Fatal Storm (10 page)

“No, these two are Caucasian,” Luther
replied.

As several guardsmen hurried to erect a
canopy over the well, Padre snapped open his own umbrella. A
strange thought came to mind as he watched the gentle drizzle touch
the earth. It was as though Nature herself were weeping.

Luther walked into Padre’s office, the odor
of pasta wafting through the air. Padre and John were hovered over
plates of spaghetti. John pointed over his shoulder at a counter
against the wall. “Wife brought it in. It's in the crock pot, still
hot. Plates are in the cabinet.”

“Smells good,” Luther said as he tapped an
envelope against his thigh. “But I have dinner waiting on the stove
at home.” He leaned against the credenza careful not to knock over
the display of family photos. Padre opened a bottom desk drawer and
held up a bottle of scotch but Luther waved him off. “How did Kara
Jensen take the news about her husband?”

“As well as can be expected. She had never
given up hope,” Padre said with a sigh. “Course, I didn’t mention
the tattoo or the last meal he ate. She’s going to be in tomorrow
with her father. She wants to see her husband’s body.”

Luther pulled glossy photos from an envelope.
“This you are going to love.”

Padre shook his head. “Nothing is going to
spoil this fabulous authentic Italian meal. Besides, I don’t think
we can take any more surprises.”

Luther’s smile was a little too devilish and
a sign that he was enjoying giving them more gray hairs. He handed
them a photo of a close-up of Rick Jensen's neck. It showed
different angles, front, side, back and one photo close enough to
see the detail of the knot and bow tied at the back. If Luther's
smile got any wider, his face would split in two.

“Okay, what's the punch line?” John asked.
“We’ve seen this before.”

“The two victims in the well, which I am
ruling as homicides, and who I'm estimating were murdered at least
seventy-five or more years ago, and...” He paused at this point as
his gaze shifted to each of the men. “Experts inform me that there
are all indications no one has disturbed the concrete lid on that
well in as many years.” He set several more photos on the desk.
“The rope found in the well was actually two pieces of rope, each
tied around one of the victims. My assistant and I tried to
carefully remove the rope but it is so old it literally
disintegrated in our hands. Got good pictures though before it was
destroyed.” Luther pointed at another photo. “As you can tell,
those ropes were tied in a bow.” Padre and John locked gazes, then
snapped back to the photos.

Luther continued. “Now, some people tie bows
left to right, some right to left. Some loop over, some under. I’ve
tried every scenario possible but my conclusions are accurate. I
would stake my reputation on it.” The two men waited, eyebrows
raised, forks hovering. They never knew Luther to go for the
melodramatic. “Rick Jensen and the two victims in the well were
killed the identical way.” Luther watched spaghetti noodles drift
off their forks and splatter to the plate. “I’ll have that drink
now.”

Padre and John didn’t speak for several
minutes as Padre filled paper cups of scotch and passed them
around. Their plates of spaghetti were left untouched. “This has to
be wrong, that's the only logical conclusion. It's a prank,” Padre
surmised. “Whoever killed Jensen somehow found the well and thought
it would be clever to make it look like the same person has been
around for what? One hundred years? You know that's completely
impossible for it to be the same person. Right?”

“Padre, he said the lid to the well hasn’t
been opened in just as many years,” John reminded him. “There isn’t
any way you can duplicate that.”

“And don’t forget,” Luther reminded them,
“that Rick Jensen was dressed in the same clothes he left the house
in fourteen months ago and had the identical meal in his stomach.”
He tossed a folder on the desk as though it were the final straw.
“If you want my opinion, someone needs to spend a night in that
house. Miss Monroe disappears. A dead body shows up like he just
left home yesterday, and then you find two bodies killed the same
way over seventy-five years ago. There is definitely something
strange going on.” Luther studied the liquid in his glass and
raised it for a toast. “I only know of one person who is an expert
at strange.”

Padre gave that comment a very brief
consideration before looking at John. Then they both slowly
smiled.

