The Killing Game(108)

“I’m sure it’s an alias,” Gretchen rejoined. “But I might as well make a list.”

September checked Google for local camps and scrolled through the lists that popped up. “The North Shore Junior Camp, now defunct, was located on Schultz Lake. It still has a web site with the administrator’s name: Ronald Dumonte.”

George had gotten through to Wes and when he hung up his expression was grim. “Sorry, man,” he said. “No, we’re good here.” He hung up and said, “Looks like Wes’s mom’s not gonna make it.”

“Oh no,” September said.

“He’ll call us later. He wanted to come, but he can’t,” George admitted.

Gretchen looked up soberly. “That’s too bad. I always want to work when things are hell.”

It was the most emotion September had ever seen from Gretchen. She thought about Wes and her heart ached. She’d lost her own mother years earlier.

Gretchen shook her head, as if physically shaking off the moment. “There was a chess champion in the seventies named Bobby Fisher. Think that means anything?”

September looked at the clock as she put in a call to Ronald Dumonte. Five-twenty. She had his home phone, but he could possibly be at work. When the call was answered, it was a woman on the line. September introduced herself and the woman asked her to wait a moment, then Ronald Dumonte was on the other end of the line.

“I’m calling about North Shore Junior Camp,” September told him after she’d introduced herself.

Dumonte sighed heavily. “Make room for development. Bulldoze the past. Leave no trace of the good that came before.”

“Um, yes,” September said. “I take it you’re against Wren Development’s resort plan.”

“I fought with everything I had to stop that monstrosity, but the county planners didn’t listen. It’s all about money, Detective Rafferty. It always is. Sometimes we just hope farsighted thinkers prevail, but it so rarely happens.”

“You ran the camp in its last years,” September said, easing the conversation back to what she wanted to talk about.

“That I did. Retired afterward.”

“I understand that many of the wealthy and part-time residents around Schultz Lake sent their children to the camp.”

“Yes.” He sighed. “We wanted it to be available to everyone, but it was expensive compared to other camps, so we had a predominance of elitist’s children.”

Elitists . . . September had tapped into Dumonte’s prejudice. She decided to use that knowledge. “Can you name some of the elitists?”

“The same ones who are still there.” He rattled off a number of names and ended with, “And, of course, the Wrens. Henry Wren attended our camp when he was young, and he sent all three of his children there. I was administrator when the three of them were there.” His tone was carefully controlled, but he clearly wasn’t impressed with Gregory, Carter, and Emma Wren.

“Do you recall a boy named Lance Patten? I doubt he was a camper, but he may have hung out with some of them.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know the name.”

“Or Wendy Kirkendall?” September tried.

He swept in a breath. “The girl who was strangled and then dumped in the lake? Certainly not. It was a terrible tragedy, but it didn’t affect our camp!”

September asked him a few more questions, but he became less and less interested in talking. Finally, he said reluctantly, “I suggest you call the Wrens. There was an incident with a young man over animal cruelty.”

September straightened in her chair. Mr. Bromward had complained about severe cruelty to his cats.

“Henry Wren was very opposed to his children associating with the young man.”

“Who was this young man?”

“Not from the camp. He was . . . he rode a horse and mixed in with the others.”

“Lance Patten,” September repeated sharply.

“Oh.” Dumonte collected himself. “Yes, maybe. I’m sorry. I didn’t think that was the name. It doesn’t sound quite right. They called him something else.”

“Laser?”

He inhaled sharply. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dumonte.” September couldn’t wait to get off the phone. George and Gretchen were still discussing Robert Fisher, but Gretchen looked over at her.

“Something?” she asked.

“Animal cruelty from a guy named Laser.” She was checking the clock and punching in the number for Wren Development. If she couldn’t raise Carter Wren, she would call Andi back. Maybe Emma would be awake.

“This is Detective September Rafferty,” she told the receptionist. “I would like to speak with Carter Wren, please.”

She half-expected to be put off, but soon a male voice answered briskly, “Carter Wren.”

“Mr. Wren, I’m Detective September Rafferty. I’m researching a cold case from about thirteen years ago and I’m hoping you can help me.”

“Okay,” he said, mystified.

“A young man named Lance Patten disappeared from his home on Aurora Lane. He used to ride a horse from his home toward Schultz Lake—”

“I know Lance,” Carter interrupted. “Or knew him. He used to come to North Shore, the old summer camp my father sent us to. Has he turned up?”