Lost Lake

  Lost Lake

  Phillip Margolin

  Phillip Margolin

  Lost Lake

  PROLOGUE

  LOST LAKE, CALIFORNIA-1985

  Deputy Sheriff Aaron Harney pulled his cruiser onto a grassy strip at the side of the road and rolled down his window. The clean mountain air felt good after the day’s oppressive heat. He lit up and watched the smoke from his cigarette drift toward the diamond-bright stars that glittered above Lost Lake. Life didn’t get much better than this.

  Harney was a local boy who’d seen a little of the world during a hitch in the army and had decided that Lost Lake was the only place on earth that he wanted to live. There was fishing, there was hunting, and there was Sally Ann Ryder, his high school sweetheart. What more could you want out of life than a day outdoors and an evening with a cold beer and the woman of your dreams?

  Harney’s choice of career had been a no-brainer. He had been an MP in the military. The sheriff had been glad to sign him up. Harney had no political ambitions, and he did what he was told without complaint. Take tonight, for instance. There had been some vandalism in the expensive summer homes that were scattered along the shoreline of the lake, and Sheriff Basehart had assigned Harney to patrol them. Everyone was pretty certain that the vandalism was the work of townies, resentful of the fat cats who summered at the lake and then deserted to San Francisco at the first sign of bad weather. Harney even thought he knew which kids had broken the picture windows in the Fremont and McHenry homes. He doubted that the little bastards would be back at it tonight, but the sheriff wasn’t taking chances with his biggest contributors, and Harney was perfectly content to cruise the lake on this beautiful summer evening.

  From where he was sitting, the deputy could see the flat black outline of Congressman Eric Glass’s modern log cabin on the far shore. Last year, Harney had been part of the security detail for the congressman’s fund-raiser cookout. That was some house. In the back the lawn sloped down to the dock where the congressman moored his speedboat. You couldn’t see the boat or the dock in the dark, but Harney remembered them and the narrow path that led through the woods to a tennis court. Imagine having your own tennis court. Harney wondered what the house had cost. A hell of a lot more than he could afford on a policeman’s salary, that was for sure.

  A scream shattered the stillness. Harney bolted upright and crushed out his cigarette. The mountain air played funny tricks with sound, but Harney thought that the scream came from Glass’s place. He made a U-turn and gunned the engine.

  It took five minutes to circle the lake, and Harney’s imagination worked overtime as he drove. Police work in Lost Lake was calming down drunks at the Timber Topper, handling an occasional domestic disturbance, and handing out traffic tickets to teenage speeders. Harney had never had to deal with a bloodcurdling scream in the dead of night.

  A long dirt driveway led from the road to the house. Harney killed his headlights and turned onto it. He wasn’t in any hurry to find the source of that scream. When he couldn’t put it off any longer, the deputy unholstered his gun, got out of his car, and stood in the dark, listening carefully. An owl hooted and a sudden gust of wind off the lake rustled branches in the forest. Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of an outboard engine.

  Harney walked slowly through the trees that bordered the drive until he reached the front lawn. He glanced around nervously, half expecting someone to leap out of the dark woods. Harney had radioed for backup, but the Lost Lake force was small and he would be on his own for a while. The deputy took a deep breath, crouched low, and raced across the lawn. He pressed against the side of the house, then edged forward until he could see through a window. There was light deep inside the house, but he couldn’t hear any sound.

  Harney sprinted past the window and tried the front door. It was locked. He remembered a door off the back terrace. The deputy spun around the corner. Nothing. He fanned his gun back and forth across the side lawn as he crept toward the back of the house. His chest felt tight. The brick patio was as he remembered it. A barbecue grill stood at one end. He could make out the silhouette of a speedboat bobbing next to the dock.

  A noise drew his eye toward the footpath that led to the tennis court. A ghost staggered out of the woods. Harney stretched the muzzle of his gun toward the apparition.

