Hidden Vices (16 page)

Thirty-Two

Megan had her morning
coffee outside while Clyde played in the snow in the lower level. She stared out at
the area where the snowmobiler had attempted to force her into the open water in front of the boathouses. She knew exactly where he confronted her and wondered not just who it was but why he hadn't followed through with his plan.
If his goal was to intimidate her, his success only lasted moments until she was able to get away. She didn't hear the gate open on the side of the house but heard Leigh call for her.

She turned and saw Leigh bundled up like Randy in
A Christmas Story
, the younger brother to Ralphie whose mother would dress him as if he were walking in the Arctic.

Leigh took a look at Megan's arm. “What happened to you?”

Megan glossed over it. “Oh, it's nothing. I took a spill yesterday. I needed a few stitches, but it's not a big deal. Hey, luckily I didn't break anything. Do you want some coffee?”

Leigh seemed a bit puzzled by how blasé Megan was about her accident. “Um, sure, I'd love a cup. And if you need any bandages changed, Jo would be more than happy to do it.”

Megan nodded. “Thanks. Let's go in. Clyde! C'mon, we're heading in.”

“I see you've taken a real shine to Clyde.” Leigh smiled.

Megan laughed through her answer. “Oh he's a pain in the ass, but then again I've heard I am too. So I guess we're a good fit.”

Megan poured Leigh a cup of coffee, turned the fireplace on, and asked, “How are you doing today?”

“It's a good day. That's two in a row, so I can't complain. I hope you don't mind me barging in like this. I saw you from the top of the driveway, but you didn't hear me call out your name so I thought I'd stop in.”

“No, no, that's fine.”

The night before Megan had brought the photo of her parents into the living room. It was a moment to reminisce, mourn. She'd left it on the coffee table before heading to bed. The Murphys' visit, as wonderful as it was, brought up holiday memories of her parents. Her dad and Uncle Mike would sit outside deep-frying two turkeys, drinking beers while her mom and Aunt Maureen attempted to keep all the kids under control and cook at the same time. Until Megan was old enough to know better, her dad would say, “Meggie, come over here and have a sip of my beer, just the foam on top, it's the best part.” Rose would catch a glimpse every now and then and yell out the door, “Patrick McGinn, do not give our daughter alcohol!” Megan's father would wave his wife off, knowing it wasn't alcohol really, just the head of the beer.

Leigh noticed the framed picture and couldn't help but comment. “Oh, wow, are these your parents?”

Megan nodded. “Yes. My dad, Pat, and my mom, Rose.”

Leigh studied the photo, looking back and forth from Megan to the picture. “You get your red hair from your dad, but your face is identical to your mom's.”

It wasn't the first time Megan heard that. It was, however, the first time she was proud of it. “You think so?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Leigh answered, holding the photo near Megan's face. “You could be sisters instead of mother-daughter.”

“My brother Brendan got mom's blond hair and I guess I should say her more refined tastes. He would go to plays and the opera with Mom while I would go to baseball and hockey games with Dad. Brendan isn't a momma's boy or anything like that, but he's a lot more cultured.”

“Is he in Manhattan as well?”

“No, he and his wife and kids live out in Ohio.”

Leigh laughed. “So much for being cultured!” She sat back and sipped her coffee, releasing more of a groan than a sigh before stating the obvious: “Well, things have gotten quite interesting around here, but that seems tasteless given the latest news.”

“Controversial?” Megan suggested.

“That's putting it mildly.”

Megan pulled her hair into a ponytail and put her feet up on the coffee table. She was curious to hear Leigh's response and asked, “Were you surprised at the news of sexual assaults that has come out?” As soon as she asked, Megan realized she may have let it be known she was more aware of certain aspects of the case than what the papers and evening news had reported.

Leigh was not a dumb woman and caught on right away. She stared at Megan with a wry smile, knowing Megan had more information than most, but unwilling to insult her by pressing her for it. “Well, I can't say much has been made known to the public, but, surprised? Somewhat. I think the whole town knew Judge Campbell was up to something—not as sick as this, but some sort of corruption. Taking bribes, perhaps, or peddling influence or money laundering or something more on the business side of things. But this? Accused of harming young boys? I guess anyone would be shocked at such malevolent acts. Especially from someone we trust to uphold the law—one who is part of the legal system.” She looked up at the ceiling in contemplation. “I mean, I teach philosophy, so it's about the fundamental nature of knowledge, of existence. If I had chosen to teach psychology or ethics, perhaps I'd have a firmer grasp on how a person could do something like this.” She paused before adding, “But then again, I'm glad I don't because I can be honest and say I would never want to wrap my head around the conscience—or lack thereof—of people who are capable of this. And not only that, but who can maintain an upstanding public persona as a pillar of the community. He must have been a real psychopath. Or is that sociopath? I can never keep them straight.”

