Beneath the Earth

By K.L. Dempsey

Beneath the Earth is the new thriller by K. L. Dempsey, which features private investigator Alexandra Johnson. Alexandra has recently resigned from her job as an elite investigator for the successful firm of Kate Heller Patterson and has now opened her own agency in the alleged haunted library of Deer Valley, Illinois. Her delight in owning her own firm has suddenly put her face-to-face with the need to solve the tragic disappearance of the region’s most famous author. Immediately it becomes clear that this is not the work of an amateur or that of the novelist’s beautiful unfaithful wife, but rather someone with a calculating and efficient program to steal from those now living, something most precious to each of their hearts. Alex’s past reputation as a crime solver is put to test when the city of Deer Valley suffers through a series of crimes that rip through the town on its way toward the gates of their historical cemetery. It becomes clear that Johnson is on the trail not only of those that have kidnapped the author, but rather someone with a calculating and evil mind. The horrifying secret and truth behind the author’s disappearance and what actually is beneath the earth could cost Alex dearly—her job, her newfound love, her future marriage, and even her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662413759

Book preview

Chapter 1

The First Time

When it was built in 1956, the Deer Valley library was a proud addition to the town of Deer Valley, Illinois, and its location had turned out to be one of the town’s prominent meeting places as well as the center for reading and studying for school final exams. Then things changed almost overnight when the local chapter of the Women for Advancement had met at the library and the lights had started blinking. Everyone had of course been startled except for the chairlady Roxanne Gilbertson, who had yelled, Cut it out now! and suddenly the lights stopped blinking. It would have been deemed just another event in an evening of boring chatter, coffee, and doughnuts if not for the secretary of the club, a Wilma Sinclair, who had spoken up and reminded everyone that the library was undoubtedly haunted by the ghost of Abigail Koehler, a woman who was bludgeoned to death by her ex-husband in a house located on this very spot that the town fathers had decided to build the library. It didn’t take but a year before visitors were hearing pounding, lights mysteriously going off in bathrooms, and librarians beginning to fear for their lives before it was decided to abandon the building and build another library. Many of the town’s trustees unwilling to demolish what was considered to be a serviceable building decided to try to sell the structure to the highest bidder. To the surprise of no one, it had few takers in the months that followed.

Alexandra Johnson had clipped the advertisement from the Sun Times newspaper while finishing her last day of representing her father’s law firm at the Johnson and Johnson law firm booth at the McCormick Place in downtown Chicago as part of the annual Midwest Lawyers Convention. Since leaving her position as one of the three private investigators for Heller Patterson Investigations in Lift Bridge, Michigan, Alexandra (Alex to her friends) had been looking for the right opportunity to open both her own law firm and private investigator office. What had actually caught her eye was how the town of Deer Valley, Illinois, had set about advertising the building. Legend lingers in the former library of Deer Valley. The article went on to describe the street-front building as mammoth in size, but reasonable in price, for the right buyer. Alexandra had forgotten about the advertisement until five days after her return to her apartment in Drake, Michigan.

Then one day after checking her wallet for a cleaning bill receipt, she stumbled upon the advertisement. Laying the clipped article on her kitchen table, she poured herself a cup of coffee and dialed the provided phone number.

Mayor’s office, this is Loretta.

"Loretta, my name is Alexandra Johnson, and I was wondering if you’ve sold or have leased that ‘legend lingers building’ that you had advertised in the Sun Times about a week ago?"

No, not yet, she said. We’ve had interest, but no buyers yet.

Well, I’m a lawyer and private investigator from Michigan looking to relocate and wondered what you were asking for the building. If the price is within my allotted budget, I could drive down from Michigan sometime this week and take a look at it, said Alexandra.

The building originally cost the town over $850,000, Ms. Johnson, but the asking price has been reduced to $275,000, our best offer, said Loretta. She waited for Johnson’s response.

The most compelling evidence that usually exists when something is sold below market value is that there’s more to the story, Loretta, so before I drive all the way to Illinois to inspect the building, what is really going on with this structure that allows this big of a price reduction?

To be perfectly honest, there is nothing wrong with the beautiful building, Ms. Johnson, other than its reputation of being haunted by the spirit of Abigail Koehler. She was a local woman who was murdered and lived in the house that once sat on the spot where the library was built.

Well, I’m not superstitious, Loretta, so put me on your calendar for a visit this Friday afternoon. If everything turns out well, Deer Valley could have a new businesswoman in town. By the way, the internet doesn’t list any private investigators or lawyers in your town. Could that be accurate?

Well, actually we have three lawyers, but all that they do is local tax business and contract work, plus occasional wills and deeds, that type of thing. As for private investigators, you’d have to travel over to Joliet, Illinois, which is about 145 miles from here. If you still have an interest, we’d look forward to seeing you this Friday, Ms. Johnson, she said while hanging up the phone.

Alexandra got up from her kitchen table and walked into her computer room and sat down, typing into the search engine the name Deer Valley library, Deer Valley, Illinois. She watched as the profile of the city library appeared, covering the suggested haunting of the building by the long-deceased Abigail Koehler, who had been murdered during a drunken rage by her husband. Alexandra shook her head in amazement about how many such haunted library stories existed. In Illinois alone, there were at five such libraries listed as being occupied by spirits of some sort. The most interesting part of the library haunting seemed to be that the body of Mrs. Koehler had never been found and that the husband was only convicted on a blood-soaked mattress in the couple’s bedroom. He was sentenced to life and died in prison while never admitting to the murder.

