“Looks that way, doesn’t it,” said Dyskin. “Had a little wakeup call just after the holidays. My wife, in collusion with a cardiologist, has put me on a strict diet and a regular exercise program. Sonja even hired a personal trainer. Me with a personal trainer! The planet is spinning off its axis.”
“How about the cigars?” asked Sue, laughing.
“Verboten.”
“Going through withdrawal?”
“I did for a bit. Now I can’t believe I ever used those things. Think I was just trying to kill the smell of my workplace.” Dyskin smiled, and Sue and Ray laughed again, more quietly.
Watching Dyskin pull a three-point and head back to town, Ray asked, “Are you going to be more tolerant of the good doctor now?”
“He’s still into Old Spice,” Sue shrugged, “but without the tobacco it’s not so bad.” Ray squatted and leaned over to look at Fox’s feet again. Sue knelt beside him. “What are you thinking?
“Piñatas. Like when we capture the bastards that did this, we pull them up by their heels and beat them with baseball bats, the aluminum kind they use in Little League, the ones that make that satisfying pinging sound every time you get a good skull whack in. That would offer a certain satisfaction.”
“Is that all?” Sue gasped at her boss’s rich fantasy life.
“We could meet this evening,” said Ray, grasping Sue’s elbow and pulling her up to face him. “We could go over the events and think through who might have done this, our resident bad guys, someone who has just been paroled….”
Sue shook her head. “It can wait till tomorrow, Ray. Tonight I need to hang out with my dog, go to yoga, stop off at the bar with the girls for a couple of glasses of wine, take a long hot bath and sleep for 10 hours. Then I can think about this case again. And I’m coming in late tomorrow—using a couple of hours of comp time.” She gave him a long, measured look. “And you better get in a kayak before you explode, while there’s still some light. I’m going to start processing this scene.”
Ray stuck his hands in his pockets and took a step backwards. “What’s your plan with the media?”
“I’ll send a one- or two-sentence press release,” Sue said, heading back to her Jeep and back to business. “Something to the effect that the ‘body of an elderly man believed to be Vincent Fox has been found. More information will be available after formal identification.’”
“That should be enough to get us through several news cycles. I’ll contact his daughter and have her identify the body. Then I’ll have it sent to Grand Rapids for an autopsy.”
“Thanks,” she said, and walked away from him to let the EMTs know the body was ready for transport.
12
Ray sat in his car and watched Brett and Sue begin to process the scene. Then he pulled on his seatbelt and slowly drove away. He knew that Sue was right. Spending the evening in the office trying to puzzle out who might be responsible for the crime, especially when they were both exhausted, would be a waste of time. He headed home.
When he reached the top of his drive, there was Hannah Jeffers waiting for him. His kayak was already secured to the roof of her Subaru wagon. They exchanged a friendly embrace.
“How did you get into the house?”
“The side door of the garage was unlocked. Your place never seems to be secured. You’re either very trusting or extremely careless,” she said, chuckling. “Doesn’t your department do those homeowner security workshops?”
Ray just shook his head, making no other response.
“Of course, you don’t have much that anyone could fence. Your 12-inch flat screen wouldn’t bring much, and no one wants books or classical CDs. But you do have an iPad; that’s worth stealing.” She gave him a poke in the chest. “Get into your dry suit,” she said. “We don’t have many hours of light left.”
Ten minutes later, Ray tossed his gear bag and two paddles in the back of Hannah’s vehicle and settled into the passenger’s seat. But she didn’t start the engine.
“Bad day?”
Ray did not turn to meet her gaze. “I thought we had an agreement to never talk about our work days, especially when we are on our way to the lake, on the water, or après kayaking.”
Hannah started to laugh. “Where did that come from? You’re making it up.” She reached over and felt for a vein on his neck. “The good news is you’ve got a pulse, but it’s a bit too rapid. I’d like to take your blood pressure. You seem hypertensive.”
“Come on, Hannah,” Ray said, pushing her hand away gently, “get this crate in gear. Once I get out on the water everything will be okay. Cut straight across to 22, then head south. There’s something I want to see.”
They drove for a while in silence, the windshield wipers providing a slow and slower tempo as the drizzle turned to mist.
“So you had a bad day?” Hannah asked again.
Ray took a deep breath, exhaled. “One of the worst.” He turned in his seat to face her. “I told you about Vincent Fox the other night?”
Hannah nodded, glancing at him. “Yes, I remember. The old guy who wrote about the Capone treasure.”
Ray told her about recovering Fox’s body, and the charring on the bottom of one of his feet. “It reminds me of something I saw in France.”
“What’s that?”
“When I was in the army, stationed in Europe, I toured a historical farm somewhere in France. The outbuildings had been restored to how they appeared in the 16th or 17th century. There were wonderful descriptions on everything, with translations in English, German, Spanish. One display talked about some outlaws of the time, La bande d’Orgeres, who attacked wealthy farmers and held their feet to the fire until they disclosed where their gold and valuables were hidden. My memory is that this kind of extortion took place shortly before the beginning of the French Revolution, and that these activities were a precursor to the bloody events that followed.”
“You think that’s what happened to Fox?”
“Who knows?” Ray said. “It’s such an old technique, been around since medieval times, probably before. And now, possibly right here in Cedar County. Hard to be optimistic about human progress.” Hannah snorted. “So, what would be the physiological effect of that kind of torture?” he asked.
Hannah’s eyes were locked on the twisting county road in front of her. “You don’t need a medical degree to figure that one out. Elderly man, high-stress situation. Heart attack, stroke. By his age lots of things are just waiting to fail. The autopsy will probably provide a reliable answer.” She grimaced. “Medieval, that’s the perfect word. It’s hard to imagine the horror they put this poor man through.”
The mist had faded to almost nothing, and Hannah turned off the wipers. Again they were silent as the orchards faded away to piney scrub and marsh. “I understand you’re upset,” she said at last. “My question is, is our destination connected with this case?”
Ray chuckled. “Maybe. I’m not sure. Given all the money involved, Fox probably got himself involved in something drug-related.” He told her about Ma French finding the large stash of cash on the grounds of the Hollingsford Estate and explained he wanted to paddle to the estate from the Lake Michigan side for a look around.
“It’s really isolated,” he said. “Of course, in the summer you can get there by crossing a small lake—Lost Lake, that’s what it’s called—in a boat or a canoe. In the winter it’s skis, snowshoes, or a snowmobile across the ice. These days, the ice is probably too thin.
“Why not hike in? Can’t you just go around the Lost Lake?”
“Most of the surrounding area is marshland and swamp. There are places where you can slip into mud up to your waist. No thanks.”
“Looks like we have some chop,” Hannah said, pulling into the parking area.