Dagger slid his eyes to Sara. The last thing
he wanted to do was get involved in anything to do with Sheila.
Sara on the other hand had the gleam of excitement in her eyes. He
could tell by the smile she was trying desperately to rein in that
she was fascinated by the case. Dagger had told Padre “no, under no
uncertain terms,” when he had called last night about the Sebold
mansion. Dagger didn’t doubt for one second that Sheila had taken
off to New York or Paris on an impulse. Nor did he doubt that she
would stoop to the lowest depths to put herself in some
questionable danger just to see if he would ride off to the
rescue.

Chief Wozniak set another cup of coffee in
front of Dagger. Being pampered by the chief of detectives set
Dagger’s radar quaking. What exactly did this case involve that
even Wozniak was eager to engage Dagger’s help? Two additional
chairs had been dragged into the compact office. As if Wozniak’s
hostessing efforts weren’t suspicion enough, Padre was wearing the
shell-shocked face of someone in the final throes of
desperation.

Dagger rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. He
had never been one to sleep past six in the morning, not until
Nebraska. Whether it was because his body needed more healing or
the disturbing dreams kept him from sleeping soundly, he was more
inclined to wake at the crack of nine. Sara’s insistence that they
hear Padre out was the only reason he was sitting in Padre’s office
at eight o’clock.

Padre checked his watch. Dagger knew who
entered the room even before he turned around. The smell of stale
cigar smoke preceded the portly patriarch of a publishing
empire.

“You have got to be kidding,” Leyton
bellowed. “This idiot probably kidnapped my daughter and stashed
her somewhere just to get the reward money.” He wedged himself into
one of the arm chairs offered by John.

Dagger tossed a steely glare at Leyton. How
like him to have the entire police department chasing their tails
looking for his daughter. If it were a son or daughter of a family
from the poverty stricken side of town, he doubted law enforcement
agencies would be this inclined to move heaven and earth.

“I’m not interested. Your spoiled brat of a
daughter is probably shopping in Paris.” But his words were clipped
short by the intense pain radiating from his forearm where Sara had
clamped a vice grip. He tried not to wince at the pain. Sometimes
Sara didn’t realize her own strength.

“How much is the reward?” she asked
Leyton.

Leyton shifted his gaze from Dagger to Sara.
“One hundred thousand.”

“We’ll take one-fifty.”

“What?” was on the tip of Dagger’s lips but
Sara drilled him with her ice blues. He pried her fingers loose,
much to the amusement of Padre, and struggled to keep the sweat
from forming on his forehead. There was something about this case
that truly excited Sara. Money was never a priority in Sara’s life.
No. She was probably doing this for him, getting him interested in
working cases again.

“See.” Leyton jammed a chubby finger at
Dagger. “He’s guilty. I would sooner look for my daughter myself
than pay this hoodlum one dime.”

“Leyton.” John bit back a retort. He and
Padre were still trying to digest the details Luther had dumped in
their laps last night. “We’ve tried every normal, logical approach
to finding your daughter and we’ve come up empty. Why not give him
a shot? What have you got to lose?”

“He’s got a point,” Padre added. “If search
dogs and all the manpower we have expended haven’t turned her up,
all we can assume is she’s on a shopping spree in New York. And if
that’s the case, we will see to it she is prosecuted for wasting
our time.”

“Don’t forget, we do have a body with her
scarf around his neck. How do we know she didn’t kill him and is on
the run?” John added. “If anything, you are trusting Dagger to
prove your daughter’s innocence. That should be worth
something.”

Monroe swiped chubby fingers across his
mouth. His eyes seethed pure hatred at the P.I. “All right,” he
finally replied. “But I’m not paying one dime over the stated
reward of one hundred thousand.”

Sara’s eyes silently pleaded and Dagger was a
sucker for those eyes. “All right, I’ll settle for the original
reward on one condition. If it is determined that she is playing
all of us, you will donate one hundred and fifty thousand to a
charity of my choosing.”

Leyton mumbled something that sounded like he
agreed, then stared at the rug as he charged out of the office and
toward the elevators.

Dagger reached over and shoved the door
closed. “Okay, now that you have us here, spill the rest of the
story.”