Megan nodded. “Sociopath, but with a little psychopath thrown in for good measure, I think.” She surprised herself by admitting, “I've seen plenty of conscienceless acts. And their fallout.” Megan had, since moving to Mount Arlington, been very careful about her confessions. But she felt comfortable speaking to Leigh, which was probably why she let her guard down just a bit.

Leigh stared at Megan and could tell she was running through her mental rolodex of the egregious crimes she'd worked on. “I'm sure you have,” she said softly with a hint of sadness for Megan.

Megan offered Leigh more coffee. She wanted to pick her brain a bit. “So, what do you think of the mayor offing”—Megan's
detective language seeped in and she quickly self-corrected—“I mean, committing suicide?”

“The timing is weird. Do you know the Appletons down the street?”

Megan shrugged.

“They live in the white house right near mine. Well, Pamela, she goes to yoga with the mayor's wife. They're acquaintances, not so much friends. Pam told me they had a vacation planned for just after the holidays, so I find the timing to be odd. Why would you plan a vacation if you were going to commit suicide?”

Megan moved forward, placing her elbows on her knees and staring intently into the fire. “I didn't know he was married. They didn't say anything on the news about that.” She turned to Leigh for confirmation.

Leigh smiled, enjoying the fact that she knew a bit of gossip, and whispered, “Well, there's a reason for that.”

Megan had a hunch of what it was and bellowed, “Oh, please don't tell me she owns one of the local news stations!”

Leigh smiled, impressed with Megan's suspicion. She answered, “Something like that. Her brother and cousin are vice president and junior vice president at two of the stations here.”

Megan smacked herself in the forehead, falling back into the couch. “Don't take this the wrong way, Leigh, but this town is fucking unbelievable!”

Leigh laughed and stretched a bit. “I should be going. It's time for my next round of meds soon.”

Leigh worked harder at making the people around her feel more comfortable about her cancer than she did complaining about it. Megan had the utmost respect for her strength.

“You know if you need anything, I'm around. You and Jo have been so welcoming. If there is anything you need while I'm here, just ask. I can go to the grocery store for you.” Megan waved her hand, adding, “Or walk Lady Sadie or if you want me to bring her down here to run with Clyde.”

Clyde put in his two cents and rapped his tail on the floor, shaking his bum, obviously excited to hear both dog names in one sentence.

“I might take you up on that.”

Megan got Leigh's coat and glanced out at the lake to see a man walking over the ice with a fishing pole and chair. “Leigh, I have a question. Do you know of stores in the area that sell things for winter weather?”

She zipped up her coat. “What did you have in mind?”

Megan scratched the back of her head, trying to remember what Billie called the things she put over her snow boots when she visited Megan. “Cleats? Traction cleats?”

“The only place I can think of is Ramsey Outdoor. They sell everything for outdoors activities—fishing, camping, anything you want. It's in Succasunna, near the Roxbury mall, fifteen minutes away. Do you mind me asking what for?”

“With this driveway, you can't be too careful. I might even take a stroll on the lake, take some pictures of the house from the ice.”

“One spill isn't enough?” she asked. Leigh put her winter cap and scarf on. “You just better take care of your arm.”

“Yes, mother.” Megan waited to make sure Leigh made it up the driveway okay. Then she shut the door and immediately looked up Ramsey Outdoor on the Internet. Then she walked to the window and stared out at Lake Hopatcong. The fisherman was setting up his post with chair, fishing pole, a small cooler and, Megan was sure, hoping there wouldn't be a dead man floating underneath.

Time to get some cleats.

Thirty-Three

Leigh was right. Ramsey
Outdoor was only fifteen minutes away with GPS Sheila giving her directions. The store was the size of a large-scale supermarket. They sold everything you could possibly imagine for the outdoors—canoes, sporting goods, fishing equipment, hunting gear, even clothes. Megan wasn't about to meander around a store this size when she knew exactly what she was looking for. The first salesperson she found led her directly to the area where the traction cleats were sold. She found her size and then headed to the checkout.

