Page 30 of Fatal Fame
"I think whoever did this has been watching from the sidelines for ten years, probably feeling pretty confident that they'd gotten away with it." Liam's eyes met Pierce's with an intensity that suggested years of suppressed anger.
The driveback toward High Peaks took them through the same rural landscape they'd traversed that morning, but the late afternoon light made everything look different, shadows longer, colors deeper, the sense of isolation more pronounced. While Marcus navigated the winding roads, Pierce reviewed his notes, trying to process the information they'd gathered.
Michael Torres had emerged again as a prime suspect, a married cop with means, motive, and a suspiciously convenient alibi. The unreleased surveillance video suggested someone familiar with the family's routine. And Liam's assertion that evidence had a tendency to disappear when it pointed in the wrong direction hinted at the kind of institutional corruption that could explain why the case had remained unsolved.
Pierce's phone rang as they approached the High Peaks town line. Unknown number, local area code.
"Pierce Landry."
Silence for several seconds, then a voice that had been electronically distorted to make identification impossible. "Mr. Landry, you need to stop asking questions about things that don't concern you."
Pierce felt his pulse spike, but his media training kicked in automatically. "Who is this?"
"Someone who knows you've been making phone calls to people in town, asking about old business that should stay buried. You're not welcome here, and you're not safe here."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm warning you. Take your cameras and your theories and go back to California before something happens that can't be undone."
The line went dead.
10
The morning in Saranac Lake carried the crisp promise of autumn, with mist rising from the water and the kind of clear light that made the surrounding mountains look close enough to touch. Noah stood at the counter of Blue Line Coffee, waiting for his order and reviewing notes on his phone about a Luther Ashford money trail that had led him forty minutes from High Peaks.
The lead had come from Thomas O'Connell's memory stick, a series of financial transactions that connected Ashford's casino operations to a shell company with an address in Saranac Lake. Probably nothing more than another dead end in a case full of them, but Noah had learned that the only way to catch criminals like Luther Ashford was to follow every thread, no matter how thin.
"Large black coffee, extra shot," the barista called, sliding the cup across the counter.
Noah added a lid and was reaching for his wallet when a voice behind him made him turn.
"Noah Sutherland."
He squinted at the woman approaching him—mid-forties, graying brown hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, intelligent eyes that seemed to catalog everything about him in a single glance. She held a thick hardcover book under one arm.
"Do I know you?" Noah asked, though something about her seemed familiar.
She smiled, extending her hand. "Evelyn Cross."
His head went back slightly in recognition. "Ah, yes. Cross Forensics. You worked a few cold cases in High Peaks a few years back. Very good work. That led to an arrest." He'd heard about her from other investigators, a former detective turned independent consultant with a reputation for thorough analysis and unorthodox methods.
"Thank you. I've heard good things about your work with BCI as well." Evelyn gestured toward an empty table near the window. "Mind if I join you for a few minutes?"
Noah glanced at his watch—he had time before his appointment with the shell company's registered agent—and nodded toward the table. They settled into chairs that looked out over the lake, where early morning joggers and dog walkers were beginning their daily routines.
"What case are you working at the moment?" Noah asked.
"The Riverside Murders from the eighties. Three children found bound and killed in the woods outside town. Case was officially blamed on satanic cult activity, but the evidence never supported that conclusion."
“Where’s it pointing?”
“To the stepfather of one of the kids.”
“Geesh. Is he still alive?”
“He is.”
Noah glanced at the thick book she'd placed on the table—a comprehensive text on occult practices and cult behavior. "Light reading?"