“We have positively identified John Doe as
Rick Jensen,” Padre started. “He disappeared fourteen months ago.
On the original missing person report, Missus Jensen knew exactly
what her husband was wearing and what he had to eat. He was wearing
the exact same clothes when we found him and Luther found the
identical contents in the vic’s stomach. The wife also claims his
tattoo was fresh, just two days old. John Doe's tattoo was
fresh.”

“Tell me something we don’t know.” Dagger
grabbed his cup of coffee. Damn, the chief even gave him a
saucer.

“Tell them the rest,” John told Padre.

“There’s more?” Sara couldn’t be more excited
if she were sitting in a cemetery. What on earth had he created?
Dagger wondered.

“There’s an old well on the premises
containing two skeletons. Luther estimates they have been dead for
over eighty years. They were strangled with a rope tied the exact
way as the scarf found around Rick Jensen’s neck.”

“Really?” Sara smiled. “How cool is that? I
mean, not for them of course. Were they the previous owners?”

“We haven’t identified them yet,” Padre
replied.

“What about these ghost hunters? Anything in
their background? Any problems reported on their previous hunts?”
Dagger had to smile at his own choice of words. “When I first heard
about the case...no evidence, no clues...the first thought that
came to mind was human trafficking. Sheila could be on a cargo ship
set for the Middle East somewhere. Have these ghost hunters been
checked out as far as people missing from other cities where they
have been?”

“Nothing,” Padre replied. “They have only
been in business a couple years. People who have hired them in the
past haven't had any complaints. No crimes were committed before.
They even passed a lie detector test, but just the thought of what
they do is creepy enough.”

“It's all studio manufactured, if you listen
to Leyton,” John interjected. “Sheila's whole reason for agreeing
to participate was to expose them as frauds. Maybe she found
something out and they couldn't have her reporting it. It would
ruin them. Leyton believes they did something with his
daughter.”

“I think we should have them with us,” Sara
suggested. “We can keep an eye on them, they might slip up,
especially if they had anything to do with Sheila's
disappearance.”

“Do you think just two of you can keep an eye
on three people?” Padre asked.

“Sure? Why not?” although Dagger was starting
to wonder about the size of this mansion.

“Padre has a point.” Chief Wozniak turned to
his sergeant. “Which is why you’re joining them.”

“Me? You are not serious.” Padre
instinctively reached for the crucifix tucked under his shirt.

Sheila tapped her watch. “I don't understand.
I just had the battery changed a couple months ago.”

“It doesn't work here,” Colleen said.

“Why not?”

Her tiny shoulders shrugged. “Nothing works
here.” Colleen propped her doll on her lap. It had the same
pinafore dress that Colleen wore.

Sheila walked over to the window and studied
the endless acres of trees and wildflowers. “Where are your power
lines?”

“What are those?”

“You know, electricity to run the
refrigerator, microwave, lights.” Sheila pointed to a lamp on the
desk, but then realized it was a kerosene lantern. On a table
against the wall was an old time Victrola which had to be cranked
to work. Where had she seen one of those recently? “Of course!”
Sheila exclaimed. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?” Colleen set the doll next to her
as Sheila returned to the couch. “That’s why the name Dawson’s
Corner sounds familiar. I researched the history for an article I
was writing about the one hundred anniversary of Cedar Point. I
interviewed dozens of people and spent hours at the Historical
Society going through all of their books and studying their display
cases. Cedar Point was first known as Dawson's Corner. And that’s
why, oh god.” Tears sprang to her eyes.

“Why are you crying?” Colleen’s angelic face
showed concern and fear.

“They are happy tears, sweetheart. I now know
where I’m at. I’m in a coma and I’m dreaming everything. That’s why
I’m in this turn of the century house without modern conveniences
and why you don’t know about iPhones and iPads, computers,
electricity. And the name. I remember the people who used to live
here, the man who started the harbor. Sebold… husband and wife.”
Sheila was spitting out details faster than her mind could keep up.
Everything was coming back to her and she suddenly wondered if her
parents were standing vigil by her bedside. Could she feel her
mother holding her hand, patting her forehead with a cool cloth?
The fact that she was remembering her research should be a sign
that she was recovering. “Wait. I remember the name Walker, too.
Not Adrian. No.” Sheila searched her memory then snapped her
fingers. “Leeland! Yes, that’s it.”