Rubbing her eyes, Alexandra turned off the computer while deciding to get a night’s rest before she started out on her trip in the morning. It had now been nine months since she had voluntarily left her job at Kate Heller Patterson Investigations in Lift Bridge, Michigan. It had not been an easy decision since in the short time she had worked for Kate Heller Patterson and Howard Singer, the co-owners had become more her friends than bosses. Together the three of them had solved a high-profile kidnapping of a local female pharmacist that ultimately led to the mysterious death of the alleged mastermind of the crime, a Dr. Daniel Brownstein, a well-known physician from Detroit, Michigan. Pulling open her dresser drawer, she removed the pure blue silk nightgown, a gift from her friend Police Chief Peter Burke during their short time together in Lift Bridge. Where are you now Pete? she wondered as she walked to her bathroom, remembering those special four days together in the suburbs of Detroit. It had been all her fault to put a hold to their relationship, not his, that today filled her world full of loneliness.

You drive like a bat out of hell. That’s what her favorite Uncle Dick used to say about her driving when she had raced his old Plymouth around town during that summer many years ago while visiting him in South Dakota. She winced and apologized to herself in the rearview mirror as she looked for any state troopers but kept her foot on the accelerator as the miles flew by on her way to Deer Valley. Bat out of hell didn’t make much sense in today’s world of vulgar words, but nevertheless, she was flying in her bright-red Chrysler 300 with the super V-8 engine purring at 105 mph. She would have left sooner, but she had to pack and then organize and also answer that voice message from Peter Burke. How in the hell had he found her after all these months? She had asked him that question herself, only to be reminded that he had been a police chief and finding people had been his job just like hers when they had known each other in Lift Bridge. He had been great during her return phone call and didn’t blame or attempt to extract any measure of guilt from her for disappearing from his life, but rather he was the same man whom she had always remembered by his style of keeping it simple.

How are you, Alex? he had asked. And call me when you’re ready, no pressure. They had chatted for forty-five minutes before she had explained that she was running late for an appointment, and just like the Peter he had always been, he didn’t ask her about where she was going or whom she was seeing. Instead, he told her to just be safe and to call him when she was ready. She had said that she would and hung up the phone before she had even asked how he was.

Up ahead was the first stoplight that she had seen in the last fifty miles, and of course it was red as she slowed down, waiting for it to change, but it didn’t. Pulling up to the intersection, she watched as the cars zoomed across in front of her. She glanced at her watch and then back at the light, which still hadn’t changed. She clenched her fingers around the steering wheel, but the damn thing wouldn’t change. Must be broke, she though as she looked around at the now-empty intersection and pulled across the road, expecting any moment to hear the blaring of sirens and flashing red and blue lights, but nothing, just the sound of her engine gaining speed once again as she pushed the accelerator to the floor. One of the little things that she loved about the Chrysler was the little digital clock on the dashboard, and she loved watching the little numbers changing as she drove, telling her of course that she was already half an hour late.

Looking over toward the passenger seat, she took a deep breath, grateful that in her rush she hadn’t forgotten her camera or her Walther PK .380, a slim, incredibly soft shooting .380-caliber weapon that makes one think you’re firing a .22 long rifle. Suddenly she spotted the millage indicator off to the side of the road. She was less than ten miles from Cottonwood and twenty-two miles to Deer Valley. Damn if she wasn’t going to almost make it on time.

A few minutes later, Alexandra crossed the bridge of the Cheyenne River and then headed east through the outskirts of Deer Valley and through several well-to-do neighborhoods until she reached the town hall building.

It took the village clerk Loretta Mattie less than an hour to present the positive selling features of buying a now-empty haunted library to Alexandra and even less time for Alexandra’s counter offer of $92,500, to its final approval with the village fathers. There was something about folks living in an isolated or deprived set of circumstances whether in a monastery or a quiet little town of under 100,000 people. Each is susceptible to noonday demons and wanting to rid themselves of problems and getting on with the real business of life such as Isn’t the mail here yet today? Alexandra couldn’t contain her glee at negotiating such a low price, and maybe it was the blue sunny sky that made her a little crazy, but she asked the question of Loretta anyway. Do you know anyone who builds, remodels, or would be interested in working with me to carve out additional office space inside this structure?

You mean a good carpenter or two?

That would be a start, but what I have in mind might be too much for two guys. I need to be set up in business as quick as possible while they finish the additional rooms. I intend to lease out the other rooms to professionals, making this property a center of excellence. This would of course be done with the approval of your city council.

Send us a copy of your basic plans, Alexandra, and if you want the work done fast and at the most reasonable price, we’ll use the contractors that work for the village. They just happen to be the mayor’s two adult sons. It sounds like Chicago, I know, but really, they do good work and you’ll be satisfied. It also makes the paperwork flow faster, she said with a wink.

Listen, give me a call, and if they can meet my time deadline, we got a deal, she said. I’m going to leave you my personal check for $35,000 today. Call me if you have any questions.

Chapter 2

The Beginning

Alexandra checked her oversized dark gray metallic watch and reached for her second cup of coffee. She then glanced at her recent advertisement in the morning edition of the Deer Valley Herald newspaper. With the circulation now reaching 277,000 homes according to the editors, the charge of $2,200 for the double-trunk advertisement promoting her new business seemed worth every penny.

Hiring private eyes a good investment was the bold catchy phrase. It continued, Investigators in high demand as budgets across Illinois and the US reduce the current police forces. Well, so far the investment had resulted in only a little old lady calling her phone number because someone in a car kept lurking in her driveway with the engine running while her husband was out of town. The woman had called the police in Cottonwood, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t help. When Alexandra had told her that her rate was $250 an hour, she had balked and hung up. Well, not everyone can afford private investigator help, she had reasoned. She then had received a call from a mother begging her to get her son out of jail where he was being held for a murder he said he didn’t commit. She had found evidence about the man’s alibi that the police had not bothered to follow up on and helped the man get out of jail, which got her some well-needed publicity and an upset police department now without a suspect. As the days turned into weeks, Alexandra found herself checking into cases from theft to hit-and-runs while still waiting for a job that she could give more attention to and thus make more than the minimum wage that she was now averaging.

