Chapter Three
Allison Beatty resided in the optimistically named Shady Valley Resort and RV Park. In reality, it was nothing more than a collection of derelict trailers and mobile homes lined up in a single row overlooking a modest creek that branched off from Crescent Lake and eventually emptied into the Hudson a few miles west. A handful of scattered walnut and oak trees served to provide what shade could be found. The most dominant feature of the area was the Harrison Expressway, which even at nearly 11:00 at night still boasted a light stream of traffic.
A small sign at the entrance to the park cautioned against trespassers and solicitors, though Trixie wondered if there had ever been anyone to enforce that particular rule. The grounds were littered with everything from rusted bikes and broken toys to discarded fast-food bags and empty beer bottles. Trixie navigated the dirt drive carefully, skirting around an overturned red wagon that was missing one wheel and a dented metal trashcan someone had, for reasons unknown, left standing in the exact center of the road.
Most of the trailers were dark, but a few had lights on in one or more windows. Trixie inched along, reading the small, faded numbers painted on the wooden stumps in front of each lot. They found Allison's trailer about halfway along the row. Like the other homes around it, Allison's had definitely seen better days. There were a few places where the metal siding had been patched with large planks of unfinished plywood, and one window was boarded over. Concrete blocks served to prop up the front end, and a listing set of metal steps led up to the narrow door.
“Well,” Dan said slowly, “she's either up, or she sleeps with the lights and TV on.”
“Or she lives with someone else who's not in bed yet,” Trixie pointed out. “Only one way to find out.”
“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” Dan asked, frowning. “You could send anyone out here tomorrow. I recommend Bear for the job.”
Trixie's lips curved up in a faint smile. Nathaniel “Bear” Ninham had served as an officer of the SHPD for about five years, having moved to New York from his native Wisconsin to reconnect with his roots. Able to trace his ancestry all the way back to Daniel Ninham, last chief of the Wappinger tribe, Bear chose to make Sleepyside his home, explaining that family legend said his people had once lived and thrived in the area. At six-foot-six and topping two hundred and seventy pounds, Bear was known to coax confessions from suspects simply by walking into the interrogation room. He'd earned his nickname his first night on the job, after Lizzy had humorously, if somewhat tactlessly, wondered aloud if the department would even be able to order a uniform large enough for such a “great bear of a man.” Bear and Trixie had worked several cases together. They hadn't always seen eye-to-eye on things and he'd made it no secret that he was less than thrilled that she'd been promoted over him and several others he believed more qualified for the position. She knew that was going to come to a head sometime in the near future and she wasn't particularly looking forward to the inevitable confrontation.
“We may still need to send Bear out here at some point,” she said, “but he didn't exactly make a good impression on the residents when he accused them all of working together in the meth lab. I'm hoping Allison will see us as far less threatening and willingly answer our questions. Since she's not a suspect for now, she could just refuse to cooperate.”
“Yeah. I figured you were going to say something like that,” Dan grumbled. “You know, it would really suck if you managed to get yourself killed not twenty minutes after Grieg gave you that warning. Just sayin'.”
Trixie laughed lightly. “Dan! I'm only going to ask her a few questions. What on Earth do you think is going to happen?”
“Out here? Some strung-out tweeker taking pot shots at you the moment you leave the safety of this vehicle comes to mind.” He reached for the door. “You know what the hardest thing about this job is? Knowing the number of people who would tear me into a thousand bloody pieces if I ever let anything happen to you.”
“It's not your job to make sure nothing ever happens to me,” she responded coolly. “Funny how no one ever says anything to me about making sure you never run into serious trouble. But then, you're the big, bad Army vet. I'm just the little bitty girl playacting at being a policeman.”
“Whoa... okay. I was really just kidding, although I don't ever want to be the one to tell Uncle Liam something bad has happened to you. Trix, it sounds like we've got some serious issues to work through here. And that should probably happen sooner rather than later, by the way.”
Trixie regarded him blankly. “What does Regan have to do with anything?”
“Well, you are his favorite former BWG. Hell, I'm not even a hundred percent sure he likes me as much as he likes you, and I'm his only living relative.”
Trixie didn't even bother to hide rolling her eyes. “Oh, sheesh. C'mon.” She swung open her door and climbed down from her seat. The air was thick and heavy with smoke from the fire. This combined unpleasantly with a rancid odor wafting from a nearby trashcan. She could only guess what food and other items were rotting away in the can, probably after days of baking in the hot summer sun.
The trailer's steps creaked ominously as she took each one. Dan joined her despite his own misgivings about the soundness of the structure. Wordlessly, he positioned himself slightly in front of her and knocked on the frame of the screen door.
They heard someone moving around inside in the trailer, and Trixie saw the curtains of the window to her right twitch. Allison Beatty answered only after Dan knocked a second time, opening her door but leaving the screen shut. She was dressed in a stained tank top and bright red cotton shorts that did little to flatter her skeletal figure, and was holding an unlit cigarette in one hand. “Yeah?”
“Miss Beatty?” Dan said, reaching into his pocket for his badge. “I'm Sergeant Dan Mangan and this is Acting Chief-”
“I know who you are,” Allison cut in, her eyes narrowing as she regarded Dan with a scowl. “We went to school together. But you probably don't remember me, on account I wasn't one of your millionaire Glen Road friends.”
