She sat up and stretched her neck. “Okay, so I rolled by a second time to get a better look, slowing, but trying not to make it too obvious,” she continued. “There was a red Mazda in the drive, and the Sheriff was standing outside with Jim Moarse. It didn’t look like they were talking: strange body language, just standing there. Then I did the absolute unthinkable.”

“You didn’t.”

“Yup. I went down the road, turned around in a drive, and came back a third time. I’m sure no one noticed. They were heavily into something. It was the sheriff, Moarse, a female deputy, and some woman with red hair, the Scottish red. Something heavy was going down. No one was looking at the traffic on the road. They were all focused on what was happening right there in the yard.”

“What was happening?”

“I don’t know. The woman had a couple of bags, suitcases. Maybe she was moving out.”

“So?”

“I did the double unthinkable, I drove down the road a couple of miles and came back again. By then the Mazda and the sheriff’s Jeep were on the road ahead of me. I followed at a polite distance. They eventually ended up on 22. The cops in the Jeep turned around near the county line, and I followed the Mazda into Traverse City.”

“And?”

“Ms. Redhead pulled into a parking lot. I circled the block and found her car, Kentucky plates.”

“Did you get the number?”

“Absolutely, I’ll send it to you.”

“Then what?”

“I parked and found the woman window shopping on Front Street. Then this man came along, and they embraced passionately, a bone crusher. I followed them to a restaurant a block down, quasi-French, almost good, but not quite, like the chef doesn’t make sure the greens are perfect and doesn’t check each entrée before it goes to the table.”

“I sense that…well, never mind. You’re sure they didn’t see you?”

“They only had eyes for each other. They had a couple of glasses of wine and a lunch that they gobbled down. I’m sure they were screwing their brains out 15 minutes later.”

“How do you know?”

“You could tell. They were both in heat.”

“So what does that have to do with Moarse?” asked Ken Lee.

“I don’t know. The redhead is younger than Moarse, maybe 10 years, more or less. And she looks good; she still has youth on her side. Not real classy, but cute and sexy with a killer body. Maybe she hooked up with Moarse for a while. She’s definitely moved on. It’s amazing how easily men can be manipulated for a little sex.” Is that what I’m doing? Mackenzie wondered.

“So what now?” asked Ken Lee.

“I’m going to focus on Moarse. See what I can find out. Maybe pull a stakeout, see if there are any comings and goings.”

“You should probably get a GPS on his car.”

“I have to figure out what he’s driving. There was an old garage there, but the door wasn’t open.”

“If you’re going to pull a stakeout, you need to be very careful.”

“His place would be easy. It’s real open with woods on three sides. I can also get on some high ground on the other side of the road.”

“Dog? Neighbors?”

“No, he’s pretty isolated.”

“You shouldn’t be out there alone. You need to have backup. These guys are killers.”

“Come on Ken Lee. Back off. I have a phone, multiple weapons, and like you’ve said many times, some of the fastest hands you’ve ever seen. I’m just going to go and look at the dude in the dark with binoculars, a hundred or more yards out. Safer than a walk in the park, a lot safer.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can find out about the owner of the Mazda, if she’s indeed the owner. Please be careful. Send me a note when you’re back.”

“You always know where my car is. You’ve got to give me some space, Ken Lee. This is all stuff I can do safely. Don’t smother me.”

“I just don’t want you to get over your head. Even the best sometimes…. Be careful. And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The other two characters. I covered the same ground on Zed Piontowski. Not much there, and it’s hard to tell if the stiff in Galveston is one and the same. As for Chris Brewler, nothing comes up. Are you sure of the spelling?”

“It’s my best guess. So, how do you just disappear?”

“You tell me,” said Ken Lee.

“I had a great aunt who needed to protect me from an alcoholic mother. Not that Mom would have wanted us kids back, but she would have used us to try to extract money for the honor of taking care of us.”

“Maybe Chris Brewler needed to disappear, too. New name, social security number….”

“But he’d need to be out of here, people would recognize him.”

“Are you sure? You’re living 30 miles north of Sandville, right?”

“True.”

“So a new name, a heavy beard, and change in hair color—you probably don’t have to go very far to get a new identity to work. And that night at the beach—was there a third person?”

“Yes, there was. But I couldn’t see him from where I was hiding. So I’m going to focus on Moarse and see if I can start filling in the blanks.”

36

A rutted two-track led to the old farmhouse, its siding and trim cracked and weathered to gray tones after standing more than a century against the harsh northern Michigan climate. A sagging black Ford panel truck, one of the two rear doors standing wide open, was parked just beyond the house on the path toward a decrepit barn. Organic Vegetables had been spray painted in alert orange on the side of the truck in unsteady letters.

Sue followed Ray up the stairs to the front door, avoiding a missing board on the third step. They stood for a long moment outside the door listening, and then Ray rapped on the window with his knuckles. There was no response. He knocked a second time and waited. He tried the handle on the door. It didn’t move. “Let’s check around back.”

Sue chose to jump off the porch, landing on her feet on the weed-covered lawn. She tried to peek in the side windows, but they were too high off the foundation. She detoured to look in the back of the panel truck.

“Should I call for a search warrant?” asked Sue, sizing up the stack of bulging gunnysacks.

Ray joined her. “Go ahead,” he said, heading off. “I’ll check the back door.”

Standing on a moss-covered slab made of split rock and cement, Ray looked through the yellowed remnants of a lace curtain dangling to one side of the smudged window. Inside it was chaos. Every horizontal surface—the kitchen table, counters, sink, sideboards, even the seats of the chairs, save two—was covered with papers, dishes, cans, and bottles. He banged on the door.

“No answer there,” he said rejoining Sue. “Let’s check the other buildings.”

Smoke was rising faintly from the tin chimney that ran through the roof of the larger of the two outbuildings. Ray knocked on the door. Hearing a response from the inside, he pushed it open. The Veelander brothers, Tucker and Sam, were sitting near a potbellied stove, each holding a mug. A large porcelain coffee pot sat on top of the stove and the remains of lunch—a slab of cheese, some apples, and a partial loaf of bread in a plastic bag—were scattered on top of a workbench surrounded by well-worn hand tools.

“Well, Sheriff,” said Sam, “must be nearing an election. We hardly see you between times.”

“We hear about you, though. You being chauffeured around the county by some pretty lady so you can play games on a computer,” added Tucker.

“While us hard working tax payers can’t afford those kinda toys,” said Sam.

“And our poor friend, Vincent Fox, is dead. Why aren’t you chasing his killers instead of bothering with a couple of poor farmers?”

“What’s with the costumes?” asked Ray, pointing to their black pants and jackets over white shirts. “You fellows going through some kind of religious conversion?”