Megan smiled at what a terrible shopper she was, and always had been. Her mother practically begged Megan to go on mother-daughter shopping sprees. Megan would only concede if it were a sports shop to get a new baseball glove or a pair of sneakers. She remembered hearing her mother mutter under her breath, “I had to go and have a tomboy. What am I going to do with that girl?”

As an adult, Megan still couldn't stand shopping, especially during the artificially long holiday season. Christmas decorations had gone up the day after Halloween. That fact in and of itself made Megan an anti-shopper.

Thank God for Aunt Maureen and the clothes she had Nappa bring,
she caught herself thinking.

The checkout line wasn't too long. She handed the traction cleats over to the cashier as she aimed a look at a locked case behind him filled with knives. One caught her eye. The image of it being waved in front of her rushed in. “Excuse me, may I take a look at a knife in that cabinet?”

The cashier was more than accommodating. “Sure thing. Which one would you like to see?”

Megan pointed at it.

He unlocked the case and took it out to show Megan, then began his sales pitch. His voice sounded like someone pimping wares on QVC. “This is a very popular knife. Mainly used for hunting. Notice the serrated edges and the dip in the body.”

“Why are there serrations?” Megan interrupted.

“For a deep cut. This knife can do it in one clean sweep, like a shark bite. Other knives you have to maneuver the blade back and forth. The nickname for this knife is ‘the one slice dicer'.”

“Have you sold any this week, or any in the last few weeks? This knife, specifically?”

“Lady, we probably sell three or four of these a day. Do you want to add this to your purchase?”

Megan stared at him momentarily. “Um, no, no thank you, just the cleats, please.”

Megan returned home with traction cleats in one bag and rawhide bones for Clyde in another. The pet store was next to Ramsey, so technically it wasn't considered shopping. She felt guilty about how much time she'd spent away from the house lately, so she bought three very large bones for Clyde to keep him occupied while she went for a walk on Lake Hopatcong. When she arrived home, Clyde instinctively grabbed the bag with the bones. Megan reprimanded, “Hey, mind your manners.” She reclaimed the pet store bag and gave Clyde one bone, then she proceeded to get ready to hit the ice. The obvious questions surfaced as she was preparing to go out:
What was I thinking? A lake house in winter? I ought to be in Florida or the Bahamas, holding a drink with an umbrella in it. But then I'd be stuck indoors the whole time so I wouldn't get a sunburn. Sometimes it sucks to be so damn Irish. Some decompressing I'm doing.

What halted the self-doubt was the memory of the vivid brutality forced on the boys in the videos. There was nothing more to think about. She went into the bedroom and pulled out the lockbox where she stored her guns and ammunition. She may have had to hand in her service piece when she went on leave, but she owned two guns privately. Megan felt naked not carrying. As she held the loaded guns, she thought to herself that it was her choice to get involved. There was nothing more to think about. Thinking it was going to be a much more isolating environment, she packed as if she were becoming a survivalist in the woods. She wanted to
double-check the box was locked, which it was. She placed one gun in her ankle holster and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror holding the other loaded gun when the memory of the first time she drew her weapon after joining the force came surging to the forefront of her mind.

Few cops ever have to actually fire their weapon during their time on the job. Some may have to draw them, yes, but firing them is a different story. It's not like television cop shows where they're constantly taking fire and shooting at perps.

The first time Megan took a shot at someone was very clear in her memory. It was one of the hottest summer nights in the last thirty years in New York City. She and her then-partner were investigating a call in Hell's Kitchen from a neighbor complaining about a disturbance next door. They walked into the crime scene to find an older woman hacked to death. They'd swept the apartment to make sure it was clear, and thought it was. Moments later a man charged at them, running down the hall swinging a machete. Her partner had his back toward the man and was about to get his head slashed off when Megan raised her gun and yelled to her partner, “Get down!” She took one shot and to her surprise, the machete-wielding man continued to charge at them. Maybe it was his adrenaline or the fact that he was nuttier than a fruitcake, but Megan took a second shot. He was down for the count.

What amazed her was her response directly afterward. She thought she'd be shaky or feel badly about what had happened, but in that moment, it was all about protecting her life and the life of her partner. There wasn't the slightest tremor in her hands.

The second time Megan drew her gun she had only one regret—that she didn't get a clean shot at Breton Daly. That's a kill she would have been proud of.

