Murder on the Lake of Fire Page 2

“He was going crazy sitting around the house, so he went in to the office.”

  “He’s working the day after his daughter’s death?”

  In between sips, she told him, “He’s a multitasker. He can work and grieve. He’s done it before.” Watching Emory type on his phone, her face twisted in anger. “Are you actually texting while I’m talking to you?”

  “I’m taking notes.” He nodded toward the family portrait. “And your so…stepson?”

  “Now him, I wouldn’t mind you calling my son. Ian’s a great kid. He’s probably upstairs studying, if you need to talk to him.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Actually, he should be down in a few minutes.”

  “Your maid, is she a live-in?”

  “She lives in the little servant’s house out back.”

  “Anyone else live here or stay here recently?”

  Pristine glared at him. “This isn’t a shelter, detective.”

  “Special agent,” Emory corrected, growing flustered at her attitude. “I’m simply trying to get a handle on everyone with access to the victim’s home.”

  “You think she was murdered here?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Emory was unwilling to share too much information about the case with a potential suspect, so he redirected. “When did you last see Britt?”

  “Night before last. I passed her on the stairs as she was going to bed.”

  “Did you talk?”

  “Just the usual. I said, ‘Good night,’ and she told me to fuck off.”

  “Do you know who would want to harm her?” Emory asked, refraining from adding, besides you.

  “I never pried in her life. Do you have kids?”

  Uncertain why she would even ask that, he told her, “We should stick to relevant matters. Was Britt dating anyone?”

  “I just told you I don’t pry in her life,” she growled. “Will you be asking me any questions you can’t get answered from someone else? My maid knew her better than I did. She could stand in for me.”

  Emory could feel his face redden, and although he tried maintaining his composure, his voice rose when he told her, “I didn’t know your daughter—”

  “Stepdaughter.”

  “Stepdaughter.” Emory took a breath to calm himself. “Stepdaughter. That’s why I need to ask some basic questions to get a feel for what her life was like. Now how would you characterize your relationship with Britt?”

  She laughed. “I’m her stepmother. How do you think she felt about me?” Drink in hand, Pristine walked to the covered frame and removed the black cloth. It wasn’t a portrait of Britt after all. “This is Meredith, the first Mrs. Algarotti. They buried her two years ago. Cancer.” She raised her glass to the portrait in a venomous toast.

  Emory could see she was grieving too, even if it weren’t over the girl who had just died. “I understand. The kids resented you.”

  “Not Ian. Maybe because he was younger when I met Victor. He sees me as… maybe not a mother, but at least someone who cares about him. Like an aunt maybe.”

  “How does Mr. Algarotti see you?”

  “What a strange question.” Pristine pointed the index finger of her goblet-clutching hand at him. “Oh, I see what you’re asking. Victor loves me, detective. And before you ask, I love him, too. I wouldn’t marry a man I didn’t love, I don’t care how much money he has.”

  Emory surmised he’d get no more useful information from her, so he asked her a final question. “Where does Mr. Algarotti work?”

  Pristine rolled her eyes. “Margaret!” She stomped toward the door, arriving there just as her maid appeared. She pointed with her thumb to Emory and told her, “Answer his questions.” With that, she left the room, and clopped up the stairs.

  “Yes?” Margaret asked.

  Emory met the maid in the doorway. “I just need to know where Mr. Algarotti works.”

  Past the maid, he saw a boy engulfed in a large parka descend the stairs and head toward the front door.

  “At the water bottling factory,” the maid answered, and she pointed her withered index finger. “It’s about three miles further down the road.”

  Emory thanked her for her time and excused himself. Once he reached the front porch, he saw the Algarotti boy rolling his bike from behind the sofa glider. “Treacherous conditions for biking, don’t you think?”

  The blond boy, somewhere around the age of thirteen, turned around to display a puzzled look. “Huh? I can handle it.”

  Emory put his hand forward. “My name’s Emory Rome. I’m with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”

  “I’m Ian.” The boy shook his hand and looked up at him with tear-glistened eyes. “Are you going to find out what happened to my sister?”