“Why does everyone always think my family is super wealthy?” Trixie asked Dan, one brow raised in sardonic amusement.
“Location, location, location,” Dan replied in kind.
“Hmmm. You may have something there,” she murmured thoughtfully, before turning a sharp gaze on the other woman. “Miss Beatty, we aren't here to discuss Sergeant Mangan's high school days and friendships. We have some questions about the self-storage fire and an attack on the Greysons that took place this afternoon.”
A wary look flickered across the store clerk's features. “What attack on the Greysons?”
“The Greysons were robbed this afternoon by two men who approached their house on foot, left them bound and gagged, and then stole their truck, a silver 2009 Ford F150. Have you seen this vehicle at all today since 3:00?”
“I... I might've. I thought I saw it drive by the store a little while before the fire. But it could've been another truck. It ain't like I was lookin' out for it.”
“Did anyone purchase gas at the station today and fill two cans?”
“Not today.”
Trixie studied the clerk. “But someone did sometime in the recent past?” she pressed, watching Allison's expression closely.
“A coupla days ago,” Allison replied grudgingly. “But it was somebody who does that a lot, so it doesn't mean it's got anything to do with the fire.”
“Who?”
“Greg Murphy. He comes into the station regular to get gas for the boats.”
“What boats?” Dan asked. “Is he a fisherman?”
“He runs the Cold Lake Campground. People can rent the motorboats even if they aren't staying overnight.”
“And he was the only one?” Trixie asked. “No one else? No one filled a couple of gas cans today?”
“I already said that, didn't I?”
“Did you get any strangers in today? Two young men on foot?”
“Coupla people who stopped in weren't local, but they were all in cars. Look... I really don't know nothing that could help you and you're makin' me miss my show. We can't all afford cable TV and DVRs.”
Trixie knew they wouldn't be getting anything more out of her for the night. “Thank you, Miss Beatty. We apologize for disturbing you so late. We may have some additional questions later, but we'll be sure to send an officer at a more appropriate time of day.”
“You do that,” Allison replied, shutting the door with a slight bang.
“And you have a good night, too, ma'am,” Dan said pleasantly to the closed door.
“Yes. We'll be going now,” Trixie added with a half-smile.
Trixie decided the easiest route home was to take the Expressway back north and cross over into Sleepyside via Jameson-Banks Road. Although the old FM 90A route was closer to the trailer park, that road was a winding mess of potholes and broken pavement. She avoided it whenever possible.
They were about a mile from town when her cell phone buzzed. “You're on speaker phone, so watch your words,” she said cheerfully by way of a greeting.
Honey Wheeler laughed in response. “Where are you, Trix? Are you out on a call? Is this a bad time?”
“Coming home from a call and no, this isn't a particularly bad time, though I question why you would assume I was up and happy to answer your call at... 11:20 at night? You could be disturbing my much-needed beauty sleep, for all you know.”
“Ha. I just drove by your place and curiously while your Jeep isn't in the drive, Dan's Mustang is.”
“Yeah. He's here with me.”
“Hi, Honey,” Dan drawled.
“Hey, Dan. Trixie, I thought being the new chief meant you could make someone else take the night calls?”
“Maybe on any other day,” Trixie responded. “I figured today was long and hard enough on everyone, though.”
“I'm betting it's been longer and harder for you than anyone else on the force,” Honey said perceptively. “And that includes you, Dan,” she added.
“You'll get no arguments from me,” Dan told her. “I was beginning to think I might have to toss her in the trunk and drive her home myself.”
“Well, I have the cure-all for that! Girls' Night Out, Trix. Friday night. We're meeting at the club for drinks at 7:00 and then going into town to catch a movie. You need to come. No excuses. Di and Ruth will be there, and Jim says McKayla can make it. She could use some time away from all the crazy wedding planning.”
“I'll do my best, Honey, but I can't promise anything.”
“Uh, huh. Dan? Would you please make sure she's at the club at 7:00? Even if you have to toss her in the trunk and drive her there yourself?”
“She's glaring at me right now, Honey,” Dan said with a grin. “I don't know if it would be wise to get in trouble with my new boss.”
“Just do it!” Honey exclaimed, clearly exasperated. “Trixie, we will see you there Friday. If you don't show up, don't be surprised if we hunt you down and kidnap you.”
“Honey... I will try, okay?”
“There is no 'try,'” Honey intoned. “There is only 'do.'”
“Good night, Honey....”
“Night, Trix. See you Friday.”
Trixie slowed to turn onto 3rd Street as she ended the call. “You know I really don't want to go on Friday, yeah?” she said with a sigh.
“It wouldn't kill you to get out and have some fun,” Dan said pointedly.
“My idea of fun does not include whatever chick flick we'll be seeing,” Trixie muttered. “And McKayla's idea of fun does not include me in any way, shape, or form, no matter how much Honey wants to believe otherwise.”
“I thought you two were getting along better?”
“If by better, you mean she's stopped openly accusing me of trying to steal her fiancé, then yeah. But she still makes it obvious how much she hates me. I'm surprised I'm even on the guest list for the wedding.”
