Very Bad Men (33 page)

She slipped her glasses on again. “After six months, I asked Anthony to see a therapist. He went to a few sessions. It didn't suit him. Anthony believed he was responsible for Susanna's death, because he didn't do enough to prevent it. When the therapist questioned his way of looking at things, he didn't want to hear it. I think he was really looking for someone to tell him he was right.

“When he didn't get that, he stopped going. But he started working again. I think he did it so I'd leave him alone.” She nodded toward the wall. “After Susanna had been gone a year, I asked him if it might be time to take this stuff down. He just stared at me. ‘I'm never going to take it down,' he said.”

Elizabeth pointed toward the right-hand side of the wall, the side dominated by photos of Callie Spencer. “What about this?” she asked. “When did your son get interested in the Great Lakes robbery?”

“This spring,” said Helen Lark. “I remember I was angry with him at the time, because he sold his father's boat.” She stood with her eyes downcast. “My husband passed away in March. He left his boat to Anthony. I thought it should mean something to him, but all he wanted was to be rid of it. I suppose it hurt my feelings.

“Right around then he started putting pictures of Callie Spencer on the wall. I didn't like it. I could see the reason—she had a smile just like Susanna's. But it wasn't healthy, obviously. I didn't want to deal with it anymore. I told him he should think about moving out.

“Susanna had been gone three years. Anthony was thirty-one. I didn't want him to waste his life. You have to use the time you're given—that's what I always told him.” She reached for the railing of the stairs, as if she needed the support. “I should have kept him here with me.”

Elizabeth laid a hand on the woman's shoulder. “We need to find him, Mrs. Lark. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“I don't.”

“When did he move out of the house?”

“In May.”

“He only started renting his apartment in Ann Arbor a couple weeks ago. Where was he living in the meantime?”

“He had a place here in town,” Helen Lark said. “I can give you the address.”

“Did he have friends he kept in touch with?”

“I can give you some names. There weren't many.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“He called on my birthday, the twenty-eighth of June.”

“If he calls again, or comes here, we need to know.”

Helen Lark nodded slowly, as if it pained her. “All right.”

“What about Susanna's family?” Elizabeth asked. “Is there anyone Anthony might contact?”

“She had no brothers or sisters, just some cousins. But Anthony didn't really know them.”

Shan broke in. “And Derek Everly—what ever happened to him?”

“He's not around anymore,” Helen Lark said, looking at Shan with an odd intensity. “He came to a violent end.”

 

 

“A VIOLENT END? Is that what she told you?”

After leaving Helen Lark, Elizabeth and Shan had driven to the Dearborn Police Department. The watch commander had sent them to talk to a detective named Hiller whose cubicle was littered with boxes and case files.

“Derek Everly was beaten to death this spring in a storage shed at the Everly Landscaping Company,” Hiller said. “Someone staved in the back of his skull with the handle of a rake. Then hacked up his body with a lawnmower blade. So yes, he came to a very violent end.”

“Would it be safe to assume Anthony Lark was a suspect?” Elizabeth asked.

Hiller tipped his chair back. “Derek Everly was a prick, so it could be a lot of people wanted him dead. But Lark was at the top of the list. You know about the Marten girl.”

“Yes,” said Shan.

“So there's no question about motive,” Hiller said. “The timing seems a little off. Lark waited three years after the girl passed.”

“But this spring—” Elizabeth said. “That's when Lark's father died.”

Hiller bobbed his head in agreement. “Exactly. You figure maybe once Dad was gone, he gave himself permission. Or he got to thinking about what was really important. Whatever. What I know is that Lark's father died in March and Everly was killed in April.”

“But Lark was never charged?” Elizabeth said. “Did he have an alibi?”

“He said he was home with his mother that night,” Hiller explained with a shrug. “She backed him up. Maybe she was covering for him, or maybe he slipped out without her knowing. The bottom line is we never found the evidence to charge him. He didn't leave prints. The first blow put Everly down, so there was no struggle. Lark didn't have so much as a bruised knuckle.”

Hiller turned his chair slowly from side to side. “His mother got him a lawyer as soon as we came around, and the lawyer didn't let him talk. If he had, I think we would have gotten a confession. In a case like that, it usually doesn't take much. You sympathize with the guy, act like you understand why he did what he did. With Lark—well, I remember Susanna Marten, and I remember her father. I wouldn't have had to act.”

A
few minutes after four on Thursday afternoon I walked down the steps of City Hall. I'd spent two hours with one of Elizabeth's colleagues, a young cop named Wintergreen, going over the events of the night before. I told him everything I could remember about Anthony Lark, including what Lark had said about Lucy Navarro and the blue minivan that had taken her away.

I mentioned the semi truck from the hotel parking lot. Suggested that the driver might have seen something.

Wintergreen asked me about my dealings with Lucy, and I gave him a full account. I included everything she said she had learned from Terry Dawtrey and Henry Kormoran. Wintergreen wrote it all down without comment: Dawtrey's story about Floyd Lambeau, who claimed to have been Callie Spencer's real father; Dawtrey's assertion that he knew the identity of the fifth bank robber; Kormoran's story about seeing Lambeau and Callie Spencer together at the Great Lakes Bank.

I told Wintergreen about accompanying Lucy to her meeting with Callie Spencer. About Lucy's belief that Callie knew the fifth robber and would try to contact him. “That's what Lucy was doing up until last night,” I said, “watching Callie, waiting for her to make a move.”

Lastly I filled him in about Alan Beckett and his attempt to get Lucy to abandon her investigation.

As I went through the details I could tell Wintergreen was trying to keep his skepticism in check. Finally he looked up from his notes. “So Beckett wanted you to help him persuade Ms. Navarro to drop her story,” he said. “And he offered you funding for your magazine in exchange.”

