Big Sick Heart

A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

 

Mike Markel

 


BooksForABuck.com


 

Copyright © 2010 by Mike Markel, all rights reserved.

 

No portion of this novel may be duplicated, transmitted, or stored in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

 

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and locations are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is coincidental.

 

BooksForABuck.com

June 2010

 


Chapter 1

The ugly, low-pitched growl from the laptop ricocheted around the cruiser. Ryan swiveled the laptop. Whatever it was on the screen—a doper in a ski mask knocking over a minimart, a teenage girl texting a really cute guy while her car climbed a power pole, a woman who was absolutely certain it wasn’t her son but one of the Hispanic roofers across the street who took the Chablis from the garage fridge—whatever it was, Ryan would be up for it.

I know that because he has been my partner now for three days. I glanced at my watch—another hour and a half left on the clock, another good chance I’d be donating some free overtime to the city of Rawlings, Montana.

“Domestic Disturbance on Harlan. It’s just a couple of blocks up here,” he said. “You wanna take it?”

What else could I say? Domestics were for the uniforms, but the nearest car was supposed to respond, even if it carried a couple of detectives. So, once a month or so my partner and I would have to stop a bout between a man and a woman from way different weight classes. Then, if she wasn’t unconscious or dead, we’d try to get her to press charges, or at least move out. Most of the time, the guy would be looking all hangdog and saying he was real sorry and how he’d never do it again, and unless he’d beaten the crap out of her at least six or eight times before, she’d probably take him at his worthless word.

“Absolutely,” Ryan said, like a puppy on a leash. “I miss the Domestics,” he said, wearing a wide grin. He had been promoted to detective only a couple of weeks ago. A big, strong kid whose shoulders would definitely send the right message when he entered a house, he radioed we were on our way.

We were driving down Matthews, watching the black clouds stack up a couple of miles off. A few big drops were already blipping the windshield, a heads up for the serious rain that would arrive in a few minutes. We’d been driving back from interviewing a couple in one of the senior retirement parks, the kind with the mobile homes lined up neat in a fishbone pattern, each house with an aluminum carport protecting the paint on the Accord.

When we drove out there, all we had was a name and address. Since the Chief sent us rather than uniforms, it probably wasn’t a kid who’d taken the muffler off his Harley or the neighbor’s dog crapping on their lawn. Most likely, it was a scam.

The man was about seventy, his long face saddle-colored, wrinkles running down his cheeks like gullies. His expression said he was the one who screwed up. His wife, a short, potato-shaped woman with a helmet of permed white hair, didn’t seem to be busting his balls about it, but he looked ashamed, as if real men don’t fall for grifters. He explained to me and Ryan that it was about new windows. A guy in a pickup, no name on the side, said he wasn’t in the phone book because he was new in town and he just needed some cash up front to buy the windows due to the building-supply store wouldn’t give him credit yet.

When I asked how much they were out, the man answered so soft I had to ask him to repeat it. He was studying his shoes. I could barely make out “fourteen hundred.” When he finally raised his head and looked at me, I knew he was going to say how this had never happened to him before. Before he said it, I knew it was true.

I said, “I know, sir. They’re good at it. It’s how they make their living.” He was looking over my shoulder, miles away. The back of his hand came up fast to wipe a tear. Fourteen hundred was probably a lot of money for these two, but it was plain he had lost a lot more than that to the guy in the pickup, no name on the side.

The wife was all business. The guy was white, she told me and Ryan, medium height, maybe in his forties, couple days’ stubble. And, oh, yes, I think he was wearing a baseball cap, dark blue, with something written on it. The husband said in a low voice he thought the cap was more black than blue.

Ryan was dutifully writing down this useless information. They had just described half of the male population of Montana.

I gave the man my card and told them they could fill out a report at headquarters. Said I’d get back to them as soon as we had any information. I was ready for the next question, but you have to let them ask it. No, I answered, I wouldn’t count on getting your money back, but, yes, we’re certainly gonna try.

By the time we got to the Domestic Disturbance, the rain was coming down for real, dancing off the busted car bodies, banged-up motorcycles, and sun-bleached travel trailers in the front yards. Some of this junk had hand-written for-sale signs attached, the words running in the rain. Most of the cars and pickups looked like they had been there a long while, their skins a rusty orange, the colored runoff staining the cement-block wheels.

