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  "Yes, I'm sure they did. Stone's a reserve officer in South Carolina. Stone and I are just friends. The younger man is his nephew, Andy," I said. I looked up as Stone and Andy reached our location. Stone was panting for breath. Andy was hardly winded. They both inquired if I was okay and wanted to know what was happening. I explained briefly after introducing Ron to Andy. Detective Glick acknowledged Stone and shook hands with Andy. "Lexie has explained the true situation to me. I need the whole story so we can get cracking and locate her daughter."

  Ron pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket and jotted down notes while he asked us questions about Clayton and Wendy. Then he pulled out a radio and called for an APB on Wendy. I described my daughter as best I could and showed Ron several photos from my wallet. He chose the most recent one to take with him so he could have fliers printed and distributed. I began to have a higher opinion of my former nemesis and was glad that Ron and I were now on the same side.

  When Stone helped me to my feet I remembered the shiny object still enclosed in my fist. I opened up my hand to reveal a hatpin in the shape of a four-leafed clover. Across the top was inscribed "Shamrock Club—Seattle, Washington," and along the bottom it read, "Come on in and get lucky."

  "Seattle?" Ron asked.

  "Rod Crowfoot!" Stone, Andy, and I all answered in unison.

  Like charms on a bracelet, the hatpins were meant to show where Rod had been. Rod had been at the murder scene—before he'd been at the location where he'd "discovered" Eliza's body. Who was Rod Crowfoot, and how was he connected to Clay or Eliza Pitt? Why would he want to kill Clay's wife? Most importantly, where was he now?

  * * *

  We climbed into the Jeep and followed Ron Glick back to the DeKalb sheriff's office, where we brought Sheriff Crabb up to date on the latest development. Sheriff Crabb was more intelligent and competent than he sometimes appeared to be. When he acted star-struck by my status as a successful author, I found it difficult to believe he'd been placed in such an authoritative position.

  Sheriff Crabb surprised me now by suggesting that if Rod had one of the club's hatpins, it might be one of his favorite hangouts, or at least may have been a place he frequented at one time. If that were the case, he surmised, then someone at the club might remember him. We agreed, and Stone reached for his cell phone on the belt clip.

  At Ted Crabb's insistence, Stone pocketed his cell phone and used the sheriff's desk phone instead. First he dialed 1-4-1-1 for national directory assistance and was given the phone number for the Shamrock Club in Seattle. He asked the operator to connect him. Ron reached over and pushed the speakerphone button on the telephone so we could all listen in on the conversation.

  "Shamrock Club," a young man's voice said over the speakerphone.

  "Good afternoon. Is the owner available?" Stone asked.

  "Dunno. I'll go see if Ray's here. Hang on a minute."

  We stood around and waited for several minutes. We had begun to think the young man had forgotten Stone was waiting on the phone when an older man's deep voice erupted from the speakerphone and resonated around the cramped room.

  "This is Ray. May I help you?"

  "Ray, this is Stone Van Patten. I'm trying to locate an old friend of mine named Rod Crowfoot. I'm fairly certain Rod used to patronize your club. Do you recall the man I'm talking about?"

  "Sure I do. He worked for me as a male stripper for several years. I haven't seen him in quite awhile though, Mr. Van Patten, so I doubt I can be of much help to you."

  "When was the last time you saw Rod?"

  "If you're a friend of his, you probably remember when that foster father of his died, don't you? You know, the guy that Rod called Uncle Bill?"

  "Uh-huh," Stone answered noncommittally. "Go on."

  "Well, Rod moved back to New York to be near the property Bill left him—that little place in the mountains with the log cabin on it. Bill always went out there in the fall to hunt deer. Anyway, I haven't seen Rod since he moved back there, and that was three years ago, I'd say. Another one of my strippers just moved back East a couple of months ago to try and rekindle a relationship with Rod. I think he told me Rod lived in Boston now. The two of them had been an item for a long time, but split up when Rod caught Wade cheating on him with another guy. Apparently Wade was successful, because he hasn't come back to Seattle yet."

  The five of us stood in a circle with our mouths hanging open in astonishment. A big piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. The Shamrock Club was another gay bar. And Rod Crowfoot had changed his identity to become Jake Jacoby.

  Chapter 24

  I gave Detective Glick Jake's address in Boston, where Stone and I had made our exterminating visit. Ron raised his eyebrows in astonishment. I knew he was surprised I knew Jake's address, but he made no comment as he called his office. He spoke to his superior for a few minutes and then was transferred over to the sheriff's office in Boston. He spoke to a Detective Sharp. Sharp arranged to have a SWAT team surround Jacoby's residence in the event Jake was holding Wendy there.

  We sat around in the DeKalb sheriff's office for the next half hour, nervously waiting for a return call from the Boston detective. We all drank several cups of really bad coffee and tried to decide on a plan of action. I'd attempted to contact Clay again on his cell phone, but I got his voice mail instead.

  "Clay, this is Lexie," I said to his voice mail recorder. "Call me as soon as you can at Stone's cell phone number."

