The woman looked up. She was exhausted. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Carl killed him,” she answered. “Carl Rice.”
Aaron Harney heard the helicopter before he saw it. He shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the sky until he found the source of the “whup-whup” sound dropping through the clouds toward the helipad on the hospital roof. Sheriff Basehart stood beside his deputy. He was a big man who had returned to Lost Lake after a brief career as a cop in San Francisco and had served as a deputy for a few years before running unopposed for sheriff when his predecessor retired. He’d held the post for eleven years.
The helicopter settled on the roof. A miniature tornado stirred up by the rotor blades threatened to rip the Stetson off Basehart’s head, and he grabbed the brim that shaded his ruddy face. As soon as the helicopter’s hatch opened, a stocky, muscular white man dressed in jeans and a light tan jacket jumped to the ground. He was followed immediately by a tall, wiry black man with a shaved head dressed in khakis and a denim jacket. They surveyed the rooftop before the stocky man nodded toward the interior of the copter. Seconds later, a tall, square- shouldered man wearing the uniform of a general stepped out of the plane, followed by a man with a styled salt- and-pepper mane dressed in a charcoal-gray business suit.
General Morris Wingate spotted the sheriff and strode across the roof. Something about him made Harney stiffen his spine and stand tall. If the General had given him an order, Harney knew he would have obeyed instantly, but General Wingate ignored Harney and focused on the sheriff. The General’s aides stood a few steps behind the General and the other man, their eyes moving back and forth across the roof as if they were in a combat zone. Harney saw the butt end of a weapon under the black man’s jacket.
“General Wingate?” Basehart asked.
The General nodded. “And this is Dr. Ernest Post. He’s a psychiatrist. I want him to take a look at my daughter.”
“I’m Earl Basehart, sir, the sheriff of Lost Lake. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. What is my daughter’s condition?”
“You’ll need to speak to Dr. Stewart to get precise information, but he told me that she’s in shock. Quite frankly I’m not surprised.” He shook his head. “Seeing something like that.” He shook his head a second time. “We had seasoned officers who were upset.”
“Has she told you what happened?”
Basehart nodded toward Harney. “My deputy is the one who found her. Like I told you on the phone, she told him that a man named Carl Rice murdered the congressman. We haven’t been able to get much more out of her. She was hysterical. We had her transported to the hospital, immediately. She’s under sedation now.”
“Have you found Rice?”
“Not yet. We have an APB out and we’ve alerted the police in the surrounding areas. Unfortunately, he got a big jump on us.”
“Do you have any information that would lead you to believe that Rice may still be in the vicinity? I’m concerned for my daughter’s safety.”
“We don’t know where he is, but I have a deputy on duty outside your daughter’s room. We’re not taking any chances.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Wingate said. “My daughter means everything to me. I appreciate the thoroughness with which you’ve conducted this investigation and the way you’ve treated her.”
“Sir, do you know anything about this fellow Rice that can help us catch him?”
“He went to high school with my daughter. He’s been to my home.”
The General paused. He looked upset. “Carl is a seriously disturbed young man who was recently discharged from the service because of mental problems. He can be violent. He learned that my daughter had moved to Washington and reestablished contact with her. Given his mental condition, I have no idea what he thought about the state of their relationship. He may have imagined that my daughter and the congressman were lovers and become insanely jealous. From what you told me about the state of the body, this sounds like a crime of passion.”
“I’m trying to be delicate here, sir, but this is a murder investigation…”
“You do not have to walk on eggs with me, Sheriff. Please be blunt.”
“Thank you. What was your daughter’s relationship with the congressman?”
“She worked for Eric. That’s all I know.”
“Thank you, sir,” Basehart said.
“I’d like to see Vanessa, if I could.”
“Right away,” Basehart said, reacting instantly. He led the way to the steel door that opened into the hospital from the roof. Harney rushed ahead to open it and followed Wingate, the doctor, Wingate’s aides, and the sheriff inside.
The Lost Lake hospital had three stories and the general’s daughter was in a private room on the second floor. The sheriff led the way. A deputy was on guard outside the door. He stood up when he saw the men approaching.
“Any problems, Dave?” Basehart asked.
“Everything’s quiet.”
“Okay. We’re going in for a visit. You and Aaron stay out here.”
The General, his aides, Dr. Post, and the sheriff entered the room. Harney was about to say something to the other deputy when he heard a scream exactly like the one that had shattered the peace of his cigarette break on the shore of Lost Lake. He drew his gun as he wrenched open the door. When he stepped into the room, the General’s daughter was staring wide-eyed at her father as if she’d seen Satan.
CHAPTER ONE
PORTLAND, OREGON-THE PRESENT
The organizers of the Portland Spring Art Fair had lucked out. It had been a very wet March in Oregon and the weather seers were predicting rain through most of April. But Mother Nature had redecorated in the nick of time, storing away the endless precipitation and gloomy black clouds for another day and setting out sunshine and clear blue skies for the weekend of the fair.
Ami Vergano had dressed in a multicolored peasant skirt and a white blouse with short puffed sleeves to celebrate the pleasant weather. Ami was just over five-four and still had the solid build of the gymnast she’d been until she grew in high school. She kept her brown hair short because it was easy to care for. Her big brown eyes dominated her face. Circumstances had turned Ami serious, but her wide, bright smile could light up a room.
Ami was delighted at the large crowds that were taking advantage of the first sunny days of spring to roam the Park Blocks in search of art. Her booth had attracted people since the fair opened, and three of her oils had sold already. She was putting the money from her most recent sale into her purse when someone spoke.
“I like that. Is it imaginary or did you paint a real scene?”
Ami turned and found a broad-shouldered man admiring one of her landscapes. His face had the tanned, leathery look of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. Ami figured him for five-ten and in his mid- to late forties. He was dressed in jeans, moccasins, and a plaid long-sleeved shirt. His long hair was gathered in a ponytail, and he had a scraggly mustache and goatee. He brought to mind the hippies of the peace and love generation in the 1960s.
“That’s a forest glade not far from my house,” Ami said.
“I love the way you’ve captured the light.”
Ami smiled. “Thanks. You have no idea how long I worked to get it just right.”
“Dan Morelli,” the man said, offering his hand. “I have the booth next door. I saw how many people have been going in and out of yours and decided to see what the fuss was all about.”
“Ami Vergano,” she said as she took Morelli’s hand. It was large and comforting, like his smile. “What are you showing? I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a chance to look around yet.”
“I build custom-made furniture. Take a peek if you get a chance.”