We pulled up to the curb at 79 Harlan. Before I could shut down the Crown Vic, Ryan was out the door, across the ragged lawn, his face up against the picture window next to the front door, trying to make out what was going on through the sheet pinned up inside the window. Walking up to the front door, trying to avoid the puddles as big as pie plates, all I could see in the dull glow of a dim bulb in the ceiling was a couple of blobby shadows.

The screaming said one male and one female, the woman’s voice cutting through the rain pinging on the steel roof. Ryan shouted “Rawlings Police Department, open up” as I tried the handle on the hollow-core front door with a push-button lock made for inside. It was locked. The noise from inside stopped, like maybe they’d heard Ryan calling out or me trying the door. Then the shouting came back, louder and meaner, as if a visit from the police didn’t surprise or scare them so much as give them something else to be pissed at each other about.

“Rawlings Police Department, open the door,” Ryan shouted again.

“Take it down,” I told him. Ryan’s fists came up to his chest as his knees bent. His left leg came up. His trunk leaning back, his leg shot out in a blurry side kick. With a lightning crack, the door exploded in a shower of splinters slamming against the inside wall. The room went silent. I remembered reading in Ryan’s file last week that he was a black belt in Shotokan karate. I had no idea what flavor that was, but I knew the door and the frame were beyond fixing.

Ryan was into the living room, with me right behind him. The couple were frozen, their eyes on us. The guy had his hands on the woman’s throat. She was grabbing at his wrists, trying to break his grip. I sized up the situation. It was good. The woman was about thirty-five, five-one or two, arms flabby, twenty or thirty pounds of belly pushing out the front of her stretch pants. Her face was contorted with screaming, but he hadn’t pulped her up yet. The guy was the same age, a skinny one-fifty, the slack skin and the obnoxious purple welts on his still-young face saying meth. But the good thing was, I could see all four hands, and they were unarmed.

Ryan went for the guy, reaching in over the left hand with his right, grabbing the guy’s thumb, twisting it and pulling it down. The guy cried out as Ryan pulled hard enough to break his grip, stopping just short of snapping his wrist. The guy lost his balance and fell over, landing at Ryan’s feet.

I was already on the woman, grabbing her right wrist and her upper arm, hammerlocking her. The situation under control, Ryan and I dragged the two away from each other. The guy was screaming from pain, the woman from fear. Ryan had his knee on the meth guy’s back, clamping the cuffs.

With all the racket, Ryan didn’t hear the second man. I caught a glimpse of him coming up behind Ryan from the dark hallway leading to the bedrooms. He was big, a heavy-duty scowl set in the middle of a matted brown-orange beard. The blade in his right hand was a serrated fishing knife with a good ten inches of steel. His arm was coming up, getting into the strike position. From that angle, he could’ve taken Ryan’s head off or snapped his spinal cord like it was string.

“Ryan, behind you,” I shouted. Ryan pushed himself off the meth guy, hit the linoleum floor, tucking his arms in close to his body and rolling away fast, like he did it all the time. Realizing it wouldn’t be an easy kill, the guy with the knife had fury in his eyes as he turned to go after Ryan.

I calculated I had a second, tops. I wear my holster on my belt, right side. I grabbed my Smith & Wesson 9mm service revolver. Not enough time to assume a firing stance. The guy had pushed off his back leg and was almost over Ryan, who was still rolling but about to run up against a heavy chair in the tiny living room.

I decided not to go for the guy’s arm or shoulder—too small a target. If I missed, he could kill Ryan before I could get off a second shot. I aimed for the middle of his torso and squeezed off the round.

In the small house, the explosion sounded like a mortar shell. Through the silver-grey smoke hanging in the air, I could see the big guy go down heavy, the knife flying out of his hand, clattering as it hit the wall. Then the racket started again—the woman shrieking, the meth guy moaning, dogs barking in the distance, breaking through the white noise of the rain hammering the roof.

Ryan had his pistol out and was over the big guy. I was covering the woman and the meth guy. The big guy was fading, the bullet having entered his chest maybe an inch below his heart. Ryan had his fingertips on the guy’s carotid artery, but the gurgling sound, already slowing now, told the story.