Dan was silent for a moment, not sure how to respond. Jim Frayne had been Trixie's first and only serious boyfriend. They'd dated steadily for a few years while she was in high school, but then, at some point during her sophomore year at college, a period Dan privately called “Jim and Trixie Relationship Hell” began. For four tumultuous years, they went through so many break-ups and make-ups, Dan had completely lost count. There was never any cheating involved on either side, but somehow they just couldn't seem to make things really work. And then the final break-up had come not very long after Trixie's promotion to SHPD detective. Dan wasn't sure how, but he'd known, was absolutely certain even then, that Jim and Trixie were officially over for good. A few months later, Jim started dating a woman he knew through work, and not too long after that, he announced to his friends and family that he was engaged.
The animosity that had sprung up between Jim's ex-girlfriend and current fiancée was hardly a secret. Generally, Trixie refused to talk about it. Dan knew that most people suspected Trixie was at fault - that she'd been jealous and spiteful - but that had not been the case. While Trixie's demeanor toward the other woman was definitely, understandably cool, she had not, as far as Dan was concerned, done anything worthy of the level of McKayla's strong dislike.
If anyone was jealous, it was McKayla. And that was particularly unfortunate, because from what Dan could tell, otherwise, she was a nice woman who would make an excellent wife for Jim. But her treatment of Trixie currently meant that no matter how hard Honey tried to smooth things over, within their circle of friends, McKayla was only tolerated for Jim's sake, nothing more.
Dan glanced over at Trixie and sighed. “If you really don't want to go,” he offered, “you can use work for an excuse. I'll back you up.”
Trixie pulled her Jeep up onto her driveway next to his black Mustang and cut the engine before replying. “I dunno. I hate to disappoint Honey when I don't have to. The entire idea of a Girls' Night Out is making me incredibly tired at the moment, but that's probably just a consequence of today's insanity. I'll see how I feel in the morning.” She brought her hand up to cover a deep yawn. “Listen, would you be willing to drive out to Cold Lake tomorrow afternoon with me and talk to this Greg Murphy? Find out when he last got gas from the Shell station and anything else that might be relevant?”
“You're the boss, Chief. You say, 'We're going to Cold Lake,' and we're going to Cold Lake.”
“Huh. Maybe I could get used to this whole acting chief thing after all. I want you to do the talking, though, okay? I'd just like to take a look around.”
“Got it.” He shot her a speculative glance. “You want to look around because of the possible arson connection, or does this have something to do with those murders?”
“Both,” Trixie replied. “Obviously, we need to stay on top of the arson, but I'd like to look around, too. Get a clear picture of the place in my head. The last time I went to the Cold Lake Campground was during my very brief stint as a Brownie.”
“You were a Brownie?”
“I know, right? I didn't last very long. Too many rules. Not enough fun.”
“Did you manage to earn a single badge?” Dan asked with a chuckle.
“Nope. Not a one. Pretty much, I failed out of Brownies. Sad, huh?”
“Aw. It's okay, Freckles,” Dan said with exaggerated sympathy, patting her shoulder. “There are other things you're good at.”
“Yeah. Too bad there wasn't some kind of 'Catching Counterfeiters' badge. I coulda so owned that one.” She grinned and shook her head. “All right. I'll call you tomorrow afternoon.”
“You want me to drive this time?”
“If you want. Doesn't really matter to me.”
“It's no problem.”
Trixie popped open her door and slid out from behind the wheel, exhaling heavily. “Yeah. Stick a fork in me.”
As Dan climbed out of the vehicle, he frowned slightly. “Trixie, you look really beat. You don't have to go with me tomorrow. If I'm going to be the one questioning Murphy anyway, you don't need to be there for that. And it's not like you're going to be finding any actual evidence from the murders after all this time.”
“I'm not really looking for evidence,” she said. “You know how I am. I like to see things. I can imagine how the killer got the girls to the cabin, and I can imagine how he managed to kill them without somehow alerting the other campers, but... I can imagine it even better if I'm standing at the scene of the crime. I know it's all speculation on my part-”
“Trix? I don't even begin to pretend I get how your mind works,” Dan cut in. “All I know is you have an uncanny ability to take a jumbled pile of facts, your scary intuition, and your natural aptitude for criminal psychology and come up with answers when most of us are still trying to figure out if we even understand the questions. If you think going to Cold Lake will help you, that's all I need to know.”
She sent him a smile that was both grateful and weary at the same time. “See you tomorrow, Cowboy.”
Dan waited for her to go into her house and shut the door behind her, listening for the sound of the deadbolt turning in the lock, before he used his key fob to unlock his car door. He drove home to the small cottage he rented out on Albany Post Road, his mood pensive. He was worried. Between the Chief's death, the arson at the storage center, the attack on Mr. and Mrs. Greyson, and the suddenly resurrected case of the Cold Lake killings, Dan felt like a dark and brooding cloud had settled over Sleepyside. And Trixie would, no doubt, be at the center of what he suspected could prove to be a very violent storm of events. “By the pricking of my thumbs...” he quoted softly to himself as he pulled into his garage.
As exhausted as he was, he spent a good long hour lying in the dark in his bedroom, staring at the shadows on his ceiling, lost in thought.