She concluded her joyous walk down memory lane. Megan clicked her shoulder holster closed, affirming to herself there would not be a second time she'd be caught unprepared. She did, however, choose not to use the arm sling. Her arm was feeling good enough and she needed the freedom of movement in case there was a need to draw her gun. She'd learned to expect the unexpected living on Lake Hopatcong.

“I'll be back in a little bit, Clyde.” Her words fell on deaf ears as Clyde was gnawing at his rawhide like he'd just won the lottery for dogs. Megan went outside to put her cleats over her snow boots, remembering that Billie had mentioned they scratch wooden floors. They were a bit more difficult to pull over her boots than expected. She had to use quite a bit of muscle to fasten them—not so easy with an injured arm. She walked down to the boathouse. Knowing the bubbler system was about to turn on, she walked over to her neighbor's boathouse. Their boathouse was built on a cement dock so it didn't require a bubbler system and they had stairs leading down to the frozen lake. She was technically trespassing, but the neighbors were away for the winter, much like the Macks, so she saw no harm in it. It's not as if she were breaking and entering a crime scene … again.

Her initial few steps were similar to a child on his first attempt to walk, wobbling back and forth a bit. After a few minutes, she had it down. The sound of the cleats grabbing into the snow and ice was like someone eating potato chips or popcorn too loudly, but it certainly was a better option than falling on her ass—or worse, through the ice.

She began her walk toward the area where the snowmobiler had stopped her. Megan wasn't sure why she wanted to check it out, but it was like walking back into the boathouse after she was thrown into the icy water. She had to face it.

The lake made sounds like rubber bands snapping. The only moments when she second-guessed her decision to take this trek was when she walked over areas of the lake where the wind had blown the new snow away, showing a clear view of water moving under the ice. “Not comforting.”

An ice fisherman was a handful of yards away, so she figured she'd have a small chat with him. He looked to be in his seventies. He had a tranquil demeanor to him. He was a robust man—someone Megan imagined went to Pub 199 and had both the lobster and steak dinners and always cleaned his plate, washing it all down with a few beers. He nodded to her as she approached.

“Hi there. Catch anything?”

“Only been here for a short bit. I think they're playing hard to get.”

Megan nodded, adding as if she knew the slightest about ice fishing, “Uh-huh. They'll come around.”

“Out for a winter stroll? Good idea for those cleats—otherwise you'd be slipping around holding on for dear life.”

I've been doing that all week,
Megan thought to herself. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I'm new to the area.”

“Ask away. I have a bit of time on my hands,” he said with a husky, guttural laugh, making Megan smile.

“You didn't happen to be fishing here yesterday by any chance?”

“Yes, in fact in this very spot. Didn't catch anything, but I didn't feel like carving out a new fishing hole so I came back here today.”

“Did you see anyone on the lake?”

“Well, there was Don Cafferty fishing over near where they found the judge. When I got my things together, there were a few boys playing hockey over there,” he answered while pointing in the opposite direction.

“No one else?” Megan asked.

“Actually, now that you mention it, yeah. I was setting up my gear. There were snowmobilers riding so fast you'd think the devil himself was chasing them.”

Megan looked up into the sky as flurries were beginning to fall. “Can you point in the direction where you saw them?”

“Well, two were directly in front, over there.” He pointed to where Megan and Callie had been. “Then one went on his way and the other headed toward the north end of the lake, and the third …”

“There were three?”

“Yes ma'am. The third came shooting out of the Casablanca boathouse.”

“Casablanca?”

“That's the name the owners gave their lake house. They're New Yorkers, not much here often.”

“Would that happen to be nearby?”

“You're right close by. It's about four houses down.” He pointed to the left. “You can't miss it, says
Casablanca
on the top of the boathouse.”

“Okay. Did you get a look at the driver of the snowmobile?”

“Nope, he got outta here like a bat out of hell.”

She nodded. “Well, thank you. I'll let you get back to your fishing.” Megan started to walk away when she had one last inquiry. “One more question. That noise, the one that sounds like rubber bands snapping under the ice—should I be worried?”

The fisherman let out a hard, one-too-many-cigarettes kind of laugh. “When you
stop
hearing that noise? Head for shore darlin', or the emergency room, 'cause that's where you'll end up.”

Megan raised her eyebrows, not exactly sure how to respond. “Okay. Good to know.”

She walked four houses down and found the Casablanca boathouse. It too was built on cement so there was no open water. Snowmobile tracks were still fresh. She walked toward the side of the dock. There were five or six cigarette butts in a pile. “Son of a bitch.” She looked out over the lake. “You were waiting for me. Bastard.”