Stride knew that at least part of Graeme's calm demeanor was an act, because the insinuation alone would be enough to destroy his reputation. Like it or not, Graeme Stoner was finished in Duluth. And the man knew it. The only question was whether he would be free to go somewhere else or whether they would find what they needed to put him away for a long time.
The waiting game got old as the hours dragged by. Stride heard Guppo and Terry trudge back upstairs, then heard them disappear through the front door. He assumed Maggie had directed them to search the van, although he didn't hear the conversation. He had turned off his walkie-talkie rather than let the Stoners hear their dialogue.
He stared at Graeme, studying the man's face. He knew that Graeme could feel his stare even as he turned pages in the file, but the banker didn't flinch. It would be interesting to watch Dan Erickson do battle in court to put the man behind bars. Assuming they ever made it to court.
More time passed.
Stride heard Maggie's footsteps. She marched into the room, a piece of white paper flapping in her hand. This time, Graeme looked up with genuine curiosity and a faint nervousness.
Maggie whispered in Stride's ear. "Check this out."
Stride looked at the photo and blinked at the sight of the naked girl. He had to remind himself this was the teenager who was missing and presumed dead.
He looked up from the paper to find Graeme staring back at him. Stride suddenly felt he had an edge over the arrogant bastard.
"Tell me, Mr. Stoner, do you own a digital camera?" Stride asked.
Graeme nodded. "Of course."
"We'll need to take it with us," Stride said. "Do you recognize this photograph?"
He handed the paper to Graeme. Stoner's reserve cracked, and Stride saw his hand tremble as he tried to hold the paper steady. Emily saw what was on the page, and her hand covered her open mouth as she stifled a scream.
"Where did you find this?" Graeme said, trying to keep his voice even.
"On the computer in your office," Stride told him.
"I have no idea how it got there. I've never seen this before."
"Really?" Stride asked. "You didn't take the photo?"
"No, of course not. I told you, I had no idea it was on the computer. Rachel must have put it there. As a joke."
"A joke?" Stride asked, his eyebrows climbing. "Quite the joke."
"Who knows why she did it?" Graeme said.
Stride nodded. "You have no idea where or when this was taken?"
"None at all."
Maggie studied the man with cold eyes. "The file was added to your computer two days before Rachel disappeared."
"Two days?" Graeme asked.
"That's quite a coincidence," Stride added.
"Well, as I say, Rachel must have left it there. Maybe it was her way of saying a bizarre good-bye before she ran away."
Stride stepped closer to the man. "But she didn't run away, did she, Mr. Stoner? You and she went out to the barn that night. You went to have sex with her, like you had been doing for years. Did she say no this time? Did she try to run away? Did she threaten to tell your wife?"
"Graeme," Emily begged him in a weak voice. "Please tell me none of this is true."
He sighed and looked at her. "Of course not."
"We know Rachel was at the barn that night, Mr. Stoner. We know she made it back to your house, and that you were the only one here. Would you like to tell us what happened then?"
Graeme shook his head. "I never heard her come in. And I think that's all I have to say until Mr. Gale gets here."
He looked dazed. Stride was pleased to see that the man was capable of human error after all, that he could make mistakes, leave clues behind, and not know how to react when his lies were uncovered.
"Keep searching, Mags," Stride told her.
Maggie was about to return upstairs when her walkie-talkie squawked. Everyone in the room heard Guppo's voice.
"Maggie, Stride, we need you out here. There's residue of blood on the floor under the carpet in the back and on a knife he's got in a toolbox."
Maggie quickly switched off the handset, but it was too late.
Emily screamed.
Stride and Maggie both watched her, feeling the raw pain that sliced her voice.
She bolted up from the recliner, her face ashen. She turned and stared in horror at Graeme, who sat with a curious smirk frozen on his face, like a cat who had swallowed a canary. Emily sank to her knees.
Stride jumped forward, ready to catch her if she crumpled into a faint.
Instead, Emily moaned, then got down on all fours and vomited over the white carpet.
PART THREE
18
The Kitch, as the Kitchi Gammi Club was known, was Duluth 's attempt to emulate the elegance of New England city clubs. It was a four-story red-brick mansion with tidy, manicured gardens flowering in the warmth of springtime, wide gables, and a stately porch. The club boasted cozy upstairs libraries, with cherrywood antiques, elegant recliners, and all the day's news from Minneapolis and New York neatly placed on the lion's-paw coffee tables. This was where politicians and investors enjoyed snifters of brandy while they conducted the city's important business.
The doorman, a wizened Norwegian in his early eighties named Per who had worked at the Kitch longer than many of its members had been alive, drew to attention as a tall, stout man approached the steps of the club. The man was whistling a Sinatra song, as he had been doing for all of the thirty years Per had known him. He was in his late fifties, and nearly as wide as he was tall, but he had an energetic bounce in his step. He had gray curly hair neatly trimmed and receding well behind his forehead. His face was florid and wide, with razor-sharp blue eyes, tiny owlish glasses, and a peppery goatee. He wore a charcoal pinstripe three-piece suit with a white shirt. Gold cufflinks peeked out from the ends of his coat sleeves. A flower was poked into the slit of his lapel. An aroma of cologne trailed him up the steps.
"Good evening, Mr. Gale," Per said, swinging open the door.
"Per, it is a pleasure to see you, as always," Archibald Gale replied in a booming voice. "What an astonishing spring day, isn't it?"
"Oh, that it is, Mr. Gale. I'm guessing you have another big case, then, don't you?"
"I do, Per, I do."
"Well, I always say there isn't anyone better than you."
"From your mouth to the jury's ears, Per," Gale replied.
He patted the old man affectionately on the shoulder and entered the dark foyer of the club. The door, with its heavy oak panels and stained glass, closed gently behind him. He checked his watch and noted that it was four forty-five, fifteen minutes before his appointment with Dan Erickson, the county attorney. Gale liked to arrive early, situate himself in one of the libraries with a single-malt scotch, and await his prey.
Although Gale was one of the state's most notable criminal trial lawyers, it was rumored that he won most of his cases at the Kitch, by demoralizing his opposing counsel over a cordial drink. His innocent hints and dark innuendos so thoroughly unnerved prosecutors that they began second-guessing their strategy and fumbling their presentations in court. Gale's reputation for psychological warfare had become so well known that prosecutors were now turning down his traditional offer of a chitchat at the Kitch on the night before a trial began.
But Daniel had too much ego to turn him down. It was more fun that way. Gale had dealt with many ambitious, politically minded attorneys over the years, and he enjoyed poking holes in their arrogance. Daniel was more ruthless than most. Initially, when Trygg Stengard, the previous county attorney, had hired Daniel, Gale had given his old friend and adversary words of caution about his new number-two man. But Stengard, unlike Gale, was a politician with a soft spot for naked ambition.