Ice Lake: A gripping crime debut that keeps you guessing until the final page

“It isn’t, it’s neuroscience. Admittedly it only works for the mean of the general population but I have a feeling, James, you are about right in the middle of the Great American Bell Curve.”

“I don’t have to stand for this,” Toliph said as he made a move towards the door.

“I wouldn’t go out there, Jim. Out there is jail but I think I can get you out of this.”

“This is bullshit. I won’t go to jail because your bunion throbs.”

“It’s more than that. When I asked you about your grandfather you told the truth, right?”

“Of course.”

“Of course you did. Why would you lie about that? But you had to think about your grandfather’s occupation. Since long-term memories are stored in the left hemisphere of the brain, most people look to the left when accessing them. When you retrieved your grandfather’s job your eyes shifted left but when I asked you who might have stolen the money, your eyes shifted right. Now the right hemisphere is the creative side; it’s the side that you use when you want to make stuff up. Like when you contemplated who you could frame for your crime.”

“So let me get this straight: you say I’m going to go to jail because I have shifty eyes?”

“It’s not just the eyes,” Harry went on, “it’s also the stupid joke you made about everybody having a first name. You said that to avoid my question. And then there is the fact that you unconsciously put this table between us when you entered the room, and the observation that your hands have been in your pockets ever since I met you, like you think they’re dirty.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“No, and neither will the results of this machine when I hook you up to it but it will give those big shots out there enough cause to go over every one of your transactions with a fine-tooth comb, and when they find something – you go to jail.”

“I still think you are full of shit.”

“Don’t, James. I am very very good at my job. Now, the money that you stole: is it spent or is it recoverable?”

“Again, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Yes, you do. Now, is it gone or can you get most of it back? ’Cause,” Harry pointed to the door, “I know these guys. Actually, I don’t know these guys but I know the type. All they want is their money back. They don’t want to arrest you ’cause arrests mean trials and trials mean their clients get to see how easy it is for a guy like you to steal their money. If you give it back you only lose your job and the ability to ever work in the financial sector again – which is a good thing because you seem to have a tendency… how shall I say… to give in to temptation.”

This was it. They don’t call it the moment of truth for nothing. The young exec squared his shoulders but then thought better of it. He fell back against the wall and slid down, hanging his head between his knees, his foppish hair flopping into his face.

“How could they have spotted it this fast?”

“It has been my experience, James, that people with a lot of money tend to know how not to have it stolen. Is the money get-back-able?”

“Yes. Of course. When would I have had time to spend it?”

Harry reached down and helped James to his feet. He looked like a middle schooler on the way to the principal’s office. “Come on, Jimmy, let’s keep you out of jail.”

* * *

Harry assembled the senior partners and sat back with a smug self-satisfied look on his face, until he heard James confess that he had only executed his dubious transaction “yesterday afternoon”. James’s Isle of Man scam wasn’t why Harry had been called.

After security had escorted Jimmy away, Harry found out that his employers hadn’t even known about that one. They thanked him – then briefed him on why he was really there.

* * *

Harry unpacked The Beast and proceeded with his usual routine of polygraphing everybody, starting with the senior management. This was one of the conditions companies had to agree to before Harry would accept a job. He explained to the executives that it caused fewer objections from junior staff if their bosses agreed to be hooked up first. But the real reason was that, half the time, Harry found the culprit was one of the bigwigs.

He was no closer to finding out who had pocketed the loose twenty-four million out of the Dubai fund and had resolved himself to the fact that this was going to take a couple of days, when his 4.30 appointment did a runner.

“My work here is done, gentlemen,” Harry said as he looked up from a surveillance video of Mr Patel getting into his car in the employee car park and hightailing it out of there. Even a child could see he looked guilty and scared as hell.

* * *

In the elevator down to the car park, Harry sent a message to Trooper Cirba.

“NYC gig done. See you in the morning.”

Trooper Cirba replied with directions to Ice Lake.