  I recited the number into the phone and took a deep breath. I wanted to give Clay an advance warning. Hopefully he'd begin thinking about anything he could tell us that might be beneficial in locating Wendy. He'd find out soon enough we knew all about the murder case involving his first wife. It was time for him to come clean with us and tell us all he knew about the situation. "We think now that it's Jake Jacoby who has abducted Wendy," I said. "Jake Jacoby is actually Rod Crowfoot, the hiker who discovered Eliza's body. I'll fill you in on everything that's happened when you return my call. Please call me ASAP."

  I'd noticed Sheriff Crabb had been shooting me questioning glances for a while. It suddenly occurred to me that, although he knew that my daughter was married to Clayton Pitt and she'd disappeared, he hadn't quite figured out how "Lexie Starr, writer" figured into the whole equation. I crossed the room to speak to him. He was sitting behind his desk, so I crouched down beside him.

  "Forgive me, Ted?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "I guess you've figured out by now I'm not really writing a novel about the Eliza Pitt case. I'm sorry I had to deceive you, Ted."

  "S'okay," the sheriff replied with a shrug. "I understand. So what are you really writing about, Ms. Starr?"

  "No, I meant I'm not a writer at all, Ted. I'm just a concerned mother, doing whatever it takes to protect, and now find, my daughter."

  "Oh—yeah—sure. Of course. No apology necessary, Ms. Starr."

  "Thank you, Sheriff. I really do appreciate all you've done to help me."

  "Ah, shucks, ma'am. I'm just doing my job." He looked away with a disappointed expression on his face. Then he slowly turned back my way. "Does this mean that Sly Stallone, and the whole movie deal, is off too?"

  * * *

  "Damn! The house is empty," Detective Glick said. He replaced the handset in the cradle after thanking Detective Sharp for his assistance. "We need to find out where he's hiding. I'd bet the farm Crowfoot's got Wendy with him at the log cabin, and he's holding her as a hostage, something to use as negotiating material. At least, I hope that's what he's doing. I sure wish we could make contact with Clay so we could find out where the cabin's located."

  Stone rose from the chair he'd been sitting on and said, "Let's pay another visit to the Fantasy Club. If he's not there, at least Baines McFarland should be. McFarland may know where Jake is or, at least, how long it's been since he's reported for work."

  "How will we get there?" Ron asked. Boston was a long way from Schenectady, and there just wasn't time for us to
drive there.

  Stone thought for a moment and then turned to his nephew. "Andy, would you mind flying us all to Boston in your plane?"

  "I'd be happy to, Uncle Stone. I'll call ahead and have the plane fueled up and ready to go. I have a friend, Joe, who's an aviation engineer. He lives close to the airport. I'm sure Joe will run up there and take care of it for me."

  Sheriff Crabb had to remain at his post, but the remaining four of us piled into Click's squad car and headed for the town of Glenville, where the Schenectady County Airport was located.

  Ron flicked on his flashing lights and siren after we'd taken the exit on to Route 50. "Every hour that goes by could be critical, I'm afraid. The quicker we find Jake and Wendy, the better. I don't want to waste a minute if we can help it," he said.

  His words sent a chill up my spine. I couldn't help thinking about the consequences of finding Wendy too late. At least it kept me from thinking about the carnage sure to result when Ron's police car wiped out going one hundred miles an hour down the highway. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't see the fence posts flashing by outside my window, like spokes in a spinning bicycle wheel. And I had thought riding with Stone in his Corvette was terrifying. Now that ride seemed sedate in comparison. Thankfully, it was a short trip to the airport and we arrived there safely.

  Minutes later we were boarding Andy's plane, a five-passenger Cessna. As we strapped ourselves in, Andy began taxiing down the runway. We were promptly given permission by the air traffic controller to take off. The plane lifted off the runway smoothly and gained altitude rapidly.

  Above the roar of the engines, I could hear Andy say he planned to land at a small executive airport in Boston. He'd already arranged to have a rental car waiting for us. I was impressed by his foresightedness. Like his uncle, he was efficient and organized and preferred not to leave anything to chance. I found myself wishing Wendy had met and married a man like Andy, instead of Clay. Andy had a lean, but athletic, physique, a clean-cut hairstyle, and startling blue eyes—the kind that'd entice someone to take a second glance. Long, dark eyelashes that would surely make any woman envious set off his blue eyes. However, Andy's best feature, like Stone's, was his smile. He had a broad smile highlighted by straight, white teeth. Andy's only apparent imperfection was a scar running diagonally through his left eyebrow. Stone had told me the scar was the result of a playground accident when Andy was seven. Somehow the scar only seemed to add character to his tanned, strong-featured face.

  Andy seemed to sense I was studying him as he handled the controls. He turned around in the pilot's seat and smiled at me. He tried to comfort me like he had several times before. "We'll find her, Lexie. Don't worry. Sit back and relax while you have the chance."

  * * *

  "Get off my property!" Baines McFarland said, pointing his finger in Stone's face. "Smith and Wesson, my ass. Do you think I'm some kind of idiot? I may just have you arrested for impersonating an officer. I happen to know you and 'Officer Smith' are not really police officers, any more than you're exterminators."

  "I am a police officer, McFarland, albeit just a reserve officer in Myrtle Beach," Stone said. "But my real name is Van Patten, Stone Van Patten. My first visit with you was tied in with an undercover operation. We couldn't risk having Jacoby find out we were investigating him. It appears Jake has now abducted my partner's daughter. It's critical we locate him immediately."

  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.