“I need their names—the captain and his lieutenants.”
“Joe Beltz, Mitch Stacker, Bo Luckman.”
Gurney made a note of the names. “Do you know anyone else who might have had access to your father’s cabin?”
“I don’t know. His wife, I guess.”
“One more question. Did your father own any other real estate? Summer house, another cabin somewhere, anything like that?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But that doesn’t mean anything. My father is an iceberg. Most everything about him is below the surface. Why do you ask?”
“It’s a place he might be. Somewhere to stay out of sight. How about rentals? Leases? A place he might have used on hunting or fishing trips?”
“I don’t think he liked fishing.”
“Okay, Cory. Thanks for your help. If you think of anyone else who might have had access to his cabin, let me know.”
“Absolutely.”
Gurney ended the call.
Hardwick raised his Grolsch and took a long swallow. “That little fucker any help?”
“Yes and no. Apart from a growing list of unpleasant individuals—any one of whom could have seen where Beckert kept his cabin key—I’m not sure I know much more than I did before. I should get back to Mark Torres, see if he knows anything about Beckert’s associates.”
“Goddamn waste of time.” Hardwick punctuated his comment by putting his bottle down on the table with noticeable firmness. “Focusing on people with access to the cabin isn’t relevant to anything other than your double-framing idea—which is definitely on the batshit end of the hypothesis spectrum.”
“You may be right. But there’s no harm in asking the question.” He took a sip of his Grolsch and placed the call to Torres.
“Mark, I’m trying to get a sense of the people Beckert was close to. I was given the names of three members of the WRPD command staff—Beltz, Stacker, and Luckman. What can you tell me about them?”
Torres’s initial response was an uneasy hesitation. “Wait a second. Just making sure . . . there are no open ears nearby. Okay. I can’t really tell you much, beyond the fact that they spent a lot of time in Beckert’s office—more than most of the guys who report to him. Maybe it’s my imagination, but they’ve been looking pretty nervous since he disappeared.”
“They need to be questioned. Do you know if Kline’s gotten to them yet?”
“I don’t know. He’s not telling us much.”
“How many people does he have working on Beckert’s disappearance?”
“Actively searching for him? None, as far as I know. His priority is totally on the physical evidence side. You think that’s a mistake?”
“Frankly, yes. Beckert’s connected to everything that’s happened. And his role in the case may not be what it seems to be. Locating him could resolve some questions.”
“What do you think we should be doing?”
“Everything possible to find him. I’d like to know whether he owns any other property in this part of the state. Someplace he might go if he didn’t want to be found.”
“We could have our county clerk check for his name in the property tax rolls.”
“If you can free up a couple of uniforms, you could have them check the adjoining counties, too. They should also check the names Beauville, Turlock, and Blaze Jackson. She seems to have been involved from the beginning.”
“Okay. I’ll get someone on it.”
“Before you go, a question about the silent alarm system at the cabin. You told me there was some password protection on the list of numbers it was programmed to call.”
“Right—and computer forensics did get back to us on that. There were three cell numbers. Beckert’s, Turlock’s, and an anonymous prepaid. No way to track down that one.”
“Not to its owner, but to its nearest cell tower when it received the alarm call. That could be helpful. In fact, you ought to get the receiving locations of the other two as well. Be interesting to know if Beckert was still in the area that morning when Turlock was killed.”
“No problem. I’ll get in touch with the phone company right now.”
After Gurney ended the call, Hardwick asked, “Where do you think he is?”
“I have no idea, just a hope that he’s still in the area.”
“Kline’s got an APB out on him?”
“Yes, but that’s about it.” Gurney paused. “I’ve been thinking about something you told me last week. About Beckert’s family problems. You mentioned that the boot-camp school he sent Cory to was down South. Do you know where in the South? Or what the name of the school was?”
“I could find out. I know the state police guy who recommended it to Beckert.”
“I was wondering if it might be in Virginia. Like Beckert’s own prep school. And his wife’s family. It’s a state he might know well and head for if he wanted to disappear for a while.”
Hardwick eyed Gurney over the top of his Grolsch bottle. “What are you suggesting?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
“Horseshit. You’re asking me to explore this Virginia possibility, start checking out all the places Beckert could be. Which would be an enormous pain in the ass.”
Gurney shrugged. “Just a thought. While Torres is checking tax rolls in the towns around here, I’ll be looking into rentals. There are no public records arranged by tenants’ names, but Acme Realty might have a searchable database of renters in the White River area. I’ll drop in on Laura Conway tomorrow morning.”
“What’s the matter with the phone?”
“Face-to-face is always better.”
56
Gurney was the first one up the following day. He’d had his initial cup of coffee and put out the bird feeders before Madeleine appeared for breakfast. She had her cello with her, which reminded him that her string group was booked for a morning concert at a local nursing home.
While she was preparing a bowl of her homemade granola, he scrambled three eggs for himself. They sat down together at the breakfast table.
“Have you spoken to Thrasher?” she asked.
“No. I wasn’t sure what to say. I guess we need to discuss it.”
She laid down her spoon. “Discuss it?”
“Discuss whether or not to let him go ahead with his exploration of the site.”
“You really think that needs to be discussed?”
He sighed, laying down his fork. “Okay. I’ll tell him the answer is no.”
She gave him a long look. “We live here, David. This is our home.”
He waited for her to go on. But that’s all she said.
The interstate portion of the drive was, as usual, relatively traffic-free. He pulled over just before the White River exit and entered Acme Realty’s address in his GPS. Six minutes later it delivered him to a storefront on Bridge Street, less than a block from the first sniper location.
He found that fact interesting, then dismissed it as one of those coincidences that usually end up meaning nothing. He’d learned over the years that one of the few investigatorial mistakes worse than failing to connect crucial dots was connecting irrelevant ones.
He got out in front of the office and began to examine the listings that filled the windows. Most of them were properties for sale, but there were rentals as well—both single-family homes and apartments. The area covered by the listings extended beyond White River into neighboring townships.
The front door opened. A rotund man with a chocolate-brown toupee and a salesman’s smile stepped out. “Beautiful day!”
Gurney nodded pleasantly.
The man raised a chubby hand toward the listings. “You have something in mind?”