The positive side to the library building purchase was that no ghost had appeared within the walls of her new office even though the mayor (while probably trying to save face over almost giving the building away to her) had stopped by one day and had told her that her office location was not only constructed on the former lot of Abigail Kohler’s home but that her office now rested where Abigail’s bedroom had been. And no, she was not going to sell the property back to the city.

Not everything though had moved slowly, since she had succeeded in renting the remaining office space to a chiropractic husband and wife team who had taken two of the offices, another to an organization involved in functional medicine, and finally a health food store owner. She herself had rented a three-bedroom townhouse with the option to buy about ten minutes from her office. And what an office it was for relatively no business, she muttered. It had four individual rooms for a growing staff that she didn’t need and a hallway leading into an exercising room featuring two treadmills and countless bicycle riding machines all designed to take those extra pounds off. Glancing out her large office window, her eyes caught the green dumpster. That was an eyesore and had to be moved to another location, pure and simple, to make this woman happy. No junk by my window, she fumed. Alexandra started to pick up her desk phone and was about to call Stanley’s Refuse when she saw the woman walk through the door.

Can I help you? offered Alexandra from her office doorway.

I’m looking for Ms. Johnson, the private investigator. Are you her secretary?

Actually I’m Alexandra Johnson, but Alex is fine if you prefer. And you are who?

My name is Linda Jacobson and I’m from Willow Creek, a suburb about sixty-five miles from here. It’s a bedroom community where a lot of professionals live while commuting to the bigger city of Springfield.

Well, please come in and have a seat in my office and tell me what I can do to make your trip worth the time. Is it Ms. or Mrs. Jacobson by the way?

It’s Mrs. Jacobson, and if you can find my husband, then certainly the trip will be more than worth the time. And before you ask, I’ve already been to the police three times and they don’t consider it worth their effort, especially considering the fact that husbands, according to them, disappear all the time trying to get away from their wives, family, or both. That’s not the case with Conrad though. We have a solid marriage, and besides, he has no time like many men to develop other relationships. He works at home, plays at home, and loves at home, if you get the picture, Ms. Johnson.

I think that I do, although I’ve never been married. What type of work does this husband of yours do while at home?

He’s the published novelist Conrad Jacobson, but most of his work appears in England. Those familiar with the major publishing companies in America have come to understand that they seem to gravitate toward women authors like Sandra Brown, Lisa Black, Lisa Gardner, and Ann Coulter. Regardless, before he disappeared, he was working on a nonfiction book dealing with the first American-born writer to be published in the United States, a Mr. William Hill Brown, the son of a clockmaker.

That’s very interesting, Linda, and while he was working on that project, what type of work did you do at home? Housewife, his secretary, or do you have your own career?

I do market research for a number of companies, the idea being to find the best systematic approach to an advertising strategy like in the old days when the Campbell Soup Co. of Camden, New Jersey, tried to determine whether there was a relationship between household income and consumption of canned soups. The results demonstrated that canned soups suffered no class stigma. So what I’m trying to point out, Alex, is that we both have our incomes derived from home careers and were hardly ever out of each other’s sight. Nevertheless, he’s disappeared, gone, or vanished, whichever you prefer.

Any thoughts as to how that could have happened, Linda?

None, my office is on the upper level of the house, while Conrad’s is adjacent to the recreation room on the lower level, so as you can imagine, while we’re working throughout the day, we might not see each other for two to three hours at a time. We each have our routines, so when I came down around 1:00 p.m. to prepare lunch and he didn’t come to the kitchen, I went down to his office and he wasn’t there, yet he had poured himself a hot cup of tea, which was still warm on his desk. Since it was about the time of the day that the mailman delivers, my first thought was that he had taken a short walk down the road to get the mail. He liked to do that once in a while just to get in a little exercise. I waited for some time, and when he didn’t return, I left a sandwich on his desk and went back upstairs to continue working. About an hour later I came back down and noticed that he hadn’t eaten his lunch, so I started to worry that he might have gotten sick, so I went down to the mailbox and found that the mail was still there. His car was still in the garage along with mine, so nothing made sense.

Tell me a little bit about Willow Creek, asked Alex.

As I said it’s a bedroom community where a lot of professionals live. The town is small, maybe around 3,500 people with many living in the country like we do. If you like to hunt, fish, golf, or just not do much besides relax, Willow Creek is the perfect community. Nobody locks their cars or their house. It’s sometimes pretty boring since little happens around there.

That’s until now?

Yes, until now.

How did you learn about me, being that you are so far away from Deer Valley?

Our local newspaper picked up on the story about you buying the town library. The article covered your background as a private investigator and lawyer. So will you take my case and try and help me find my husband?

Before I make that decision, I’d like to visit your home and see your husband’s office and get a feel of Willow Creek. There will be no charge for my services until I accept the case. Would tomorrow be too soon?

No, that will be fine, so I’ll be looking forward to your visit, she said, getting up and shaking Alex’s hand and then giving her a business card with their home address.

The next morning Alex Johnson stood in front of the large open area sun-drenched windows. The bright backlight hid the woman’s features, revealing only a slim silhouette of a person with shoulder-length hair. Alex noted that the woman had seen her pull up to the front of the house and had disappeared from the window, apparently moving to meet her at the front door.

