wandered down to a dock that had been weathered gray. A few boats bobbed at anchor, and some early risers were fishing near the far shore. Ami stared across to the green hills that rose up behind the crystal-clear water. A hawk glided above her and puffy white cumulus clouds floated above the hawk. The idyllic scene made the violence that had brought her here seem all the more incongruous.

Downtown was three parallel streets of one- and two-story buildings named Main, Elm, and Shasta. As she drove along Main, Ami spotted numerous curio shops and art galleries and three cafes that advertised caffe latte, sure signs that the town survived on tourist dollars. A one-story dull-brown concrete building at the far end of Main housed the Lost Lake sheriff’s department. Ami parked and waited to cross until a shiny tanker and a pickup with a cord of wood stacked in the back drove by.

The reception area consisted of several chairs upholstered in scratched, faded faux leather. A low metal fence ran between the reception area and an open space filled with metal desks. Uniformed sheriff’s deputies were sitting at some of the desks. The receptionist-a large, cheerful woman dressed in a Hawaiian print muumuu-occupied the desk next to the rail. When Ami came in, the receptionist was transferring a call about a bear that was scavenging in a resident’s garbage pails. She hung up and flashed Ami a welcoming smile.

“What can I do for you, honey?”

“I have an appointment with the sheriff.”

A few minutes later, a tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and hazel eyes walked out of a corridor that led to the rear of the station. He wore the tan uniform of the Lost Lake sheriff’s department and seemed to be in his late forties.

“Mrs. Vergano?” he asked as he held open the gate that blocked access to the rest of the building.

“Yes,” she answered extending her hand.

“Aaron Harney,” the sheriff said as they shook hands. “Why don’t you come on back to my office?”

Ami followed Harney to the rear of the station house and into a wood-paneled office. The walls were covered with framed plaques, certificates, and pictures of Harney with the governor and other celebrities; dominating the view was a mounted moose head. A glass bookcase filled with law books stood against a wall. On top of the bookcase and on other level surfaces were bowling and softball trophies that the department had won. On Harney’s large scarred desk were pictures of his wife and five children.

Harney offered Ami a seat and settled into a chair behind his desk.

“Last night, on the phone, you said that you wanted to talk to me about Congressman Glass’s murder, but you weren’t very clear about why,” Harney said.

“I’m involved with a case that may be related,” Ami said. “I’d like to learn more about the Glass case, maybe see the old files, if that’s possible.”

“It might be if you can tell me why a twenty-year-old case interests you.”

“That’s a little tricky, Sheriff. You know that the law forbids me to reveal the confidences of a client.”

Harney nodded. “And you know that there’s no statute of limitations on prosecuting a murder suspect.”

“Last night, I left my son with a neighbor and flew down here. I’ve got to get home today, so I don’t have time to go to court for the files. If you don’t want me to see them you’ll win.”

Harney liked his visitor’s honesty. Most lawyers would have threatened him with the fury of the law.

“Did you know that I was the first officer on the scene the night the congressman was murdered?” the sheriff asked.

Ami’s surprise showed on her face.

“I’ve been the sheriff here since Earl Basehart retired, and I was a deputy for a bunch of years before that. Counting my experiences as an MP in the military, that makes about twenty-five years of crime fighting. During those twenty plus years I’ve seen a thing or two, but that was the worst. The way Congressman Glass looked when I found him is something I can’t forget. It shook me up when it happened, and it still disturbs me. So you can see why I was real interested when you called.”

“The case is State v. Daniel Morelli,” Ami said. “You may have heard about it on the news. My client is accused of stabbing a parent during an argument at a Little League game.”

“I have heard of that case. It’s a hell of a thing. But what does it have to do with the murder of Congressman Glass?”

Ami sighed. “I really wish I could tell you but I can’t. I’m bound by law to keep my client’s confidences.”

Harney studied Ami and she held his gaze. He stood up.

“Let’s take a drive. When we come back you can read the file.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

“You can thank me by calling me when you feel you can talk about my case.”

They took the sheriff’s cruiser on the fifteen-minute drive from the station to the Lost Lake Resort. As soon as they were under way, Ami asked Harney what he remembered about the night Eric Glass was murdered.

“I remember the scream.” He shivered involuntarily. “I was clear across the lake, but sound carries out here at night. That scream cut through me. I felt like someone had run ice up my spine.”

“Was it the congressman who screamed?”

“No.” Harney looked grim. “I imagine he did a lot of screaming, from the look of his wounds, but the scream I heard was from a woman. Vanessa Wingate, the General’s daughter.”

“What did you do after you heard the scream?”

“I drove around the lake as fast as I could and radioed for backup. When I got to the house I went around back and Miss Wingate wandered out of the woods in a daze. She scared the hell out of me. I thought she was a ghost, to be honest. She had on this long white T-shirt, and her eyes were vacant.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Yeah, she kept on repeating over and over, ‘Carl killed him, Carl Rice.’ ”

“So there was never any doubt that Rice was the murderer?”

Harney hesitated.

“Do you have some doubts, Sheriff?”

“Not many, but we never found any physical evidence to confirm Miss Wingate’s story. It did look like someone had pulled a boat up on the shore, but when that happened and who did it we couldn’t say. People take boats out on the lake all the time. I thought I heard an outboard motor when I got out of my car, but it wasn’t necessarily the killer. It could have been anyone taking advantage of the moonlight.”

“Did you question the people who live around the lake?”

“Of course. No one admitted being out there, but local kids sneak onto the property all the time and they wouldn’t have come forward.”

“Who were your other suspects?”

“That’s obvious. Vanessa Wingate was staying at the house and she was acting very strange.”

