Driving north on Route 9, she tried to get Russ on his cell phone. After three calls, and three invitations to leave him a voicemail message, she gave up and punched in the station’s number instead.
Harlene’s voice greeted her. “MillersKillPoliceDepartmentpleasehold.”
The line went to Muzak before Clare could say anything. She took advantage of the wait by switching on her lights. Even though it was still mid-afternoon, the dark mass of clouds stretching from the mountains in the west to the horizon in the east cast everything into dimness. She passed an old house where Christmas lights dangled drunkenly from the roofline, like party guests who hadn’t realized it was already past time to go.
“MillersKillPoliceDepartmenthowmayIhelpyou?”
“Harlene? It’s Clare. What’s going on? You sound rushed off your feet.”
“Oh! Hang on.” Clare heard a rustling noise, then Harlene was back, speaking quietly. “They brought the chief in.”
“Brought him in? What do you mean? Is he under arrest?”
“Not yet. He and Mark Durkee found some computer-scamming operation out in Cossayuharie, and the chief insists it’s tied to his wife’s murder. Except he’s also insisting it’s not his wife who’s dead.”
“Not his wife?” Clare’s heart sank. That was denial in the extreme.
“I know,” Harlene said. “He’s making things a lot harder for himself, but you know how he is. He wants the boys to go back to the phone records and the billing statements, and he wants this investigator woman to send a fingerprint team back out to his house to look for more prints. Oh, and he wants the medical examiner to get over to the Kilmer funeral home and take fingerprints.”
“Of course,” Harlene continued, “this Jensen woman’s not playing ball, because, let’s face it, he’s starting to sound like his door’s come unhinged.”
Clare was afraid to ask Harlene for an explanation of how computer scamming and billing statements could possibly lead to Linda Van Alstyne dead on her kitchen floor, so she snatched at the one piece of the puzzle she knew about. “Did he mention anything about the MacEntyre boy? A friend of Quinn Tracey who may have witnessed the car in his driveway on Sunday?”
“The car that belongs to the couple in Cossayuharie? No, but I think he’s gone beyond looking for that kind of witness. He’s gonna have to place those people inside his house, and he’s not going to be able to do that if
No need for Harlene to elaborate who
“What did you mean when you said he’s not yet under arrest? Does it look like the state investigator is going to charge him?”
“She’s suspended him from duty. Noble came in with the chief’s weapon, and I swear, I never seen him as upset as he was locking the chief’s gun away. She wants a formal interrogation. On tape. My bet is, she’s going to give him enough rope so he can tie himself into a pretty knot and then she’ll use what he said as probable cause.”
“He doesn’t have to speak to her if he doesn’t want to.”
“He does if he wants her to give the go-ahead to relook at all that evidence. Besides, he’s so convinced he’s right and his wife’s not dead, he’ll probably talk himself right into a jail cell without realizing what he’s saying.”
“Has he asked for a lawyer?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Okay, I’m going to get someone. He needs an attorney there. If you can think of any way to stall him from giving a statement, do it.”
“I suppose I could go in there and spill coffee on everyone.”
“Whatever. I’m going to follow up on this kid he wanted to talk with, since it looks like nobody else will. I’ll come to the station as soon as I’m done. And Harlene?”
“Ayeah?”
“Let his mother know what’s going on?”
“Will do.”
As soon as Harlene was off the line, Clare called her junior warden.
“Law Offices of Burns and Burns,” the receptionist said. Clare thought, not for the first time, that the name sounded like a line from a hemorrhoid commercial.
“This is Reverend Clare Fergusson. I need to speak to Geoff Burns.”
“Mr. Burns is busy. May I take a message?”
“No, you may not. It’s an emergency. Get him out of his meeting or the bathroom or wherever he is, but I have to speak with him now.”
“Oh,” the receptionist squeaked. “Okay. In that case, please hold.”
The receptionist’s voice was replaced by the Beatles singing “Something in the Way She Moves.” The Burnses definitely had a higher class of easy listening music than the police department. Sir Paul McCartney had just reached “Something in the way she moves me” when he was cut off by an irritated Geoffrey Burns.
“Clare? What the hell’s going on? Heather hauled me out of a conference call. What’s the emergency?”
“The state police have taken over the Van Alstyne murder. Their investigator has Russ in custody at the police department, and she’s about to question him.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll confess and save all us taxpayers the cost of a trial.”
“Geoff. I want you to get over there and represent him.”
“Him? Sheriff Matt Dillon? The guy who thinks the only things left alive after the bomb goes off will be cockroaches and lawyers? This is what I canceled a possible snowmobile personal injury case for?”
“Please, Geoff. I’ve never asked you to do anything before.”
“Sure you have. Plenty of times.”
“Church business doesn’t count. I mean for me. Personally.”
There was a long pause. “I’m not giving him any sort of discounted rate.”
“Full freight,” she guaranteed. “His mother’s probably already on her way down there with a checkbook.”
“Has he actually been arrested yet?”
“No. Harlene Lendrum told me Investigator Jensen wanted to get him to make his statement first.”
“Typical lazy policing,” Geoff said. “Trying to get the defendant to make their case for them. I’m on my way. Anything else vital for me to know?”
She hesitated. “He’s convinced his wife’s still alive.”
“Oh, Gawd.” Burns groaned. “I warn you, I charge more for crazy people.”
THIRTY
Fat snowflakes were spinning out of the leaden sky and splattering against her Subaru’s windshield by the time Clare saw the sign she was looking for: MILLERS KILL 8 MILES, FORT HENRY 11 MILES. She turned off Route 9 onto Sacandaga Road, which wound through farmlands and woodlots and crossed the Hudson River twice before curling beneath the footprint of the mountains to enter the town at the western edge.
Her route ran past the entrance to the Algonquin Waters Spa and Resort, the narrow switchback road marked by stone pillars and a softly lit oval sign, partially covered now by a CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS sheet. A mile or so after it was the Stuyvesant Inn, its riotous Victorian paintwork grayed into ghost colors by the falling snow.
She spotted the turnoff to Old Route 100. A battered blue and gold sign announced she was on a historic trail, but she didn’t need to stop and read it to know that the road beneath her tires had been old before Henry Hudson sailed the
She knew all this, not from the sign-had she ever been anywhere that marked as many historic spots as New York?-but from a book that Russ had given her. He loved this place, loved its history and its geography, loved its
