Page 83 of The Murder Club

That explained the echoing emptiness, Dom silently acknowledged, walking next to Bailey until they were standing directly in front of the desk.

“What did you find?” he asked.

Zac leaned back in his chair, glancing toward Bailey as if reassuring himself that she was okay before returning his attention to Dom.

“You mentioned that Ford Smithson was the one who gave Eric Criswell a phone to take pictures of Bailey.”

Dom shrugged. “He denied it when we talked to him.”

Zac scowled. “You talked to him?”

“A friendly chat, nothing more,” Dom hastily reassured the lawman. He was going to do whatever he needed to do to protect Bailey, but he preferred not to get on the wrong side of Zac. Not only because he was a sheriff who could throw his ass in jail but he was also Bailey’s cousin. He hoped they would eventually be family, and that they could have Christmas together without Zac considering the need to pull his gun. “Ford told us that he wanted random pictures of the locals to use in his art and that Eric misunderstood his request. I doubted his story at the time, but I later confronted Eric about his claim, and he was a lot vaguer about the pictures he was supposed to take,” Dom admitted. “It’s possible Eric deliberately misunderstood Ford’s request.”

Zac pursed his lips, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Or maybe Ford is just a liar.”

“He seemed sketchy,” Bailey said. “After we left the lodge we tried looking up information about him, but there’s nothing beyond press releases. Not even a picture.”

“I had a little better luck.” Zac abruptly sat forward, grabbing a file from the top of the stack. “I found out that Ford Smithson, world-renowned artist, is currently living in Hong Kong.”

Bailey grasped Dom’s hand, staring at Zac with a worried glance. “You’re sure? From what I could find online, he’s a hermit. And he does have an art show coming to Minneapolis. It would make sense for him to be in the general area.”

Zac shrugged. “I guess I can’t swear he’s in Hong Kong, but I can be confident he’s not staying at the old hunting lodge in Pike.” Zac flipped open the file and pulled out a photo of a tall man with a bald head and bushy beard who weighed at least three hundred pounds. “This is his picture.”

Dom instinctively tugged Bailey closer, realizing they might have been standing mere inches away from a cold-blooded killer.

“So who’s staying at the lodge?” he demanded.

Zac tossed the photo back on his desk, his expression frustrated. “I’m not sure.”

“Are you going to arrest him?” Bailey asked.

“I don’t have anything to charge him with unless he’s using his fake identity to swindle people or signing legal documents with a fake name,” Zac said. “I’ll check with the real estate agent who rented out the lodge to see what name he used on the contract, but even then it would be a stretch to throw him in jail.”

Bailey shook her head in confusion. “He can just call himself Ford Smithson and pretend to be a famous artist?”

“For all we know his name is Ford Smithson,” Zac argued. “There could be more than one in the world.” The lawman lifted his hand as Bailey parted her lips, as if to point out how ridiculous his theory was. “But yeah, it doesn’t matter what his name is. You can call yourself Santa Claus and claim to have a bunch of elves in your basement as long as you’re not committing fraud.”

Dom didn’t bother to worry about how a stranger could move to a new town and pass himself off as someone else; it no doubt happened more than anyone could imagine. Instead, he tried to remember exactly what the man had said while they were at the lodge. He couldn’t recall the conversation word for word, but he remembered enough to know that the mystery man had gone from a potential person of interest to the number one suspect.

“If he’s not Ford Smithson, why did he give Eric Criswell a new phone and ask him to take pictures?” he abruptly demanded.

“I’ll run out and have a word with him. When I have a spare minute. Which will probably be . . .” Zac heaved a sigh as he waved his hand toward the towering stacks of files. “When hell freezes over.”

Dom wasn’t upset by Zac’s confession it might be days or even weeks before he could get out to the lodge. The lawman had already admitted he couldn’t take legal action against him, at least not without proof that he’d committed a crime.

For now Dom didn’t want the pretend Ford Smithson to know they’d found out he was lying. Not when he could slip out of town before they could discover if he was stalking Bailey.

“How long has he been in Pike?” Dom asked.

“I don’t have an exact date.” Zac hesitated, as if considering the question. “Five. Maybe six months.” He narrowed his eyes, no doubt sensing that Dom intended to confront the man. “Long before the stalker started bothering Bailey.”

Dom ignored the hint of warning in Zac’s tone. “Does he have any friends or family around here?”

“Not that I know of, but . . . shit.” Zac glared at the landline that intruded into the conversation with a shrill ring. “I have to get this.”

“Thanks, Zac,” Bailey said, bumping into Dom in a silent urge to get him moving.

Clearly she was on the same page as Dom in the need to get out to the lodge before Zac could try to stop them. And before the mystery man could hurt anyone else.

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