When the door opened, Alex was confronted by a well-dressed professional woman who looked every bit the part of a CEO for any one of the many Fortune 500 companies.

Alex, you are a woman of your word when you said you’d be here first thing in the morning. Please come in as I’ve just put on a fresh pot of coffee. And by the way, you can leave your keys in the ignition since nobody steals cars around here.

Alex walked up the concrete steps at the front of the house and followed Linda down a broad creamy-white hallway where the walls were seemly freshly painted and she could feel the thick three-inch light-brown carpet. They passed an atrium and several small groups of New England aster until they reached what Alex assumed was the great room with exposed dark beams supporting a fifteen-foot-high ceiling. If having a fine collection of antiques and an indoor pool plus several paintings from French artists suggested anything, the first thing that came to mind was that money was not an object of concern for the Jacobson family.

Let’s sit down at the table near the pool and chat awhile, suggested Linda.

Alex couldn’t help but show a little smile at the obvious organization skill of her host, which clearly suggested that her husband Conrad would have been hard-pressed to pull off any organized escape under the watchful eyes of his beautiful wife. You have a lovely home, Linda, and so much to be proud of. No children, I take it? remarked Alex.

You are a good detective, said Linda.

Thank you, but in this example, the absence of anything resembling toys or children furniture makes visual observations easy, plus no home as neat as yours could exist with kids around.

It’s not that we wouldn’t enjoy children, Alex. It’s just that we got so caught up in our careers that we just decided against it, which I guess makes us selfish in the eyes of many people.

I doubt that, Linda. I love children myself, but career goals of being a lawyer and private investigator have me putting that subject on hold also. Anyway, before I look at your husband’s office, is there anything that you need to ask me first? After all, if I’m going to accept you as a client, you need to fully feel comfortable with the person that you are considering hiring.

That motto next to your desk in your office is very intriguing. It suggests that you’re very passionate about your work, Alex.

What it means is that perseverance gets you to the starting gate, and once you arrived, you must not quit until you’ve handled the problem no matter what. I’m certain that it’s not much different than how both you and your husband approach your goals with his writing and your market research.

Maybe, but the difference seems to be that we would stop short of wanting our work to end up killing us, unlike what in your case being totally committed to your work could possibly do. Regardless, it says a lot about you as an individual. Have you ever handled a missing person case before?

Yes, but remember, each one is often unique to the circumstances of the individual kidnapping, provided of course that’s what we’re dealing with here. In most cases, the disappearance is related in some way to one party wanting something from the other or an outsider wanting something from the family of the person kidnapped. Money and sex are the two most often straws that stir the drink, so to speak, with being an enemy of someone placing a close second. Do you have any known enemies that you’re aware of, Linda? Some person or persons that would want to harm either of you?

Not that we would have any knowledge of, and since we have our own individual careers at home, we mix very little with the outside world.

Please tell me what you know about your husband’s current novel that he is working on.

As I mentioned he’s writing a nonfiction book on the American-born writer William Hill Brown. He was credited with being the first American to have his work published in the United States. The book as I remember was to represent the specious causes and to express the fatal consequences of seduction and was published in 1789. Conrad told me that the seduction was a real one since William Hill Brown had based his fiction on a true-life case in which the Harvard-educated patriot and politician Perez Morton had affected the ruin of his wife’s sister, Fanny Apthorp, an act not only adulterous but also incestuous according to the law as it then applied.

Very interesting, Linda. Do you remember the name of that first book by William H. Brown?

"I believe the title was The Power of Sympathy."

Why do you have an interest in the novel?

Sometimes a person’s work is the roadmap to what ultimately we’re searching for, nothing more. Many authors though have a tendency to focus on what they know best, like Robin Cook for example, who stays within the halls of medicine, while Stephen King walks the path of supernatural and Suzanne Bockmann prefers sexy, suspenseful, and passion all rolled into one. So tell me, Linda, what do you consider Conrad’s particular place in the world of literature?

Most of his work over the years has concentrated on a heavy mixture of religious murder rich in action, adventure, and sex. When he turns to nonfiction like his current novel, he seems to turn to a theme of firsts like the very first woman to pilot a glider or first use of fingerprinting, that type of thing.

You describe your relationship as a solid marriage, one where you and Conrad both work at home, play at home, and love at home. Do I have that correct?

Yes, that’s correct.

You’re an attractive young woman, Linda. May I ask how old your husband is?

He’s forty-seven, while I’m thirty-two, but what has that got to do with him being missing?

Probably nothing, but remember, you might be hiring me to find your husband, and in doing so, I have to understand everything, so if you’re uncomfortable about these questions, it might be best that you seek another private investigator because the questions will get much tougher before this is over.

No, I want you to find him, so ask any questions that you feel are important.

You’re fifteen years younger than your husband, Linda, which often means different things about one’s sexual appetite. How do you view this part of your marriage?

Linda appeared to struggle with the question, attempting to find the best way to answer it.

Conrad would have liked to have had a better sex life, I imagine, but the problem was more his than mine. He was going through a period where he often became impotent, and it discouraged him to the point that in recent months he was unwilling to try for fear of failure. Now it’s important to understand something about this so that you not misunderstand. I happen to love sex, and I didn’t have any problem with Conrad trying Viagra, but unfortunately, nothing was going on down there. Besides, it seemed to hurt his pride even to try it. I guess at some point you just get annoyed with all the failures and just walk away from it, she said.

Alex digested her comments then said, May I take a look at his office, Linda?

Sure, I left it the same as it was the day he disappeared, including the coffee cup. I’ll let you take some time to digest the room and then join you in a few minutes.