  Emory gave him a smile of assurance. “I promise you I’m going to do my best. You two were close, weren’t you?” Ian nodded. “Can I ask you something? Do you know anyone who maybe didn’t like your sister?”

  Ian shook his head and shrugged. “Everyone loved her. She did have some haters, mostly online. Trolls who would say bad things about her skating. She always said that kind of talk just made her want to succeed even more. I think she might’ve even kept some comments for motivation. You want me to get her laptop for you?”

  “Oh no, that’s okay. I’ll ask your dad for permission to look at it if I need to. Thank you anyway.”

  Ian shrugged and rolled the bike down the steps.

  Emory followed him down and noticed the red sports coupe was gone. As he approached his car, he saw a note under the windshield wiper. Emory pulled it out and saw it had a ten-digit number and the words, “You’re going to need this.”

  CHAPTER 3

  AHEAD ON HIS right Emory spotted an expansive single-story building with three silo-type structures. It abutted a mountain that continued to rise another fifteen-hundred feet above the roof of the building. Behind the building, he could make out a barbed-wire fence enclosing a natural spring that gushed from beneath two large boulders and cascaded down the mountain. He turned onto the ascending driveway and noticed the name on the monument sign – Algarotti Smoky Mountain Springs.

  Emory parked his car and plodded up the straight pathway to the front door. He entered the lobby, which had a few seats, plants and a standalone display with brochures about the company and each type of water it distributed – spring, flavored, carbonated and distilled. There was no receptionist desk or anyone to greet visitors, so he assumed the factory didn’t get many.

  Emory followed a directional sign for the administrative offices to a long corridor. Just past a bathroom for each sex, he came to a windowless room. Adjacent to the room’s lone desk sat a table featuring neatly aligned rows of Algarotti Smoky Mountain Springs bottled water, a glass-door refrigerator chilling bottles of flavored water and a sign inviting visitors to take one. The desk was positioned to the right of the entrance to a smaller hallway that ended at a door. Seated at the desk was someone familiar.

  “Hello,” Emory said to the man he had seen leaving the Algarotti house earlier.

  The man closed the desk drawer he was rifling through and lifted a stolid face that softened when he saw Emory. “Hi again,” he replied with a flawless smile framed by mischievous lips. His pea coat was now unbuttoned, exposing a tight blue sweater molded over square pecs. He leaned back in the chair, interlocked his fingers over his chest and peered at Emory with eyes as sparkling green as the Southern Lights. “Are you following me?”

  The stranger’s question and his assuredness knocked Emory’s demeanor off balance. “No,” he answered with more volume than intended. “No, I’m here to see Victor Algarotti.”

  “So am I.” The man erected himself without using his hands and walked to the front of the desk to stand before Emory. Both six-foot-two, their eyes locked – an alignment that rattled Emory. “Jeff Woodard,” the man said as he extended his hand.

  Emory shook his hand and told him his name. “What do you mean, you want to see him too? Is Victor not here?”r />
  Before Jeff could explain, another man exited the nearby bathroom and approached them. A work badge hanging from his right collar informed them that his name was Scot Trousdale. In his late twenties or early thirties, Scot stood about five inches shorter than the other two men, but the wide back and thick shoulders pushing against the seams of his dress shirt gave him an imposing presence nonetheless. The curls of his dark brown hair twisted around cauliflower ears and an attractive face misshaped by more than a couple of punches. A fighter. Wrestling or MMA. Scot’s dull eyes looked at them from behind rimless glasses that slid down the wide bridge of his nose. “Gentlemen. Which one of you is Mr. Woodard?” he asked in a voice lighter than his looks would suggest.

  “That would be me,” responded Jeff with a slight wave.

  Scot pulled some papers from the printer at his desk, stapled them and handed them to Jeff. “To save time, Mr. Algarotti dictated all the information you’ll need to start your investigation. Oh wait.” He retrieved a picture of Britt from his top drawer and gave it to Jeff. “Here’s a picture.”

