A Long Time Gone

CHAPTER 24 - Cedar Creek, Nevada Saturday, July 27, 2024

CHAPTER 24

Cedar Creek, Nevada Saturday, July 27, 2024

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, BEFORE THE SUN WAS UP, SLOAN WENT ON a run and explored the town of Cedar Creek. She’d been at it for forty minutes when the sun crept from under the horizon. She made her way along the running trail that hugged the water, pausing as she crossed the Louis-Bullat Bridge that arced over Cedar Creek. Below her, the water’s surface was peaceful and calm as it reflected the cotton-ball clouds bruised lavender by the rising sun. To the south she saw the other two bridges that curved over the creek and connected each half of the town. To the west, the Sierra Nevadas absorbed the glow of the rising sun. From her perched position atop the bridge, the white courthouse was visible in the center of town, and she resumed her jog in that direction.

She worked up a nice sweat and good burn in her lungs and legs as she approached the town center, picking up her pace and taking the two dozen courthouse steps in a staccato of high knee raises that drained the last bit of energy from her quads. When she reached the top, she placed her hands on her head and sucked in the morning air as she slowly walked along the courthouse promenade, which was made up of two giant, rounded doors flanked by four thick pillars on either side.

When she had her breathing under control, she examined a placard near the front door that listed the mayor of Cedar Creek, the district attorney of Harrison County, and several county board members. Of the twelve names, nine were Margolises. It dawned on her, as she stood in front of the courthouse in the center of the town that was owned and operated by the Margolis family, that her sudden reappearance had the potential to turn Cedar Creek upside down.

She took one more look around The Block, then skipped down the stairs and jogged back to her rental home. Showered and dressed an hour later, she drove out of Cedar Creek and into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, following the GPS as she navigated to the address Eric Stamos had given her. It took thirty minutes to traverse the serpentine roads and navigate the switchbacks that snaked through the mountains. Eventually Sloan found the wooden bridge that crossed the gully below, the one Eric had told her marked the final leg of the journey to his cabin.

She turned right at the end of the bridge and a quarter mile later found the driveway’s entrance. The mailbox was hidden, and the address was poorly marked. She turned and drove through the canopy of trees until she reached the cabin and found Eric sitting in a chair on the front porch. He raised his hand as Sloan parked and climbed out of the car. The A-frame cabin was surrounded on three sides by thick forest and butted up against the gully she had crossed in her rental car. The one-lane, wooden bridge was visible in the distance behind the cabin. It was the very definition of isolated.

“Find it okay?” Eric asked from the porch.

“Just barely. You like living out here so far from civilization?”

“It’s my family’s cabin. Come on in, I’ll show you the place.”

Sloan walked up the porch steps.

“Good to see you again,” Eric said.

“You, too. And I promise I won’t mace you this time.”

They both shared a laugh. Eric had fully recovered from the pepper spray incident, and Sloan was able to see both his eyes today—still a light caramel brown that accented his dark olive complexion, evidence of a life spent outdoors. He wore a T-shirt that stretched under the tension of his broad shoulders and revealed the powerful cords in his forearms, suggesting that he found the gym as often as Sloan.

“My grandfather built this place in the fifties,” Eric said as Sloan followed him inside. “He used it as a family getaway spot and a hunting cabin. It’s only thirty minutes from town but feels like you’re in another dimension.”

“That’s for sure.”

“I inherited the place when my grandfather died last year. I’ve since turned it into ground zero for my research and investigation into what happened to my father.”

Sloan followed Eric through the cabin. Everything was bold oak and leather. The ceiling of the A-frame peaked thirty feet above their heads and was lined by broad wooden beams. The dining room table—a heavy slab of polished oak with a long bench on one side and four chairs on the other—was covered with boxes and papers.

“This is everything I’ve collected on my father’s case. It includes everything I could get my hands on pertaining to the disappearance of you and your parents, as well as the old hit-and-run case that was linked to your birth mother.”

Sloan approached the table and the stacks of papers it contained.

“This is all from the Sheriff’s Office?”