The following morning dawned bright and sunny, with the promise of another scorching day. Trixie glanced at the cloudless sky outside her kitchen window and wished for rain to come and cool things down even slightly. As she made herself a strawberry-banana smoothie for breakfast, she considered whether or not she would be attending Honey's Friday night get-together. The idea of spending hours in McKayla Collins company was unappealing at best. She knew how badly Honey wanted her best friend and her future sister-in-law to get along, but it was hard for Trixie to constantly overlook all the not-so-subtle jibes and insults McKayla fired at her every time they met. Trixie was self-aware enough to recognize that McKayla was much better suited to Jim than she herself had ever been, and she believed her ex-boyfriend was genuinely happy and in love, but she couldn't understand the continued hostility McKayla displayed toward her. How did that make sense? McKayla had won the guy. Trixie was the loser in this equation.
She sighed as she decided to set aside that train of thought for the time being and instead concentrate on the papers the Chief had left for her. She took the time to call and check in at the station, getting an update on all activities and reports, then carried her breakfast and the files into her sunroom, sitting down on one of the white wicker chairs set around a matching table.
The jangle of the home phone startled her. No one ever called the house line. Trixie still tended to think of it as Felicity Belden's number, and all her friends, family, and colleagues used her cell phone when they wanted to reach her. She crossed quickly to the room's extension, looking down at the device in some bemusement, wondering if she should be surprised that it still worked at all. She dutifully paid the phone bill each month, even though she'd never been able to come up with a genuinely valid reason to do so, but to the best of her knowledge, in the three years since she'd moved in, she'd used the house line less than a dozen times. There was no caller ID feature on the phone and so she had only one way of determining the identity of her caller.
“Hello?”
“You need to watch yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
“A pretty little thing like you ought to be careful. Bad things happen to people who go sticking their noses where they don't belong. Even cops. Especially cops.”
“Who is this?” Trixie demanded, but she found she was speaking to a dial tone. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed to no one in particular as she returned the receiver to its cradle. “A crank call? Seriously? Someone's been watching too many old movies!”
She briefly considered dismissing the caller and getting back to her breakfast, but she knew she was obligated to phone the incident in. Whether she liked it or not, the caller had issued a veiled threat, and as Acting Chief, she was responsible for reporting it, no matter how foolish she felt doing so. Amy Winters, the day dispatcher and receptionist, patched her through to Bear. Trixie quickly explained the call, and asked Bear to pull the records for her house line and then fill out an incident sheet to leave on her desk.
“You want this top priority?” Bear asked.
Trixie was fully aware of the context behind his question. Was she going to put herself ahead of the current case load, like a frightened little girl? “Of course not,” she snapped impatiently. “Just fill out the report and leave it for me, all right? We have much more serious things to worry about. And I want everyone who's on duty today but not on patrol in the station at 11:00 for a full briefing. Except Sergeant Mangan. I gave him the morning off after working late last night.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied a little too sharply.
Trixie decided to ignore his tone. “Good. Thank you, Detective.” She disconnected the call and returned to her breakfast. Hopefully, that was going to be the last interruption she had to deal with for at least an hour or so.
She spread the papers from the files out on the table, studying them for a moment. What she needed to do first, she supposed, was design a plan of action, just as she would for any case. Sure, this particular case was so cold it was frozen, but the basic rules of a good investigation would still apply.
That meant drawing up a list of potential witnesses. Of course, considering the number of years that had passed since the murders took place, that was much easier said than done. She picked up the copy of the M.E. report. Lucinda Jackson's body showed evidence of periodic abuse. Was that important? It certainly seemed like it could be. The medical examiner's name was unfamiliar to her. If he was even still alive today, he would definitely be retired. And what of Lucinda's family? Would there be anyone she could track down and question? Or Jennifer Timmons family? As far as she could remember, they had moved from Sleepyside shortly after Morton Grody's trial and conviction. How hard would it be to find any of them now?
She would also need to question any police officers who had worked on the force at that time, if she could locate them. That was going to take a great deal of delicacy on her part, as she would be essentially adopting the role of internal affairs. Trixie grimaced at the thought. Diplomacy was a soft skill she definitely lacked.
And of course then there was Senator John Cleary. The idea of walking into his office and oh-so-calmly asking him about his involvement in the framing of an innocent itinerant worker screamed of reckless and dangerous behavior. Cleary portrayed himself as a “man of the people” who cared about all New Yorkers. Trixie didn't buy it. She never had. As far as she was concerned, politicians were generally the worst sort of people humanity could cough up. If the Chief's accusations were true, then Trixie would see Cleary taken down. She had no illusions on that score, though. She knew it was going to be difficult and tricky at best. The evidence would need to be rock solid and irrefutable.
She dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her eyes. Though she hated to give it any credence, her thoughts jumped to the phone call. It could have been about anything. The arson. The Greyson case. Possibly even the Cold Lake killings, though that seemed highly unlikely. How could anyone even know the Chief had sent her these files?
It might have been about nothing at all. A stupid prank call from someone else disgruntled with her appointment to acting chief.
With a soft groan, she pushed herself back from the table and stood. She needed to get herself cleaned up and ready for work. She'd called a briefing. The least she could do was show up for it. She would go into the station and make sure the officers were all aware of the events of the previous day and assigned specific duties to get the investigations fully rolling. After that, she would meet up with Dan and drive out to Cold Lake.
She looked again at the papers and clippings. There was something here. She was absolutely sure of that. She just needed to find it.
