“You remember Victoria Ford?” Walt asked.
“Of course.”
“Her remains were just identified by the OCME in New York.”
“Get outta here.”
“For real. We got word that there might be renewed interest in the old case, so I thought I’d refresh myself with the details.”
“Everything should be in there. Everything we had, anyway.”
“Can I get this back to you in a week or so?”
Dale shrugged. “Case has been closed for twenty years. Keep it as long as you’d like.”
*
Three hours later, Walt was perched on the queen bed of his hotel room with pages of the Cameron Young file around him. On the way back to the city he had stopped at a liquor store and found a bottle of Richland single estate rum. It wasn’t his preference, but it would do. For the first time in a while, he wasn’t looking for the rum to carry his problems away. Today, as he read the old case file, he was interested only in getting reacquainted with the players involved in the Cameron Young investigation. If he was going to meet Avery Mason and discuss the case with her, he needed to remember every detail. But there was another reason for Walt’s anxiousness to revisit the Cameron Young case. Despite what Dale Richards had claimed, Walt knew better. The case had been abandoned, but it had never been formally closed.
THE CAMERON YOUNG INVESTIGATION
Planted on a five-acre clearing in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains, the main house was a grand log-style design by Murray Arnott. Built from Alaskan timber, the exterior featured a colossal A-frame grand gallery reminiscent of a Vail skiing lodge with dual windows angling into the peak and providing views of the mountains. To each side of the steeply angled roof, the home carried on in rustic extensions of horizontal logs that made up the bedrooms on one side and the recreation area on the other. The interior featured formal dining and living rooms, a home theater, an ornate library, and five bedrooms—each with private bath. The open floor plan centered around an impressive stone fireplace that climbed up to the vaulted ceiling. Twenty-foot windows offered endless views of the Catskill Mountains. The kitchen was mahogany and stainless steel, with sturdy wooden beams shooting up the pitched ceiling. A sweeping wooden staircase off the back patio led down to a pool, which was still covered this early in spring. Twin creeks ran on either side of the property and offered the constant rhythm of babbling water that shut out the rest of the world. A bridge arched over one of the creaks and led to the small studio the owner used for quiet days writing his novels.
Unseen and private, other large homes populated the buttes of the Catskills. They belonged to the rich, and sometimes famous. Cameron and Tessa Young had purchased the log-style home three years earlier when Cameron’s third novel found the New York Times list and stayed there for a year, selling over a million copies. His first two novels had earned him a nice living, but the third set him apart. And the two that followed put him into an elite class of novelists. His books had taken off around the world and the Youngs were enjoying their financial success. Years before they had used Cameron’s second advance as a down payment on the Catskills home. His last royalty check wiped out the mortgage. By all measures, Tessa and Cameron Young were living large.
Tessa was a professor of English literature at Columbia University, where she taught comparative literature and dissected some of the greatest works bound between two covers. The irony that this distinguished professor’s husband struck gold writing lowbrow commercial fiction was not lost on either of them. She endured her husband’s writing because it supported their lifestyle, but regarded it for what it was—spectacularly successful garbage.
On the back patio, four Adirondack chairs were positioned around the fire pit. Tessa and Cameron sat in the chairs and watched the bruised-color sky of evening silhouette the mountains. The fire offered enough warmth to stave off the chill that came as the sun sunk below the mountain peaks. They were enjoying drinks with their friends, Jasper and Victoria Ford. Jasper was the realtor who had found the home, negotiated the price, and brokered the deal. To celebrate the purchase, Cameron and Tessa had invited Jasper and his wife out for a sail. The four had become fast friends. Over the past three years, Jasper and Victoria had been on countless sailing excursions with the Youngs, who were avid sailors, and the four had even vacationed together in the British Virgin Islands.
“Cameron,” Jasper said. “Your latest releases this summer?”
“June,” Cameron said. “I’ll be touring for three weeks. Starting on the West Coast and hitting fifteen cities on the way home. I’ll be back just before the Fourth of July.” He pointed to his studio across the creek. “Then I’ll be back in the lab trying to hit my deadline for next year’s release.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Victoria said. “I just can’t get the words out as fast as you. I wish I had the discipline.”
Victoria was a financial planner for a midsized firm, but harbored a passion to write novels herself. Over the course of their friendship this secret had come to light. Cameron offered advice and had pulled all the publishing strings he could to help Victoria with her writing.
“Deadlines are very effective motivators. And from what little you’ve shared, it sounds like you’re quite a prolific writer yourself.”
“What’s the saying?” Victoria asked. “If a tree falls in the forest but no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? In publishing, if you write a book and no one reads it ... are you really a writer?”
“Of course you are,” Cameron said, with a soft encouragement to his voice. “A writer is someone who writes, not just someone who sells published books. I’m dying to hear about your manuscript. When can I read it?”