“Who’s the friend who told you this?”
“Fritz’s high school buddy Steve Ringer, commonly referred to as Stringer. He and another classmate have an apartment in a singles complex in Colgate. Iris and Poppy Earl both claim Austin vowed to eliminate anyone who betrayed him, which would be Fritz McCabe in a nutshell. Something changed. I have no idea what. Maybe the cash sweetened the guy’s disposition. Whatever it was, by the time Fritz and his pal stopped off at Stringer’s place, he’d gone from anxiety to good cheer. Fritz said they were coming up to Yellowweed and that’s the last anyone saw of him.”
“What about his companion?”
I shook my head. “He made a point of waiting in the car and Fritz didn’t refer to him by name. I think he must have known him or he wouldn’t have felt comfortable coming up to a place as remote as Yellowweed.”
“I take it Fritz had the cash with him at that point.”
“As far as I know,” I said. “There’s no sign of it now?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I don’t think robbery was the motive, if that’s what you’re thinking. Fritz came up here fully intending to hand over the money.”
“Maybe he changed his mind.”
“Always possible.”
Cheney stared out the window, watching the passing traffic while he thought about what I’d said. “Someone will have to put together a time line.”
“I can tell you one stop Fritz made. Friday morning, he paid a visit to Bayard Montgomery.”
“You got this from him?”
“I did. I was in the process of working my way through witnesses again to see if there was anything I missed. He says Fritz showed up at his place and asked if he’d come with him when the extortionist picked him up downtown. He’d already asked once, but Bayard thought it was a foolish move and he wanted no part of it.”
Cheney closed the notebook and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. I had the feeling he wanted to chide me for my part in the whole disaster, but what would be the point?
He shook his head. “I have go to the McCabes’ and tell them. That’s a conversation I don’t want to have. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to deliver the bad news.”
“Fritz has been positively identified?”
“Pending confirmation by one or both of his parents. You want to come?”
“I don’t, but I will.” I didn’t want to deal with the McCabes any more than he did, but someone had to tell them. “When?”
“Now’s as good a time as any. Why don’t I follow you in my car? We’ll drop yours off at your place and take mine.”
? ? ?
Driving down the pass, I could feel the dread thrumming in my chest like a swarm of bees in a chimney flue. There were probably fifteen of us by now who were aware of Fritz’s fate. His parents weren’t among the numbered, but they would be soon.
Home again, I parked and locked my car, then popped my head into Henry’s kitchen and told him what was going on. There wasn’t much to say about the situation, but I wanted him to know where I was.
Cheney drove us in his spiffy little red Porsche, which for the first time didn’t generate appreciation for his financial status as the son of the moneyed class. His father owned the Bank of X. Phillips, which was only one aspect of the family fortunes. In my mind, he was so closely associated with the Anna Dace/Jonah Robb debacle that I nearly asked him for an update, which would have been irrelevant given the circumstances. I was worried I’d be chided for introducing Anna to Vera, an impulse that had sparked the offer of an open adoption.
We left the car in the parking lot behind the condominium and walked through the covered gallery that led from the Axminster Theater to the street beyond. We passed the box office, which was dark now, and made a left turn. The condominium entrance was three steps away on State Street. Cheney and I went through the gate at street level and trooped up the stairs. I stood back while he knocked. Hollis came to the door in an immaculate three-piece suit. The minute he saw us standing there, he seemed to stiffen. “Lieutenant Phillips. This is unexpected. I take it you have news.”
“Not good news,” Cheney said. “Mind if we come in?”
“Sorry. Please do. I should tell Lauren we have visitors.”
From behind him, Lauren spoke up. “I’m here, Hollis. Who’s this?”
Hollis said, “Lieutenant Phillips. He was the one who took my report about Fritz being gone.”
Cheney introduced himself to Lauren using his first name, which made the encounter seem less formal.
Lauren, in a nightie with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, had already sunk into a chair. She remained seated and the look she pinned on Cheney was haunted before the first sentence passed his lips. From her perspective, as long as she wasn’t told her son was dead, he could be alive and safe.
Cheney said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Fritz was found up at Yellowweed. It looks like he’s been dead for days.”
I noticed Cheney had deleted the detail about the septic tank. Dead is dead and there was no point in mentioning that final indignity.
Hollis had retreated behind the wet bar, where he braced himself as though the glittering array of liquor bottles and crystal glassware could form a force field that would protect him from harm.
Clearly, both he and Lauren were prepared for the worst. His stiff posture and Lauren’s stricken expression signaled that any show of sympathy would be rebuffed. Cheney fleshed out the circumstances without going into the harrowing details. After all, what did it matter that the body was dumped in a septic tank and covered with dirt and leaves? What possible difference could it make that in the days since he’d died, nature had gone to work dismantling his remains?
Hollis said, “You’re positive it’s him?”
“We had his photograph on the missing person’s flier. In his wallet, there were additional pieces of identification. We’ll need one of you to drive out to the morgue at some point and confirm the fact, but there’s really no chance of error.”
Lauren said, “How . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “How did he die? And please, no sugarcoating.”
“This hasn’t been confirmed by the medical examiner, so it’s not for publication . . .”
“Of course not,” she said.