On Harrow Hill

“A woman who lives near the town square says she remembers it clearly—an orange-colored Jeep on a side street in back of her house.”

“Did she see Tate?”

“No, but we have a clip from a stockbroker’s security camera in that area, showing Tate walking toward the side street where she saw the Jeep.”

“You reviewed the clip?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did Tate look?”

“Unsteady. Head down. Like he was keeping a careful eye on the ground in front of him.”

“Interesting. What else do you have?”

“We have videos from cameras out by Waterview Drive that show Tate driving in the direction of the Harrow Hill turnoff around the time Ruby-June Hooper claims she saw him go by, which squares up with our guesstimate for the Kane murder, and the later Russell murder.”

“All very consistent.”

“There’s more. A local stoner and his girlfriend came in a while ago to report another Tate sighting, more recent. They were freaked out, because they’d heard he was dead.”

“Where and when did they see him?”

“Out past the far side of Harrow Hill, the side facing away from the lake. There’s an old picnic area there by a pond where teenagers go to smoke weed and make out. They were there last evening, sometime after sunset. They hear a car coming, so they sit up and pay attention. It’s Billy Tate in his orange Jeep. Stoner boy says he almost had a heart attack. Dead man driving. Felt like he was in a zombie movie.”

“This was yesterday?”

“Right.”

“Any security camera images confirming this?”

“That area has very few houses. It’s mainly back roads. We haven’t checked yet, but I doubt we’ll find anything.”

“You find these kids credible?”

“Yes and no. He’s an obvious druggie, but she seems straight enough. She’s the one who insisted they report it.”

“Peculiar.”

“That they bothered to report it?”

“No. That Tate would drive around locally, two days after the Russell and Kane murders. He must have had a good reason to take a chance like that. Are you making any progress tracking down the phone we saw Tate using in the mortuary video?”

“The carrier says there’s no phone registered to him. Could be an untraceable prepaid.”

“Check for phones registered to Selena Cursen—he may have gotten it through her. Also, we know exactly when he made the call from the time code on the video. Ask the carrier to check for any call originating at that time through the Larchfield cell tower. And get the receiving name and phone number.”

“You think I’ll need a warrant?”

“Make the request to the carrier on an emergency basis. Get the process moving, then get a warrant for the file.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get on it right now.”

“Before you go . . . is there a Greg Mason at the high school?”

“Sure. Been there for years. He’s head of the Phys Ed department. Why?”

“I was told he may know something useful about Billy Tate. I’m going there now. And one more thing. Have Selena Cursen’s house staked out, in case Tate shows up.”

The sprawling campus of Larchfield Academy occupied a grassy rise just outside the village. The entrance, just like the Russell estate, was through a pillared gateway in a drystone wall. The main school building was an ivy-covered neoclassical structure more suited to a grand old university than a rural high school. Perhaps another demonstration of Russell largesse.

Gurney parked near the marble front steps in a shaded area demarcated by a sign reading FOR THE CONVENIENCE OF OUR VISITORS.

The school’s massive front door opened with surprising ease into an entry area that was cordoned off from the rest of the marble-floored lobby. A uniformed security guard was manning a desk next to a walk-through metal detector.

Gurney identified himself, explaining he was with the Larchfield PD, and asked to see Greg Mason.

The man who came striding across the lobby two minutes later was conspicuously neat. There wasn’t a hint of a wrinkle in his fitted blue dress shirt or sharply cuffed gray slacks. He had the physique of a man who believed in staying in shape. His salt-and-pepper crew cut was as carefully managed as the rest of his appearance.

He stopped on his side of the metal detector with a puzzled look.

“Why did you come here?”

“To speak with you, if you can spare me a few minutes.”

“It’s my wife—my ex-wife—you should be talking to. She’s the one who discovered the problem.”

“What problem?”

“The vandalism. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“No, sir. I’m here to ask about a former student.”

“Oh.” He looked confused, then curious. “Which student?”

“Perhaps we could speak in your office.”

Mason checked his watch. “How long will this take?”

“Not long. Just a few questions.”

“All right. Follow me.”