Lasting Doubts (The Red Lake Series Book 2) Page 5

“Don’t need any salesmen!” he said and began to shut the door.

  “I want to speak with you about Alison. I’m a detective.”

  “Already talked to the police once.” Albright paused, “What the hell? Come on in.”

  Albright did not seem the type to welcome a private eye, so Harry let him draw his own conclusions.

  The living room was a testament to dissipation and ruin. Jack cleared a stack of old papers from a chair and slapped the cushion, which raised a cloud of dust mites which danced in the sunlight that cut across the room. “Have a seat.”

  Harry sat down slowly, testing the springs. They groaned but held firm.

  “What can you tell me about your daughter?”

  “Wasn’t my daughter, she was my stepdaughter. Always hated me. Never forgave her mother for taking my name. Anytime she was upset, which was a regular event, she’d scream, ‘I’m not an Albright’, like it was a badge of honor.”

  “I thought you and Carole got married right after high school?”

  “We did. She was pregnant, the real father was unwilling to marry her, I was.”

  “Why?”

  “She was good looking, better than I thought I could get. Foolish me!”

  As he spoke, Albright walked out of the room.

  Harry considered following him, but before he decided, the man returned with two cans of beer. “Drink?”

  “A little early for me, but thanks.”

  Jack killed half of the can and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “The girl was trash. Always thought she was too good for us or Red Lake for that matter. She was going to be rich and famous. Only fame she got was her picture in the paper for going missing.”

  Animosity seeped from the man. Harry wondered if part of it belonged to Albright’s ex-wife or her high school lover

  “Did you know Alison was planning to leave?”

  “She wouldn’t shut up about it. But we didn’t see how she could without any money.”

  “When did she actually go?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but they said she checked a suitcase, whatever date that was. Good riddance I say. She was a tramp. Sixteen and she’d roll over on her back and let you scratch her belly like a bitch in heat if you so much as looked at her.”

  “She ever come on to you?”

  “What are you trying to say, mister?” Brooding anger smoldered in Albright's eyes.

  “Nothing, I am just asking. A lot of girls try to play their mother off against their father, especially a stepfather.”

  Albright shrugged. He killed his beer and opened the second. “It was offered. Not in so many words but you could tell she was pitching. She’d accidentally wander out of the bathroom naked and acted shocked I was in the house. Or she'd lean on you when you were reading the paper. She was trouble and I wasn’t fool enough to grab a piece of that jail bait.”

  “Any ideas who killed her?”

  “No, but she probably gave them a good reason.”

  Albright waved his hand in dismissal. He left the room. This time he didn’t come back.

  Harry let himself out and left Jack Albright to his beer, living in the dead-end of bitter memories he was stuck in.

  Two people described Alison in hostile and negative terms, did anyone like her?

  He drove back to Red Lake. His next stop was Carole Albright. Dropping in risked her not being at home, but it also prevented her from rehearsing her comments. The house in the Greenbrier Tract was well kept. The garden tended and the trashcans neatly lined up.

  Carole looked a decade younger than her husband. Even though age had settled on her, he could see the beauty that once lay below the wrinkles.

  “Oh please come in,” she said animatedly when Harry said why he was there. He sensed she was eager to talk about her long lost daughter.

  “An absolute Botecelli angel was my Alison. Do you remember that movie, Picnic at Hanging Rock? When I saw it I said to myself that could be my precious girl.”

  Harry settled onto a seldom-used sofa. The lampshades still wore the plastic wrap they came in. The house smelt of disinfectant and furniture polish. He wondered what Mrs. Albright was scrubbing out of her life.

  “Did you know Alison was leaving?”

  “No, not until I went to put her laundry away and I found all of her best clothing gone.”

  “When was that?”

  “The twelfth of June. It was a Friday. I knew she was going places; Red Lake was no place for a girl like her. But I was disappointed she never said good-bye.”

  “Were you close?”

  “Oh we were like two peas in a pod. She was so much like me. We could have been sisters people said, except I was a blonde and she was brunette.”

  Harry studied her facial structure and could see the similarity to the photo in the newspaper.

  “Alison was a joy. She was active in her church youth group at the Episcopal Church and very popular at school.”

  Not exactly what I’ve been hearing, he thought. “Did she have money?”

  Carole laughed lightly, “Where would Alison get money from? We barely made ends meet.”

  “The newspaper said she possessed a lot of money before she left.”

  “Nonsense! That was just a silly rumor.”

  “Then how could she leave town?”

  I always thought she met some wealthy man and eloped. Alison was not a foolish girl; she was one to have a plan. More power to her for trying, I say! I warned her that she shouldn’t waste her life in Red Lake like I did. She had what it took to be a star!”

  There was a certain fantasy to the mother’s words, a carefully crafted world of what might-have-been. Harry doubted she was capable of remembering how her daughter really was; finding fiction comforting.

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “Alison was too popular to have a boyfriend.” She waved her hand as if pushing away an unpleasant idea that had floated toward her. “She went out with lots of young fellows. I was the same way when I was young. You may find this hard to believe but I was quite beautiful when I was a girl, more so than my daughter!”

