The Best American Mystery Stories 2015 Read Online Free PDF Page B

mills, paper mills, and pieces of everything else. Their homes are estates in gated enclaves. A hundred-plus years ago, they rode the timber trains into Vale County and logged off the northern forest like fields of wheat.
    My mother’s people, the Métis, mixed-blood descendents of the original French
voyageurs
and the First Nation, arrived around the same time, fleeing a failed rebellion against the Canadian government. In Canada we’d been woodsmen, trappers, and traders. And, finally, rebels on the run.
    In Michigan we became loggers, ax-men, sawyers, top men. The LaCrosses and our kin did the grueling, dangerous work that made the lumber barons rich. After the timber played out, the Girards stayed on in their Main Street mansions, to manage banks and businesses and wield the local reins of power. Shrewdly, for the most part.
    The Métis stayed on too, doing whatever work came to hand. Lumbermen, merchants, mechanics, and carpenters. A few outlaws.
    And one cop.
    Todd Girard is Old Money, but doesn’t flaunt it. His lambskin sport coat was comfortably distressed and his jeans were faded. A blue chambray shirt, open at the throat. No tie. Business casual for the north.
    In school he was a party animal, but his National Guard unit served a hitch in Afghanistan. He came back changed. We all did. He takes Vale County crime personally now, which keeps his conviction rate in the high nineties.
    His number two, Assistant DA Harvey Bemis, was beside him. Suited up in his usual three-piece pinstripe and a U of M tie, Harvey is an eager beaver who looks a bit like one, protruding front teeth, anxious eyes. He’s an attack dog in court, a guy you want on your side. But I’ve never had a beer with him afterward. I think he wears his tie to bed.
    The third man at the table was plump and sleek, casually dressed in a tweed jacket over a golf shirt. Jason Avery is the most expensive mouthpiece north of Detroit. His silvery mane was a bit disheveled and he hadn’t shaved. I guessed his Saturdays rarely started this early.
    “Detective Dylan LaCrosse,” Avery said. “Thanks for coming.”
    “Counselors.” I nodded, dropping into the chair facing them. “I’m here as a courtesy to the prosecutor, but I’m in the middle of a homicide case so I’m short on time. What’s this about?”
    “The Champlin case,” Todd said. “I’ve known Mark Champlin for years. To avoid any appearance of impropriety, I’m stepping away from this one. Harvey Bemis will take it to trial if it comes to that.”
    “Which I hope to avoid,” Avery interjected smoothly. “We need to resolve this mess before it becomes a disaster for the whole North Shore.”
    “What kind of a disaster?” I asked.
    “Before I get to that, I’ll need a guarantee,” Avery said. “I’m willing to reveal information damaging to my clients, but this conversation will remain confidential.”
    “We’re all gentlemen here, with the possible exception of Dylan,” Todd said drily. “Okay, we’re officially off the record, Jason. What’s your big secret?”
    “The Novak girl, for openers. I can close that case.”
    I stiffened; so did Todd. He had our full attention now.
    “I’m listening,” I said.
    “It’s my understanding that the girl drank nonalcoholic punch, passed out on the lawn, and . . . succumbed to the cold. In fact, a tox screen will reveal the presence of a drug. GHB. You have Julie’s date, young Derek Patel, in custody, I believe. As a suspect?”
    “He’s one possibility,” I admitted.
    “The wrong one,” Avery said flatly. “The punch was spiked. GHB, commonly referred to as a date-rape drug, was added to it.”
    “By whom?” Todd asked.
    “I’m coming to that,” Avery said. “For the record, the drug was legally prescribed and properly secured under lock and key—”
    “It was locked in the playroom, wasn’t it?” I said, getting it.
    Avery nodded. “Quite so. GHB is a legal sleeping pill, but on occasion the drug is