Alex was led to a very large room before Linda disappeared. She noticed the office contained all the toys that one would expect a writer to have. A large twenty-seven-inch screen McIntosh computer sat on the cherry oak desk with a printer, scanner, and fax machine close at hand. Alex moved to the plush leather chair and sat down, allowing her eyes to take in the room, which was wall-to-wall reference books, an expense stereo, plus a slim-line thirty-seven-inch television. Near the desk was a small refrigerator, which she opened up and found only various cans of soda, along with water bottles. No alcohol, wine, or liquor in sight. Glancing at the four wooden file cabinets, she got up from the chair and walked over to examine the several small containers of medicine. Antacid tablets, Bayer aspirin, and eye allergy drops. Nothing unusual about those items, she thought. Her eyes then caught the eight-by-twelve-inch red file folder on top of one of the file cabinets. The plastic label indicated Cyanide victim. Opening up the file folder, she viewed a newspaper clipping of a man holding up what appeared to be a winning $5 million lottery ticket. Written across the front of the clipping were the words FOIA.

Say, Alex, did you find anything interesting? asked Linda as she entered the room.

Nothing yet really, just this file folder with a newspaper article on a dead lottery winner that seems to have interested your husband.

Oh, he often collected information about people and things with the possibility of turning it into a book.

Was he in the habit of securing FOIA material to help him with his books?

I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.

It’s called freedom of information material—FOIA. It’s information that is usually secret, but which you can secure access to by filling out a request form to inspect copies of that record. Let’s say that the police of Willow Creek had to respond to some disturbance over at a local VFW club but they didn’t want to release any information on how their police officers handled the situation. You could secure those police reports by filing such a request on a FOIA form. That’s what appeared to be on your husband’s mind when he wrote those initials on the front of the article. Any idea what was on his mind?

Honestly, not a clue, and we talked about everything all the time. You don’t think that this has anything to do with his disappearance, do you?

That’s hard to tell until I have a chance to understand more about that lottery winner and what might have interested your husband. Is it possible that you can go into your husband’s email file and folder section for a quick glance?

Sure, just let me sit down at his desk and I’ll open it up for you, she said.

Alex took a few minutes while this was going on and examined some of the books that Conrad kept in his office. He seemed to be a prolific reader of Lincoln and the Civil War, as the books filled almost a large bookshelf all by itself. She looked in Linda’s direction as she continued to work the computer in what appeared to be a state of frustration.

Damn it, he has changed his password and I can’t get into the thing. It makes no sense since we always used the same password for both computers. Why in the Christ would he do that since we’re the only two in the house? she said in anger.

That could be the reason itself, said Alex. There may well be something inside that he doesn’t want anyone to see including his wife.

That’s crazy. We had no secrets, said Linda. How the heck do you break into this computer, or isn’t it possible?

Everything is possible including locating the password, but first let’s talk about my role in this mystery. First, if you hire me to find your husband, you will need to accept the fact that everyone becomes a suspect including you. Second, I will bring to the police’s attention anything necessary to convict the persons who might have taken your husband or harmed him in any way.

Agreed, and what type of a retainer check do you need? asked Linda.

Alex glanced at the time and saw that the clock had moved past 9:00 p.m. She had taken her time on the drive back from the Jacobson home to look around and think. The countryside was beautiful even during the dim part of twilight. She had opened the windows on the car, and the breeze rippled across her face and she could still hear the faint sounds of the many birds that were still singing as they prepared for the evening. No sounds of traffic or sounds of crowds, just the occasional sounds of nature. She had dazzled Linda with her undeniable Sherlock Holmes skill at breaking into Conrad’s computer in less than fifteen minutes. In truth, human nature being what it always was, the matter had been a piece of cake, because like most people, he had selected a new password that matched his overall interest. It had taken only three tries to figure out that Conrad had selected 4121861, the beginning of the Civil War, as his secret password. Once inside, Alex had found no emails that suggested any love triangle that he was involved in but several emails associated with answers to his apparent interest in exhumation of bodies by local cemeteries, in particular to those having dealt with native Indian culture.

Alex steered the Chrysler off the Deer Valley exit at Cole Street and began to wind through one of the town’s upper-middle-class subdivisions until she reached her two-story townhouse with the redbrick federal, including black shutters and matching trim. Pulling into her garage, she activated her remote to close the door while shutting the engine off and stepping out. Within seconds she had stepped through the side door and was walking through the living room when the unmistakable sound of the beeping from the answering machine caught her attention. Walking over to the console, she activated the mailbox number 1 button to retrieve the message.

Good evening, Alexandra, this is Peter and I’m staying at the Doubletree, about one hundred miles from you tonight, but I’ll be rolling through Deer Valley in the next couple of days. I have a buyer for my remaining fifty Arabian horses about twenty miles from downtown Deer Valley. I would love to have lunch or dinner with my favorite private investigator if you have time. You have my cell phone number and hope to hear from you.

Alex deleted the message and walked to the kitchen, leaving her briefcase on the table while reaching inside the refrigerator for the jar of orange juice. Pouring herself a full glass, she took two quick sips and thought about the last time Peter and she spent those days in Royal Oak, Michigan. She could still remember their last hug when she had pressed herself against him, firm and full while wearing a crème cotton blouse and jeans.

Smiling, she removed her cell phone from its holster and dialed Peter’s number and waited as it rang four times before it went into his voice mail.

Peter, this is Alex returning your call. We have a nice Caribbean seafood restaurant just out of town, which also serves American dishes. Thursday or Friday for dinner is fine. Just confirm which is the easiest for you, she said. I’m looking forward to seeing you again, she said, now disconnecting the call.

