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  Every year Cal hired an ordinance company to put on a fireworks display. They had a raft set up about a hundred feet from the dock and would blow up about fifty-thousand-dollars-worth of fireworks. It was quite a show for his guests.

  The Simpson lake home was a million-five-hundred-thousand-dollars of buildings and lakeshore property on Lake Patwin. It is in Foster County approximately two and a half hours north of Minneapolis. The house, set back two hundred feet from the lake, is a two-story, four-bedroom, four-bath luxury home. The exterior's lower half is covered in cut granite, and the upper half has the look of an expensive log cabin.

  The side facing the lake has a floor to ceiling window running the entire side of the building. It looks out on a magnificent hardwood deck, large enough and strong enough to hold a hundred people. All of this overlooks a beautiful view of the fifteen-square mile lake. Nice living if you can afford a one-and-a-half-million-dollar part-time residence.

  Cal walked up the exterior stairs leading to the deck. He had asked around the crowd looking for his daughter then saw her with a U.S. Senator on the deck. Knowing the senator well, Cal hurried up before the man’s handprints were all over Samantha.

  Cal strolled as quickly as possible while stopping to chat with several guests seated at tables on the deck. A couple of minutes after finding her, he managed to get to Samantha and Senator Grab-ass.

  “Hello, Galen,” Cal said when he reached them. “Having a good time, Senator?”

  “Hey, Cal,” the senator replied with a slightly alcohol-induced slur. “Happy Fourth of July,” he said and raised his glass in a toast.

  “You, too, Senator,” Cal replied. “Can I borrow my daughter?”

  “Of course,” the senator replied. He turned to Samantha, bowed slightly at the waist then said, “Ms. Simpson, charming as ever.”

  “I saw Valerie down by the dock talking to a young man,” Cal said to the senator, referring to his wife.

  “Well, I suppose I should go and rescue the poor lad before Valerie drags him off into the woods,” he replied.

  When Senator Carroll had stumbled off, Cal took Samantha by an elbow and led her to an empty corner of the deck.

  “Lynn McDaniel is on her way,” Cal quietly told her.

  “Nervy bitch,” Samantha snarled. “What are we going to do about her?”

  “I think we’ll kill two birds with one stone,” Cal replied.

  “Did you find out where the engineer’s memo is?” Samantha asked.

  “Zach has it. It’s in his briefcase at your home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He told me about it this morning while we were at the range with the rifles,” Cal replied referring to a target shooting range he had set up on the property.

  “Good,” Samantha said with a twinkle in her eye.

  EIGHT

  Lynn McDaniel was stopped at the corner of Walnut and Main Street in Foster, Minnesota impatiently waiting for the red light to change. She was heading west on Main to get to Lake Drive for the final few miles to the Simpson party. To her right, across Walnut, was the Foster County Courthouse. To her left, directly across Main Street was the jail and the offices of both the county sheriff and the city police department.

  Lynn had been here one other time. The year before for the same Fourth of July celebration. This was before the start of the affair with Zach. For Lynn, in the beginning, it was nothing more than a sexual dalliance. She had no intention to let a fling with a married man become anything more than that.

  The light turned green while she reminisced at her stupidity. A few seconds later the car behind her politely beeped and she quickly drove on.

  Two miles past the courthouse and the downtown business district, Main Street merged with Lake Drive. Lynn checked her dashboard clock which read 9:33 P.M. As she had previously calculated, she would arrive at the Simpson lake home just about 10:00, about the time when the fireworks all around the lake would go off.

  Only seven or eight miles to go. Lake Patwin was an elongated lake, the farthest point nine miles from the city of Foster. Lynn was still uncertain what she would do. Should she confront Zach and Samantha? If she did that, she would likely be looking for a job tomorrow. Part of her, a large part, relished the idea. Why not go out in a blaze of glory? Finding a job could be a problem, but the idea of leaving the Everson, Reed slave ship had enormous appeal. Plus, an affair with a partner, even Zach Evans, would probably doom her career with them anyway. Who knows, maybe she could get Zach fired. Cal was a whale for the firm and his idiot son-in-law cheating on darling Samantha might do it.