“That's right,” I said.

“And he made the same kind of offer to Ms. Navarro. She used to write novels, so he tempted her with a book contract.”

“Right.”

“And you want me to believe that when persuasion didn't work, Beckett decided to take a more forceful approach.”

I turned my head to look around at the walls of the interview room. A small movement, but it made itself known in the wound at my side.

“I haven't said that.”

“No. You're just implying it,” said Wintergreen, gathering up his notes. “Do you expect me to go to my boss and tell him that Alan Beckett, either on his own or at the request of Callie Spencer, arranged to make Lucy Navarro disappear last night?”

I pushed my chair back from the table, wincing at the pain in my side.

“No,” I told him. “I really don't.”

 

 

WHEN I DESCENDED the steps of City Hall, I took things slow. It seemed to help. I strolled along the sidewalk and the pain faded a little. The ibuprofen I'd taken seemed to be keeping it in check. I'd left the stronger stuff behind. I wanted to stay alert.

At a crosswalk waiting for the light, I got out my phone and dialed Lucy's number. I'd already done it three or four times and I knew what I'd hear.
You've reached Lucy Navarro of the National Current . . .

I pushed the cutoff button and called Bridget Shellcross.

“I'm finished,” I said.

“When I didn't hear from you, I thought you changed your mind,” she said.

“No. It just took longer than I expected. Are we still on?”

“We're still on.”

“Good. I'm on my way now.”

The light turned to green and I closed my phone and went looking for John Casterbridge.

 

 

IT'S NOT AS HARD as you'd think, tracking down a U.S. senator.

Anyone willing to do some digging could have discovered that John Casterbridge rented an apartment in the Dupont Circle neighborhood in Washington, D.C., and another in Lansing, the capital of Michigan. He had a house in Grosse Pointe that had been in his family for generations, and a bungalow in St. Ignace on the shore of Lake Huron.

You'd need to dig deeper to learn that the senator had a condo on Liberty Street in Ann Arbor. I never knew about it, but I had seen him Sunday night at the Spencer house, and again on Monday when he had his accident, so I assumed he must be staying in town. I asked Bridget, who has lived in Ann Arbor for twenty years and knows everyone worth knowing.

She told me about the condo. It was in a pile of steel and concrete known as the Bridgewell Building, put up seven years ago by Casterbridge Realty. The units sold out quickly for a million and a half apiece, and John Casterbridge wound up with one of them. He stayed there a few weeks out of the year and took most of his meals at the Seva Restaurant next door.

I passed the restaurant and walked up to the Bridgewell Building like I belonged there. The glass doors opened into a lobby with a scattering of plush armchairs and a concierge desk. A fountain bubbled near the elevators: water murmuring over a heap of river stones.

The kid behind the desk perked up as soon as I came in. His suit looked inexpensive, but he wore it well. I thought about heading for the elevators and wondered if he would chase after me. He looked like he might.

Getting chased wasn't part of my plan.

I stopped at the desk and said, “I'm here to see Senator Casterbridge.”

The kid looked at me gravely. “I'm sorry, sir. The senator doesn't wish to be disturbed.”

“Why don't you call him and let him know I'm here. My name's David Loogan. He knows me.”

“I'm afraid I can't call him, sir.”

“Why not?”

“If I did, it might disturb him. He doesn't wish to be disturbed.”

I had to smile. “You're very pedantic.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That wasn't a compliment.”

He smoothed his tie. “I know that, sir. But I'm expected to treat members of the public with patience and courtesy.”

“That must wear you out, some days,” I said. “Did you hear about the reporter who went missing from the Winston Hotel parking lot last night?”

He nodded. “I saw it on the news.”

“Her name was Lucy Navarro. She was doing a story on the senator's daughter-in-law.”

“I see.”

“I'm curious to hear what the senator has to say about it. I've got a friend at Channel Four in Detroit who's curious too. He should be along any minute with a camera crew. We may decide to camp out here. That's how eager we are to talk to the senator.”

“I understand. But the senator doesn't generally comment on news stories.”

“We'll see.”

I turned and crossed the lobby and settled into an armchair. I pretended to watch the traffic on Liberty Street, but kept half an eye on the kid behind the desk. He picked up a slim black phone and punched a number. Spoke quietly to someone. I couldn't make out what he said over the bubbling of the fountain.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then the glass doors opened and a young man walked in—the senator's driver from Sunday night. Alan Beckett came in behind him.

The driver went and stood by the concierge desk. Beckett plopped himself into a chair across from me.

“You don't have a friend at Channel Four,” he said.

“I could make one,” I said.

“I doubt it. What's the purpose of your theatrics?”

He looked relaxed in the chair, but I heard a strain in his voice.

“I called you this morning,” I said. “You didn't answer. I thought this would be the easiest way to get your attention.”

He rubbed a palm over his scalp. “I didn't want to talk to you. The senator doesn't either. You're presuming a great deal by coming here. You're not his pal because you've shared a drink of whiskey with him.”

“If he doesn't want to see me, that's fine. My business is with you.”

“What business?”

“Lucy Navarro. I told you to leave her alone.”

He scowled. “I've done nothing to Lucy Navarro.”

“This is the way it's going to work,” I said. “If she turns up safe, then all's forgiven. You got carried away; I can understand that. There's a lot at stake. You want to get Callie Spencer elected to the Senate so you can be her adviser. I don't care. I don't care who gets elected or who the power is behind her throne. I especially don't care who robbed a bank seventeen years ago. As long as Lucy turns up alive.”

Beckett tilted his head. “And if she doesn't?”

“Then you're done.”

A pause while he thought it over. “So you think you can keep Callie out of the Senate?”