Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) (24 page)

McFarland looked over toward me but made no comment.

"Why'd you make that comment about us not being exterminators?" Stone asked.

"I called the NYPD Homicide Division. They told me they'd never heard of you or your
partner here," Baines said, nodding in my direction. "I called there because I had
thought of something else I wanted to tell you, and I couldn't reach you on the cell
phone number you'd given me."

"And what was it you wanted to tell us?"

"Never mind that now. I'm not telling you a damn thing. I don't have to answer your
questions, Van Patten."

Detective Glick motioned Stone to move aside, and he stepped up in front of Baines
McFarland. Ron Glick was an imposing figure to begin with, but he was even more intimidating
when he had a person backed into a corner the way he now had McFarland. Ron thrust
his ID badge in McFarland's face and held it there against the man's nose.

"I'm Glick. Detective Ron Glick. You'll answer my questions, McFarland, or I'll haul
your worthless hide into the station."

"Oh yeah? On what charges?"

"On obstruction of justice for starters. And then we'll work our way up to accessory
to murder, and aiding and abetting a criminal. If there's a charge for being a moron,
we'll throw that one in too."

Ron was angry and relentless. I could tell it wasn't merely an act to persuade McFarland
to talk. He'd taken several steps forward and had McFarland standing with his back
against the wall. Ron towered over the diminutive club owner. As he glared down at
McFarland, his square face resembled a block of concrete in its intensity. McFarland
had rivulets of sweat streaming down from his forehead, and he was wringing his hands
in apprehension. He glanced right and then left, as if looking for an escape route.

In an unexpected display of bravado and contempt, McFarland placed his hands on his
hips and looked up into Ron's face. "I guess you'll just have to haul my worthless
hide to the station, Glick. I don't know anything about any murder, and I've certainly
had no involvement in one," he said in a defiant tone. "I don't know anything about
the murder of that Pitt gal. I told your friends that the first time they came in
here and harassed me. I'm getting pretty tired of you clowns coming onto my property
and accusing me of being an accessory to a crime I don't know anything about."

"Forget the murder for right now. We're more concerned about the current situation
involving the abduction. I want to know everything you know about Jake Jacoby."

"I don't know anything about him. You want to know about Jacoby, talk to him, not
me! He works for me. That's all I can tell you."

"Where is he?"

"He's not here." Baines tried to scoot out from around Ron, but he didn't get far.

Glick grabbed the front of McFarland's perfectly pressed shirt, lifted him off his
feet, and slammed him up against the wall. He now had McFarland's complete attention,
and everyone else's too. "I didn't ask if he was here. I asked you where he was. Now,
where is he?"

"Get your hands off me, Glick, or I'll sue you for police brutality."

"You'll tell me where Jacoby is right this minute, or there won't be enough left of
you to sue anybody." Ron's voice was low and steely. It was clear his words were not
a threat. They were a promise. He'd pinned McFarland up against the wall again, and
the smaller man's feet were suspended off the ground.

McFarland weighed his options quickly and chose self-preservation over self-righteousness.
Ron released Baines as the man reluctantly began to talk.

"Jacoby hasn't reported to work for the last couple of days. I don't know why, or
where he's at, I swear. He lives over on the seven hundred block of Eighth Street.
I've tried calling him several times, but he hasn't answered his phone or returned
my calls. Wade, the new backup stripper—Jake's boyfriend—is on sick leave. I wouldn't
be surprised if Wade's got AIDS. He seems a bit promiscuous. But whatever—it leaves
me in a real bind. Jake's always been extremely reliable until now. Never missed a
day's work that I can recall. He's gullible and a little too naive at times, but he
doesn't impress me as a killer or a kidnapper."

"Do you know where we could find Wade?" Stone asked.

"No, I don't know much about him. He hasn't been working here long; just moved here
from Seattle not long ago. He was in the hospital last I knew." Baines was answering
Stone and Ron's questions, but it was apparent he wasn't going to volunteer a lot
of information unless pressured.

"Which hospital?"

"That New England Medical Center over on Washington Street. Tufts, I think it's called—or
something like that."

"What's Wade's last name?" Stone asked.

"Williams."

"Okay, thanks. Once again, how did you know my partner and I had pretended to be exterminators?"

Baines glanced at Ron, but quickly turned back to Stone to answer his question. I
could understand why it made him nervous to take his eyes off Detective Glick.

"When I found out there were no Detectives Smith and Wesson working for the NYPD,
I decided to tell Jake two people were here impersonating police officers and asking
questions about him. I described you two to Jake, and he said it fit the description
of the pair that had sprayed his house for spiders earlier the same day. He told me
he'd thought at the time there was something odd about the whole exterminating episode.
Said he'd never heard of an exterminator showing up on the job in a Corvette. I gave
him the cell phone number you'd given me and also told him you said you were staying
at the Camelot B&B in Schenectady."

Stone shook his head in disgust, but it answered one question that had been bothering
me. Wendy had told me Jake still called Clay every day. I knew Jake's real name was
Rod but I couldn't think of him that way. To me, he was still Jake Jacoby.

Jake had obviously spoken with Clay and found out Wendy was flying back East to visit
Stone and me. Jake had probably had little difficulty in determining Stone and I were
the "exterminating" detectives. We'd spoken with his employer, and we were obviously
suspicious of his involvement in the murder of Eliza Pitt. With the noose tightening
around his neck, I'm sure Jake had gone to the Camelot B&B and slashed the fan belt
of my Jeep to the point we couldn't go far before it snapped in two. Stone had noticed
a flat tire on his own car that morning as we were pulling away from the curb in the
Jeep, I recalled. Jake must have been intent on disabling both vehicles, on the odd
chance only one of us went to the airport and drove Stone's Corvette instead of the
Jeep.