  Her competition with her own flesh is repellant.

  “When I was in school all the boys were after me. I was Prom Queen my senior year and Home Coming Queen twice. Why, I even had one boy who stalked me, I kid you not!”

  Carole flicked a coquettish smile his direction.

  Harry feared she might soon pull out old yearbooks. Her daughter was forgotten in the flurry of words about herself. He felt suffocated by the woman and her memories. As quickly as possible he thanked her for her time and said good-bye.

  When he returned to his office, Paula was typing the report he wrote out the night before.

  “Lunch, babe?”

  “Mmmm,” she purred.

  They ate at Marie’s, getting preference over the tourists for a table. Paula chose the trout, Harry the Philly cheese steak sandwich. During the meal Paula found Harry to be introspective and detached.

  “How goes it?” she asked.

  “Something went down at a party twenty years ago. Nobody wants to talk about it.” A hint of disgust floated on words.

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know, but I sense that evil walks among us.”

  “What a strange thing to say, Harry.”

  “People are lying to me.”

  “Is that surprising? People wear masks. They don’t want to shock you with their secrets.”

  “Nothing a human does could ever surprise me. I’ve seen evil face to face, and it looks just like you, me, and everyone else walking the planet.”

  “You sure know how to sweet talk a girl over lunch.”

  “Sorry, babe. I just don’t like this case. It puts a bad taste in my mouth.”

  They switched to lighter subjects. An hour later, Paula gave Harry a quick kiss and sashayed toward the office, turning heads as she left.

  Harry drove out to the Bar
nes’ residence. On the stone columns were carved the words, ‘Amber Wood’. The wrought iron gates stood open, like guards on duty. Harry followed a gravel drive that curved lazily down to a motor court that was crowded with work vehicles. The house itself was a large rambling lodge, situated on ten acres that included four hundred feet of prime shoreline.

  Dave Barnes was a local kid who made it big. His gaming software for Global Annihilation: Armageddon made him wealthy. His follow-up in the series, Intergalactic Apocalypse sold fifty million dollars worth in the first week.

  The front door was open.

  “Hello?” he called.

  A workman’s head popped out of the kitchen. “Who do you want?

  “Dave Barnes.”

  “Down by the boathouse.”

  Harry strolled around the house and across an acre of lawn that flowed down to the water. At the boathouse he stuck his head in and found a 26’ runabout hung above the water but no Barnes. He went up the outside stairs and where he found him bent over blueprints.

  Harry introduced himself and added, “Remodeling, huh?”

  “Yep. I lived next door when I was a kid. The place was abandoned back then. I dreamed of owning it. For years it was held by an out of state owner, but it finally came on the market. We closed a month ago.”

  “Who listed it?”

  “Herb Lanski. We were in school together.”

  “Herb sold me my place.”

  “The guy works hard.” Barnes looked around. “Anyway I started the remodel and then my contractor took off!”

  “That’s a pain,” Harry commiserated. “What happened?”

  “I was using Frank Danby. Do you know him?”

  Harry shook his head.

  “He needed the work and I felt sorry for him. Another Red Lake alumna.”

  Barnes swung his head in silent disapproval of his choice. “I came home and found the kitchen a mess. He tore out the wrong wall and left. There was trash and plaster dust everywhere. If that wasn’t bad enough, Frank got into my liquor because the bourbon bottle was open on the bar top as were my front door and main gates. I called him up and told him not to come back.”

  Barnes looked around, again as if dismayed it could happen to him. He shrugged it off. “Enough small talk, what can I do for you?”

  “Alison Albright.” Again, Harry noticed the subtle shift that her name evoked in people. The words brought wariness into the room.

  “I didn’t really know her.”

  “I was told she was at a graduation party your class had back in ,92.”

  “What is your interest?”

  “I have a client who worries recent developments might adversely effect his interest.”

  “You mean the body turning up?”

  Harry nodded.

  Barnes said. “Probably not the only one who’s worried.”

  “Who was there?”

  “Anders Schmidt, Mitch Conners, you probably know him, he’s a deputy sheriff.”

  Harry nodded appropriately.

  “Hughie Thompson and Travis Parks. Frank was there, too.”

  “Frank Danby?”

  “Yeah. Herb was there with Becky Garner. It was the usual suspects.”

  “What about Phil Quelan or Cathy Kinyon?”

  Barnes was puzzled. “Do you know these guys?”

  “No they are just names that have come up along the way.”

  Barnes nodded as if this answered all his questions about Harry's role. Harry suspected it did not.

  “Phil wasn’t there. He broke his leg during a ball game sliding into home. During graduation he was laid up in a cast. Cathy went to Europe that summer, she left in May to get a cheaper airfare.”

  “You remember that twenty years later?”

  “Yeah, Cathy and I were an item that spring. It ticked me off. She even missed the Prom.”

  “What about Alison, how did she end up there?”

  He shrugged, “Turned up with a friend. I forget her name. A bit of a wallflower compared to Alison.”

  Barnes failed to add any other names to Harry’s list. Memories were hazy. Harry suspected a combination of time, a lack of sobriety that night, and an unspoken desire to forget. But evidently, Alison was memorable compared with her friend.