The red stain was spreading out on the guy’s t-shirt. Ryan ripped the fabric around the wound, black and scarlet, little pink bubbles forming at the entry point. “He’s going,” Ryan said as he went over to the meth guy to check that the cuffs were secure.

I was shaking, my breathing rapid and shallow. It was the first time I had fired my revolver at a human in my fourteen years on the job.

Ryan came over to me. “You okay?” he said. He was up close. I could smell his scent, a mixture of the wet wool of his slacks, his cologne, and fresh perspiration. I wanted to grab on to him.

“Yeah,” I said. “Fine.”

“It was a clean shoot, Karen. Completely clean.” He went over to the big guy, checking to make sure he was dead.

The two live ones were yelling, straining at their cuffs. “Hey,” Ryan barked. “Shut up.” He took out his cell, calling for an ambulance and backup and reporting the officer-involved shooting. “I’m going to sweep the bedrooms,” he said. “You stay here, okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. Staying here was about all I felt up to. I tried to breathe deeper. Ryan had flicked on the hall light and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. I didn’t want to stand there, letting my partner do the dangerous sweep. I grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from my jacket pocket and went to check out the small, dirty kitchen. It was full of cigarette smoke, overflowing ashtrays, and dirty dishes. Two skinny cats sitting on the counter looked up at me apprehensively, then went back to eating crusts from a pizza box.

I opened the first drawer. Assorted knives and forks and spoons, all different makes and sizes. Another drawer full of bottle openers, ballpoint pens, string, assorted crap. A third one: bingo. I held the baggie up to the fluorescent ceiling light. Crystal meth rocks. I placed it on the counter, closed the drawer, and went back to the living room to wait for Ryan.

“Bedrooms are clear,” he said, coming back into the living room as he holstered his pistol.

“Good,” I said. “I took a look in the kitchen. There’s some meth out on the counter.”

“I’m shocked,” he said. “Nice people like this, mixed up with drugs.”

“Yeah, who’d’ve thought it?” I said.

“Did I have a chance to thank you?” Ryan said.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, my own voice sounding like it was coming from someone else. “And you’re usually so polite.” My hands were still shaking. My whole body felt clammy, as if I was running a fever. I could feel the sweat on the small of my back and beaded on my upper lip.

He guided me over to the ratty couch. “Sit down here while we wait.” He smiled at me. “It’s going to be okay, Karen. It was by the book, one-hundred percent.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said. Suddenly, I felt dizzy, like I was going to pass out. I sank into the couch, my head falling back onto a stained yellow pillow. “You wouldn’t think it would be so tiring …” My eyes were closing.

“What’s that?” Ryan said, his voice getting distant.

“Killing someone,” I said, pulling my legs up off the floor and settling in on the couch.

I must have been out for a few minutes. I awoke to the sirens coming in from different sides. They would be the squad cars and the Medical Examiner. I pulled myself to my feet and staggered to the window. Pushing the sheet aside, I saw the Chief’s big grey Buick parked fifty yards down the street, the headlights making silver cones of raindrops.

He was stalling a little on his entrance. The neighbors had already assembled in front of the house, but the media guys needed a few minutes to set up their cameras and extend the satellite antennas on their trucks.

Once the four networks were in place, the Chief hit his siren. The cameras swinging in his direction, he accelerated over to the curb in front of the house, then braked hard. The Buick rocking, he stepped out from behind the wheel, leaving the siren on and his door open.

So few things in life are a hundred percent, but the Chief is a total asshole.

After the old man debriefed us, Ryan drove us back to headquarters and we started filling out a dozen screens’ worth of forms about the bust and the officer-involved shooting. I called my son, Tommy, to tell him about what happened. I started to explain that police officers sometimes have to use lethal force, but only as a last resort. Tommy interrupted, wanting to know if I’d killed the guy. I said yes, unfortunately the man had died. Tommy said, “Sweet.” Feeling pretty wrung out, I just let it pass.

Ryan asked me if I wanted to go over our stories in preparation for our interviews tomorrow with the Ombudsman’s Office. I said no, there wasn’t anything to discuss, seeing as the victim’s weapon was logged at the scene. We agreed that the shooting was a textbook example of “preventing an imminent lethal danger to another police officer.”

