SIXTEEN
Lucy showered until the hot water turned cold. Her head ached from both lack of sleep and the friction with Sean.
She was drying her hair when her phone rang. It was her brother Patrick, Sean’s partner at RCK.
“Luce, I emailed you a link to the missing persons reports I pulled.”
“I’ll look through them right now.” She put her phone on speaker and quickly gathered her damp hair into a ponytail.
“I used your criteria-Caucasian women between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five who went missing in the Northeast during the last nine months. I narrowed it down to forty-seven women, blond or light brown hair, between five foot four and five foot eight. Since the files are large, I posted them to my server and you can view or download them from there. I can broaden the search if necessary.”
At Sean’s computer, she logged into her email. “I hope she’s here.”
“I just got off the phone with Sean; he told me what happened. I got a seat on the last flight to Albany tonight, then a commuter plane first thing in the morning. This was supposed to be a vacation for you two.”
“This is the second vacation I’ve had where a dead body has turned up. Maybe I should stay home.”
She was half-joking, but Patrick was serious. “I started the background checks Sean asked for. The Swain family popped immediately. The father died in prison-he got twenty-five-to-life for killing his girlfriend. The oldest brother, Paul Swain, is in prison for manslaughter and drug trafficking. They tried to make a case against his brother Butch, but nothing stuck. Butch was suspected of bribery, extortion, and manufacturing methamphetamines.”
“Do you know if there’s an active investigation?”
“I called around to the usual places, didn’t hear of anything ongoing, but that doesn’t mean squat half the time. The word is when Paul Swain was sent away, his operation dried up. Nine people went to prison. He was the brains, Butch was the brawn.”
“Where’s Butch Swain now?”
“His legal address is in Colton, about twenty miles from Spruce Lake. There’s a younger sister, Roberta, who went to college in Florida, and I can’t find anything on her since then.”
“Really?” Lucy teased. “You’re stumped?”
“Hardly. I’m digging. I think she probably got married, which is why I have nothing on her maiden name. I can’t find a marriage record in Florida or New York, so I’ll broaden the search. Anyway, I wanted to make sure you got my email with the missing persons records. Let me know if your mine lady’s not there, and I’ll broaden that search, too.”
“Thanks, Patrick.”
“Watch out for Butch Swain. Even though word is he isn’t a sharp tack, he could have acquired a new partner. I told Sean the same thing.”
“Does anyone think the little brother has a new meth lab up and running?”
“I called Noah, and he’s putting a feeler out with the DEA about drug activity in St. Lawrence County. There was nothing on the FBI radar, at least with the Swain name or Spruce Lake attached. They’re focusing on labs in Massena now, which they believe picked up the slack when the Swains went out of business.”
“Take one down, two more pop up.”
“Got that right. Luce, I don’t know what’s going on in Spruce Lake, but keep a low profile until Sean gets back. I wish he hadn’t left you alone.”
She sighed. Long ago she realized that she’d be forever coddled by her family. “Patrick, I’m not alone. Tim and Adam Hendrickson are both here. And do you remember I’m practically an FBI agent? When I have my badge, will you still tell me to be careful?”
“Yes.”
She laughed. “Fair enough.”
“And you’d better have your gun on you now.”
She glanced across the room to where her Glock was partly hidden on a bookshelf. Sean had given her security measures to follow since they became involved, many of which she’d already learned from her oldest brother, Jack, a former army sergeant. There was another gun hidden in the bathroom and a third under the cushion on the couch.
“I have it covered,” Lucy told Patrick. “Nothing we’ve found indicates the vandalism on the resort is drug related. Did you run the other names Sean gave you?”
“There’s nothing much on Jon Callahan. He’s originally from Montreal, but after his father died when he was twelve, his mother sent him to live with his Uncle Henry in Spruce Lake. He went to college in Connecticut, became a naturalized citizen-easy because his dad was an American-and settled in Spruce Lake. He owns a lot of property-most of the town, in fact, that isn’t owned by the Hendrickson estate.”
“How did he make his money?”
“He’s a lawyer specializing in international law-no criminal law, all civil. He’s with a major firm based in Montreal with a U.S. office in New York City, very respectable, seems to work primarily in intellectual property rights, contract law, estate planning. I’m going to look at the type of work he specializes in.”
“But how can he practice law living in the middle of nowhere?”
“With technology these days, he wouldn’t necessarily have to go into an office. He gave you the creeps?”
“No. He seemed to be the most normal person I’ve met here; maybe that’s why he stood out. Very smooth, like a good salesman.”