Allison Beatty resided in the optimistically named Shady Valley Resort and RV Park. In reality, it was nothing more than a collection of derelict trailers and mobile homes lined up in a single row overlooking a modest creek that branched off from Crescent Lake and eventually emptied into the Hudson a few miles west. A handful of scattered walnut and oak trees served to provide what shade could be found. The most dominant feature of the area was the Harrison Expressway, which even at nearly 11:00 at night still boasted a light stream of traffic.
A small sign at the entrance to the park cautioned against trespassers and solicitors, though Trixie wondered if there had ever been anyone to enforce that particular rule. The grounds were littered with everything from rusted bikes and broken toys to discarded fast-food bags and empty beer bottles. Trixie navigated the dirt drive carefully, skirting around an overturned red wagon that was missing one wheel and a dented metal trashcan someone had, for reasons unknown, left standing in the exact center of the road.
Most of the trailers were dark, but a few had lights on in one or more windows. Trixie inched along, reading the small, faded numbers painted on the wooden stumps in front of each lot. They found Allison's trailer about halfway along the row. Like the other homes around it, Allison's had definitely seen better days. There were a few places where the metal siding had been patched with large planks of unfinished plywood, and one window was boarded over. Concrete blocks served to prop up the front end, and a listing set of metal steps led up to the narrow door.
“Well,” Dan said slowly, “she's either up, or she sleeps with the lights and TV on.”
“Or she lives with someone else who's not in bed yet,” Trixie pointed out. “Only one way to find out.”
“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” Dan asked, frowning. “You could send anyone out here tomorrow. I recommend Bear for the job.”
Trixie's lips curved up in a faint smile. Nathaniel “Bear” Ninham had served as an officer of the SHPD for about five years, having moved to New York from his native Wisconsin to reconnect with his roots. Able to trace his ancestry all the way back to Daniel Ninham, last chief of the Wappinger tribe, Bear chose to make Sleepyside his home, explaining that family legend said his people had once lived and thrived in the area. At six-foot-six and topping two hundred and seventy pounds, Bear was known to coax confessions from suspects simply by walking into the interrogation room. He'd earned his nickname his first night on the job, after Lizzy had humorously, if somewhat tactlessly, wondered aloud if the department would even be able to order a uniform large enough for such a “great bear of a man.” Bear and Trixie had worked several cases together. They hadn't always seen eye-to-eye on things and he'd made it no secret that he was less than thrilled that she'd been promoted over him and several others he believed more qualified for the position. She knew that was going to come to a head sometime in the near future and she wasn't particularly looking forward to the inevitable confrontation.
“We may still need to send Bear out here at some point,” she said, “but he didn't exactly make a good impression on the residents when he accused them all of working together in the meth lab. I'm hoping Allison will see us as far less threatening and willingly answer our questions. Since she's not a suspect for now, she could just refuse to cooperate.”
“Yeah. I figured you were going to say something like that,” Dan grumbled. “You know, it would really suck if you managed to get yourself killed not twenty minutes after Grieg gave you that warning. Just sayin'.”
Trixie laughed lightly. “Dan! I'm only going to ask her a few questions. What on Earth do you think is going to happen?”
“Out here? Some strung-out tweeker taking pot shots at you the moment you leave the safety of this vehicle comes to mind.” He reached for the door. “You know what the hardest thing about this job is? Knowing the number of people who would tear me into a thousand bloody pieces if I ever let anything happen to you.”
“It's not your job to make sure nothing ever happens to me,” she responded coolly. “Funny how no one ever says anything to me about making sure you never run into serious trouble. But then, you're the big, bad Army vet. I'm just the little bitty girl playacting at being a policeman.”
“Whoa... okay. I was really just kidding, although I don't ever want to be the one to tell Uncle Liam something bad has happened to you. Trix, it sounds like we've got some serious issues to work through here. And that should probably happen sooner rather than later, by the way.”
Trixie regarded him blankly. “What does Regan have to do with anything?”
“Well, you are his favorite former BWG. Hell, I'm not even a hundred percent sure he likes me as much as he likes you, and I'm his only living relative.”
Trixie didn't even bother to hide rolling her eyes. “Oh, sheesh. C'mon.” She swung open her door and climbed down from her seat. The air was thick and heavy with smoke from the fire. This combined unpleasantly with a rancid odor wafting from a nearby trashcan. She could only guess what food and other items were rotting away in the can, probably after days of baking in the hot summer sun.
The trailer's steps creaked ominously as she took each one. Dan joined her despite his own misgivings about the soundness of the structure. Wordlessly, he positioned himself slightly in front of her and knocked on the frame of the screen door.
They heard someone moving around inside in the trailer, and Trixie saw the curtains of the window to her right twitch. Allison Beatty answered only after Dan knocked a second time, opening her door but leaving the screen shut. She was dressed in a stained tank top and bright red cotton shorts that did little to flatter her skeletal figure, and was holding an unlit cigarette in one hand. “Yeah?”
“Miss Beatty?” Dan said, reaching into his pocket for his badge. “I'm Sergeant Dan Mangan and this is Acting Chief-”
“I know who you are,” Allison cut in, her eyes narrowing as she regarded Dan with a scowl. “We went to school together. But you probably don't remember me, on account I wasn't one of your millionaire Glen Road friends.”