  Lynn pressed down on the accelerator, and the Benz jumped in response. Why not air some dirty laundry in public? The whole thing might be the most fun she had in years.

  “What time do you think your little cupcake will get here?” Samantha asked her husband.

  She had maneuvered him away from several guests he had been chatting with. They were off by themselves on the lakeside lawn. Zach had backed up against a large oak tree while Samantha looked at him. Her head was slightly cocked to the left; she wore a sly I-dare-you-to-lie-to-me smile while waiting for him to reply.

  “I don’t know….” he started to say.

  “Stop it! Don't insult my intelligence by lying to my face,” Samantha quietly snarled. “I know she's coming here tonight and I am royally pissed at your stupidity. Now,” she continued while Zach stood there unable to look her in the eye, “what are you going to do about her?”

  “I'll take care of her,” Zach told her.

  “Samantha,” they heard a female voice say in the darkness, “I’m sorry to intrude, but your dad is looking for you.”

  The voice belonged to Maggie Shepherd, one of the several executive assistants who worked for Cal. She had stepped up to the two of them unnoticed by either.

  “I'll be right there, Maggie. Thanks. Tell my dad I'll be along in a minute. Where is he?” Samantha replied.

  “On the deck. The fireworks are going to start in a little while,” Maggie answered her then turned and walked off.

  When Maggie was out of earshot, Samantha turned back to the sullen, whipped Zach.

  “You’d better. Tonight. Oh and by the way,” she continued leaning in to whisper into Zach’s ear, “just so you know, I had a nice get-even-fling with one of your country club pals. I won’t tell you which one. You can wonder who it is every time you see them.”

  “You bitch,” a steaming mad Zach said.

  “Yeah, asshole. I had him bend me over and ride me like a stallion. It was the best piece of ass I’ve ever had. You happy now?”

  Of course, Samantha was lying. She would never stoop to such a stunt and certainly not with any of Zach’s country club buddies. She considered all of them to be barely adults and was never more than courteously polite to them. Samantha put that bug in Zach’s ear just to give him something to think about.

  Lynn found the turn, no thanks to the car’s GPS, leading to the Simpson place. It was a forty-five-degree angle between two large oak trees. After making the turn, the road gradually went down through the dark forest toward the lake. She remembered it from the year before and reduced her speed to barely twenty mph.

  Except for the starlight, which was spectacular, the road was pitch black. Lynn turned on the car’s high beams which helped considerably in the darkness. Even so, she kept the car at the much slower pace.

  Lynn tried to recall how many houses she had to pass. She knew it was at least two miles to the campground and then another right turn. She went by three more lake homes, all with parties taking place, then saw campfires straight ahead.

  Lynn found the road to the Simpson home which was on a peninsula, about a half a mile ahead. It jutted into the lake to her right just past the campground to her left which appeared to be almost full. Knowing she was almost there, Lynn took a deep breath and relaxed.

  Samantha had left a thoroughly chastened Zach standing by the tree feeling like a complete fo
ol. He realized what was at stake. If Cal Simpson snapped his fingers, the firm’s senior partners would jettison Zach in a heartbeat. He was a competent enough trial lawyer but Everson, Reed could replace him quicker than they could replace a client with Cal’s money.

  Zach finished his drink then tossed the plastic cup onto the lawn. He needed some time to think and decide the best way to handle this. Zach walked off toward the house ignoring the guests. He wanted to get out front and stop Lynn before she joined the party and caused a scene.

  “Hey, Zach, aren’t you staying for the fireworks? Where are you going?” Zach heard a voice say a few feet from the door he was walking toward.

  “Oh, ah, hey, Rudy,” Zach said to the man he had almost run into. The man’s name was Rudy Caine, and he was an Everson, Reed partner a couple of years older than Zach.

  “I thought you were gonna run me down,” Rudy said. “Where are you going?”