When we finished up, Ryan asked if he could drive me home in my cruiser. I told him no, but as I stood up from my desk, he saw I looked a little wobbly. He insisted, and I was just as glad. Ryan had one of the uniforms follow us to get him back to headquarters.

I opened my front door, dropped my big shoulder bag in the hall, stumbled into my bedroom, and collapsed onto my bed. I was out. That was Monday.

*  *  *

Most nights are pretty bad, but last night I slept straight on for nine hours—and that was without any liquor. So when I got to headquarters, I was feeling better than usual. I signed the form declining representation from my police delegate for the interview with the Ombudsman. The whole interview took five minutes, tops. We shook hands. He asked me how I was holding up. I told him I was fine.

Turns out the guy I shot had felony convictions for meth possession and production, armed robbery, domestic battery, gang activity, and manslaughter. He’d spent eight of the last eleven years in state prisons in California and Oklahoma. And there was enough meth in his bedroom for felony possession with intent to distribute. He was your well-rounded, all-purpose scumbag. The Ombudsman had given me this little bio off the record to tell me to relax.

Maybe it’s true there’s some good in everyone, but looking at it through a cop’s eyes, there wasn’t anything bad about this guy being dead.

When I got back to our desks, Ryan was already there. I filled him in on the disposition of the case. Ryan said, “So the guy with the knife was dumb enough to leave the meth out on the counter.”

“You’re the kind of guy comes at a cop with a knife when you could’ve stayed in the bedroom watching TV, chances are you’re not that bright.”

“Yeah, still, it’s hard to believe.”

I was trying to get a read on my new partner. I couldn’t tell if he was just making conversation or trying to tell me something. I assumed all detectives knew that any cop will take a quick look in a drawer if they suspect drugs, and that eight out of ten will put the dope out in plain view so they don’t need to waste time getting a search warrant and go back, which gives the guy time to flush it. And if the guy is a real shithead and tries to hurt you or your partner, like this guy did, it’s ten out of ten.

Was Ryan saying I was trying to jack up the charges by moving the dope, which is illegal, or planting it? No, that couldn’t be. Nothing he said made me think he doubted me at all. Still, I wasn’t sure what, if anything, Ryan was telling me.

The Chief came over to us and asked me if I wanted to go to Psych Services. Even if I’d wanted to, I would’ve said no. You’re female on the job, the last thing you want to get around is that shit gets to you. I shook my head.

“Sure?” the Chief said.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You two think you can handle that security for the debate tonight?”

Ryan looked at me, and we both nodded. The Chief turned and headed back toward his office. He didn’t spend any more time talking to detectives than he had to.

He had briefed us yesterday about a routine security detail he wanted us to do: a debate tonight in an auditorium on campus. I picked up a sheet of paper off my desk. “Okay,” I said, skimming the page, “we got this Arlen Hagerty, president of Soul Savers, coming to town. And there’s this other guy comes with him, Jonathan Ahern. Hagerty’s talking about stem-cell research, right? I’m guessing he’s against it.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “It kills embryos.”

“So it’s not that he wants people with bad spinal cords and MS to stay sick.”

I saw a small smile on Ryan’s face. “I think he sees it as an ethical issue. If an embryo is a human life and you kill it, that’s murder.”

I wasn’t taunting Ryan. I didn’t know—and didn’t really give a damn—what he thought about this. “But if you’re gonna throw out the embryo anyway, and it might do some good for someone?”

“I think he’d say two wrongs don’t make a right.” The kid was cool. He could talk to you without telling you what he thought. With me, you pretty much know before I open my mouth.

I said, “Did you get a chance to check with this guy’s organization to see if they’d received any threats?”

“Yeah,” he said, reaching for the notebook on his desk. “They get threats all the time. But nothing out of the ordinary. How’d the lady put it at Soul Savers? Here it is: just the usual ‘hope you get paralyzed’ mail.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said. “Keeping it on a high level. And the Chief authorized a metal detector and a sweep of the auditorium, right?”

“That’s right,” Ryan said. “Plus us and two uniforms tonight.”

We spent the rest of the morning out at the auditorium, checking in with the university’s technician working on the sound and light board for the debate. I talked to the K-9 Patrol officer, who said as long as chewing gum don’t explode, we’re good to go.