“Why does everyone always think my family is super wealthy?” Trixie asked Dan, one brow raised in sardonic amusement.
“Location, location, location,” Dan replied in kind.
“Hmmm. You may have something there,” she murmured thoughtfully, before turning a sharp gaze on the other woman. “Miss Beatty, we aren't here to discuss Sergeant Mangan's high school days and friendships. We have some questions about the self-storage fire and an attack on the Greysons that took place this afternoon.”
A wary look flickered across the store clerk's features. “What attack on the Greysons?”
“The Greysons were robbed this afternoon by two men who approached their house on foot, left them bound and gagged, and then stole their truck, a silver 2009 Ford F150. Have you seen this vehicle at all today since 3:00?”
“I... I might've. I thought I saw it drive by the store a little while before the fire. But it could've been another truck. It ain't like I was lookin' out for it.”
“Did anyone purchase gas at the station today and fill two cans?”
“Not today.”
Trixie studied the clerk. “But someone did sometime in the recent past?” she pressed, watching Allison's expression closely.
“A coupla days ago,” Allison replied grudgingly. “But it was somebody who does that a lot, so it doesn't mean it's got anything to do with the fire.”
“Who?”
“Greg Murphy. He comes into the station regular to get gas for the boats.”
“What boats?” Dan asked. “Is he a fisherman?”
“He runs the Cold Lake Campground. People can rent the motorboats even if they aren't staying overnight.”
“And he was the only one?” Trixie asked. “No one else? No one filled a couple of gas cans today?”
“I already said that, didn't I?”
“Did you get any strangers in today? Two young men on foot?”
“Coupla people who stopped in weren't local, but they were all in cars. Look... I really don't know nothing that could help you and you're makin' me miss my show. We can't all afford cable TV and DVRs.”
Trixie knew they wouldn't be getting anything more out of her for the night. “Thank you, Miss Beatty. We apologize for disturbing you so late. We may have some additional questions later, but we'll be sure to send an officer at a more appropriate time of day.”
“You do that,” Allison replied, shutting the door with a slight bang.
“And you have a good night, too, ma'am,” Dan said pleasantly to the closed door.
“Yes. We'll be going now,” Trixie added with a half-smile.
Trixie decided the easiest route home was to take the Expressway back north and cross over into Sleepyside via Jameson-Banks Road. Although the old FM 90A route was closer to the trailer park, that road was a winding mess of potholes and broken pavement. She avoided it whenever possible.
They were about a mile from town when her cell phone buzzed. “You're on speaker phone, so watch your words,” she said cheerfully by way of a greeting.
Honey Wheeler laughed in response. “Where are you, Trix? Are you out on a call? Is this a bad time?”
“Coming home from a call and no, this isn't a particularly bad time, though I question why you would assume I was up and happy to answer your call at... 11:20 at night? You could be disturbing my much-needed beauty sleep, for all you know.”
“Ha. I just drove by your place and curiously while your Jeep isn't in the drive, Dan's Mustang is.”
“Yeah. He's here with me.”
“Hi, Honey,” Dan drawled.
“Hey, Dan. Trixie, I thought being the new chief meant you could make someone else take the night calls?”
“Maybe on any other day,” Trixie responded. “I figured today was long and hard enough on everyone, though.”
“I'm betting it's been longer and harder for you than anyone else on the force,” Honey said perceptively. “And that includes you, Dan,” she added.
“You'll get no arguments from me,” Dan told her. “I was beginning to think I might have to toss her in the trunk and drive her home myself.”
“Well, I have the cure-all for that! Girls' Night Out, Trix. Friday night. We're meeting at the club for drinks at 7:00 and then going into town to catch a movie. You need to come. No excuses. Di and Ruth will be there, and Jim says McKayla can make it. She could use some time away from all the crazy wedding planning.”
“I'll do my best, Honey, but I can't promise anything.”
“Uh, huh. Dan? Would you please make sure she's at the club at 7:00? Even if you have to toss her in the trunk and drive her there yourself?”
“She's glaring at me right now, Honey,” Dan said with a grin. “I don't know if it would be wise to get in trouble with my new boss.”
“Just do it!” Honey exclaimed, clearly exasperated. “Trixie, we will see you there Friday. If you don't show up, don't be surprised if we hunt you down and kidnap you.”
“Honey... I will try, okay?”
“There is no 'try,'” Honey intoned. “There is only 'do.'”
“Good night, Honey....”
“Night, Trix. See you Friday.”
Trixie slowed to turn onto 3rd Street as she ended the call. “You know I really don't want to go on Friday, yeah?” she said with a sigh.
“It wouldn't kill you to get out and have some fun,” Dan said pointedly.
“My idea of fun does not include whatever chick flick we'll be seeing,” Trixie muttered. “And McKayla's idea of fun does not include me in any way, shape, or form, no matter how much Honey wants to believe otherwise.”
“I thought you two were getting along better?”
“If by better, you mean she's stopped openly accusing me of trying to steal her fiancé, then yeah. But she still makes it obvious how much she hates me. I'm surprised I'm even on the guest list for the wedding.”
