one foot on his chest.
“Haven’t lost your touch,” he said.
“Maybe you’re losing yours.” I smiled and helped him to his feet. A good-looking guy: wavy blond hair, just starting to recede, a solid build and a knee-weakening grin. Mitch Dylan had been coming to the lodge since the summer I opened it-the same summer he’d been in the midst of an ugly divorce and needed a retreat as much as I did.
“I saw the No Vacancy sign,” I said. “You must have brought a full squad with you.”
“Pretty much.”
He leaned into the cab, grabbed my duffel bag from the passenger seat and started listing names. All cops. Mitch was a Toronto homicide detective. A good cop, and I say that with all sincerity. I like cops-I used to be one.
He led me the long way to the lodge, giving us time to chat. After five years, I won’t say there wasn’t an attraction, but it never proceeded beyond flirting with the idea of flirting. Nor would it. These days, there was no place in my life for anything more serious than a summer fling-and lately even those seemed more trouble than they were worth.
The lodge was a guy place-a rectangular block of a log cabin, completely lacking in architectural beauty. I don’t mind that, though I had added a wraparound deck and porch swings, so I could sit out on summer afternoons, drink iced tea, let the breeze ruffle my hair and get a good dose of girliness…right before I needed to split logs for the evening beer-and-hot-dog bonfire.
The front doors opened into the main room-a huge area dominated by a stone fireplace. The room was jammed with places to sit and places to set down a beer or coffee, none of it matching, little of it bought new. No one seemed to care, so long as they were comfortable. That’s what people come to a lodge for-comfort.
When Mitch and I walked in, the room was full of guys. They sprawled over the couches and chairs, feet propped on anything that didn’t move and some things that might. There were two women with them. I was pleased to see Lucy Schmidt-one of the few policewomen who didn’t act as if my professional disgrace was a gender-specific contagion. She walked over and hugged me, her sturdy, six-foot frame enveloping my five- six.
“Hey, you made it,” one of the men called from the sofa. He’d been here in the spring and I struggled to put a name to the face. “Mitch said you’d take us rappelling after lunch.”
“He did, did he?”
As I walked toward the stairs, I noticed three men who looked more like corporate management than cops. They probably were. Other lodge guests often joined in with Mitch’s group. I’d have to check with Emma, make sure our insurance was up-to-date. Last time Mitch’s bunch was here, their visit had coincided with a firm’s annual getaway. Four accountants had ended up with non-life-threatening injuries. Fortunately, none sued. Two even had me take photos of their wounds, oozing blood and dirt, to show their friends back home.
A young man with a crew cut came bouncing down the stairs and stopped in my path.
“You must be Nadia,” he said, face splitting in a grin that made him look twelve. He extended a hand. “Pete Moore. Etobicoke. My first year.”
I shook his hand.
“You know, you’re quite a celebrity over at the police college. We did a case study on you.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mitch bearing down, not-so-subtly gesturing for Moore to zip it. Moore didn’t notice.
“Couple months ago, we had this kiddy rapist, a real nasty piece of shit, and I said to my sergeant, ‘Man, this is one of those times when you really wish you had someone like Nadia Stafford on the team.’”
Mitch grabbed the duffel from me, put a hand against my back and propelled me up the stairs, body-checking Moore so hard the young man yelped.
“Kid’s got a bad habit of opening his mouth before engaging his brain,” Mitch said when we got to the upstairs hall.
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Don’t.” I pushed open the unlocked door to my room. “Really, it’s okay. He thought he was paying me a compliment.”
I took the duffel bag and turned, cutting Mitch off before he followed me into the room. “Give me an hour to shower and unpack and I’ll be down.”
I’d lied about having a shower. My bathroom only had a tub. If I installed a shower, I’d use it-and my life needed less harsh efficiency and more hot baths with orange-blossom bubbles. Except for the bathroom, my quarters are the very model of efficiency. Because the lodge is a live-in business, there’s a self-contained apartment on the first floor, but this I gave to the Waldens. I used one of the twelve guest rooms, and ate my meals in the dining lounge with everyone else. Most of my day was spent outdoors and, with 120 acres, I had all the living space I could ask for.
The first thing I needed was not a bath, but information. I knew Jack could tell me more about the Helter Skelter killings, and how much danger I was in because of the Moretti connection, but I couldn’t wait for nightfall.
I took my laptop from the safe under my bed. I’m not a big believer in locking up valuables simply because they’re valuable. To be honest, I’m not much of a believer in valuables at all. The only reason I have a safe is for securing the two items I wouldn’t want a wandering guest to find: my handgun and my customized laptop.
Computer booted, I started typing a list of search terms: Helter Skelter New York Dean Moretti. Halfway through “Moretti” I stopped. My Internet connection was supposed to be secure. Jack had recommended someone to me, and I’d paid dearly to ensure no one could trace my signal or follow my virtual footsteps. Twice-yearly updates kept me ahead of the latest security-busting technology, or so I’d been told. But was it enough?
The Helter Skelter affair was an FBI case. The Feds knew a lot more about technology than any local police department. If anyone ever tracked the Moretti killing to me, I didn’t want my computer records showing that I’d taken an undue interest in the Helter Skelter case. Yes, I’m sure that at that very moment, thousands of people were researching the same thing, but I had to be more careful.
I’d need to wait and get my information from Jack.
I spent the rest of the day in agony. I love being the host/ guide at a wilderness lodge, but that day nothing would have pleased me more than if my guests had all packed up and left, so I could hop in my truck, barrel down to Peterborough and find every newspaper, magazine and online source that so much as mentioned the Helter Skelter case.
I could ask. Hell, I was surrounded by cops. Half of them probably knew every detail of the case, even if it was unfolding across the border. Yet I couldn’t take the chance.
It’d been a clean hit. I hadn’t left a single clue behind. Or had I? If the cops thought the Moretti hit was the work of the Helter Skelter killer, they’d have their best and brightest working the scene with every tool at their disposal. I was good, but was I good enough to stymie the best crime investigators in America?
Rappelling helped clear my mind. Ten years ago, if someone told me I’d be ricocheting down cliffs or jumping from airplanes or rocketing along rapids, I’d have told them they’d mistaken me for someone else. Nadia Stafford did not take chances. Ever. She was the girl who did as she was told and always looked both ways-twice-before crossing the road.
My cousin Amy had been the risk taker of the family. I don’t think Amy ever looked before crossing a road in her life. She didn’t need to; she had me to do it for her. That’s why we were best friends-we complemented each other perfectly.
Though she was a year older, I was the responsible one, the one who kept her safe. Her job was keeping me from retreating too far into my comfort zone, to prod me out into the world. The last thing she ever said to me was: “Come on, stop worrying; it’ll be fun.”
It was at the pit of my downfall, after my dismissal from the force and before I bought the lodge, that I