  “Excuse me.” Emory glared at Jeff. “Who are you?”

  Jeff smirked at him. “We met earlier.”

  “I know we met earlier. Why are you receiving information about my victim?”

  Jeff flashed his right palm. “Let’s not get possessive. I’m a private investigator—”

  Scot looked over his glasses at Emory. “And who are you?”

  “I’m Emory Rome from the TBI.”

  Jeff taunted him by asking, “Do you have a badge?”

  “Of course I do.” Emory retrieved his badge and showed it to both of them, eliciting a smile from Jeff.

  Scot stared at Emory for a moment. “Have we met before?”

  Emory answered, “I don’t believe so,” although he questioned if they had run into each other when he lived in Barter Ridge as a kid.

  Scot seemed to register a sudden glimmer of realization, but if he did, he kept it to himself. “Hang on one second.” He went to his computer to print another copy of the document he had given Jeff. “Mr. Algarotti had me compile all the information you might need.” He stapled the papers and handed them to Emory. “Mr. Algarotti asked that no time be wasted before getting started.”

  Emory glanced at the top page. “How thorough.”

  “I don’t have another picture, though,” Scot told him. “Maybe you two could share it.”

  Jeff snapped a picture of the photo with his phone. “I’ll text it to you. What’s your number?” After a silent second, he added, “It’s only fair. You already have mine.”

  So it was his number. Emory shook his head. “I have my own picture.” He turned back to Scot to ask, “Where’s Victor’s office?”

  “As I said, he asked that you – I guess both of you now – not waste time.”

  “I need to talk to him,” insisted Emory.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Scot countered. “Everything he would tell you is in the document I just gave you.”

  Emory’s stern face matched the tone of his voice when he said, “It wasn’t a request.”

  Without turning his head, Scot pointed his ink pen over his shoulder to the hallway behind him. “End of the hall.”

  Emory walked past the desk, his footsteps echoed by Jeff’s. “Where are you going?” he asked the PI.

  “I want to talk to him too.”

  “I need to talk to him alone. This is a murder investigation.” Emory continued walking until Jeff grabbed his arm.

  “This isn’t my first murder case.”

  Emory had a growing disdain for private investigators. In his experiences with them since becoming a special agent, they often muddied the waters so he couldn’t see the bottom-dwelling truth until the effects of their interference dissipated. With very rare exceptions, however, he had always maintained his composure in his dealings with them – or anyone else for that matter – regardless of how much he didn’t like who he was talking to or how combative they were. Right now, though – probably because of Jeff Woodard’s earlier taunts or his ever-oozing cockiness – Emory had a great desire to belt him in the mouth. He refrained. “Really? What others have you worked on? Who were the victims?”

  Jeff counted on his fingers. “Lara Crawford, Zelda Princeton, Jill Valentino—”

  “Why do all of your victims sound like video game characters? Look, I have no unsolved mysteries under my belt. I’m not going to let an amateur muddle up one of my investigations.”

  “Muddle? Who says that outside a Christmas song? I got news for you. It’s our investigation, and I’m not going to muddle up anything.”

  “What were you doing at his desk when I arrived?”

  “It’s called investigating.” Jeff pointed toward Scot’s desk. “Dilbert there could be our killer.”

  Emory continued to Victor’s closed office, telling Jeff, “Don’t follow me.”

  An oversized cherry desk served as the focal point of Victor Algarotti’s office, which was drowning in a dreary atmosphere of brown and black tones – wood furniture, black vinyl upholstery and walls the color of desiccated hemlock. Behind the desk, a large window offered a view of Barter Ridge, and to the right of it was a closet door.

  Standing beside his desk with his back toward the door, Victor Algarotti hung up his office phone. Once he turned around, his teary eyes did not seem at all pleased to see Emory standing in his doorway. “My assistant tells me that the information we’ve provided you is somehow insufficient.”

  As Emory shut the door, he noticed a second and much smaller desk in an adjacent corner. He held up the document Scot had given him. “Black ink on white paper. No color.”

