The offer was tempting. Mackenzie was feeling lonely and vulnerable. “This is my war,” she answered. “You’re giving me plenty of help.”

“Get me those pics,” said Lee. “And we’ll see if we can find out what he’s up to. In the mean time, I’ll send you everything I’ve gotten so far, including some info on his woman friend, Elena Rustova. Give it a good look.”

25

Ray had rehearsed what he was going to say to Joan Barton, Vincent Fox’s daughter, as he drove south on M22 early Monday morning., But once they had settled over coffee in her kitchen, the windows looking out on a small yard busy with birds visiting a collection of seed-filled feeders, he still felt anxious. Joan read his tension. “You don’t have good news, do you?”

“I know a bit more about your father’s death,” Ray admitted, “and I want you to have that information before we release it to the press.” He briefly explained the autopsy findings, the fact that Fox had two small burns on his upper torso suggesting that the assailants had used a stun gun, probably to control him.

“Just like him,” she said, giving Ray a weak smile. “When you’re a kid you think your father is the strongest man in the world. My father really was strong, even as an old man. Anyone who tried to force him to do anything was going to have a fight on their hands.”

“I’m sorry that I….”

“Don’t be. In fact, this has really helped. I like the idea of my dad going out fighting. That’s what he was, a fighter. He said he did Golden Gloves as a kid. I don’t know, probably just another of his stories. But he fought his way out of a tough Chicago neighborhood, made it through the war, created a successful business, provided a nice home for my mom and us, and put my sister and me through college. He gave us a good life. He was a tough, determined character.” She paused for a long moment. “There was a poem we studied in high school. What was it? The teacher made a big joke about not confusing the poet with the folk singer.

“Probably Dylan Thomas. Do not go gentle into the good night.”

“That’s it,” she said, “Do you know any more of it?

“Do not go gentle into the good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I think that’s about all I can do with any accuracy,” Ray said.

“That’s enough, thank you. He went out fighting. I’m sure he would have picked that over dying in bed. I’m sorry you never knew my father. He was a wonderful character.”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Ray.

By 10 a.m. Ray was back in his office writing a press release on the Vincent Fox investigation while Simone nested in the overstuffed chair. He worked through the draft of the release several times, adding a comma, changing a word, putting a sentence into a new paragraph, then changing his mind. Finally, he sent the draft to Jan, asking her to proof it once more before forwarding it to their media distribution list.

Ray sat for several minutes, running the details of the Fox murder in his head before pulling down the large whiteboard and adding details to the branching case diagram. Slouching into a chair at the conference table, he studied the drawing. All the events and facts were there, but he could not see how they connected to any tangible motive. For the moment, the investigation into Fox’s death seemed stalled.

Going back to his computer, he reread the notes from his conversation with Ma French. Although logic dictated that these were unrelated events, there was something alluring about the timing, the man on the personal watercraft, the cash. He thumbed through Fox’s book, finding a section that referred to an old estate on the shore of Lake Michigan, many miles below the Sleeping Bear Dunes. Fox wrote that that location once had been a major drop-off point for liquor by the Capone Gang, a possible burial place for part of the treasure, since it was terrain with which the mobsters were familiar. Like the rest of the book, Fox could have been referring to any number of places along the coastline. Not that that would stop the true believers from spending months looking.

But could it be that the cash Ma French found was connected to the Fox hoax? Ray returned to his desk and pulled up the notes from his conversation with Ma French. He needed to know more about the Hollingsford Estate. French had identified Perry Ashton as the caretaker of the property. He looked for his number in the regional phone directory. Finding none, he looked back at his notes. Ma had mentioned a Carol Truno in Traverse, and Ray found her number. A sleepy and somewhat irritated sounding woman came on the line. Ray identified himself and explained that he was trying to reach Perry Ashton. His said his call was related to a matter at the Hollingsford estate. Truno gave him Perry’s cell number and added that she knew he was planning to go out to the place in the afternoon.

A few minutes later Ray was explaining to Ashton that they were looking into a cold case—not mentioning Ma’s recent find—and was wondering if he could show him where he found the body of Terry Hallen. Ashton agreed to meet Ray at 2 p.m. in the driveway of a house just off the highway near the entrance road to the estate. He said he would bring a boat so they could get across the lake.

Ray wrote a short e-mail to Sue, inviting her along if she was back in the area. Then he and Simone headed out to find some lunch. They shared a lavish sandwich filled with organic chicken, greens, red peppers and a tangy mayonnaise in the parking lot of the Bay Side Family Market, then headed across the county toward the big lake.

Reaching the designated meeting place almost an hour early, Ray continued to drive south, eventually turning onto a two-track that led to a small parking lot near the shore. Simone followed him out of the car, and they climbed over a small dune to get to the beach. He undid her leash and they walked north near the water’s edge, Simone running ahead, stopping, looking back over her shoulder until he approached, then sprinting forward again ebulliently, repeating the process over and over.

The wind was blowing out of the northwest, creating a modest chop. The sun in a cloudless sky warmed his back. The last vestiges of winter, the remains of once-deep snowdrifts, were decaying into slush and gradually slipping away into the sand.

After 15 or 20 minutes, Ray settled onto a large, bleached tree trunk that had been pushed far up the beach by the storms of fall and winter. Simone approached and tried to crawl into his lap, her paws and belly wet and sandy. They reached a compromise: Simone perched beside him on the log, her head on his leg as she accepted head scratches.

Ray peered out at the lake and concentrated on the scene: the sounds, smells, rhythms, and colors of early spring. He tried to let everything else go and just enjoy the moment. On the periphery of his consciousness were visions of Fox and the disturbing autopsy report. When these thoughts intruded, he would push them back and refocus on the scene. This was one of the times he needed the wild places—empty of people—to refresh and refocus.

Eventually he looked at his watch, surprised that so much time had slipped by. He reached for his phone to see if Sue had responded to his e-mail. His pocket was empty; the phone was in the car.

When they arrived at the access road to the Hollingsford estate, Sue was already there, talking with a tall, lean, graying man next to a rusted Ford pickup with oversized tires and a raised suspension. A battered aluminum boat hung out of the truck’s bed, its pram bow extending far beyond the lowered tailgate.

“Have you met Perry Ashton?” Sue asked as Ray approached, holding Simone in his arms.