Jesus, that sounded so businesslike, she mumbled to herself, wishing she would have done it better. Reaching for her briefcase, she opened it and removed the files that she had brought with her from Conrad’s office and laid them out on the kitchen table. She had found a copy of the FOIA request and studied it first. She noted that Conrad had requested the names of the police officers including the police chief and duty sergeant who had first responded to a complaint from a citizen concerning the Sacred Trinity Cemetery manager’s misappropriated handling of the dead. Looking further into the attached files, she found the letter indicating that the Village of Cedar Hills had apparently responded to his request and had enclosed the requested documents to his attention. The only problem seemed to be that the documents and incident reports were missing from the files she had found. She noticed that in the original request by Conrad he had not responded to the section asking for the purpose of his request. Something was going on here, but darn if she could put her finger on why this would interest Linda’s husband.

Pushing the papers aside, Alex picked up the picture of the lottery winner again and read the attached articles by the two reporters, Mark Redford and Stefano Crawford. Both had confirmed that the lottery winner was a hardworking businessman who owned several tour companies dealing in high-end vacation sites, along with three dry-cleaning establishments. His death came less than one month after he won $5 million with his lottery ticket, which had been an unexpected shock to his family. The article went on to point out that his death was initially classified as natural from hardening of the arteries but that the police department had gotten a call from one of the relatives suggesting that their investigators should dig deeper. They apparently had taken this information to heart, since further testing had turned up a lethal dose of cyanide.

Well, how about that? Alex muttered. And why are you saving this stuff? she wondered. She knew that cyanide if ingested could kill someone in about five minutes, also that the chemical was commonly produced in a salt or crystal form and tasted like bitter almonds, if the olfactory senses could detect it at all. Alex remembered from her chemistry classes in college that probably half the population was genetically incapable of smelling or tasting it. Alex pushed the chair back and closed her eyes, trying to understand the connection if any to the lottery winner and the request for a police report covering the Sacred Trinity Cemetery, but in truth, nothing made sense. Getting up, she walked down the hallway to the master bathroom while removing her clothing.

Now pulling the shower curtain aside, she turned on the warm water and slowly stepped into the tub, allowing the warmth from the warm water to caress her body.

Chapter 3

Memories

You know, Norma, these people who visit here have a routine when they come to see their departed relatives, so we better be careful.

Shit, these sorry-ass minorities aren’t interested in anything beyond taking a little time standing near the graves and confronting the memories of their dead while wondering if they’d been worthy enough of their names and then perhaps out of guilt maybe saying a prayer or two. This cemetery caters to those who can’t even pay for their burials, and on their best day, most of them only have what they have been able to scam from the government and the state plus those entitlement cards each month. They really don’t have any idea what goes on here and never will, so just do your job and leave it alone, John.

Well, I hope that you’re right, but remember, not all the people who come here are poor and indigent.

What did you say? During the last week alone while I was digging a grave on the north side, some Serbian or Croatian family had driven all the way from Chicago looking for the headstone of their grandfather and were upset because they couldn’t find it. They had insisted that the gravestone used to lie flat along the ground and had a heavy bronze nameplate and was bolted into the granite stone.

What did you tell them?

Look, Norma, I’m not a dummy, especially knowing what’s going on, so I just told them that the cemetery has 158 acres and the marker could be any place. They just continued looking and finally drove away.

See, you worry too much, John. Just listen to me and do your job and you’ll sleep better.

What about that writer asking about the lottery winner? He had asked about his location and who handled the arrangements. He had also asked if it was true that sometimes the bodies are buried without being embalmed. I’m telling you, he asked too many questions, and I don’t like it, Norma.

He won’t be back, John. It’s all taken care of, so go dig that new grave that I told you about. This is special guest that we’re receiving. The old guy used to play for the Harlem Globetrotters forty years ago.

Norma watched as John got in the gravedigger and pulled the vehicle onto the frontage and headed to the rear of the cemetery. If she was not careful, his disordered state of nerves would eventually cost her the best gig she had ever had. Picking up her cell phone, she flipped open the cover and checked her contact list. Then she dialed the number. It didn’t take long before the answering machine kicked in.

You’ve reached McDowell, but I’m not here. Leave the message and I may call you back.

Smartass, she thought. McDowell, we got a problem with John. Meet me at the crematorium tomorrow 6:30 a.m.

She woke up feeling her nightgown drenched in sweat and her forehead covered with moisture. Was it the monster hiding in the closet again? Maybe it was the sexual deviate waiting to snatch little Alexandra Johnson from the school bus stop that her father always warned her about. Whatever the nightmare was, its appearance had left her shaking once again as she sat up and cleared her head. The truth was, in looking back on all the days of her youth, she had no reason to have these dreams since she had never noticed things in her closet or anything near the school bus stop that was out of the ordinary. She had never sensed unknown eyes watching her and never had a car slow down so that its driver could even catch a second glance, let alone ask her if she wanted a piece of candy.

Throwing the covers back, Alex put her feet on the floor and looked at the clock that now announced that it was 5:30 a.m. Removing her nightgown, she stood in front of the bedroom mirror, giving approval of the reflection of her thirty-four-year-old body not yet ravished by any interested man. But how could it have even happened this way? It played out like this. She had been on a mission to prove that she could make it in this world without the help of her academic father, who now owned a well-known law firm with over fifty employees just outside Detroit, Michigan. She had successfully graduated from the University of Michigan law school magna cum laude but turned down the opportunity for an automatic partnership alongside her brother at her father’s firm because the simple fact was that she always had wanted to follow in the footsteps of her hero, Kate Warne, the first female investigator. Her calling in life was to aid victims, to catch perpetrators and solve puzzles that escaped others. It was like the puzzle that now sat on the kitchen table involving the disappearance of a seemingly harmless author married to an attractive woman, whom he couldn’t make love to and who had some unknown interest in the death of a lottery winner.

