ANGELICA
page in the leather-bound photo album that rested on his lap. Angelica gasped, laying her finger on a faded picture. “He looks just like Kaydon!” Her older son took strongly after his father, with blond hair and blue eyes, leaving all his mother’s Latina genes to his younger brother Mason.
Angelica and Roland sat knee-to-knee in a deep leather sofa in his study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves flanked the walls, an oceanic mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, and towering French doors gave a breathtaking view of the lake. This was the kind of house she loved to sell back in Malibu. The expensive ones. The dream homes. The castles. This place didn’t look like it had been redecorated since its original design in the late nineteenth century, but it didn’t need a thing changed. Every panel of wood and every converted gas lamp spoke of stately elegance and history.
Luxury like this hadn’t existed in Angelica’s tiny village in rural Mexico, where she butchered chickens in her own backyard and scrubbed the family laundry on a washboard. It had never so much as entered her wildest dreams until her family had left their village, crossed half of Mexico, and come to the States. She’d seen glorious architecture and stately buildings in Guadalajara, and on the other side of the border, she’d discovered the mansions overlooking the ocean. And now, as a realtor, these kinds of houses were literally her bread and butter. Historic, modern, rustic, tropic, she didn’t care, so long as it had walk-in closets and a Jacuzzi. Once she had learned what luxury was, she had wanted it in every part of her life. Maybe it had even been part of her attraction to Will; he had money. Eventually, they had bought a gorgeous Spanish-style villa together in a gated community in Malibu.
Only now did she realize that mansions had been the staple of Will’s life from birth, not something he had worked towards, like her. What on earth had led him to the disastrous decisions he made?
She tapped the photo. “How old is Will here?”
Roland leaned forward and placed his iced tea on a coaster on the coffee table. “Oh, eleven or twelve, I’d say.”
Angelica smiled, bittersweet emotions mixing. “Kaydon is twelve.”
This was the first she’d ever seen pictures of Will as a boy. It was a completely different story from the one he had fabricated about an abusive father and unhappy childhood. She could see now that the story had been a cover, a convenient way to never talk about his past. According to Roland, Paul and Kathleen Geissler had been loving parents, crushed by their son’s betrayal, shunned by the community when the tale began to be told. They had sold their lake estate and returned to Chicago, where Roland still had occasional contact with them until their passing several years ago. Angelica was sad she would never meet her mother- and father-in-law. But there were still far too many emotions crashing through her system to fully dwell on that.
But between Roland’s stories and these photos, the truth was slowly coming to light. Will’s boyhood had been full of smiles and sunshine, sand and water and fireworks. The kind of privileged, carefree, innocent childhood she’d worked so hard to provide her own boys was the childhood her husband had lived.
Her boys. Carefree no longer. Not after losing their father. Not after beginning to glimpse the truth of who he was and what he had done. She couldn’t shield them from it all, and she didn’t want to. But she couldn’t describe yet how they felt. What this had done to them. She was still a deer staring into the headlights herself. She should be more present for them. She would be, as soon as she got home. She would start over. She would have her answers—as many as she could find. If possible, she would leave knowing who had killed her husband and why. Then she could mourn properly. She would bury what needed to be buried, and she and her boys would find a way to move on.
Angelica stroked the photo of the pre-teen Will. “It must have killed him to leave this place,” she said softly. “The memories. The magic.”
There was no other word for it. The magic of this place. She looked through the French doors toward the lake itself, glittering, tranquil, eternal. She had come here expecting grit and blood, determined to find the reason behind it all. Instead, she had found a place that, until now, had known little but peace and goodwill. It hadn’t taken long for the lake’s quiet beauty to seep into her system. To whisper to her, suggesting that it, too, felt the pain of these recent days and the destruction that had come with them. It watched her, all-knowing, all-loving, a sentient, caring being as old as the earth. It wasn’t quite real. The rain itself sparkled with sunshine.
She looked at Roland through vision gone blurry. “He was happy here, wasn’t he?”
Roland nodded. “The happiest.”
“Then…” Angelica blinked back tears. “How could he pretend it never happened?”
“He must have loved you and your sons very much to never speak of his past—to protect you from the man once known as Fritz Geissler. I’ve told you how his crimes destroyed his parents’ reputation, as Bobby’s nearly did mine. He was a man on the run. There was no way he could tell you the truth and have a life with you.” He laid a hand on hers. “I hope you can believe that, Angelica. He did it to protect you.”