“No. Some was there, and I copied all of it before the FBI showed up to collect it the other day. Some of it came through freedom of information requests. Other parts came from contacts I have at the investigation unit of the Nevada State Police. And a lot of it is stuff my grandfather collected over the years as he searched for answers to what happened to my dad. It’s kept me busy since he died. I’ve gone long stretches where all I do in my free time is work on the case and read through the files. Then, I take breaks and don’t look at the stuff for weeks. But since the FBI told me that Charlotte Margolis had resurfaced, I’ve been neck deep in all of this.”

As secretive as Eric had been about tracking Sloan down in Raleigh the week before, it was little wonder why he had turned his family’s remote cabin into the hub of his investigation into his father’s death.

Sloan checked her watch. “I’m ready to dive in. I’ve got to be back in town by one this afternoon. I’m meeting the Margolises.”

Eric raised his eyebrows. “That was fast.”

“I met with Nora Margolis last night. We had a good chat, and I learned some things. I’m meeting Reid and Tilly Margolis today. I don’t think it’ll be a problem to work my way into the family. Nora is just about the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, and she tells me Tilly and Reid are anxious to meet me. She also offered some information about my birth parents.”

“Oh yeah?” Eric pointed to the table. “Like what?”

Sloan took a seat at the table. Eric sat across from her.

“My father had been engaged when he met my mother, and so there were rumors the summer they disappeared that his jilted ex-fiancée was upset. Naturally, I’m interested in looking into her.”

Eric reached for a stack of papers and shuffled through them.

“Stella Connelly. I found something in my father’s notes about her. He and his deputies had made some visits to Preston and Annabelle’s home on domestic disturbance calls, and each time it was due to Stella Connelly showing up and raising hell.”

He found the pages and handed them to Sloan. She read through handwritten incident reports dated the summer of 1995—four in total. Each described a 9-1-1 call made from Preston and Annabelle’s home to report that Stella Connelly was trespassing, belligerent, and would not leave the property. Each incident ended with either Sandy Stamos or one of his deputies escorting Stella Connelly off the premises. There was never an arrest, but the final incident on June 30, 1995, was the closest the Harrison County Sheriff’s Department came to hauling Stella Connelly to jail. Her father, a prominent Cedar Creek attorney, had been called to the scene to corral his daughter under the threat of arrest if he couldn’t calm her down. Preston, Annabelle, and baby Charlotte disappeared four days later on July 4, 1995.

Sloan looked up from the police report. “Nora Margolis said Stella Connelly was never an official suspect in my parents’ disappearance.” She held up the report. “She’d be the first place I looked.”

“She still lives in town. We should find a way to speak with her.”

Sloan nodded. “Maybe I’ll give her a call and ask to meet under the pretense of learning more about my birth father.”

“That’s probably the safest angle. What else did Nora Margolis mention?”

“She told me about a handyman who worked for the Margolises that summer. They still employ him, from what Nora said.”

“Lester Strange. My dad had a file on him but never made any progress. He’ll be tougher to approach because he’s tied so closely to the family. But that’s where you come in, depending on how deep you get into the Margolis machine.”

“Nora said the guy was quasi obsessed with Annabelle that summer. He’s worth talking to. Or at least looking into.”

“I’ll add him to the list. What else?”

“From Nora? Not much, other than that Reid and Tilly Margolis didn’t like Annabelle.”

“Why was that?”

“She was from the wrong side of the tracks, according to Nora. Her family wasn’t wealthy, and Reid Margolis was suspicious that she was trapping Preston to gain access to family money. That she got pregnant with me, out of wedlock, sort of reinforced the theory. Again, all of this is according to Nora Margolis, who was and technically still is an outsider with a bitter taste in her mouth from how Reid and Tilly treated her when she started dating Ellis. I believe everything she told me, but it’s only one person’s perspective.”

Eric nodded. “You mentioned that you met with the FBI.”

“Yeah. Before I left Raleigh, I met with the agent who is heading up the investigation.”

“And?”

“They cleared my parents, for one. It took three days, but they came to the conclusion that my parents were victims of adoption fraud.”

“Adoption fraud?”

“My parents have legit, or what appears to be legit, adoption papers written up by an attorney hired by my supposed birth mother. Only problem is that the lady who claimed to be my mother wasn’t Annabelle Margolis.”

