I THOUGHT ABOUT DETOURING past Browns Stadium before heading to my next destination, but decided that was a poor use of time. Far better to repeatedly bash my head with a two-pound engineer hammer. Instead, I drove back onto the highway and followed signs for I-90 West. I exited at Detroit Avenue and cut down Wagar to Lake Avenue. I turned left, and a few minutes later entered the city limits of Bay Front, Ohio.
Once upon a time, the town served as a summer destination for well-off, water-loving Clevelanders seeking relief from the city’s heat and grime, especially in the days when steel mills choked the skies with the soot of economic progress. As a result, many of the homes lining the streets and overlooking the lake were modest forties- and fifties-era bungalows—winterized beach houses, in essence. But that was only half the story. Money had come to Bay Front as a bedroom community in the era of the Great Commute. Numerous lakeshore houses were not-so-modest mansions built on plots—sometimes two or three packaged together—that once held those small bungalows before they were demolished to make room for something far bigger and more luxurious. That was the gilded Bay Front, one of the more exclusive greater Cleveland exurbs.
Schiff’s place fell into the latter category of homes, I saw, coming up on the house on my right. I stopped, threw on my flashers, and examined the residence. Up front, close to the street, a wrought-iron driveway gate stretched across the drive, a large S embedded in the middle. A gate it would take some doing to get past. Behind that, a downward-sloping asphalt drive. Farther down, partly obscured by dogwoods and evergreens, a house whose three levels of wood, stone, and glass seemed to float over the edge of a lakeside cliff like a freeze-frame photo of a house collapsing mid-earthquake. I estimated the distance from the street to the house at a hundred yards, give or take. On a hunch, I dug into my pocket and retrieved Laura’s extra car fob, taken two mornings before from her condo. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a police car approaching. Quickly, I stretched out my hand and activated the fob.
Meep meep.
The sound was far away and indistinct, like a cat’s mewing from two houses over. But also unquestionable. Laura’s Lexus was on Schiff’s property behind one of the three garage doors below.
I turned off the flashers and drove away slowly, hoping to leave the impression of someone who’d stopped to check directions. I was guessing Bay Front was not a city where police took kindly to palookas in vans with big butts casing houses. The cop followed me two blocks before turning left into a private drive of condominiums. I exhaled and drove another few blocks before turning right into a small city park.
I waited until I was sure the officer hadn’t just circled around. Satisfied, I texted Gloria the news of discovering Laura’s car. Without checking for a reply, I locked up and walked to the railing overlooking the lake. A slight midafternoon breeze kicked up small ripples of water all the way to the horizon. In the distance a silhouette of a barge working its way to Canada. Closer up a trio of sailboats leaning to the side, like white table napkins thrown into the wind. On the shore a small bird with spindly legs—sandpiper?—ran here and there as if attached to an offstage string. It would have been pleasant to stand like that all afternoon, contemplating the universe instead of battling its dark forces. Putting the thought aside, I glanced around to assure myself I was alone, then followed the railing to a set of descending concrete stairs. Two minutes later I was on a patch of ground covered with gritty sand, stones, and driftwood; what passed for a beach in this part of the world. I turned to my right and started walking.
The going was tough. The shore of Lake Erie, like Cleveland itself, doesn’t suffer fools gladly. At points I was nearly in the water, balancing on rocks and grabbing branches of small bushes sprouting from the cliffside to keep from soaking myself. Along other stretches the shore widened enough that I came across metal fire rings and picnic tables. Once or twice I spied rickety wooden staircases winding their way to the houses perched atop the cliff. None of the stairways looked capable of supporting the weight of anything heavier than Hopalong. After another few minutes I came to a smaller promontory and stopped. I retrieved my phone and pulled up the GPS. I was just about there. I stepped around the promontory and looked up. And found myself staring at Randall P. Schiff.
I DUCKED BACK, THOUGH I was pretty sure he hadn’t seen me. His eyes were on the horizon, not the beach, as mine had been minutes earlier in the park. He’d driven quickly from downtown and couldn’t have been home long. Score one for my intuition. But had he heard the meep meep of Laura’s car? His presence outside would suggest not, but could I know for sure? I eased myself back into position to see without being seen. He was still there, looking out at the lake at the edge of an impressive-looking deck cantilevered over the cliff like the prow of a nineteenth-century sailing ship. The only thing it lacked was a carved maiden casting her eternal gaze over the water. Schiff’s own rickety-looking set of stairs led to the beach, where a ridge of sharp-edged boulders jutted from the shoreline, severely cutting down on sandcastle possibilities.
I thought: Was the judge in the house? Was this where she’d driven after the call from her son? And was she here when she lied to Pinney at the sheriff’s office, and then dropped the clues that led me on this path?
I snuck a final glance at the deck and ducked back immediately. Schiff was no longer alone. He’d been joined by Tear Drop. Which complicated the idea forming in my mind a moment earlier, to just barge in and rescue Laura—if she wanted rescuing at all. I waited a minute and peeked once more. Now the deck was empty. A moment later I heard a sound. It took me a second—a garage door opening. A moment after that the scrape of metal that indicated the driveway fence sliding open. Someone was leaving—but who?
I hurried back toward the park and my van, keeping close to the cliff overlooking the lake in case anyone from above was spying on midday beachcombers. I was nearly back to the park when my phone rang. Pete Henderson was on the line, calling from the U.S. Attorney’s Office.