She scowled and shook her head angrily. “You don’t betray family,” she said firmly.
“But for your own good. For your sons—”
She locked eyes with him. “Roland, there are many things I left behind in Mexico. Many friends and places and a thousand memories. When I crossed that border, I came with only one thing. My family. And that is the only thing I will ever have.” She began to count items off on her fingers. “If my car breaks down, my papá will be there to fix it. If the furniture doesn’t show up for a house staging, my mamá and my aunt will show up with furniture they got from God knows where. If I lose my husband—” her throat caught here. “My entire family will be there. Because that’s what family is. They are there for you. You might be mad at them, you might shout at them, you might annoy each other to the moon and back. But at the end of the day, family is all you have. You do not betray your own family.”
Roland regarded her carefully and nodded somberly. “That’s why it’s so very hard for you to accept how Will treated you.”
Angry tears pricked her eyes. She tilted her head back, trying to keep them from falling, and breathed heavily. Studying the crown molding on the ceiling, she asked, “Were we even married at all?”
Roland reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Nothing can negate the love you had for each other.”
A single tear streamed down. “But who did I love?” She turned to face Roland again. “Was I in love with a dream? A made-up story? Someone who never existed?”
“He gave you his heart.” He dipped his head, meeting her eye. “And I know—as well as you do—that his heart was gold.”
His heart was gold… and yet he burglarized banks? He took other people’s hard-earned money? Roland didn’t understand. She brushed her tears away. There was no point dragging the conversation on when it was stuck in a dead end.
She turned again to the album and flipped a page. A black-and-white photo in the middle of the right-hand leaf caught her eye, clearly older than the rest. Yet like so many of the others, Geneva Lake was prominent in the background, easily identifiable by the white piers along the shore. Three young men, possibly in their twenties, smiled into the camera—but they were not Bobby, Fritz, and Jason.
Angelica squinted. “Roland, is that you?”
He slid the photo from the album, examining it through his readers, then turned it over. A date in a fine scrawl read 1959. He laughed. “Evidence of my terrible organizational skills. This belongs in a different album.” He flipped it forward again and pointed. “An older set of musketeers. That’s me, and that’s Tommy Thomlin.”
“Jason’s father?”
“That’s right.”
She pointed to the third man, straight-backed and taller than Roland by a full head. “And who’s this?”
Roland paused, lips slightly parted. His face seemed to sink. “That’s Wade Erickson.”
The name clashed through her head like a bell falling from a bell tower, hitting every stair on the way down. From her research, she knew this name well. “Wade Erickson?” she said, looking Roland in the eye. She squinted, unbelieving. “The man who killed your son?”
Roland nodded, still staring at the picture. He seemed to be lost in memory.
But for Angelica, the idea still didn’t connect. It was unfathomable. “He was your friend?”
“The three of us were as close as Bobby, Fritz, and Jason ever were.”
Angelica sank back into the sofa cushions, jaw slack. “One of your best friends… killed your son?”
Roland tossed the photo onto the coffee table as if casting it away from him. Groaning under his breath, he leaned back into the cushions. “We had fallen out long before that.”
Angelica shook her head. “How?”
Roland stirred uncomfortably, hesitated, then heaved a rueful laugh. “As a teenager, Bobby developed a—well, a knack for trouble. Shoplifting. Breaking into candy machines.” He shrugged. “Just little things. But after a while, I lost count how many times Wade drove him home in the back of his patrol car. Eventually, Wade became very firm with me.” Roland sat up and scowled, as if imitating an angry Wade. “He told me if I didn’t straighten my boy out, things would only grow worse.” He shrugged. “Well, I didn’t listen. I told Wade that Bobby was only sowing his wild oats and he’d grow out of it soon enough. It was practically a Markham family gene. I myself was a bit of a wild card when I was young.”
Roland stared out the French doors overlooking the stone patio and the lake beyond. He twirled his thumbs. “But the next time it happened, Wade didn’t drive Bobby home. He drove him to the police station and booked him. Put him in a cell. He had to appear before a juvenile court.” Roland’s brow went heavy as if confused. Betrayed. “The boy was only fourteen. I couldn’t believe Wade did that.” He sighed and turned up his palms. “Granted, I suppose Wade did the right thing. Bobby didn’t get into any more trouble after that. Well, not until…”
His voice trailed off, leaving Angelica to fill in the rest. Not until he grew up and moved onto targets infinitely more sophisticated than candy machines.