“Take Rt 80 to exit 46. Take Rt 307 south. Turn right after the purple hitch-hiker. Ice Lake 5 miles. You can’t miss it.”

Chapter 2 (#u57c301d5-f38f-53e3-b823-e8c57c8cd2b4)

Not a lot is known about St Elizabeth other than she was the mother of John the Baptist and her husband was struck dumb when he doubted her pregnancy. (That’ll teach ’im). The bible makes no mention of her having a penchant for purple robes but that is how the artist who painted the statue saw her. Outside of St Elizabeth’s Catholic Church on Route 307 stands a double life-sized cement statue of the saint wearing a purple robe, with both hands out to her sides, palms facing out. It’s a common position for saintly statues that somehow depicts piety, but if a real human were to adopt the same pose he or she would probably look like they were saying, “I guess,” with a shrug.

Years ago a young teenager started his drinking career by stealing a bottle of altar wine from St Elizabeth’s sacristy. His drinking career never slowed, and a decade later, neither did his car as it careened off Route 307 and ploughed into one of Pennsylvania’s hardy scrub oaks. The statue’s left arm seemed to have tried to stop the poor lad from merging with the local flora but only managed to get itself pulverized.

The driver fared worse. The ambulance service could have spared the county the expense of a trip to the hospital and morgue because he was back at St Elizabeth’s just a week later for his funeral.

Harry had texted back to Trooper Cirba, asking him to explain what he meant by “purple hitchhiker”.

Cirba replied: “You’ll know it when you see it.”

Harry laughed out loud when he crested the hill on Route 307 and saw the statue of the purple-robed saint with one hand at her side, palm out, looking all the world like a hippie seeking a lift to Woodstock.

Ice Lake isn’t very big. Carved out of the Pocono Mountain’s ubiquitous forest of conifers and scrub oaks, it’s short of two miles around and is circled with a line of lakeside properties, a road, and another ring of roadside properties. It is spectacularly peaceful. The Ice Lake Association allows no motorized boats on the lake – only rowboats, canoes, and sailboats. They won’t even allow those tiny five horsepower electric trolling motors that the old fishermen use on other lakes. As Leo Carter said years ago at a meeting of the Ice Lake Rod & Gun Club, “If you’re too old to row 300 yards you shouldn’t be out on the lake by yourself.”

Ice Lake began its life as the name suggests – as an ice lake. Ebenezer Dinklocker dug out the lake in 1863 to harvest ice blocks in the winter. The frozen water was then stored in special barns with double walls filled with sawdust. These Ice Houses would keep the ice frozen all summer when Dinklocker made a good living delivering blocks to the iceboxes of most of the people in the tri-county area. That was until refrigeration was invented and the ice industry melted.

Harry pulled into the only commercial enterprise on the lake. Its official name was the Ice Lake Café but the locals just called it the Store. To call it a grocery store would have been an injustice to grocery stores everywhere – including ones in blockaded war-torn communist countries. To the left of a cooler containing milk, Coke, and eggs was an almost-empty shelf peppered with bread, Spam, and Pepperidge Farm Milano Cookies. Across the room a lunch counter sported a coffee maker and a pile of donuts under a clear plastic dome. A sign said: “HELP YOURSELF AND LEAVE A DONATION (OR AN IOU) IN THE CHAMBER POT.”

“Hello?” Harry called out.

A groan and then heavy footsteps preceded the arrival of a 70-ish-year-old man wearing a wife-beater T-shirt and two-day old white stubble.

“What’s your problem?” he asked.

“Hi,” Harry offered, as lightly as he could. “You still serving breakfast?”

“Uh huh,” the old guy said pointing to the glass case. “Coffee and donuts – breakfast of champions.” He started walking back to the upstairs door. “Leave the money in the chamber pot.”

“Ah, how much?”

The old guy turned and for the first time properly looked at Harry. “What do you pay at Starbucks for your none-y fatty amaretto latte cappuccino?”

“I pay about four bucks for my regular latte.”