  “Sorry. I, ah, I have a problem to take care of. I, ah, I gotta take care of something,” Zach said as he hurried away.

  Lynn could see the party lights at the Simpson house on her right at the end of the peninsula. Through the trees along the lakeshore next to the road, the yard leading down to the lake was lit up. She also remembered that her turn was coming up almost where the campground on her left ended.

  The Benz went up a slight incline on the dirt road for about a hundred feet. When she started down the other side, her foot reflexively slammed on the brake pedal. Standing fifty feet ahead of her, in the middle of the road was a man with a flashlight waving it back and forth.

  Lynn skidded to a stop less than twenty feet from him. She had an excellent view of him in the wash of her headlights. He was dressed in tan camo made up of a short-sleeve cotton shirt, cargo pants, and baseball cap. He wore a stern expression and held something along his left leg.

  “Please get out of the car,” he politely but firmly said shining the heavy-duty flashlight on her.

  Lynn put her window down, stuck her head out and said, “What?”

  “Get out of the car,” the man repeated.

  “Why?” Lynn said, a puzzled look on her face. She opened her door, got out and standing behind the car’s door asked, “Who are you and what are you doing?”

  Being a strong, intelligent, capable woman, Lynn McDaniel was used to being in control. Standing behind her car door, questioning this strange man, she had no idea the danger she was in.

  “Step away from the car and close the door, please,” the man said.

  Annoyed now, Lynn replied, “Who the hell are you and why should I do what you say? In fact, get out of my…”

  At that moment the man held up and pointed the object he was holding in his left hand at her. It was a short rifle.

  “I said, get away from the car.”

  Terrified now, Lynn put up her hands and stepped to the middle of the road.

  “Take the car, please. I won’t even report it,” she stammered.

  “Run,” the man quietly said.

  “What?” a confused Lynn Mc Daniel replied. “I don’t…”

  “Run,” he said again only this time more forcefully.

  Lynn was wearing a light cotton blouse, shorts, and sneakers. Good running clothes. She turned away from the man and began sprinting down the road. She went ten feet then realized her best chance was to get in the trees.

  There was a shallow, six-foot-wide ditch along the road. Lynn went through that and just before she reached the trees, three copper-jacketed .223 caliber bullets hit her squarely in the back. The force of them propelled her face first into a tall poplar tree which snapped her head back and broke her neck.

  Lynn’s killer found the brass from the bullets in the light of the headlights and retrieved them. He then calmly walked over to her. With no more feeling than if he had shot a rabid dog, he grabbed her by her collar. Ignoring the noise from the fireworks that were exploding along the lake and from the campground, he dragged her body fifty feet through the trees. His orders were to leave her in a place where she would be found, but not for a day or two.

  He had dragged her most of the way through the trees almost to the opening leading to the campgrounds. He knelt and looked through the trees and saw several occupied campsites about two hundred feet away. Because of the sound suppressor he used on the gun and the fireworks’ explosions, no one had heard the shots.

  Twenty minutes later, having hidden his victim’s car where it would be found shortly after the body, he was in his car heading for the cities. He had also left the rifle where instructed, so it could be put back where it came from.

  NINE

  Warren Goode parked his cruiser and got out on the road at what was obviously the crime scene. Goode was the Foster County sheriff. He had received the call a few minutes before 11:00 P.M. as he was getting ready for bed. He listened carefully to the office dispatcher while his wife of twenty years sat up against the headboard listening. A call this late at night, especially during the summer tourist season, was never good news.

  Foster County was a resort area with more than thirty lakes, and no one knew how many resorts were on those lakes. The county itself had a permanent population of just over eighteen thousand. During the summer, because of its easy access to the Twin Cities, the population could swell to almost forty thousand people. On a Fourth of July weekend that could easily rise to fifty thousand.

  Sheriff Goode’s office had a total of sixteen deputies to handle those fifty thousand summertime residents. Mostly what they did was handle speeders and drunks. A late-night call invariably meant a dead body. Probably an accident. A traffic or boating accident, even one causing the occasional death, would merit a call to the sheriff himself. A rare homicide certainly would.