  “Hold it there,” he commanded, trying to keep the fear from his voice. A woman froze, her eyes wide with fright. She was wearing a long white T-shirt, and she swayed back and forth on unsteady legs.

  “He’s dead,” she said. She sounded dazed.

  “Who’s dead?” Harney asked as he searched the woods and the lawn for any sign of movement.

  “Carl killed him.”

  The back door was open. Harney hadn’t noticed at first, but his eyes were getting used to the dark.

  “Is there anyone inside?” he asked.

  “He’s dead,” the woman repeated as she stared into the darkness with eyes that did not focus. Harney wondered if she’d understood the question or even knew that he was there.

  “Let’s go inside,” Harney said gently as he backed toward the house, scanning the yard while watching the woman out of the corner of his eye. He reached out slowly and touched her shoulder. The contact shook her and she stepped back, but her eyes focused on Harney for the first time.

  “It’s okay. I’m a sheriff’s deputy. More police are coming.”

  Harney found a wall switch. They were in the kitchen. With the lights on he could see that the woman was beautiful. He put her in her mid-twenties. Her hair was blond and cut short, and her eyes were pale blue.

  “You said someone was dead. Are they inside?”

  She nodded.

  “Can you show me where?”

  The woman pointed down a hall that led to the kitchen. Harney remembered a home office midway down and a huge living room at the end of it. The light he’d seen from the front window was coming from the office. Harney closed the back door and locked it. Then he sat the woman at a small table in a nook that looked out at the lake.

  “You said that someone named Carl killed someone. Is Carl still here?”

  She shook her head.

  “He’s gone?” Harney asked to make sure.

  She nodded.

  “Okay, stay here. I’ll be right back. Is that okay?”

  She nodded again, but her body tightened and he could see that being left by herself terrified her.

  “It’ll be okay. My friends will be here soon.”

  Harney waited a moment for her response. When she made none, he edged down the hall with his gun leading the way. After a few steps, Harney got a whiff of an odor that brought to mind the day, last year, when he had answered a complaint about a domestic dispute and walked into a blood-bathed bedroom where a murder-suicide had just played out. The deputy swallowed hard and forced himself down the hall. When he reached the office he spun into the doorway. His stomach rolled and he fought the urge to throw up. In the background he heard the sound of sirens. In the foreground was Eric Glass.

  The congressman was seated in a ladder-back chair. His arms and ankles were stretched tight and secured to the back of the chair with tape, making him vulnerable to any assault. Glass was wearing only cotton pajama bottoms. They were soaked with blood from the jagged wounds crisscrossing his torso. His head was tipped forward, and his chin rested on his chest. Harney crouched down and got a good view of Glass’s bruised and bloodied face.

  Bubble lights illuminated the living room and car doors slammed. Harney spoke into his radio, telling the officers to go around the back before he reentered the kitchen. The woman was sitting where he had left her. She was leaning forward, cradling her head in her arms. Harney unlocked the back door, then sat beside her.


  “Who did this?” he asked quietly.

  The woman looked up. She was exhausted. Her eyes were red-rimmed and tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “Carl killed him,” she answered. “Carl Rice.”

  Aaron Harney heard the helicopter before he saw it. He shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the sky until he found the source of the “whup-whup” sound dropping through the clouds toward the helipad on the hospital roof. Sheriff Basehart stood beside his deputy. He was a big man who had returned to Lost Lake after a brief career as a cop in San Francisco and had served as a deputy for a few years before running unopposed for sheriff when his predecessor retired. He’d held the post for eleven years.

  The helicopter settled on the roof. A miniature tornado stirred up by the rotor blades threatened to rip the Stetson off Basehart’s head, and he grabbed the brim that shaded his ruddy face. As soon as the helicopter’s hatch opened, a stocky, muscular white man dressed in jeans and a light tan jacket jumped to the ground. He was followed immediately by a tall, wiry black man with a shaved head dressed in khakis and a denim jacket. They surveyed the rooftop before the stocky man nodded toward the interior of the copter. Seconds later, a tall, square-shouldered man wearing the uniform of a general stepped out of the plane, followed by a man with a styled salt-and-pepper mane dressed in a charcoal-gray business suit.