When Jake called Clay yesterday, Clay had probably told him he was at the airport
putting Wendy on a plane to JFK in New York. Jake had gone to the airport, and when
we were late arriving to pick Wendy up, as he'd intended, he'd seized the opportunity
and abducted her. I was certain now this was the way the events had unfolded. Perhaps
Jake had even convinced her he'd come to the airport in our place to pick her up,
and she'd voluntarily left with him. Wendy could be too trustful at times, and she
was an emotional wreck the last time she'd talked to me, on the phone from the airport.
She'd have thought it was odd we'd ask Jake to pick her up, but she might still have
gone along with him, regardless, especially since she didn't see us there waiting
for her. Wendy knew I'd never intentionally leave her stranded at an airport—under
any circumstances—and she may have figured Jake was the only alternative if, for some
reason, we couldn't get there ourselves.

We had to contact Clay as soon as possible. Like Detective Glick, I just knew Jake
had taken Wendy to the log cabin in the woods that he'd inherited from his foster
father. We desperately needed Clay to explain where we could find that cabin.

As if reading my mind, Stone said to Baines, "Jake owns a hunting cabin in the mountains.
Do you know where it's located?"

"No. I didn't even know he had one. I didn't know he was a hunter either. I thought
his only recreational activity was snorting coke," he replied in an indignant tone.
His manner indicated he had a low regard for drug abusers.

Ron turned away from McFarland, but then turned back toward him with one last question.
"By the way, what was it you were planning to tell 'Wesson' when you called the NYPD
Homicide Division?"

"Oh—uh—just that about once a week or so, an older, white-headed man would come into
the club just to speak with Jake. He still does, actually. I saw him in here just
the other day. I don't know his name or his connection to Jake. But he pulls Jake
off to the side to speak with him privately for a few minutes, and then he leaves.
The old guy is probably just a drug dealer. Probably has nothing to do with your murder
case at all," McFarland said, dismissing the importance of the information with a
wave of his hand.

Chapter 25

The four of us were sitting in a small cafe eating greasy hamburgers for lunch. Stone
had called Tufts-New England Medical Center and, after being transferred to a different
department several times, he was told Wade Williams had been released three days before.
His patient records showed pneumonia as the reason for admittance, and his address
was listed as 756 Eighth Street. I recognized the address as Jacoby's.

Stone had ended the call and passed on the information to the rest of us. Before he
could reattach his cell phone to his belt clip, another call rang through on it. The
caller was Clay, Stone reported as he handed the phone across the table to me.

"Oh, thank God it's you, Clay," I said into the phone. I was breathless in my relief.
I never thought I'd be so happy to hear my son-in-law's voice. "Where are you?"

"I just got off a plane at JFK. My connecting flight in Chicago was delayed. Where
are you and your friend, er—?"

"Stone Van Patten's his name. Stone and I are in Boston. Detective Ron Glick of the
Schenectady homicide division and Stone's nephew Andy are also with us. Right now
we're all grabbing a bite at a cafe across the street from the Fantasy Club."

I'm sure Clay was astonished to learn I'd ever even heard of the Fantasy Club. I knew
he was familiar with the place. During our first conversation with McFarland, Baines
had mentioned that Clay had picked Jake up at the club at least once.

"Did you find Jake there? Have you found Wendy? Is she okay? He didn't hurt her, did
he? What's going on?" Clay asked the questions in such rapid succession, he left no
opportunity for me to answer them. There was anxiety and concern in his voice. He
may have been evasive, and even untruthful, with Wendy, and he may have reacted badly
to her pregnancy, but it was obvious to me he did care about what happened to her,
and this meant a great deal to me. Wendy had sincerely loved Clay. I would hate to
think he could feel complete indifference for her.

"No, Clay. I'm sorry to say we haven't found either Jake or Wendy yet."

"Oh, no." There was a catch in his voice that could not have been faked. "In your
voice mail message you said you've found out that Jake is really Rod Crowfoot. How
can that be? I never met Crowfoot, but I've seen a photo or two of him. I don't recall
him looking at all similar to Jake. How can Rod and Jake be the same person?"

"I don't know, Clay."

"Me neither. But... uh... well, now that I think about it, if Rod changed his hairstyle,
changed from glasses to contacts, and got tattoos and body piercings, it's possible.
Like Rod, Jake was pretty puny before he joined the gym and bulked up with the weightlifting.
Yes, I think it's very possible, the more I think about it."

"So you think he could have changed his appearance and taken on a new identity after
he killed your wife Eliza?"

"Um-hmm. I actually think he could have. It'd make sense to change his identity—especially
if he had plans to befriend me. But why would he even want to befriend his victim's
husband? None of this makes any sense to me."

"I don't know, either," I said. Clay was thinking out loud, and I didn't want to distract
him. I was learning more by listening to his rambling than by asking him questions.

"You know, at the time he approached me at the gym and introduced himself as Jake
Jacoby, I had a gut feeling it wasn't just a chance meeting. It seemed orchestrated,
almost like it'd been planned in advance. I hadn't known Jake much more than a few
days when he offered me a place to stay during the week while I was attending classes
at the police academy. I thought he was just a friendly or lonely guy. I still can't
understand why he'd want to be near me after he killed my wife. It seems to me it
would've been safer and wiser to avoid me. I suspected he was gay, although he never
approached me in that way. But he did constantly try to persuade me to break up with
Wendy after she and I started dating. He also talked me into selling him my Mustang—"