Page 10 of Lake House Killer

“It looks to me as if we’ve got a suspect on our hands. We’ll do a little digging on Owen Marcus this evening.” He checks his watch. “We still have time. We can head over to Sugar Pine General for now. If Damien is fit enough, they’ll probably release him in the morning. You up for heading over?”

“I don’t see why not,” I say. “Let’s shake him down while this horror is still fresh in his mind.”

6

Special Agent Jack Stone

“We’re going to owe Buddy a steak dinner after tonight,” I say as Fallon and I head into Sugar Pine General Hospital. The fluorescent lights feel as if they’re taking an X-ray of my soul with their unnatural brightness as they bear down on us.

“After tonight?” She gives a quick laugh. “Try in about two hours. That cute pooch hasn’t missed a meal yet and he’s not starting now.”

“Duly noted,” I say. “We can have the steaks grilled to perfection—then delivered to your place. We’ll be working late.”

“What about your place?” She actually manages to sound indignant about it.

Jet comes to mind and I shake my head.

Both Fallon and I happen to live in Pine Ridge Falls, in an enclave of cabins called Whispering Woods. My view of the lake might be better than hers, but my derelict of a brother happens to live with me. Although I’ve got to give it to him. He’s on one hell of a dry streak.

“Buddy prefers your place.” Come to think of it, so do I.

The sterile white corridors echo with the shuffle of visitors as they meander into patients’ rooms. A cluster of nurses passes us by and three out of four widen their eyes my way.

“Looks like someone’s getting noticed,” Fallon quips as we keep it moving.

“Yeah, well, I’m not noticing anyone back.”

“Ah, I see. I almost forgot. You prefer your women spinning around a pole, not flicking a needle at you.”

“I don’t know.” I swallow down a laugh. “I’ve had a little fun with needles back in the day.”

We come upon the room number we were given at the front desk and I give a little knock before poking my head inside.

“Hello?” I call out before entering.

We find Damien propped up in bed, his right hand bandaged and resting on top of a pillow. His face is pale and his eyes rimmed with the redness of fatigue and perhaps stress.

He looks up as we enter, forcing a weak smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks to be pushing sixty, with thinning gray salt and pepper hair and sculpted features.

Fallon straightens a notch at the sight of him, and something tells me she’s bracing for lies.

I am, too.

After all, the man is at the center of a violent crime, with his wife missing and his friends dead. He practically came away unscathed. It’s not a good look.

“Good evening,” I say as we press in until we’re standing next to his bed. “I’m Special Agent Stone and this is Special Agent Baxter. We’re with the FBI.” We do a quick obligatory flash of our badges and any trace of a polite smile disappears from his face.

“I didn’t expect the FBI to visit,” his voice is hoarse as he says it. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

He doesn’t look too thrilled.

I pull up a chair beside his bed while Fallon remains standing with her phone ready.

“We’re here to find out what happened, Damien. Your friends are dead, and your wife is missing,” I say, cutting straight to the chase. “You can imagine we have a lot of questions.”

Damien swallows hard as his gaze wanders toward the window before settling back on us. “Of course, I’ll help however I can.” He clears his throat as he attempts to sit up a notch.

I’m not sure why, but I’d swear there was a hint of reluctance in his voice. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. The man is grieving, confused, and most likely drugged to the hilt.

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