  General Morris Wingate spotted the sheriff and strode across the roof. Something about him made Harney stiffen his spine and stand tall. If the General had given him an order, Harney knew he would have obeyed instantly, but General Wingate ignored Harney and focused on the sheriff. The General’s aides stood a few steps behind the General and the other man, their eyes moving back and forth across the roof as if they were in a combat zone. Harney saw the butt end of a weapon under the black man’s jacket.

  “General Wingate?” Basehart asked.

  The General nodded. “And this is Dr. Ernest Post. He’s a psychiatrist. I want him to take a look at my daughter.”

  “I’m Earl Basehart, sir, the sheriff of Lost Lake. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. What is my daughter’s condition?”

  “You’ll need to speak to Dr. Stewart to get precise information, but he told me that she’s in shock. Quite frankly I’m not surprised.” He shook his head. “Seeing something like that.” He shook his head a second time. “We had seasoned officers who were upset.”

  “Has she told you what happened?”

  Basehart nodded toward Harney. “My deputy is the one who found her. Like I told you on the phone, she told him that a man named Carl Rice murdered the congressman. We haven’t been able to get much more out of her. She was hysterical. We had her transported to the hospital, immediately. She’s under sedation now.”

  “Have you found Rice?”

  “Not yet. We have an APB out and we’ve alerted the police in the surrounding areas. Unfortunately, he got a big jump on us.”

  “Do you have any information that would lead you to believe that Rice may still be in the vicinity? I’m concerned for my daughter’s safety.”

  “We don’t know where he is, but I have a deputy on duty outside your daughter’s room. We’re not taking any chances.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff,” Wingate said. “My daughter means everything to me. I appreciate the thoroughness with which you’ve conducted this investigation and the way you’ve treated her.”

  “Sir, do you know anything about this fellow Rice that can help us catch him?”

  “He went to high school with my daughter. He’s been to my home.”

  The General paused. He looked upset. “Carl is a seriously disturbed young man who was recently discharged from the service because of mental problems. He can be violent. He learned that my daughter had moved to Washington and reestablished contact with her. Given his mental condition, I have no idea what he thought about the state of their relationship. He may have imagined that my daughter and the congressman were lovers and become insanely jealous. From what you told me about the state of the body, this sounds like a crime of passion.”

  “I’m trying to be delicate here, sir, but this is a murder investigation…”

  “You do not have to walk on eggs with me, Sheriff. Please be blunt.”

  “Thank you. What was your daughter’s relationship with the congressman?”

  “She worked for Eric. That’s all I know.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Basehart said.

  “I’d like to see Vanessa, if I could.”

  “Right away,” Basehart said, reacting instantly. He led the way to the steel door that opened into the hospital from the roof. Harney rushed ahead to open it and followed Wingate, the doctor, Wingate’s aides, and the sheriff inside.

  The Lost Lake hospital had three stories and the general’s daughter was in a private room on the second floor. The sheriff led the way. A deputy was on guard outside the door. He stood up when he saw the men approaching.

  “Any problems, Dave?” Basehart asked.

  “Everything’s quiet.”

  “Okay. We’re going in for a visit. You and Aaron stay out here.”

  The General, his aides, Dr. Post, and the sheriff entered the room. Harney was about to say something to the other deputy when he heard a scream exactly like the one that had shattered the peace of his cigarette break on the shore of Lost Lake. He drew his gun as he wrenched open the door. When he stepped into the room, the General’s daughter was staring wide-eyed at her father as if she’d seen Satan.