  Towering and immaculate, Victor rounded his desk to sit at his chair. “I don’t know how much color I can provide.”

  Emory sat at one of the two chairs facing the front of the desk, and as he did, he caught the lavender scent of Victor’s wake. Expensive cologne. “I realize this is difficult for you, and I’m so sorry for your loss…”

  Victor’s eyes darted from Emory to the door.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Jeff said as he entered the room. He took a seat next to Emory and smiled at him. “I was on the phone tying up some loose ends in a murder case I closed last week. I won’t bore you with the amazing details.”

  “Are you the PI?” Victor asked.

  “At your service, and thank you for the opportunity. You’ll be glad you called me.”

  Emory whipped his eyes back to Victor. “Mr. Algarotti, could I ask why you hired a private investigator?”

  “I’m not about to let my daughter’s killer get away because a backwoods sheriff lacks the skills to catch him. I’m surprised he had the good sense to call the TBI for help.”

  Emory was annoyed by his answer, but he didn’t vocalize it. “Now that the TBI is here—”

  Jeff interrupted with, “Hey, I’m right here. Stop trying to get me fired! The TBI doesn’t have a lock on deductive reasoning in this state. I’ll solve this case before you—”

  Emory scoffed at the notion. “I’d like to see that.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Victor.

  Emory and Jeff asked in unison, “What?”

  “Competition delivers results. I’ll give one hundred thousand dollars to whoever brings my daughter’s killer to justice – death or jail.”

  Emory shook his head. “I’m a government agent. I can’t accept a reward.”

  “Fine, but you obviously don’t care for this guy.” Victor pointed to Jeff. “Find who did this, and keep him from getting the reward.”

  Jeff placed his business card onto Victor’s desk. “The name of my agency so you can write it correctly on the reward check.”

  Emory told Victor, “I can’t have this PI interfering with my investigation—”

  Jeff smirked at Emory. “Well, you’ll have to muddle through somehow.”

  “Gentlemen!” Victor boomed, punctuated with a fist on his desk. �
�In five minutes I’m going to start planning my daughter’s…funeral.” His voice cracked on the last word as his eyes began to tear up. “You have until then to ask me questions.”

  Emory spoke first. “My apologies. When did you last see your daughter?”

  Victor pointed at the papers in Emory’s lap. “That’s in the information you were given.”

  “I’d like to hear it from you, in your own words.”

  “Yesterday morning. Before she left for the lake.”

  “When did you notice she was missing?” asked Emory.

  “Dinner. She kept to a strict schedule when she was in training. Up early every morning to practice – at the rink during the warm months, but she always preferred to be outdoors whenever she could. She didn’t take up any extracurricular activities at school so she could be home right after, have dinner by 6 p.m. and be in bed by nine. She had taken some time off after her last competition, and yesterday was to be her first day back in training. When she didn’t come downstairs to dinner, I realized that she hadn’t even come home. Then I called her best friend, Tati, and she said she hadn’t seen her and had been texting her without any response. I drove past the lake and found her car in the driveway, but she wasn’t there. That’s when I called the sheriff. As I waited for him, I walked around the lake…” Victor turned away from them and wiped his eyes. “I saw the end of her scarf sticking to a sheet of ice floating on the water.” Tears fell from his cheeks to the lapels of his raven-colored suit. “As I got closer, I saw the rest of the scarf in the water, around her neck. I couldn’t even tell for certain that it was her neck. She was…burned. Who would do that to someone?”

  Emory spoke through a lump in his throat. “I promise you we will find whoever did this.”

  In a gentle tone, Jeff said, “We will.”

  Emory frowned at the PI. “I meant we, the TBI.”

  Jeff ignored him. “Victor, did she practice alone?”

  Victor wiped his eyes. “Since I fired her coach.”

  Emory was about to ask the reason the coach was fired, but Jeff spoke first. “Which lake is this?”

  “We call it Cicada Lake, but it’s more of a pond really. It’s on a few acres we own a couple of miles from the house, down Black Bear Lane.”