  “Okay,” Goode said into the phone. “Has Chris been called?” he asked referring to Chris Newkirk, the sheriff’s lead investigator.

  “How about Abby?” he added asking about Abby Bliss, a fourteen-year veteran deputy. Abby was Newkirk’s assistant.

  “Okay,” he said after being told they had been called. “I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

  “What?” his wife asked.

  “A woman’s body was found by campers. Looks like she was shot. Go back to sleep.”

  Sheriff Goode, dressed in jeans, a pullover shirt and blue windbreaker with Foster County Sheriff on the back, began walking toward the crowd. He was also wearing his black baseball cap with the word Sheriff stitched into it. Including his cruiser, there were five patrol cars and Chris Newkirk’s Tahoe parked on the road, all with lights flashing.

  “Hey, Earl,” Goode quietly said, greeting the senior deputy on the scene. There were four deputies all together, and each muttered a greeting to their boss.

  “Chris and Abby are in there now,” Earl said, nodding his head toward the trees. “The BCA crime lab people are on their way from St. Paul. Even with lights and sirens, it will be another hour before they get here.”

  Chris was Chris Newkirk, a retired detective formerly with the Duluth P.D. He had put in twenty-five years with Duluth then retired to Foster County. His idea was to draw a pension, sit in a boat fishing and make enough from the county to cover his alimony payments. Except, being the only experienced investigator, he was busier than he had been in Duluth.

  Abby was Abby Bliss, a thirty-six-year-old, divorced mother of two, with fourteen years with the sheriff’s department. She had been pregnant and married to the high school football star at age eighteen. Her second son came when she was twenty. At age twenty-two, she woke up one day to find a note on the table that the football star had run off with a thirty-five-year-old married woman. It had taken Abby about two minutes to get over the shock and realize what a break her worthless husband had given her. One less mouth to feed and a drunken, abusive bully on top of it. Her boys were now teenagers, and she was being groomed, with Warren Goode’s help, to be sheriff in a few years.

  “Tell me what happened,” Goode said.

  “
A couple of teenage kids from the campground found her. They were probably sneaking off to fool around, maybe smoke a little weed,” Earl replied.

  “They called it in, and I was here in about five minutes. I was on my way to cruise the lake anyway. I found the two kids, they’re over in my squad,” he said pointing to his car. “Scared shitless. The boy showed me the body. Looks like three bullet holes in her back. Not much bleeding. She was still pretty warm.”

  “No car?” Goode asked.

  “No,” Earl said shaking his head. “I was about to send Ronnie and Mike up the road to see if they could find one,” he continued referring to two deputies, a woman and a man standing in the road.

  Goode looked at the two of them and said, “Good idea. But walk it. Take flashlights and check the ditch for any signs of a car going in.”

  “How far do you want us to go?” the woman, Ronnie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Goode shrugged. “Go a couple of miles. Put your vests on and stay together. We might have a nut with a rifle out here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ronnie replied.

  “Anybody go over there?” Goode asked Earl, looking toward the Simpson property. The sheriff’s office knew there was a party going on. There were plenty of wealthy people with homes on the lake. The sheriff and his people were abundantly clear who all of them were, especially the politicians.

  “I was waiting for you,” Earl replied. “I thought you should have the pleasure.”

  “Thanks,” Goode sarcastically told him.

  They heard a noise coming from the trees and turned to see the investigators come out. They joined the sheriff on the road.

  Goode shook hands with Chris Newkirk, smiled and said hello to Abby then asked, “What do we have?”

  “Woman, blonde, probably five-foot-seven, one-twenty to one-thirty. Good looking. Three bullet holes in her back. I didn’t check for exit wounds on the body, but there was no blood on the front of her blouse. Here comes Gayle,” Newkirk said looking down the road toward a coroner’s office vehicle coming toward them. Gayle Parker was one of four doctors in the county who took turns doing six-month tours as the medical examiner.