hair explained the “full-bodied richness” of what they were about to sample. A young, attractive girl in a black skirt and blouse approached us then, smiling.
“Do you gentlemen need any help?”
“It seems we’re a bit confused,” Joe said. “We thought this place was a private home. We’re looking for Paul Brooks?”
She nodded. “Mr. Brooks owns the winery. And there is a private home—you just needed to go right when you came through the gate instead of left. It’s tough to see with all the pine trees.”
We thanked her, walked back out to the car, and followed her instructions. The house was maybe two hundred yards down the drive, a good distance from the winery, and the girl was right: The pines screened it from the parking lot completely. The construction matched the winery, though; it was a big log home with a green- shingled roof, looking every bit the perfect lakeside retreat. We walked up to the front porch, past a black BMW that was parked in the drive, and knocked on the door. About ten seconds later, a good-looking young guy opened it. He couldn’t have been much past thirty, wearing a white dress shirt untucked over blue jeans and leather moccasins. Between the outfit and the perfect face and the thick brown hair that hung down almost to his collar, he looked like he should be a model for one of those “outfitter” catalogs that pretend they’re marketing clothing for outdoorsmen but really sell only to men who live behind computers.
“Can I help you?”
Joe and I passed him our licenses. He didn’t show either the distrust or the childish excitement that most people give you when they see the PI license, just nodded.
“Are you Paul Brooks?” I asked.
“Yes. What do you need to talk to me about?” He had noted the damage to my face but immediately looked away. Manners.
“A five-year-old phone call,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“We’re looking into the background of a man who was recently murdered. Five years ago, he called this house at two in the morning on—”
“The Fourth of July,” Brooks said. “That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? It would be five years now.”
Joe and I exchanged a glance while I nodded.
“That’s it. The call was on the fifth, but it was basically the night of the fourth.”
Paul Brooks sighed and pushed the door open wider. “I think we ought to sit down for this one.”
15
He took us out to a cedar deck that overlooked the woods and a private beach on Lake Erie. The water banged gently against the shore, and out beyond it the clouds were thickening. It made my own beautiful view of the stoplight on Lorain and the small-engine-repair shop across from it seem inferior.
“So, Paul, what can you tell us?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Let’s not get in such a rush. I still don’t know what interested you in the phone call to begin with.”
I gave it to him as concisely as I could, saying simply that we’d been employed by Alex Jefferson’s widow to look into the circumstances surrounding his murder and his son’s death, and that those circumstances had landed us here.
“I’d heard about Alex Jefferson being killed,” he said when I was through. “Didn’t know about the son, though.”
“Haven’t been reading your paper.”
He smiled. “Guess I’m a few days behind. But what makes the phone call significant to you?”
“Matt called his father before two in the morning, and his father then called your house. We’re wondering why.”
“You’re going to love the reason.”
“Yeah?”
“The calls were made because someone was murdered on my father’s property and Jefferson’s son saw it happen.”
It was quiet for a few seconds then, Joe and I waiting on Brooks, who was staring out at the lake. The beach in front of his house seemed to continue all the way up to the winery. Voices and laughter were audible, but we couldn’t see any people because of the pine trees.
“Can you provide a little more detail than that?” Joe said.
“I assume you know of my father?” Brooks asked in response.
Joe and I looked at each other, then shook our heads in unison. Brooks frowned at us, slighted.
“Fenton Brooks? Brooks Biomedical? That mean anything to you?”
“Stents,” Joe said.
Brooks nodded. “Yes, the company makes stents, although we also manufacture many other medical products.”
“But your father made his money on the stents, right?” Joe said.
“A good portion of it, at least.” Brooks looked annoyed, as if he found Joe’s question in poor taste. “The company has gone on to much greater things, though. My father passed away a few years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
For a moment it was silent, and then Brooks cleared his throat.
“Okay, so now you understand the situation. My father owned a large company, had lots of employees, attorneys, advisors. He bought this winery as a side venture and liked the location enough that he built this house as a summer retreat. He used to have parties in the summer for friends, colleagues, that sort of thing. Five years ago, he held a Fourth of July party. There were about one hundred people out here, maybe more.”
“Including Matt Jefferson.”
“Yes, he was here. Alex Jefferson was, too, although he went home much earlier in the night. He was one of my father’s attorneys, you know.”
“We did not.”
“Well, he was. His son was in law school then, I believe. A few years younger than me? That sounds right. At any rate, he was here, and I gather he felt a bit out of place. The crowd began to thin out around twelve, but the man Matt Jefferson had come with was drunk and hanging around, and so he had to stay, too.”
“Who was that man?”
“Another one of the company’s attorneys, James Simon. Matt was working for him, some sort of internship.”
“So what happened?”
“Okay. Well, a few people stayed late—you know how that goes when you’ve got an open bar. Simon was drunk, and Matt got bored or annoyed or something and went up the beach, back toward the winery. We’d had a catered dinner up there earlier, so Matt knew where he was going. Found a guy and a girl up on the deck, apparently engaged in a little late-night illicit behavior. Matt figured they were entitled to their privacy and turned around and started back up the beach. But then he got the impression that the girl was resisting. Heard her shout or something. So he decided to go back in case there was a problem. When he got there he couldn’t see the girl, and the guy was booking around the corner of the building. Matt ran up onto the deck and found the girl. Clothes half off, and dead. She’d been strangled.”
The clouds had made the temperature dip, and Paul Brooks wasn’t wearing anything over his thin shirt, but he looked warm enough, sitting there watching our faces with a hint of satisfaction, a storyteller pleased with his ability to capture the audience.
“So what happened?” Joe said again.
“What do you think happened? The cops were called, obviously. Interviewed Matt and everyone else. Matt was pretty upset by it, I guess, and that was understandable. He wanted to talk to his dad. I think maybe he took the police questioning the wrong way. He called his dad, and his dad told him just to answer the questions and try