  CHAPTER ONE

  PORTLAND, OREGON-THE PRESENT

  The organizers of the Portland Spring Art Fair had lucked out. It had been a very wet March in Oregon and the weather seers were predicting rain through most of April. But Mother Nature had redecorated in the nick of time, storing away the endless precipitation and gloomy black clouds for another day and setting out sunshine and clear blue skies for the weekend of the fair.

  Ami Vergano had dressed in a multicolored peasant skirt and a white blouse with short puffed sleeves to celebrate the pleasant weather. Ami was just over five-four and still had the solid build of the gymnast she’d been until she grew in high school. She kept her brown hair short because it was easy to care for. Her big brown eyes dominated her face. Circumstances had turned Ami serious, but her wide, bright smile could light up a room.

  Ami was delighted at the large crowds that were taking advantage of the first sunny days of spring to roam the Park Blocks in search of art. Her booth had attracted people since the fair opened, and three of her oils had sold already. She was putting the money from her most recent sale into her purse when someone spoke.

  “I like that. Is it imaginary or did you paint a real scene?”

  Ami turned and found a broad-shouldered man admiring one of her landscapes. His face had the tanned, leathery look of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. Ami figured him for five-ten and in his mid- to late forties. He was dressed in jeans, moccasins, and a plaid long-sleeved shirt. His long hair was gathered in a ponytail, and he had a scraggly mustache and goatee. He brought to mind the hippies of the peace and love generation in the 1960s.

  “That’s a forest glade not far from my house,” Ami said.

  “I love the way you’ve captured the light.”

  Ami smiled. “Thanks. You have no idea how long I worked to get it just right.”

  “Dan Morelli,” the man said, offering his hand. “I have the booth next door. I saw how many people have been going in and out of yours and decided to see what the fuss was all about.”

  “Ami Vergano,” she said as she took Morelli’s hand. It was large and comforting, like his smile. “What are you showing? I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a chance to look around yet.”

  “I build custom-made furniture. Take a peek if you get a chance.”

  “I will. Are you from around here? I haven’t seen you at our shows before.”

  “First time in Oregon,” Morelli said.


  “Where’s home?”

  “No place, really. I was an army brat. We moved from town to town. I’ve been living in Arizona, but it’s too dry. I like the woods, the ocean.”

  “There’s not much of that in Arizona.”

  “No, there’s not. Anyway, I heard about the fair and thought I’d see if I could get a few orders.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good. One fellow who stopped by just opened an accounting office and he wants a desk, bookshelves, and some other stuff. That should keep me busy for a while. Now I just have to find somewhere to stay and a place to work.”

  Ami hesitated. She didn’t know a thing about Morelli, but he seemed nice. She made a snap decision.

  “You might be in luck. I have an apartment over my garage that I rent out, and my studio is in a barn behind the house. It has plenty of room for carpentry. There’s even a workshop and power tools. A student was renting but he had to leave school early because of an illness in the family, so the apartment is empty.”

  “I have my own tools, but that does sound just right. Can I drive out after the fair shuts down and have a look?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s the rent?”

  She told him and Morelli smiled shyly. “I can make that.” He stepped out of Ami’s booth and looked over at his own. “Got to go. Looks like I have customers. I’d better sell something now that I have to pay rent.”

  Ami laughed and waved. “See you around five.”

  Morelli ducked out, and Ami wrapped her arms around herself. Finances had been tight since her tenant left. She could use the extra money. And it would be fun to have another artist around the place. Morelli seemed nice. She hoped it would work out.

  Ami Vergano closed the screen door as quietly as she could and stood on the front porch watching Daniel Morelli teach her ten-year-old son how to throw a curveball. They were in the front yard under the aged oak tree that Ami called Methuselah. Morelli was squatting beside Ryan and gently adjusting his fingers on the seams of a badly scuffed hardball that, along with his mitt, was her son’s prize possession. Ryan’s brow wrinkled as he concentrated on getting the grip right, oblivious of the darkness that was descending at the end of a perfect spring day.