“But you didn’t arrest her.”

“We didn’t have probable cause. There was no blood on her, and we never found the knife, which suggested that the killer had taken it with him. If she and the congressman were lovers she might have had a motive, but she denied it. When we searched the house it looked like she was staying in the guest room. Glass slept in a king-size bed and only one side looked like it had been slept on. We wanted to ask more questions, but General Wingate spirited Miss Wingate away before we could interrogate her.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said. I found Miss Wingate’s name and a California address in her purse. It took a while to track down the General, but we notified him as soon as we could. He told us he was coming to the hospital, and he was there a few hours later.”

Harney shook his head, still awed by the memory of the General’s arrival.

“That was some entrance. He came in by helicopter with two bodyguards and a psychiatrist who worked at a place called Serenity Manor. The General just took over. He was like that. One of the most forceful and charismatic men I’ve ever met. I don’t doubt he’ll be our next president. Being in his presence is like standing next to bottled lightning.”

They drove around a curve, and Ami saw large black metal letters that spelled out “Lost Lake Resort” attached to a low stone wall. Harney turned onto a paved two-lane road that wended its way through an evergreen forest for a quarter-mile. Blocking access to the grounds was a gate that could be raised or lowered by an access card or by a security guard in a small brick gatehouse. The gate and the guard didn’t look as if they afforded any real security-anyone could sneak through the woods on either side, and the guard was old, fat, and slow-moving-but they gave the illusion of protection and an air of exclusivity to the wealthy owners of the expensive homes that dotted the lake.

“Hey, Ray,” Sheriff Harney said.

“Sheriff,” the guard replied with a nod.

“Going to take a ride around, if that’s okay with you.”

The guard nodded again, raised the gate, and waved them through. After another eighth of a mile Ami saw signs for the lodge. The road forked and Harney turned left, away from the lodge, toward a range of low green hills. Every so often a driveway appeared. Most of the houses were screened from view by trees, but occasionally Ami could see one of the summer homes. For the most part, they were overbuilt-massive ranches, imitation Spanish villas, or huge stone fortresses. Ami felt as if she were in the midst of an architectural battlefield.

“What happened to Vanessa after her father arrived at the hospital?” she asked, her eyes turned toward the landscape but her mind on the sheriff’s story.

“All hell broke loose. She started screaming when the General walked into her room. They had to sedate her. Then the psychiatrist who was with the General had a conference with the doctors at the hospital. Next thing we knew, our star witness was lifting off in that helicopter and that’s the last we saw of her.”

“Didn’t you try to stop them from taking her away?”

“Not really. We’re just small-town cops. The General, he was something else. Earl did say something about her being our only witness, and the General promised he’d make his daughter available whenever we needed her. What could Earl say? Wingate was her father, and Lost Lake Hospital couldn’t provide the type of psychiatric care Wingate’s doctor said she needed.” Harney shrugged. “That was that, except for the FBI man.”

“Who?”

“Name was Victor Hobson, a real tough guy. The FBI was involved because Glass was a congressman and Hobson had been assigned to the case. He showed up a few hours after the General left, and he was furious when he heard what the General had done.”

“Was any progress ever made with the case?”

“Not really. The General brought Rice’s army records with him. Rice had been discharged for psychiatric reasons. Wingate said he was a very disturbed young man. Seems he and Miss Wingate went to high school together, and he had a crush on her. Then they’d met again in D.C. where Miss Wingate was going to law school and working for the congressman. Wingate thought that Rice was obsessed with his daughter and probably killed Glass because he imagined the congressman and his daughter were lovers.”

“Was Rice ever arrested?”

“No. We put out an APB, and the FBI had him on the ten-most-wanted list for a while, but I never heard anything else about him except for a second murder of some General on the east coast where Rice was a suspect. After that, nothing.”

A driveway appeared and Harney turned into it. At the end of the driveway was a two-story log cabin set back behind a manicured lawn and some flower beds.

“I thought you might like to see the place. The Reynolds family owns it now. He’s a banker in San Francisco. They come out a lot in the summer, but they’re in Europe now. I can’t let you in.”

“I understand.”

“The place was hard to sell after Glass died. You can imagine the problem. When the Reynoldses got it, they redecorated, knocked down a few walls. I’ve been inside, and it doesn’t look the same. But the grounds are pretty much the way they were that night.”

Ami got out. It was hot and the midday air was still. She stared at the house and turned slowly in a circle, trying to imagine the way it would look in the dead of night. The sheriff waited patiently, then followed Ami when she walked around to the back. The house had blocked the breeze from the lake, and it felt cool and welcome.

“That dock was there then,” Harney said, pointing out a short wooden pier. “Glass had a speedboat he tooled around in. And that’s the path to the tennis court where I first saw Miss Wingate.”

Ami looked at the dock for a moment before turning her attention to the path that led to the tennis court. She imagined Vanessa Wingate wandering out of the darkness in her white nightdress.

“The path goes past the tennis courts to a narrow rocky beach you can swim off or picnic on. We think Rice put it there.”

“It’s all so peaceful, so beautiful,” Ami said. “It’s hard to imagine a murder happening here.”

“It’s our first and only one, thank God.”

Ami wandered back across the lawn. The curtains were closed, but there was a slit between the curtains and the sill. She looked into the kitchen.

“That’s new,” Harney said. “The Reynoldses put in the island and the convection oven. Those marble countertops weren’t there either.”

Ami wondered how much remodeling you would have to do before the ghosts left you alone. She turned away from the house.

“Thanks for the tour.”

“Did you learn anything helpful?” the sheriff asked.

“No. Maybe there’ll be something in the files.”