AllFreeNovel
Share Us
An autopsy performed by Dr. Barry Rubenstein, the Harrison County coroner, confirmed that Baker Jauncey’s death was consistent with being struck by a vehicle at high speed.
“We are looking at every and all possibilities in this case,” said Nevada State Police Chief Patrick O’Day.
When asked if he had reservations about the case involving the prominent Margolis family, Chief O’Day said, “My office will follow the evidence, wherever it leads. Annabelle Margolis is a person of interest in the investigation, but that’s all I’m willing to share at this time.”
He folded the paper and picked up his desk phone. Rachel Crane answered on the first ring.
“You see the Post this morning?” Sandy asked.
“I did.”
“Rubenstein is claiming his autopsy showed that Jauncey’s death is consistent with a hit-and-run.”
“Which means he’s either totally incompetent, which is possible—he’s a goddamn family physician who’s never trained a day in forensic pathology—or, he’s a bold-faced liar.”
“I suspect a little of both.”
“I reported the transfer to my boss,” Dr. Crane said. “He told me the order came from the higher-ups and that I should leave it alone.”
“Don’t touch it, Doc. This is my fight and I’ll take it on. Stay clear of the nonsense up here, you don’t need the headache.”
“Sorry I wasn’t able to keep the cat in the bag, Sandy.”
“Not your fault. But now that the feline is loose and roaming, I’m curious what it plans to devour next.”
Cedar Creek, Nevada
Wednesday, June 28, 1995 6 Days Prior . . .
MARVIN MANN HAD BEEN A LEGAL INVESTIGATOR FOR MARGOLIS & Margolis for over a decade. As was the firm’s policy, after five years investigators were assigned to one of the partners. Marvin had been assigned to Baker Jauncey, and the two had developed not just a great working relationship, but a friendship as well. There was a socioeconomic gap between the two that could not be denied. Baker Jauncey was a white, fifty-two-year-old partner at one of Nevada’s largest personal injury firms and made close to a million dollars a year. Marvin was a black, thirty-four-year-old investigator who cleared $36,000 a year. But as different as they were, his boss gave off a vibe of decorum that drew Marvin in.
Baker Jauncey was not presumptuous or condescending, as Marvin often experienced with other partners at the firm. To the contrary, Baker treated Marvin as an equal, and had never made the man feel inadequate. Baker had invited Marvin and his wife to dinner at his home—a palatial estate in the foothills three times the size of Marvin’s house in town. A few weeks later, Marvin returned the invitation. It was nothing fancy—burgers on the grill and beers on the back patio—but they all had a grand time and ended the night playing cards until the early hours.
A friendship had blossomed, and Marvin found that he had never been happier than the years he worked for Baker Jauncey. Margolis & Margolis was a cutthroat environment. Especially before investigators were assigned to partners. Early hires worked for two years as independent contractors and freelance investigators, taking any job Margolis & Margolis dished out and doing anything necessary to stand out and make a name for themselves. For investigators that made it past the two-year initiation, a three-year apprenticeship followed that required junior investigators to work under senior investigators. Those that hung in and made it that far earned the privilege of being assigned as the sole investigator for one of the partners.
Marvin had made the rounds and served his time. But now he was an orphan. Baker Jauncey’s death had shaken the staff at Margolis & Margolis. Baker’s longtime paralegal had not been back to work since the news broke, and Marvin saw Baker’s secretary crying as she packed up her desk after she was assigned to another partner. Marvin sat at his desk—a cubicle on the first floor where investigators spent their time when not out in the field. He wasn’t sure what his future at Margolis & Margolis looked like. The death of a partner had never happened before and so there was no precedent for his situation.
Partners had retired, of course, but by that time the attorney had typically slowed down enough that their investigator was reassigned. Marvin suspected a reassignment was in his future. But if, instead, the partners indicated that there was no room for him at Margolis & Margolis, he would not be disappointed. He’d accept his severance package, pack up his pregnant wife, and run far away from Cedar Creek. And he’d take his secrets with him and hope no one ever came looking for him.
Marvin lifted the manila envelope from his desk and held it in his hands. The way he figured things, he had two options. He could burn the envelope and the documents it contained, go to Baker’s funeral, and pretend he knew nothing. That was the safest option. The other was to give the documents to the one honest man in town who would do the right thing with them.
Cedar Creek, Nevada
Wednesday, June 28, 1995 6 Days Prior . . .
HIS YEARS AS AN INVESTIGATOR HAD SHARPENED HIS SURVEILLANCE skills. Although his work frequently sent him out of Harrison County, there had been plenty of times when Marvin Mann had to tail a Cedar Creek resident through town. It took a herculean effort, and some serious skill, to stay anonymous when tailing a subject through a small town. Over the years Marvin had become a master. Although following Sheriff Sandy Stamos out of town and into the foothills was dangerous, it was not difficult. He knew Stamos’s family owned a remote cabin out in the mountains. Details about the location, however, had never been made public.
Marvin wasn’t going to get to choose where he cornered Sandy Stamos; he only knew it couldn’t happen in Cedar Creek. Sheriff Stamos was investigating Baker Jauncey’s death, and Marvin was sure there were people keeping close tabs on the sheriff. And calling him was not an option. Marvin had tapped too many phones to believe the sheriff’s department was clean. Plus, Marvin couldn’t predict how Sandy Stamos would react if he told him what he knew over the phone. The sheriff might show up on Marvin’s doorstep asking questions, which would put Marvin in as much danger as Baker Jauncey had been before his death. Speaking to Stamos at his family’s remote cabin was his only option.
As the sun set and painted the horizon in a purple glow that backlit the Sierra Nevadas, Marvin saw Sheriff Stamos’s headlights come on. Marvin kept his own lights off, stayed at a safe distance, and continued to follow.
Cedar Creek, Nevada
Wednesday, June 28, 1995 6 Days Prior . . .
STAMOS’S CABIN WAS TUCKED INTO A CLEARING IN THE FOOTHILLS ON the far side of a gully, access to which came from a single-lane wooden bridge that jumped the gorge. Marvin kept his headlights off and pulled to the shoulder as he watched Stamos’s Suburban cross the bridge. Marvin was frozen with indecision. He wanted to speed across the bridge but feared being spotted now that they were off the highway. He watched the Suburban turn right at the end of the bridge, waited another thirty seconds, and then pulled forward.
Dusk cloaked the sky and as Marvin exited the bridge he saw Stamos’s taillights. He stopped in the middle of the road and pulled out a pair of binoculars. The sheriff climbed from his Suburban and walked to a mailbox on the other side of the street. Stamos retrieved the mail, climbed back into his vehicle, and turned into a driveway before disappearing into the foliage that canopied it. Marvin pulled to the shoulder and waited twenty minutes. Then, he crept forward and found the long driveway that led to Stamos’s cabin.
