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Authors: Stefanie Pintoff
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danger, for even his daydreams were a tangible sign that he was still working himself up to it. And my hope was that, with conscious effort, he could begin to change the direction of his thoughts and fantasies. Besides, the bodyguard provided us a mea sure of protection.”
“And why did his bodyguard not prevent this recent disappearance?”
Alistair looked uncomfortable. “We felt Michael was making such significant progress the bodyguard was no longer necessary. We dismissed him last summer.”
Botched private justice was what it was—no more and no less. And I didn’t understand it. To strive to learn why a man succumbed to a life of crime was well and good, but only when the stakes were hypothetical and no lives were at risk. Here, it seemed an innocent girl had died as a result of this failed experiment, and nothing Alistair Sinclair had learned could be worth that cost.
“Tell me more about what happened two weeks ago, when he vanished,” I asked quietly.
“There is no more. He simply disappeared. We last saw him October 22,” Alistair said.
“Did he have friends or other family he could have sought out?”
“None that we know of.” Alistair rested his chin on his hand. “His aunt was the only person he seems to have contacted regularly, and she has not heard from him.”
He stepped over to the bed and looked at the large bloodstain on the floor. He leaned down, examined the area more closely, and pointed to the mattress. “May I?”
I nodded in agreement, and watched unbelievingly as he pulled out what appeared to be a cloth—but was actually a heavily bloodstained envelope. Hidden underneath the mattress, it had seemed part of the stained bedclothes and thus escaped our attention. As Alistair opened the envelope to expose its contents he let forth a low whistle. “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty . . .” He continued counting the wad of money now uncovered. “There’s enough here to buy one of those newfangled Model T cars that just came out.”
Or to pay my salary for a year, a few times over, I thought silently. Aloud, I asked, “Assuming this money is Sarah’s, what could she possibly be doing with so much cash?”
Alistair shrugged, rewrapped the money, and handed it to me wordlessly.
I paused for a considerable time. “I suppose I should see more of your files on Michael Fromley. Are you available to take me to your offices now?” Although I phrased it as a polite request, my tone made clear that it was a demand.
“Absolutely,” he responded eagerly.
I stopped by 27 Main Street to deposit the money into the village safe and make the appropriate calls to clear my schedule for the day. Joe, returned from the autopsy, was more than happy to manage the investigation in Dobson without me. I took with me his scribbled summary of the autopsy findings. I would review what he and Dr. Fields had learned on the trip into the city.
The next Manhattan-bound ferry was already boarding when Alistair and I approached the landing.
I had one last question for Alistair as we took our places on the top deck of the ferry. “You mentioned earlier how the killer’s mind often progresses from first imagining his crime to then actually committing it. If you’re right, and Michael Fromley has just killed for the first time, does that make him even more likely to kill again?”
Alistair’s mouth set in a firm line. “I’d say it’s good odds.”
“Then we’d better find him straightaway,” I said.
I gazed onto the rocky banks that lined the Hudson’s shores, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether Alistair’s solution was not too simple, however compelling it might be. Was I chasing ared herring while the real murderer only slipped farther away? But no—the coincidences Alistair had mentioned were remarkable. They were coincidences of the sort that in good conscience I could not ignore. Not when the cost would be measured in human lives.
CHAPTER 5
Thick gray clouds overhead
“And why did his bodyguard not prevent this recent disappearance?”
Alistair looked uncomfortable. “We felt Michael was making such significant progress the bodyguard was no longer necessary. We dismissed him last summer.”
Botched private justice was what it was—no more and no less. And I didn’t understand it. To strive to learn why a man succumbed to a life of crime was well and good, but only when the stakes were hypothetical and no lives were at risk. Here, it seemed an innocent girl had died as a result of this failed experiment, and nothing Alistair Sinclair had learned could be worth that cost.
“Tell me more about what happened two weeks ago, when he vanished,” I asked quietly.
“There is no more. He simply disappeared. We last saw him October 22,” Alistair said.
“Did he have friends or other family he could have sought out?”
“None that we know of.” Alistair rested his chin on his hand. “His aunt was the only person he seems to have contacted regularly, and she has not heard from him.”
He stepped over to the bed and looked at the large bloodstain on the floor. He leaned down, examined the area more closely, and pointed to the mattress. “May I?”
I nodded in agreement, and watched unbelievingly as he pulled out what appeared to be a cloth—but was actually a heavily bloodstained envelope. Hidden underneath the mattress, it had seemed part of the stained bedclothes and thus escaped our attention. As Alistair opened the envelope to expose its contents he let forth a low whistle. “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty . . .” He continued counting the wad of money now uncovered. “There’s enough here to buy one of those newfangled Model T cars that just came out.”
Or to pay my salary for a year, a few times over, I thought silently. Aloud, I asked, “Assuming this money is Sarah’s, what could she possibly be doing with so much cash?”
Alistair shrugged, rewrapped the money, and handed it to me wordlessly.
I paused for a considerable time. “I suppose I should see more of your files on Michael Fromley. Are you available to take me to your offices now?” Although I phrased it as a polite request, my tone made clear that it was a demand.
“Absolutely,” he responded eagerly.
I stopped by 27 Main Street to deposit the money into the village safe and make the appropriate calls to clear my schedule for the day. Joe, returned from the autopsy, was more than happy to manage the investigation in Dobson without me. I took with me his scribbled summary of the autopsy findings. I would review what he and Dr. Fields had learned on the trip into the city.
The next Manhattan-bound ferry was already boarding when Alistair and I approached the landing.
I had one last question for Alistair as we took our places on the top deck of the ferry. “You mentioned earlier how the killer’s mind often progresses from first imagining his crime to then actually committing it. If you’re right, and Michael Fromley has just killed for the first time, does that make him even more likely to kill again?”
Alistair’s mouth set in a firm line. “I’d say it’s good odds.”
“Then we’d better find him straightaway,” I said.
I gazed onto the rocky banks that lined the Hudson’s shores, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether Alistair’s solution was not too simple, however compelling it might be. Was I chasing ared herring while the real murderer only slipped farther away? But no—the coincidences Alistair had mentioned were remarkable. They were coincidences of the sort that in good conscience I could not ignore. Not when the cost would be measured in human lives.
CHAPTER 5
Thick gray clouds overhead
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