Walking out to the kitchen, she viewed the alarmingly large piles of papers and files that tilted dangerously on the edge of the kitchen table and ready to fall on the floor. Pushing them toward the center of the table, she started the coffee pot and then sat down. First stop she decided was to boot up the computer and get a feel for the most unfortunate lottery winner who had died shortly after winning the biggest prize of this life. She read the name out loud. Miles Solavich, was just one of the many Serbs from a long line of South Chicago steelworkers who had moved from the dangers of the big city to the more tranquil surroundings offered in downstate Illinois. While most of his family made good money doing heavy and dangerous work, he had used his developing business skills to open up several small travel companies specializing in tour packages to European countries. The success of these companies further allowed him to purchase three dry-cleaning establishments, which had proven him to be a well-known businessman serving the tri-county area he now called home. The article went on to explain his desire to be buried alongside his father, mother, and grandparents in the Scared Trinity Cemetery family plot when his time came. He had recalled the herds of deer that would wander past mourners, drifting out of the black winter trees at times, and cross the open spaces at a steady slow walk then stop and look down at the ground markers, almost giving the impression that they were communicating before they slowly returned to the woods. The experience of these actions by the deer made him feel that those buried beneath the ground were in fact never alone. Alex paused at the next remarks made by the two reporters writing the story.

What Solavich didn’t know was that his family wasn’t alone. Dozens and dozens of graves had been visited over the years not by deer but by gravediggers and those more interested in desecration than allowing the land to serve as a final resting place for loved ones. Taking another sip of coffee, she read on, learning from the article that the law enforcement authorities dismissed these complaints on the basis that these actions existed at cemeteries throughout America and were nothing new to Scared Trinity. Glancing at her wall clock, she picked up the kitchen phone resting at the end of the table and dialed Linda Jacobson.

Good morning. You’re up early, Alex. It’s just past 7:30.

Did I wake you up? I wasn’t paying much attention to the time, sorry.

Heavens no, I’m up every morning just after five o’clock. My work crosses many time zones, and thus as they say, the early bird etc., etc.

You’re right, it’s pretty much my style also. Before I ask you my question of the day, I assume that Conrad hasn’t made any contact with you yet?

No, and I doubt that he will because in my heart he’s not run away but rather something happened to him. It’s just so baffling, Alex, knowing him like I do. Please ask your question.

Did Conrad talk to you much about why he was so interested in finding out about the police officers who had responded to a local citizen call about cemetery disturbance?

No, nothing specific, but then again this type of stuff has become quite common with that cemetery, so I’m certain that he didn’t consider whatever he was interested in was a big deal. Maybe it was the skull that fascinated him, but I’m not sure, said Linda. It had happened some time back when some truck driver passing by the cemetery had found a skull near the fence line of the cemetery and had taken it back to Memphis, Tennessee, with him. Later when he gave it to his bartender friend to display behind the bar, the bartender got nervous and called it to the attention of his police buddy, who later called the police department back here in Illinois. It was a big deal for a while but easily explained away as just some animal digging it up at the Sacred Trinity Cemetery. Conrad was always the curious type, so it didn’t surprise me to learn that he visited the place a few times, but he never spoke much about it after.

Did you know anything about Miles Solavich being buried there?

Who?

That Serbian Croatian guy who owned the travel vacation offices along with the dry-cleaning establishments. You know, the fellow who also won the five-million-dollar lottery payout?

No, and to be honest, it wasn’t a topic of discussion by Conrad either. We spent a lot of time talking about my business and his new book but nothing much beyond that. Sorry. Why do you ask?

It’s just that a lot of the files that I pulled from his computer would appear to point toward some interest that he had in both subjects. Beyond that it may have no meaning relative to his disappearance, but everything needs to be checked out including his phone records, which I would like your authorization to examine. I would need both, his office and cell phone.

You still feel that a triangle might exist? asked Linda.

We have to eliminate everything as difficult as this might appear to be. Sometimes what we think doesn’t always turn out the way we imagined things to be. I want you to examine your credit cards for any unusual activity. Then look over Conrad’s closet and make certain that none of his favorite clothing is missing and do a complete search of his automobile from top to bottom. Men are notorious for using their automobile for hiding their secrets, so be sure and look not only in the glove box but also any tool containers that he might have kept in the trunk. Last question before I let you go for now. Has your husband ever mentioned a woman by the name of Norma Benson? The name often appears on some of the pages of the lottery winner’s articles that your husband kept.

No, never heard of her.

Well, maybe it means nothing. How are you holding up, Linda?

I’m doing fine. Just worried that something serious has happened to him and he’s out there someplace needing my help but not knowing what to do about it. He’s not what one would call a man’s man, if you know what I mean.

Not the type that can leap tall buildings in a single bounce. Is that what you mean?

He’s an intellect, a writer, not the type that leads a group of Boy Scouts out of the woods in the middle of the night, so if someone has him, there’s little chance of survival unless we get to the bottom of this quick. What do you think our chances are in finding him, Alex?

These things usually answer that question in about three days or less. Since you haven’t received any call for a ransom, it’s unlikely that money is an issue, and since you have no suspicions about him being unfaithful, the path to understanding this is very complicated. What you will need to consider very shortly is at what point the press will be contacted in order to reach out for more help in locating him.

