The Bone House (14 page)

    'Mr
Bradley, I didn't recognize you without the shower going.' Cab smiled, and
Bradley shot him a look of naked resentment.

    'Detective,
we're here as a courtesy,' Gale interjected. 'I hope we'll all be polite.'

    'It's
just that I'm anxious to hear Mr Bradley speak,' Cab went on. 'Whenever I'm
around him, he seems to have other people talking for him.'

    'This
was a mistake,' Bradley said, getting out of the chair.

    Gale
put a gentle hand on his shoulder and eased him back into his seat. 'Don't
worry, Mark. Let's just focus on the unfortunate business at hand and provide
whatever information we can.'

    Bradley
didn't hide his impatience. Instinctively, as a result, Cab proceeded slowly.
He pushed back his chair, crossed his long legs, and picked up a yellow pad of
handwritten notes. Under the guise of reviewing them, he studied Mark Bradley
over the top of the pad. Bradley wore a red, collared polo shirt and tan dress
slacks. He had the easy, unconscious grace of an athlete when he moved and
looked like a man who was comfortable in his own skin. He was attractive, but
not in a Hollywood way like Cab or in the macho way that some athletes exuded.
He was simply good-looking without thinking about it. His brown hair was cut
short without much care. He wouldn't have been caught dead with an earring or a
gold chain or cologne. His fore head and nose were so pink with sunburn that he
may as well have said: I like the sun. Screw cancer.

    'You
look familiar, Mr Bradley,' Cab told him. 'Do I know you from somewhere?'

    'I
was on the PGA tour for a few years in my twenties,' Bradley replied.

    'Really?
Why did you give it up?'

    'I
injured ligaments in my shoulder in a car accident about eight years ago. It
doesn't restrict my day-to-day activities, but I no longer have the precision I
need to be a pro.'

    'I'm
sorry to hear it,' Cab said. 'Why go from golf to teaching? I assume you could
coach or give lessons or something along those lines. You'd make a lot more
money, wouldn't you?'

    'I
was a professional golfer, Detective. When you've done that, the idea of
helping fifty-something investment bankers go from a thirty- six to a
twenty-eight handicap doesn't sound too attractive.'

    'And
teaching?'

    'I
like working with kids. I like the flexibility of having my summers off. You
may not think there are athletes who enjoy painting on the beach or talking
about Henry Fielding or Chaucer, but you know what? Some of us do.'

    Without
changing the expression on his face, Cab struck like a snake. 'Tresa Fischer
ended all of that for you, though, didn't she?'

    He
saw Gale's hand lightly cover Bradley's wrist, as if to send his client a
message.
Stay calm.

    'That
wasn't Tresa's fault,' Bradley said.

    'Whose
fault was it?'

    'I'm
not sure it was anybody's fault. If you're a male teacher these days, people
have a bias to believe just about anything bad that gets said about you. It
doesn't matter whether it's true.'

    'That
must be infuriating. I mean, first you lose one career, then another. I'd be
pissed off at somebody.'

    Gale
leaned forward. 'Excuse me, Detective, but this doesn't seem to have a lot to
do with your investigation.'

    'I'm
interested in your client's state of mind, Mr Gale. I think if I were in his
shoes, I'd be angry at how I was treated.'

    'I
was,' Bradley admitted before his lawyer could stop him. 'I am. But that has
nothing to do with Tresa or Glory.'

    'Did
you have a sexual relationship with Tresa Fischer?' Cab asked, watching
Bradley's face.

    'No.'

    'What
about Glory Fischer?'

    'No.'

    'Have
you ever had sex with a girl under eighteen?'

    Bradley
cocked his head. 'What, in my life? Do you want to know when I lost my
virginity? Do you want to know everybody I dated in high school?'

    'I
think we'll skip that question, Detective,' Gale interjected.

    'I'm
suggesting that athletes and teachers both have to deal with underage girls, Mr
Bradley,' Cab went on. 'You've had girls making passes at you your whole life.
You've had girls trying to manipulate you. Come on, it must happen all the
time. It has to feed your ego.'

    'I'm
married to a mature, beautiful, independent woman who's a hell of a lot smarter
than I am,' Bradley retorted. '
That
feeds my ego.'

    
Cab pursed his lips in surprise. He hadn't expected that
response,
and it sounded sincere. However, he'd known some accomplished
liars in his life. Starting with a girl in Barcelona named Vivian Frost.

    'Many
athletes look at women with contempt, Mr Bradley. You figure if they don't
respect themselves, why should you?'

    'I
wanted something more meaningful, Detective, and I found it. I hope you're as
lucky as I am.'

    'Well,
here's my problem. Glory Fischer is dead. You lost your job, and you're pretty
much hated in the community where you live, al because of the Fischer family.
You had a room overlooking the beach where Glory was killed. Those are big
coincidences.'

    'Wrong,'
Bradley snapped. He ticked off his responses on his fingers. 'The Fischer
family did not fire me. The principal and the school district did. I bear no
ill will at all toward Tresa or her mother, and certainly not toward Glory.
It's no coincidence at all that I'm at the same hotel as Tresa, because she's a
dancer, and my wife coaches dance. As for my hotel room, half the rooms in the
building overlook the beach.'

    'But
you were out on the beach last night, weren't you?' Cab asked. 'You met Glory
Fischer there.'

    Gale
jumped in quickly before Bradley could say a word. 'Sorry, Detective, that
topic is off limits.'