Eric raised his eyebrows. “Who was she?”

“Wendy Downing. They’re trying to track her down, but they don’t have much beyond the name, and they’re sure it was an alias. The FBI is working off the theory that I was abducted from my birth parents and sold into the black-market adoption world. The attorney who brokered the deal and created the paperwork was named Guy Menendez.”

Eric grabbed a legal pad and scribbled the names.

“My department here has some resources, but we can’t match the power of the FBI. We could spend a lot of time on these two and get nowhere. Let’s leave Wendy Downing and Guy Menendez to the feds, and you and I will concentrate on leads here in Cedar Creek.”

“Agreed. Last night Nora also mentioned the hit-and-run investigation Annabelle was involved in.”

“Yeah. I found something strange when I went through the files on that.”

Eric fingered through the pages on the table once more until he found the stack he was looking for.

“Look at this.”

Sloan took the page. It was letterhead from the chief medical examiner’s office in Washoe County.

“Because Baker Jauncey’s body had been discovered on a state highway,” Eric said, “and since Nevada Highway Patrol was involved, the body was transported to the ME’s office in Reno. But after a couple of days it was transferred to Harrison County for the autopsy.”

“If the body was taken to Reno out of formality, because Nevada Highway Patrol was involved in the investigation, why transfer it for autopsy two days later to a morgue a hundred miles away?”

“Good question. My first thought was that Baker Jauncey was a partner at the Margolis law firm, and someone wanted the autopsy performed by a doctor they could control. The Harrison County coroner would certainly fit the bill. I haven’t been able to find any paperwork on the transfer—why it was made or who requested it.”

“Sounds suspicious.”

“Par for the course around here. If the Margolises wanted to control the narrative, they’d want their doctor performing the autopsy.”

“Control what narrative?” Sloan asked.

“One of their bigwig partners had been killed. They wanted to control how that looked and how it reflected on the family and the law firm. It’s just how they do things around here. Bringing the body to Cedar Creek allowed the family to make sure the autopsy said anything the Margolises wanted it to say.”

“What did the autopsy say?”

“That Baker Jauncey died from head trauma caused by Annabelle Margolis’s car. Cause of death, traumatic brain bleed. Manner of death, involuntary manslaughter.”

“If that was concluded by the autopsy, why didn’t your father immediately arrest Annabelle?”

“Another good question, and one I have no idea how to answer. But you see now why I think this hit-and-run case is linked to your parents’ disappearance?”

Sloan thought for a moment before she spoke.

“But if Preston was worried that Annabelle would be charged with Baker Jauncey’s death, he would have used the Margolis family influence to pressure the coroner to find a way to explain Baker’s death as something other than Annabelle’s car having killed him.”

“Exactly,” Eric said. “That’s what I can’t figure out. If the Margolises were behind the unauthorized transfer of Baker Jauncey’s body so that only their doctor could perform the autopsy and determine the formal cause and manner of death, then why did the autopsy so clearly state that Annabelle Margolis’s car killed him? The only answer I can come up with is that someone wanted Annabelle to take the fall for Baker Jauncey’s death. And we need to figure out who that was.”

Sloan lifted the file from the Harrison County coroner. It contained the formal autopsy report on Baker Jauncey, as well as photos taken during the exam and those shot by scene investigators before the body was transferred to the morgue.

“Let me make a call,” Sloan said. “I know someone who could dive into this report and pick it apart to let us know how accurate it is.”

“Who?”

“My department chair back in Raleigh. Dr. Livia Cutty.”

Eric wrinkled his brow. “Isn’t she the lady I see on TV all the time on American Events?”

“That’s her. She’s an expert in forensic pathology and will be able to tell us if anything is off about the postmortem exam.”

Eric reached for another file that was mixed in with the stacks on the table.

“Can you have her look at this, too? It’s my dad’s autopsy report.”

A few minutes later Sloan was driving back over the arched wooden bridge that connected Eric’s secluded cabin to the rest of the world. On the passenger’s seat were the autopsy reports on Baker Jauncey and Sandy Stamos.