I want to wait a little longer, Alex, because Conrad is such a private man, and should he suddenly turn up due to his own created disappearance, he would be embarrassed beyond belief. Besides, the day before he disappeared, we had an argument, and he might be just trying to teach me a lesson.

You never mentioned that before, Linda. What type of an argument?

In the past week he had gone shopping, which for Conrad was very unusual in itself. This sexual thing had apparently been on his mind more than I realized, so my guess is he thought by visiting one of these corner store sex shops that handle gadgets, sexy clothing, and porno tapes, they would help put the spark in one of our evenings. I was tired and the idea of dressing up and playing the part of a surprised housewife being confronted by a burglar intent on raping me, well, it caught me at the wrong time, so I didn’t feel in the mood and he got angry when I laughed at the idea.

What happened next?

He got sulky and wouldn’t talk the rest of the day. He just stayed in his office.

Had this difference of opinion on fantasy evenings happened before, Linda?

No. Conrad usually tried not to put himself in a position of failure, so that’s part of the reason why I laughed at the idea, because it wasn’t him. You’d have to understand Conrad a little more to totally appreciate the humor of his plan. This is a man who still considers boxer shorts as his choice of underwear. He’s never slept in the nude in his life or even walked around the house without having a shirt on like most men often do.

Alex thought about Linda’s puritan description of her husband but decided against pursuing it any further. Listen, if you learn even the slightest thing about Conrad, call me. Some men can get carried away when they feel rejected even if what happened was not your fault. I doubt that your husband would quit his day job of writing over such a small disappointment of you not wanting to play this fantasy game of his, but I’ll keep it in mind as I review the entire matter. Frankly, I have some other ideas and will start on them today. I’ll update you on the progress sometime later. Meanwhile, try not to worry and just go about your business as usual and let me worry about the rest. She waited for any answer but just heard the phone being disconnected as Linda had just hung up without saying another word. There was something more going on with this relationship, thought Alex. A beautiful woman sexy as hell with a relationship that seemed to border more on business than the typical marriage? She smiled and wondered how she would have reacted to the surprised housewife fantasy with Peter.

Alex returned to Conrad’s files and couldn’t help but feel that she was being drawn into the epicenter of a secret. Could it be as simple as a brutal war waged between criminal masterminds that moved through Conrad Jacobson, to the mysterious lottery ticket, and finally into a cemetery owned by Sacred Trinity? The love of money drives despicable people to do reprehensible things. Could Linda’s husband have stumbled upon something in the cemetery, but what?

She once again turned to her computer and brought up the website covering Sacred Trinity and waited. There were several references that came up, but it was the third one that had caught her interest. Records have been destroyed or altered or were never made in the first place, caused Alex’s heart to bounce as she read the reporter’s summary. The owners of the cemetery, Kahn Holdings of Spearfish, South Dakota, had rejected as erroneous the reported rumors of grave violations and mismanagement and had threatened to sue those in the news media who continued to generate such false reports.

By noon the temperature had soared to the mid-eighties, baking sidewalks into griddles, and a summer haze hung over the ground as Alex drove through the solid iron metal gates of Sacred Trinity Cemetery. No visitors lingered among the hundreds of graves, which wasn’t unusual from her experience since unless it was a holiday most cemeteries found little activity during the day, unless it was visited by a new arrival. Pulling the car over to the side of the narrow road, she parked under a willow tree and shut the car down. Opening the door, she slid outside, choosing to leave her sidearm under the driver’s front seat. Her former boss Kate Heller, of Heller Patterson Investigations in Lift Bridge, Michigan, would not be pleased that she had chosen to leave her iron, as she had called it, in the car when on duty. Still it was too damn hot to wear a jacket, and the way that she had figured it, there was little sense in calling attention to her occupation.

She had only walked twenty-five feet when she heard the sound of a truck rounding the bend heading in her direction. Ignoring it, Alex crossed between several headstones and paused by an old Gothic tombstone, pretending to check the dates.

The truck pulled in next to her car and opened the window and watched her for a few moments and then continued on. She was about to finish her walk, when she glanced upward at the tombstone and noticed that something appeared wrong, but Alex couldn’t figure it out at first. Removing the small notebook from her slacks, she checked the plot number that she had written down from the information provided by the caretaker’s office before she had arrived. She turned around in a circle looking for other markers, but it was clear that she was in the right spot. Yes, this is it, she thought out loud. The lush trees were but a short distance away with the upright bronze cross in direct line of the graves as indicated by the directions received. Then she saw something at her feet—a smashed chuck of granite sticking out of the ground where Miles Solavich had been buried. The marker had been jarred loose and was cracked along with the nameplate removed. The love of money drives despicable people to do reprehensible things, Alex thought, removing the cell phone from its holster and taking a picture. She walked a few more steps and noted that other gravestones in the area had been defiled also. It was clear that other ground markers had received the attention of the grave robbers as well. Then returning to Miles Solavich’s broken marker, Alex could tell that much more went on at his resting spot. The dirt surrounding the grave looked freshly dug, not the condition of someone’s grave who had been buried for several months. She took a picture and returned the cell phone to its holster. Alex knelt by the grave and softly whispered, We’ll fix this, Mr. Solavich, rest in peace. She wept for the first time in years not understanding exactly why other than the fact this was consecrated ground first of all. The person might be a stranger to her, but it was maybe a father or grandfather to someone else, and the thieves probably had used a hammer and a crowbar to take the bronze nameplate and also the bronze vase that had been set in stone where a mourner could place flowers or drop a piece of lit charcoal and beads of incense before chanting their Orthodox prayers. Law authorities probably had told Conrad Jacobson that all across the country and