Angelica frowned. Something didn’t make sense to her. The other night, Roland had admitted that he blamed Will and Jason for leading Bobby astray. But how could he, when Bobby already had a history of petty criminal behavior at such an early age? Was Roland that blinded by fatherly devotion? Her own sons would be grounded for years if she ever caught them stealing.
On top of this, she couldn’t help but wonder. Had Bobby truly quit his misbehavior after Wade taught him a lesson? Or had he simply gotten better? How did someone go from shoplifting candy bars as a boy to planning elaborate and wildly successful bank heists as an adult? Did he have help? If so, from whom?
Angelica rose from the sofa and paced between the sitting area and the desk, arms folded, chin in her hand, a lush Persian rug cushioning her steps. “Roland, who was there the night Bobby died?”
“Well… Fritz, Jason, Wade, and Wade’s partner, Sidney Kruse. They were both detectives.”
Angelica nodded. “Tell me what happened. Tell me the story the way you heard it. The way you were told.”
Roland sighed and cast his eyes downward. Angelica had not given him a pleasant task, and she knew it. But she needed to know. He folded his hands around his knee and launched into the tale without further prompting.
“The boys had apparently been at it a few years and never were caught. Eventually, they got pretty brazen. For their next target—their last—they chose a bank right here in Lake Geneva, their hometown. They broke in, they loaded the contents of the vault into their getaway vehicle, they were about to leave, and—” Roland sighed heavily. “And that’s when Wade and Sidney Kruse caught them in the alley behind the bank. Wade was a detective then. As I understand it, he’d taken an interest in the spate of bank burglaries that had taken place over several years across Chicago, Milwaukee, and Madison. They credit him as the first one to suppose they could all be connected.” Roland shrugged. “I can’t begin to imagine how he thought Bobby was behind them. A grudge he couldn’t let go? It’s beyond me.”
Angelica moved to the French doors, framed by lush velvet drapes that piled on the floor. She stared across the lake. “Go on.”
“Well, once again Wade was right. Who should come out of the bank, literally carrying the money bags, but Bobby, Jason, and Fritz?”
Here, Roland halted. Angelica knew why. She knew what had happened next. But this was the important part. The part she needed to know. “Please tell me,” she muttered to the glass. “How did Bobby die?”
Silence lingered before Roland found his words. “Bobby was startled. He fired his gun.” Roland stared at his hands again. “I can’t imagine how frightened he must have been.”
Angelica tuned out the excuses. They were inconsequential, if what she suspected was true. “So, Bobby shot first,” she repeated. “According to whom?”
“Well… Wade, I suppose. Anyway, it was the conclusion of the grand jury. They ruled that Wade had fired in self-defense, and so there was no trial.”
“Was there security footage?”
“No. If I remember, the boys disabled all the cameras.”
Angelica nodded. How convenient. “Police dash cams?”
“I believe their unmarked car wasn’t outfitted with a camera.”
She smirked. Also convenient. “What happened to Wade’s partner? Sidney Kruse?”
“He caught a bullet. Died at the scene.”
“Whose bullet? Who killed him?”
“Jason.”
“Based on Wade’s testimony?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I imagine there was some forensic evidence backing that up, as well. The location of shell casings, or however that works.”
Angelica chewed on her lip. Jason killed the only other witness? That didn’t fit her developing theory. But she could think of explanations. Maybe Jason was in on it. Maybe the police lied about the evidence. “And Jason and Will vanished,” she concluded the story. “Disappeared without a trace. Were never heard from again until now.”
“That’s right.”
Angelica turned and met his gaze. “In other words, five men entered the alley that night. And only one remained to tell the tale?”
“Well, yes. But as I said, the forensics—”
Angelica blew through her lips and waved her hand. “Evidence can be staged. At the end of the day, Wade Erickson got to tell his story his way, and there was no one else to say otherwise, not even his partner.”
Roland frowned and tilted his head suspiciously. “What are you suggesting?”
“The fourth member of the Markham Ring. What if we knew who he was all along?”