    'Excuse
me?'

    'Mr
Bradley will not answer your questions about where he was overnight,' Gale
informed him sharply. 'I've instructed him to say nothing. We're not saying he
went out on the beach, we're not saying' he didn't. We're not saying he met
Glory, we're not saying he didn't. No info. No answers. Nothing.'

    'In
other words, he was out there,' Cab retorted.

    'In
other words, if you think he was out there, then you better be prepared to
prove it,' Gale said. 'We're not going to do your work for you.'

    'We
have a witness who saw him.'

    Gale
wasn't fooled. 'Good for you, Detective. If you have a witness, you trot him
out. In the meantime, Mr Bradley isn't answering any questions about his
actions last night. The most important thing is that Mark did not kill Glory
Fischer.'

    'If
he was out there, then he may know something that can help our investigation,'
Cab reminded him. He looked at Mark Bradley.

    'Did
you think about that, Mr Bradley? A girl is dead. If you didn't kill her,
someone else did. If you're the kind of man you say you are, then I'd think you
would feel a moral obligation to tell us anything you saw.'

    Cab saw
a genuine conflict in Bradley's face. The man wanted to talk. Or maybe Bradley
thought he was smart enough to deflect suspicion by appearing cooperative. It
didn't matter. Gale shut it down.

    'We're
done, Detective,' the lawyer announced. 'Obviously, if Mark knew anything that
would be relevant and important to your investigation, I would have advised him
to share that information with you. You can conclude from his silence on this
matter that he doesn't.'

    'Neither
of you is in a position to make that call,' Cab told him. 'Mr Bradley, if you
saw Glory Fischer on the beach and you did
not
kill her, then you can
give us a time at which we know she was alive. That will help us pinpoint the
time of death.'

    Bradley
glanced at Gale, who shook his head.

    'Give
me some help here, Mr Bradley,' Cab insisted. 'I think you're a man who stands
up and does the right thing.'

    Gale
got out of his chair and reached for Bradley's arm. 'Let's go.'

    Bradley
remained seated, staring calmly at Cab. 'Theoretically,' he began.

    
'
Mark
,
stop
.'

    'Theoretically,'
Bradley continued, ignoring his attorney, 'on nights when I can't sleep, I
sometimes get up and clear my head around two thirty in the morning. But if I
do, I'm usually back by a few minutes after three.'

    'Did
you do that last night?' Cab asked. 'Did you arrange to meet Glory?'

    'No,
I didn't.'

    'But
you did see her on the beach.'

    'That's
it, Detective,' Gale interrupted. 'Mark, we're going. Now. Come on.'

    Bradley
got to his feet, still staring at Cab. He was sending him a message, and it was
obvious to Cab that his suspicions were correct. Mark Bradley had been with
Glory Fischer in the middle of the night.

    'I'm
going to send a police officer to your hotel room to make sure nothing is
removed. Based on your responses today, I'm sure we'll be able to get a search
warrant.'

    'My
responses?' Bradley asked.

    'I
think a judge will conclude what you and I both know to be true. You left your
room last night. You met Glory Fischer.'

    'Mr
Bradley isn't changing his travel plans to accommodate your fishing
expedition,' Gale told Cab. 'Tomorrow, he and his wife are going home to Door
County.'

    'Running
away won't get you off the hook, Mr Bradley,' Cab said.

    'I
never run away,' Bradley snapped.

    'I'm
glad, because I may just follow you back to Wisconsin. If you won't talk to me,
I'm sure there are people who will.'

    Gale
smiled at him and steered Bradley toward the door. 'If you go, enjoy the view,
Detective. Just don't have any conversations with Mr Bradley. I'm sure you know
that anything he tells you wouldn't be admissible, now that he's represented by
counsel.'

    'Of
course.' Cab added, 'Tell me one other thing, Mr Bradley.'

    Bradley
stopped and looked at Cab suspiciously. 'What?'

    'Exactly
why do they call it "Door" County?'

    Bradley
laughed without humor. 'The peninsula juts out into the water between Lake
Michigan and Green Bay. The area where the waters come together at the tip of
the land is extremely treacherous. A lot of people have lost their lives in
those waters. So the passage got the French name
Porte des morts.'

    'I'm
afraid I studied Spanish and German, not French,' Cab said.

    'It
means Death's Door.'

    Sheriff
Felix Reich drove his Chevy Tahoe off the Washington Island ferry, and the
vehicle clanged over the ship's metal gate on to the mainland at the tip of
Door County in Northport. The crossing through the Death's Door passage had
been rough, but Reich had made the journey thousands of times in his life, and
he was immune to the jockeying of the waves. Most of the travelers on winter
midweek mornings were locals who had iron stomachs even in the worst weather.
On this crossing, Reich had shared the ferry with only three other vehicles
bound for the peninsula.

    Reich
turned off Highway 42 beyond the port on to a gravel road known as Port des
Morts Drive. He drove between winter trees that clawed for his truck with bare
branches. Through the web of trees, Reich could see secluded, expensive
waterside houses hugging the cliff tops, but there was hardly anyone in
residence to admire the panorama below them. Most of the owners only arrived
during the high season, leaving the empty land to the small tribe of year-round
residents in other months. Even in summer, most tourists didn't venture beyond
the main highway or travel north of the shopping towns like Fish Creek,
Ephraim, and Sister Bay. When you got as far north as Gills Rock and Northport,
you were usually alone.