  “What about Robert Goodman?”

  Barnes seemed surprised, “Bobby? Yea, he was there. I forgot about him, if you want a killer he would be at the top of my list.”

  “Any particular reason other than his being executed for killing four people?”

  “I would think that might be enough, but Bobby was violent and a bit dangerous, especially when he was drunk. Plus I think he thought Alison was hot.”

  “Didn’t all of you?”

  Barnes shrugged. “She was easy,” then he added, “though that’s not exactly the same as hot.”

  Harry cruised back into town. He stopped at the sheriff’s station. Conners was on duty behind the counter.

  “What can you tell me about the graduation party?” Harry asked.

  “What party?”

  “The one you were at twenty years ago.”

  Conners’ face flushed. “I have nothing to say about that.”

  “Nobody does.”

  “So get lost.”

  “You can talk to me or talk to the press. Lou Harding is dying for a story.”

  Mitch's eyes roved around nervously. His head bobbed and turned as if his collar was cinched too tightly. He nodded toward the front door.

  Safely outside he said, “We did a lot of things when we were kids, stuff that would have kept me off the force. Might even get me kicked off today.”

  “Like what?”

  “House crashing, drinking, pot. That alone would have kept me out of the academy.”

  Harry asked who was at the house. The only new name was Vinnie Tagliero.

  “Where’s Tagliero?”

  “Las Vegas the last I heard. His uncle was connected. Vinnie went to work for him as muscle. Vinnie was a steroid freak.”

  “What about Hughie Thompson, is he around?”

  “Shot himself ten years ago. Word was he suffered depression and went off his meds.”

  Mitch was twitchy. Harry figured he did not like to bare secrets.

  Back at the office Harry picked up the phone. After three rings Barton Dirk’s answering machine kicked in.

  “Leave a message, or call Beth Lindal for my schedule.”

  On scratch paper Harry jotted down the name, then using the phone keypad, translated the name to numbers. (238) 454-6325.

  In Barton’s line of work he changed phones more often than a teenage girl changed clothes dressing for a date. Buy a throw away, create a name to match and leave the message.

  The phone rang once.

  “Speak.”

  “Harry here. You busy?”

  “I’m watching a lady who, though not in need of it, is tanning herself beside a villa’s swimming pool.”

  “Is it a beautiful villa?

  “Compared to the lady it is a ruin.”

  “Say hello to her for me.”

  “She’s five hundred yards away. I’m about to put the touch on her main squeeze.”

  “Give me a call when you're free for a few days.”

  Harry met Barton at Special Forces school. They began as opponents in hand-to-hand combat training. Later, they fought together in Afghanistan. During their second tour, they were tapped to liaison with a CIA covert team.

  If a warlord proved uncooperative he was eliminated. Taliban leaders were renditioned. At times their entire family eradicated; sending an emphatic message in a culture that valued family, though perhaps only as chattel. They operated in a culture that believed violence was power.

  Through their work the Army gleaned valuable information from numerous anonymous sources that ‘volunteered’ to talk. Barton Dirk was an expert at extracting cooperation. He liked his work a bit much for Harry’s taste, but theirs was a nasty job in a world where
hesitation on the trigger brought certain death.

  When their tour of duty was up both opted out of the service. Harry turned to being a private eye in Red Lake where it was wooded and green. There was water in the canyons all year and large cool lakes to fish. He wanted to be as far from dirt, rocks, and high desert as possible.

  Barton went to work as a ‘contractor.’ He would be gone for a while and then be back. Harry never asked, but wherever Barton went Harry knew it would be a place where there was violence, greed, a power struggle, and killing.

  Harry got by, his Army buddy grew rich. Barton could easily retire, but he was accustomed to violence and danger. In the part of the city where he grew up, death and violence was all anyone expected from life. Sports, music, the military or a body bag were the only ways out of the ghetto.

  As a teenage gang-banger, Barton was known as Ice, a shortened form of icicle. A weapon he made his first kill with by plunging one into another kid’s neck.

  The police never caught him for that or any other crime, a surprising record that eventually made the gang's leadership suspicious. Barton’s instincts warned him to exit ‘the life’ before he became a victim.

  In the military and particularly in Black Ops he found people who appreciated his talents. Barton did not like to kill; it was what one did to survive. But he did thrive on the hunt, living on the edge, always one bullet away from being the fallen prey instead of the predator.

  Harry hung up the phone. Temptation to quit early and go fishing called him. He locked up and went down to his truck but decided to make one more stop on his way home.

  Vicki Thompson lived in the Woodland Mobile home park. The trailers were neat but tired. A worn sedan with faded paint occupied the carport. Bicycles and skateboards blocked the walk. On the roof a swamp cooler rumbled. Harry leaned on the bell. The woman who answered was as faded as the car. Behind her came the sound of children fighting.

  “Whatever you’re selling I can’t afford. If you’re peddling religion, I don’t want it. If you are looking for donations, I have nothing left.”

  “I want to talk about Alison Albright.”

  The door slammed in his face.

  Some people want to avoid the past.

  Harry sidestepped the obstacles on the walk on his way back to his truck.