Dan was silent for a moment, not sure how to respond. Jim Frayne had been Trixie's first and only serious boyfriend. They'd dated steadily for a few years while she was in high school, but then, at some point during her sophomore year at college, a period Dan privately called “Jim and Trixie Relationship Hell” began. For four tumultuous years, they went through so many break-ups and make-ups, Dan had completely lost count. There was never any cheating involved on either side, but somehow they just couldn't seem to make things really work. And then the final break-up had come not very long after Trixie's promotion to SHPD detective. Dan wasn't sure how, but he'd known, was absolutely certain even then, that Jim and Trixie were officially over for good. A few months later, Jim started dating a woman he knew through work, and not too long after that, he announced to his friends and family that he was engaged.
The animosity that had sprung up between Jim's ex-girlfriend and current fiancée was hardly a secret. Generally, Trixie refused to talk about it. Dan knew that most people suspected Trixie was at fault - that she'd been jealous and spiteful - but that had not been the case. While Trixie's demeanor toward the other woman was definitely, understandably cool, she had not, as far as Dan was concerned, done anything worthy of the level of McKayla's strong dislike.
If anyone was jealous, it was McKayla. And that was particularly unfortunate, because from what Dan could tell, otherwise, she was a nice woman who would make an excellent wife for Jim. But her treatment of Trixie currently meant that no matter how hard Honey tried to smooth things over, within their circle of friends, McKayla was only tolerated for Jim's sake, nothing more.
Dan glanced over at Trixie and sighed. “If you really don't want to go,” he offered, “you can use work for an excuse. I'll back you up.”
Trixie pulled her Jeep up onto her driveway next to his black Mustang and cut the engine before replying. “I dunno. I hate to disappoint Honey when I don't have to. The entire idea of a Girls' Night Out is making me incredibly tired at the moment, but that's probably just a consequence of today's insanity. I'll see how I feel in the morning.” She brought her hand up to cover a deep yawn. “Listen, would you be willing to drive out to Cold Lake tomorrow afternoon with me and talk to this Greg Murphy? Find out when he last got gas from the Shell station and anything else that might be relevant?”
“You're the boss, Chief. You say, 'We're going to Cold Lake,' and we're going to Cold Lake.”
“Huh. Maybe I could get used to this whole acting chief thing after all. I want you to do the talking, though, okay? I'd just like to take a look around.”
“Got it.” He shot her a speculative glance. “You want to look around because of the possible arson connection, or does this have something to do with those murders?”
“Both,” Trixie replied. “Obviously, we need to stay on top of the arson, but I'd like to look around, too. Get a clear picture of the place in my head. The last time I went to the Cold Lake Campground was during my very brief stint as a Brownie.”
“You were a Brownie?”
“I know, right? I didn't last very long. Too many rules. Not enough fun.”
“Did you manage to earn a single badge?” Dan asked with a chuckle.
“Nope. Not a one. Pretty much, I failed out of Brownies. Sad, huh?”
“Aw. It's okay, Freckles,” Dan said with exaggerated sympathy, patting her shoulder. “There are other things you're good at.”
“Yeah. Too bad there wasn't some kind of 'Catching Counterfeiters' badge. I coulda so owned that one.” She grinned and shook her head. “All right. I'll call you tomorrow afternoon.”
“You want me to drive this time?”
“If you want. Doesn't really matter to me.”
“It's no problem.”
Trixie popped open her door and slid out from behind the wheel, exhaling heavily. “Yeah. Stick a fork in me.”
As Dan climbed out of the vehicle, he frowned slightly. “Trixie, you look really beat. You don't have to go with me tomorrow. If I'm going to be the one questioning Murphy anyway, you don't need to be there for that. And it's not like you're going to be finding any actual evidence from the murders after all this time.”
“I'm not really looking for evidence,” she said. “You know how I am. I like to see things. I can imagine how the killer got the girls to the cabin, and I can imagine how he managed to kill them without somehow alerting the other campers, but... I can imagine it even better if I'm standing at the scene of the crime. I know it's all speculation on my part-”
“Trix? I don't even begin to pretend I get how your mind works,” Dan cut in. “All I know is you have an uncanny ability to take a jumbled pile of facts, your scary intuition, and your natural aptitude for criminal psychology and come up with answers when most of us are still trying to figure out if we even understand the questions. If you think going to Cold Lake will help you, that's all I need to know.”
She sent him a smile that was both grateful and weary at the same time. “See you tomorrow, Cowboy.”
Dan waited for her to go into her house and shut the door behind her, listening for the sound of the deadbolt turning in the lock, before he used his key fob to unlock his car door. He drove home to the small cottage he rented out on Albany Post Road, his mood pensive. He was worried. Between the Chief's death, the arson at the storage center, the attack on Mr. and Mrs. Greyson, and the suddenly resurrected case of the Cold Lake killings, Dan felt like a dark and brooding cloud had settled over Sleepyside. And Trixie would, no doubt, be at the center of what he suspected could prove to be a very violent storm of events. “By the pricking of my thumbs...” he quoted softly to himself as he pulled into his garage.
As exhausted as he was, he spent a good long hour lying in the dark in his bedroom, staring at the shadows on his ceiling, lost in thought.
