If I Should Die

his peace.

While Kyle handled a variety of calls from murder to petty theft, the bulk of his duties were investigating traffic fatalities. The roads were not kind, especially to inattentive drivers and those unfortunate enough to cross their path.

He’d just come from a particularly nasty crash-a truck went over the guardrail up on Route 56 outside Colton two nights ago, landing in the reservoir. They didn’t have the equipment to bring the vehicle up until this morning, and when they did, there was no dead driver behind the wheel. The truck was being taken to the police yard for inspection while a team was finishing up the preliminary accident report, based on the physical evidence. Kyle was certain drunk driving was the cause. Based on the skid marks leading to the crash site, the truck had been going far too fast for the road. While there was no body, the driver could easily have been thrown from the truck and be at the bottom of the lake. They’d searched up and down both sides of the lake downstream and found nothing. They’d send down divers this weekend.

The truck was registered to James Benson. He had a deputy working on finding next of kin for Benson, a firefighter stationed up in Indian Hills. He was a single man of thirty-two with no offspring.

All Kyle wanted to do now was go home to Laurie and the kids and forget the senseless accident. Play some games, maybe barbeque some ribs, and listen to his three boys laugh.

“Hello, Margo,” he said to the secretary/clerk/office manager. He didn’t remember Margo’s official title, but the Sheriff’s Department would fall apart without her at the helm.

“Mrs. Fletcher called about the duplex on the corner of Elm and Sycamore. Three visitors between midnight and four a.m.”

“Maybe Mrs. Fletcher should take an extra sleeping pill,” Kyle muttered. The woman slept so lightly that she could hear a fly snore.

“The courthouse called to let you know that Jeremy Fisher cut a deal on the assault charges and you won’t be needed in court on Monday.”

“My day just got better.”

Margo looked at him blandly and said, “And a private investigator stopped by regarding a case he said Deputy Weddle is working.”

Kyle took the business card and message from Margo. Sean Rogan, Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid Investigative Services, Eastern Office. Sounded impressive, but P.I.s liked to bullshit. When he’d been a cop in Philly, he’d dealt with enough low-life P.I.s that he didn’t hold out hope that Rogan was any different.

He expected a message from Margo, but Rogan had written the note himself.

Detective-

I’m inquiring about the status of the investigation into the missing body of the female victim found in the Kelley Mine on Travers Peak outside Spruce Lake, as well as the statement myself and Ms. Lucy Kincaid gave to Deputy Weddle regarding evidence visually identified in the mine this morning, specifically hair strands and insects first observed on the dead woman before she disappeared.

I’ve been retained by Tim Hendrickson, who owns the property adjacent to the mine and has been the subject of escalating acts of sabotage aimed at preventing him and his brother from opening a family resort, which was approved by the county. I am interested in the status of this investigation as it may be related to my own. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.

— Sean Rogan

“I’m lost,” Kyle said.

“According to Deputy Weddle’s report, he closed the case yesterday after Fire and Rescue determined it was a crank call.”

“Crank call?”

“No body was found in the mine.”

Kyle was royally confused. “Track down Tyler. I want to talk to him before I call this P.I. back.”

“Yes, Detective.” She picked up her phone.

Kyle went to his small office and pulled up the report on the computer. A call came in from Hendrickson on Wednesday about an arson fire and the corpse in the mine. Two different locations. The arson investigation was active and assigned to the county fire marshal’s office. Standard. The other call was a prank?

Something didn’t jibe. He read Weddle’s notes.

… No body was found in the mine at the location Ms. Kincaid identified. They searched the immediate area, but no sign of any body, or evidence of violence, was seen. The area where Ms. Kincaid claimed to have seen the body is heavily shadowed, and an overactive imagination could easily have “seen” a dead person. When questioned, Ms. Kincaid admitted she didn’t approach the “body” but ran back to the mine shaft. This officer doesn’t believe the false report had been malicious, but simply a scared young woman who saw “something” in the dark.

Weddle had closed the case. So what evidence was Rogan talking about?

“Margo?” Kyle called out into the main room. “Did Weddle log in any evidence today?”

“No, Detective.”

“Have you reached him?”

“He’s off duty. I left a message.”

Kyle glanced at the clock. 3:10. Typical of Weddle and a few others who didn’t raise a finger after they clocked out. When their budget was slashed and overtime had to be preapproved, half the deputies protested by clocking in and out right on time. Most went back to the old way, but a few, like Weddle, didn’t.

Kyle didn’t have a college degree, but he’d been a cop for over twenty years. A good cop. He smelled something rotten, and feared it was his own deputy. Kyle almost called the P.I., then decided to wait. He needed something more than his gut instinct before he brought the situation to the sheriff, who was currently in Albany fighting for more funding. Ever since the state screwed the counties in the last budget, they’d been unable to hire more deputies, upgrade their computer system, or perform more than minimal maintenance on the county jail. Tyler Weddle had better have a logical-and provable-explanation for the conflicting information or Kyle would string him up.

The only thing Kyle hated more than an unrepentant criminal was a bad cop.

Margo buzzed him. He didn’t want to answer-thirty minutes until he was off-duty-but of course he did.

“We found Mr. Benson’s next of kin,” she said. “He’s the legal guardian of his seventeen-year-old nephew.”

Kyle rubbed his face. Damn. A minor.

“Do you want me to have a deputy inform the family?”

“Where does he live?”

“Spruce Lake.”

“Send me the address; I’ll do it.” Kyle’s instincts were buzzing. Spruce Lake, of all places-he never heard anything out of that dead mining town for the last six years since Paul Swain’s drug operation was busted, and in two days there was a report of arson, a dead body, a missing dead body, and now a firefighter was apparently dead in a car accident, but his body couldn’t be found.

He definitely wanted to pay a visit to Spruce Lake.

As Ricky pulled out of the high school parking lot that afternoon, he thought he saw Sean Rogan, the guy he’d tricked into falling down the mine shaft.

He had to be wrong.

When he looked again, he didn’t see anything but a blur of the white truck as it made a U-turn and went in the opposite direction. Ricky tried to breathe easier, told himself his mind was playing tricks on him, but that didn’t help. It was guilt, he knew, that had him on edge. He was relieved Rogan hadn’t died, but he hadn’t been able to eat or sleep much in the last two days. He knew he’d survived the fall-everyone in town had heard about the friend of Tim Hendrickson’s who’d fallen down the mine in pursuit of an arsonist-but that didn’t appease Ricky.

He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror until he was confident that Rogan, if it had been Rogan, wasn’t following him. He decided to take a roundabout way home, partly because he really didn’t want to face his uncle right now. Uncle Jimmy had been furious when he first found out Ricky had been working for Reverend Browne. That was months ago.