county area in the past two years.”
“And you didn’t believe ’em when they said the economy was recovering.”
Russ snorted. “Wanna guess the most popular color for Mercedes sedans?”
Lyle rolled his eyes. “Black?”
“There you go. That’s why you get to be the deputy.”
Lyle shoved away from the wall and punched the elevator button. “Coming?”
Russ jerked his head toward the other end of the hall. “I want a word with Clare before I go.”
“We should have her pry the truth out of the Castle girl.”
“No lie.” The elevator dinged, and the doors whooshed open. Russ slapped his hand against the edge of the door. “You know, she told me something earlier. Thinking about Shaun Reid.”
“What?”
“Have you heard anything about this GWP buying the mill out from under him?”
Lyle shook his head. The door dinged impatiently.
“According to the new Mrs. Reid, it’s on the table-if the Haudenosaunee land sale goes through. The question is, does Reid want to sell the place? Or would he be willing to try to throw a spanner in the works?” He let go of the door and was rewarded by the sight of Lyle’s thoughtful expression as the doors slid closed.
Russ had always liked the Reid-Gruyn mill. When he had been a high school student, he had occasionally met up with Shaun at his father’s office, which even back in the late sixties had the ossified feel of a memorial to an industrial age long passed. He swung by regularly on patrol, but he hadn’t been past the twin stone pillars in decades. Driving through the remains of the gates-the actual iron grills had been taken down before Russ was born-he was pleased to see nothing had changed.
The old mill, moldering into the river, was a half-hidden shadow, tucked behind the new mill and far removed from the parking lot’s faded white lights. The new mill, which hadn’t been new since Calvin Coolidge was president, loomed beside the black, glittering rush of water. Even from the edge of the gate, Russ could see the phosphorescent white of the dam spill and, fronting the mill, long and low, the offices. Russ wondered how many of them were still occupied in an age of downsizing and outsourcing.
Noble was parked in the row of reserved spaces in front of the offices. His squad car was angled so its headlights bounced off an apple green Prius. Russ pulled in alongside him and got out.
Noble got out of his car. “Hey, Chief.”
“You got a flashlight?”
Noble handed over his Maglite. Russ shone it through the windows. The light picked out an overnight bag, a pair of sneakers, and the usual junk that collects in busy people’s cars: CD cases, crumpled fast food wrappers, an empty soda bottle.
“No dress.” Russ looked up at Noble. “She was supposed to be going to the big shindig at the new resort. Where’s her dress?”
“In the bag?” Noble was a bachelor, which led him to misinterpret women once in a while. Like now.
Russ shook his head. “Women don’t roll long dresses up in little bags. It’s like a guy’s suit. It has to be on a hanger.”
He fished his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed 411 while handing the flashlight back to Noble.
“Millers Kill. New York,” he said. “Shaun Reid. Please connect me.”
His phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Then a female voice: “Hello, Reid residence.”
“Hi. Could I speak to Shaun, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Russ Van Alstyne. From the Millers Kill police.”
There was a beat. “Has something happened to Jeremy?”
Jeremy? Was that Shaun’s kid’s name? “No, ma’am. Nothing like that.”
“Are you fund-raising?”
Russ felt his temper turn over, like a lazy engine on a cold morning. “Ma’am, it’s illegal for police to solicit funds. I need to speak to Shaun Reid on official business.”
“Well.” He could almost hear her unspoken rejoinder.
He stared at the finish of the gas-electric hybrid while waiting for Shaun to get to the phone. It was fresh and pretty and young. Like its owner. He was 95 percent sure that she had told them the truth, and Randy Schoof was their man. But Lyle had this story about Shaun’s involvement, and now here was the Castle girl’s car sitting smack- dab in front of his office. Two points of contact. Could be coincidental, but Russ didn’t like coincidences.
“Russ? Hey, long time no see. When was it, the Rotary Club meeting last year?” Shaun sounded upbeat, as if hearing from his old high school buddy were the highlight of his Saturday evening.
“Has it been that long? Time flies.”
“It sure does. How are you doing? How’s that beautiful wife of yours?”
“Linda’s great. Look, I have a little situation here at your mill, and I wonder if you could come over and take a look at it with me.”
The pause over the line was so long, Russ held the cell phone away from his ear to make sure he still had a signal. “Shaun?” he said.
“Sorry. A situation at the mill? What is it?”
“I’d rather explain it when you get here.”
“I’m, uh, due to be at the Algonquin Waters resort by seven-thirty tonight. Courtney and I are going to a dinner dance there. Business with some overseas guys. I really can’t miss it.”
“Don’t worry. I shouldn’t keep you too long. Linda and I are going, too, and she’ll have my head if I stand her up.”
“Ah. Yeah? Okay, then. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be waiting right here in the parking lot.” He said good-bye and switched the phone off, wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was something to Lyle’s rumor after all. Shaun certainly sounded nervous about something.
His palms were so damp the steering wheel slicked through his grip as he cornered the car. Shaun started to wipe his hands on his thighs and stopped himself at the last moment before making sweaty streaks on his tuxedo pants. Then he barked an unpleasant laugh. In a matter of minutes, he might be the best-dressed occupant of the Washington County jail.
He noticed the speedometer and eased up on the gas. He had taken Courtney’s Volvo wagon, since his Mercedes still had a small fan blowing across the driver’s seat. He knew his wife would want to appear at the dance in the sedan, and he had no way to explain the wet leather. It had, at the most, another thirty minutes to dry. That was if he made it to the dance, of course.
What had Russ found? What did he know? The list of possibilities was short and terrifying, so he refused to think about it. He breathed: in with the calm, out with the fear. He needed to be cool, collected, at the top of his game. Maybe this was just a fishing expedition. If it was, he had a chance to sail away unscathed-if he didn’t look like Richard Nixon proclaiming he wasn’t a crook. Russ had been a lifelong army guy. Narrow-minded. Unimaginative. Shaun had successfully gone toe to toe with CEOs and shareholders and bankers. He could handle Russ. Yes. In. Out.
His first surprise was seeing a squad car parked right up front, by the offices. Its headlights were trained on some little green car. Not that he was going to complain. The farther away Russ stayed from the old mill, the happier Shaun would be. He coasted to a stop a few spaces away from the mystery car and, retrieving tissues from Courtney’s center compartment, hastily wiped his palms dry.
Russ and a uniformed cop were flanking the car. Shaun walked forward, arm outstretched, on the offensive. “Russ, my man. What’s going on? What’s this car?”
Russ shook his hand. Then his eyes widened. “What the hell happened to your face?”
