On the back patio, four Adirondack chairs were positioned around the fire pit. Tessa and Cameron sat in the chairs and watched the bruised-color sky of evening silhouette the mountains. The fire offered enough warmth to stave off the chill that came as the sun sunk below the mountain peaks. They were enjoying drinks with their friends, Jasper and Victoria Ford. Jasper was the realtor who had found the home, negotiated the price, and brokered the deal. To celebrate the purchase, Cameron and Tessa had invited Jasper and his wife out for a sail. The four had become fast friends. Over the past three years, Jasper and Victoria had been on countless sailing excursions with the Youngs, who were avid sailors, and the four had even vacationed together in the British Virgin Islands.
“Cameron,” Jasper said. “Your latest releases this summer?”
“June,” Cameron said. “I’ll be touring for three weeks. Starting on the West Coast and hitting fifteen cities on the way home. I’ll be back just before the Fourth of July.” He pointed to his studio across the creek. “Then I’ll be back in the lab trying to hit my deadline for next year’s release.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” Victoria said. “I just can’t get the words out as fast as you. I wish I had the discipline.”
Victoria was a financial planner for a midsized firm, but harbored a passion to write novels herself. Over the course of their friendship this secret had come to light. Cameron offered advice and had pulled all the publishing strings he could to help Victoria with her writing.
“Deadlines are very effective motivators. And from what little you’ve shared, it sounds like you’re quite a prolific writer yourself.”
“What’s the saying?” Victoria asked. “If a tree falls in the forest but no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? In publishing, if you write a book and no one reads it … are you really a writer?”
“Of course you are,” Cameron said, with a soft encouragement to his voice. “A writer is someone who writes, not just someone who sells published books. I’m dying to hear about your manuscript. When can I read it?”
“Oh, Lord, never,” Victoria said.
“She won’t even let me read it,” Jasper said. “We’ve been married eight years and I’ve never read a sentence from any of her manuscripts. How many is it now? Five or six, at least.”
“Five,” Victoria said. “And even with Cameron’s recommendation, his literary agency rejected my query. To date, over one hundred literary agents and editors have politely declined my work. The last thing I’m going to do is let my husband or friends read my manuscripts when I can’t even find an agent to represent me.”
“It’s all subjective,” Cameron said. “What one agent hates, another loves. Don’t give up, Victoria.”
“Timing too.” This was from Tessa, who put her hand out to rub Victoria’s knee. “The market might not be ready for your stories now, but someday it will.”
“Okay.” Victoria raised her hands in surrender. “Let’s change the subject.”
She reached into the ice bucket and pulled out a bottle of wine. “This is a Happy Canyon Blanc from Santa Ynez Valley. Jasper and I picked it up on our vacation last fall.” Victoria poured everyone’s glass full.
“To friends,” she said. “And, to Cameron’s new book coming out this summer.”
The four friends reached their glasses together and touched them lightly.
Cameron looked at Victoria. “To literature, in all its shapes and sizes.”
CHAPTER 17
Manhattan, NY Friday, June 25, 2021
WALT LAY ON THE HOTEL BED WITH ONE ARM BEHIND HIS HEAD AND the other holding pages from the Cameron Young file. He’d been reading for an hour, and the details of the case and its players were coming back to him. He put the pages down and reached for the glass of rum on the nightstand. He took a long swallow, knowing he’d need the rum to get him through the pages he was about to read. His stint at the FBI never brought him face to face with murder and death the way his time as a homicide detective had. It was something he didn’t miss. But today he would venture back to that time. He set the glass back on the nightstand and began reading the autopsy report.
THE CAMERON YOUNG INVESTIGATION
Cameron Young’s body, after technicians had lowered him from the balcony, was transferred to the New York State medical examiner’s office. Dr. Jarrod Lockard was tasked with the postmortem. Medical examiners and coroners had always been a peculiar lot to Walt. Outliers who took such a road less traveled in life that it literally led them to death. Being able to dissect the human body, Walt believed, had to come with some glitch in the psyche. Dr. Lockard was nicknamed the Wizard for his abilities to conjure every clue left behind by the bodies that came through his morgue. Jarrod Lockard was so much a genius in this particular niche that other aspects of life had gone unattended—like personal hygiene and appearance, as well as any effort to display the slightest hint of social awareness. Walt wondered if examining the dead had taken its toll on Dr. Lockard, as if each trip into the body of the deceased pulled the man further from life. Not so much toward death, but rather to some in-between place that left him alienated from the living and only able to associate with the corpses that filled his days.
Despite having just turned fifty, Dr. Lockard’s hair was bone white and made up of wild knots that hadn’t seen a comb in years. A few particularly enthusiastic strands stood out from the rest and appeared to carry an electric current. Combined with eyes set so deep in their sockets that the man needed to strain his forehead to keep his eyelids open, Dr. Lockard offered a perpetual look of surprise reminiscent of Doc Brown from Back to the Future.
“Come in,” the doctor said when Walt knocked on the door to his office.
Walt walked into the office. “Doc,” he said, extending his hand and doing his best not to look as nervous as he felt. Why Doc Lockard put the fear of God into every detective at the BCI was a mystery none of Walt’s colleagues attempted to explain.
“Thanks for getting on top of this so quickly,” Walt said.
Dr. Lockard offered a limp handshake that felt like poorly kneaded dough, and a stoic expression that was neither welcoming nor dismissive. He pointed at the chair in front of his desk. “You’ve got an interesting one here. Have a seat. There’s a lot to discuss.”
Dr. Lockard poured coffee into two Styrofoam cups and handed one to Walt. The doctor sat behind his desk and pulled a file folder in front of him.
“Cameron Young,” he said, opening the file and paging through his notes. “You ever read any of his books?”
Walt shook his head. “I’ve never found much time to read fiction.”
“Damn shame. I was a big fan of his. Thrillers. Good stuff.”
A quick image flashed in Walt’s mind of Jarrod Lockard reading by candlelight as he ate chicken wings and flipped pages, leaving greasy fingerprints behind.
The doctor pulled out a photo of Cameron Young’s naked body lying on the autopsy table. The Y incision ran from his shoulders to his pelvis and was closed by thick sutures that dimpled the pale skin. Doc Lockard slid the photo across the desk.