Roland tilted his head. “Wade?”
“Yes.”
Roland fell back into the cushions, frowning, turning over the idea, not looking particularly convinced.
Angelica held up a finger. “Listen. Bobby gets himself arrested when he’s fourteen, and then he never breaks the law again. But did he have a change of heart, or did he have help? Maybe Wade found a reason to turn a blind eye. Maybe he taught Bobby how to hit bigger and bigger targets. Maybe he cleaned up after Bobby—for a price. For a cut of the profits.”
Roland opened his mouth, but no words came out.
It didn’t matter. Angelica was on a roll. She began to pace. “It’s years later. Bobby’s all grown up, and he’s playing in the big leagues. He’s taking down banks. But he needs help, and that’s why he recruited Will and Jason—however he talked them into it.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “And the newspapers say, ‘Oh, Wade Erickson, he was the first one to link all these burglary cases.’” She threw up her hands. “Really? Chicago’s not his jurisdiction. Milwaukee’s not his jurisdiction. Lake Geneva is—this tiny little town that has nothing to do with them. He wasn’t linking cases; he was in on them.”
She tapped her chin with the nail of her manicured thumb. Was she a lunatic, or had she hit on something? “Are we supposed to believe the Markham Ring just happened to choose Lake Geneva next, the town where this one little detective was piecing things together, linking these intricate heists to the boy who used to help himself to candy bars? Do you realize how crazy that even sounds? How much money could they even expect to take from a bank in a town this small? And the next thing you know, Bobby and Sidney Kruse are both dead, Jason and Will have vanished, and Wade Erickson is free to sing whatever song he wants. And here’s the only thing we need to know.” She pointed a finger across the room at Roland. “Did Bobby shoot first—or was it Wade?”
Her words hung in the air. Roland didn’t so much as blink, much less offer a rebuttal. At last, he stirred. “But… why? If Wade was in fact benefiting from Bobby’s activities, why would he kill him? That’s turning off the faucet, don’t you think?”
Angelica shrugged. “Relationships go sour. People get greedy. Maybe Bobby was short-changing Wade. Or getting careless and becoming too much of a liability. There could be dozens of reasons.”
Roland leaned back, silent, and Angelica knew she was making her case. “But… he’s always lived simply, not like a man of means…”
She tilted her head. “If you were chief of police over a small department, would you live like you had millions? Maybe he’s got a bank overseas. Or he’s going to retire in style abroad. Maybe he’s got a second wife somewhere. Maybe he’s just a hoarder.”
Roland shook his head. “I just can’t believe…”
Angelica planted a hand on her hip. “Why not?”
“Well, I’ve known him since he was this tall.” Roland held his hand two and a half feet off the floor. “We called him ‘Shorty’ because he didn’t hit his growth spurt until he was fifteen. I played baseball with him when we were kids.” He shook his head, turning his hands palms-up. “He was a brother to us, Tommy and me. We looked out for him.”
Angelica folded her arms and couldn’t help looking at him pityingly. Bobby couldn’t be a bad boy, because he was Roland’s son—even though Roland admitted Bobby had committed petty crimes as a teen. And Wade Erickson couldn’t be guilty, because he had been Roland’s friend—even though the two of them had fallen out years ago.
“Roland, you are the blindest man I have ever met.”
He dropped his gaze without arguing and twirled his thumbs, looking more humbled than affronted.
Angelica sighed and fell into the sofa beside him, lacing her fingers around her own knee, imitating his stance. For several moments, they gazed across the room and the lake and said nothing.
Roland was the one to break the silence. “Do you think he killed your husband?”
Angelica let the question soak in. Let it seep in through her pores, enter her bloodstream, and become part of every fiber of her being. Of all the questions she had come here to answer, this one was at the center of it all. Who had killed her husband? Why now, after all these years? Where was the culprit? Why was he still free? Why was someone allowed to devastate her life like this—stealing not only the love of her life, but every precious memory she had of him? She reviewed everything she now knew—the facts of the case. And everything she now suspected. And then she closed her eyes and tuned in to her heart.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I need evidence.”
Roland nodded. In the distance, power boats cut the lake. “I’ll help you, if I can.”
Angelica smiled and took his hand. She wasn’t sure where she’d be if she hadn’t met Roland.
The stately grandfather clock against the wall groaned to life and struck the hour.