“No,” Avery said. “That’s why I’m here.”
Emma shifted her gaze back to the panoramic view and took another sip of wine. “My sister was involved in a murder investigation prior to her death. It was a great, big, sensationalized case around here. An awful case, gruesome in its nature and filled with perverted sex. The media and the police painted Victoria out to be a monster.”
Avery sat up taller in her chair. “Victoria was involved in the investigation, meaning . . . ?”
“Meaning they said my baby sister was a killer. Something I know without doubt is false. So until I find a way to come to terms with that, I’ll never be able to properly put Victoria to rest.”
Avery had come out to the country looking for a feel-good story about a woman finding closure twenty years after her sister was killed on 9/11. Instead, she’d stumbled onto a twenty-year-old murder investigation. Her mind buzzed with possibility, and the curiosity center of her brain ached for every detail.
“Would you tell me about it?” Avery asked, trying not to sound too eager.
Emma nodded. “That’s what the wine is for.”
CHAPTER 16
Shandaken, NY Friday, June 25, 2021
WALT JENKINS’S PLANE LANDED THE DAY BEFORE. HAD HE NOT RECENTLY come to the realization that his life was in a downward spiral, he might have passed on Jim Oliver’s offer. But Walt was looking for an opportunity to stop running, and perhaps he’d found it. The Bureau put him up in a suite at the Grand Hyatt in Midtown. It took Walt just over an hour to make the trip out to the country. The Bureau of Criminal Investigation branch of the New York State Police was an investigative division of plainclothes detectives that, for the most part, assisted local law enforcement that lacked the investigative resources needed for major crimes. The 2001 murder of Cameron Young in the Catskill Mountains, near the town of Shandaken, had certainly been an example of a county police department caught off guard. The community consisted of wealthy individuals who owned second homes in the area and spent long weekends and holidays in the town. Before Cameron Young had been found hanging from his balcony, there hadn’t been a homicide in the area in four decades.
The Shandaken Police Department was not prepared for the murder, and the chief had quickly called the state authorities for help. Walt had been assigned to the case. At twenty-eight years old, he had been the youngest detective in the BCI. The older cops in Shandaken had not been happy to see him pull up to the crime scene. Their sentiment, Walt knew, was that if they wanted a kid’s advice on how to handle a homicide they’d ask their own teenagers. But Walt had been undeterred by the cold reception and worked hard to win them over. He was careful to include the police chief in every decision, despite that, once invited, the BCI had full jurisdiction. When the name of the victim leaked—Cameron Young, a well-known novelist—the media took notice. When details about the gruesome nature of the crime were disclosed, as well as the links to sexual deviance, the media sunk its teeth into the story. To keep jurisdictional peace, Walt named the chief as official spokesman and invited him to speak at each press conference. When the cameras rolled, it was not Walt Jenkins revealing the details of the case and answering questions from the press, but Chief Dale Richards. Walt worked in the background. He was happy to stay out of the spotlight and concentrate on piecing the evidence together.
Now, on Friday afternoon, Walt pulled the nondescript government car—on loan from the New York office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—into the small parking lot of the Shandaken Police Station. Because Chief Richards had been the front man of the Cameron Young investigation, the case files resided at the Shandaken police headquarters. Twenty years later, Walt hoped they still existed.
He walked across the parking lot and entered through the front door. As soon as he opened the door, Dale Richards stuck a cup of coffee toward him with a thick hand and a huge smile.
“Walt Jenkins, a man I thought I’d never see again.”
Walt offered a smile. “Dale, good to see you. It’s been a while.”
“Twenty years,” Dale said.
Those years had not been kind to Dale Richards. The man had gained what Walt conservatively estimated to be one hundred pounds. He wore a short-sleeve golf shirt that wrapped tightly around the man’s midsection, stretching the microfibers to maximum capacity. Dale’s neck sagged at his chin and tapered like a turkey’s wattle into the man’s chest. Twenty years earlier, Dale sported dark hair combed straight back and held in place with product, revealing then the man’s receding hairline. The retreat had never ended and now only a thin apron of hair remained, wrapping around the base of his skull.
“Damn,” Dale said. “You look like you haven’t aged a day since we worked together. Still got that baby face.”
“Thanks. You’re looking good.”
“I see you haven’t lost your politeness. Listen, I’m not turning any heads, but I feel good. Doctor keeps telling me to lose weight or I’ll die early. But I’d rather be fat and happy than skinny and miserable. And I can still kick the crap out of most of the young punks that come through this place thinking they’re going to be the next top cop.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“I was shocked to get your call, Walt. The Cameron Young case was a long time ago.”
“Were you able to find anything?”
“Not yet, but I’ve narrowed it down,” Dale said. “Follow me.”
Walt took a sip of the coffee, winced as he swallowed it, and followed Dale Richards to the basement of the small police department. It took an hour of rummaging before they found it—a single cardboard box on a shelf with a thousand others. It was marked Cameron Young, 2001. Dale pulled it off the shelf, blew away a thick layer of dust, and handed it to Walt.
“I knew it was down here.”
“Thanks, Dale. You’re a lifesaver.”
“What’s the interest?”