The following morning dawned bright and sunny, with the promise of another scorching day. Trixie glanced at the cloudless sky outside her kitchen window and wished for rain to come and cool things down even slightly. As she made herself a strawberry-banana smoothie for breakfast, she considered whether or not she would be attending Honey's Friday night get-together. The idea of spending hours in McKayla Collins company was unappealing at best. She knew how badly Honey wanted her best friend and her future sister-in-law to get along, but it was hard for Trixie to constantly overlook all the not-so-subtle jibes and insults McKayla fired at her every time they met. Trixie was self-aware enough to recognize that McKayla was much better suited to Jim than she herself had ever been, and she believed her ex-boyfriend was genuinely happy and in love, but she couldn't understand the continued hostility McKayla displayed toward her. How did that make sense? McKayla had won the guy. Trixie was the loser in this equation.
She sighed as she decided to set aside that train of thought for the time being and instead concentrate on the papers the Chief had left for her. She took the time to call and check in at the station, getting an update on all activities and reports, then carried her breakfast and the files into her sunroom, sitting down on one of the white wicker chairs set around a matching table.
The jangle of the home phone startled her. No one ever called the house line. Trixie still tended to think of it as Felicity Belden's number, and all her friends, family, and colleagues used her cell phone when they wanted to reach her. She crossed quickly to the room's extension, looking down at the device in some bemusement, wondering if she should be surprised that it still worked at all. She dutifully paid the phone bill each month, even though she'd never been able to come up with a genuinely valid reason to do so, but to the best of her knowledge, in the three years since she'd moved in, she'd used the house line less than a dozen times. There was no caller ID feature on the phone and so she had only one way of determining the identity of her caller.
“Hello?”
“You need to watch yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
“A pretty little thing like you ought to be careful. Bad things happen to people who go sticking their noses where they don't belong. Even cops. Especially cops.”
“Who is this?” Trixie demanded, but she found she was speaking to a dial tone. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” she exclaimed to no one in particular as she returned the receiver to its cradle. “A crank call? Seriously? Someone's been watching too many old movies!”
She briefly considered dismissing the caller and getting back to her breakfast, but she knew she was obligated to phone the incident in. Whether she liked it or not, the caller had issued a veiled threat, and as Acting Chief, she was responsible for reporting it, no matter how foolish she felt doing so. Amy Winters, the day dispatcher and receptionist, patched her through to Bear. Trixie quickly explained the call, and asked Bear to pull the records for her house line and then fill out an incident sheet to leave on her desk.
“You want this top priority?” Bear asked.
Trixie was fully aware of the context behind his question. Was she going to put herself ahead of the current case load, like a frightened little girl? “Of course not,” she snapped impatiently. “Just fill out the report and leave it for me, all right? We have much more serious things to worry about. And I want everyone who's on duty today but not on patrol in the station at 11:00 for a full briefing. Except Sergeant Mangan. I gave him the morning off after working late last night.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied a little too sharply.
Trixie decided to ignore his tone. “Good. Thank you, Detective.” She disconnected the call and returned to her breakfast. Hopefully, that was going to be the last interruption she had to deal with for at least an hour or so.
She spread the papers from the files out on the table, studying them for a moment. What she needed to do first, she supposed, was design a plan of action, just as she would for any case. Sure, this particular case was so cold it was frozen, but the basic rules of a good investigation would still apply.
That meant drawing up a list of potential witnesses. Of course, considering the number of years that had passed since the murders took place, that was much easier said than done. She picked up the copy of the M.E. report. Lucinda Jackson's body showed evidence of periodic abuse. Was that important? It certainly seemed like it could be. The medical examiner's name was unfamiliar to her. If he was even still alive today, he would definitely be retired. And what of Lucinda's family? Would there be anyone she could track down and question? Or Jennifer Timmons family? As far as she could remember, they had moved from Sleepyside shortly after Morton Grody's trial and conviction. How hard would it be to find any of them now?
She would also need to question any police officers who had worked on the force at that time, if she could locate them. That was going to take a great deal of delicacy on her part, as she would be essentially adopting the role of internal affairs. Trixie grimaced at the thought. Diplomacy was a soft skill she definitely lacked.
And of course then there was Senator John Cleary. The idea of walking into his office and oh-so-calmly asking him about his involvement in the framing of an innocent itinerant worker screamed of reckless and dangerous behavior. Cleary portrayed himself as a “man of the people” who cared about all New Yorkers. Trixie didn't buy it. She never had. As far as she was concerned, politicians were generally the worst sort of people humanity could cough up. If the Chief's accusations were true, then Trixie would see Cleary taken down. She had no illusions on that score, though. She knew it was going to be difficult and tricky at best. The evidence would need to be rock solid and irrefutable.
She dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her eyes. Though she hated to give it any credence, her thoughts jumped to the phone call. It could have been about anything. The arson. The Greyson case. Possibly even the Cold Lake killings, though that seemed highly unlikely. How could anyone even know the Chief had sent her these files?
It might have been about nothing at all. A stupid prank call from someone else disgruntled with her appointment to acting chief.
With a soft groan, she pushed herself back from the table and stood. She needed to get herself cleaned up and ready for work. She'd called a briefing. The least she could do was show up for it. She would go into the station and make sure the officers were all aware of the events of the previous day and assigned specific duties to get the investigations fully rolling. After that, she would meet up with Dan and drive out to Cold Lake.
She looked again at the papers and clippings. There was something here. She was absolutely sure of that. She just needed to find it.