*  *  *

Ryan and I were at our desks, which were pushed head-to-head in the detectives’ bullpen. There were only three sets of detectives’ desks. Rawlings was a small town, with four or five murders per year, usually among friends. There were two small gangs that mostly shot at each other but sometimes missed and hit someone else on a drive-by. There were about a dozen sexual assaults. And three or four times a year, a well-dressed guy coming out of the Pink Rose Tavern would slip and fall for no apparent reason, busting his nose or cracking a couple ribs.

At five, Ryan signed out to go home and eat dinner with his six-month pregnant wife and their two-year-old girl. He told me he wished he was able to make it home for lunch like he used to when he and Kali were newlyweds living in married-student housing at Brigham Young. He knew that wasn’t possible anymore, but they thought having dinner together at six every night was important. That was when they all got to talk about their day.

I hadn’t yet decided whether this guy came from another century, another planet, or both. “See you at the auditorium,” I said. I grabbed a Mars bar from my desk drawer and surfed the Web for a while before heading out to the auditorium at 6:00.

The speech was scheduled for 7:00. By 6:15, most of the security contingent had shown up: the tech Roberto, who was going to operate the metal detector, and two other uniforms—Bob Ortiz and Roger Harrison—dressed in plain clothes to blend in with the crowd. People began to drift in: a lot of professors, community-activist types, a couple dozen geeky-looking students, plus some nuns and priests. Ryan showed up a couple minutes later. I walked over to greet him, surprised at how glad I was to see him.

“Hey, Karen,” he said, looking over the scene. “Looks like everything’s going smooth. Where do you want me?”

“I’m gonna be walking around during the show. I’ve got one uniform backstage, one out front. I’d like you up near the stage, looking out at the crowd. Grab a folding chair. I want you to be able to stop anyone who tries to rush the stage. Put your radio on 2, okay?”

“Sounds good,” he said.

The auditorium was beginning to fill up. The night was cold and clear, and people were shaking off their coats as they settled into their seats. I could feel the temperature rise in the auditorium as the empty seats disappeared.

A minute or two after 7:00, a guy in a sport jacket and slacks came up on stage. He introduced himself as a teacher in the philosophy department. He explained how the university was sponsoring this debate between these two guys who’d traveled a long way, how this was an important and controversial issue, and how everyone should give them a respectful hearing and not interrupt. In other words, act like adults.

The hour and a half was shooting by. The audience was well behaved, the speakers well rehearsed. I cruised the auditorium silently, stopping by the projection booth and the backstage areas. Every few minutes I checked in with one of the detail by radio. All of them were in place, and there were no problems. It looked like it was going to be a successful event, with no trouble.

After the emcee thanked the audience, Arlen Hagerty and Jonathan Ahern walked toward each other and shook hands warmly. Ahern gave the two-handed shake, with the left arm gripping Hagerty on his right bicep while Hagerty slapped Ahern affectionately on the back. The two speakers faced the audience and waved appreciatively. The audience stood, applauding.

As the audience was filing out, I approached the two speakers. I introduced myself and complimented them on the excellent debate I hadn’t listened to. They thanked me for setting up the security. “Okay, gentlemen,” I said. “We’ve got to get you two back to the hotel.” Ryan came over as I was talking.

Arlen Hagerty said, “Detective, we appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think we’ll need your services tonight.”

“Arlen’s right, Detective,” Jonathan Ahern said. “This was a really nice group of people tonight. Why don’t you just call it a night?”

The idea was tempting, but I said, “I’m sorry. We’re charged with getting you two back safe to the Courtyard. Detective Miner and I gotta stick with you.”

“How about this?” Arlen Hagerty said. “Jon and I usually go out for a nightcap afterwards. Why don’t you two join us? It’s on me.”

I couldn’t think of too many things that sounded less appealing than sitting with Ryan, drinking club sodas and watching two guys drink something that looked and smelled really good. But if that was what it took to get them back to the hotel, that was what I was going to do. “What do you say, Ryan?”

“Fine with me,” he said, flashing a big smile.

“All right, then,” I said to Hagerty and Ahern. “One drink, then we get you back to the Courtyard.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arlen Hagerty said, “one drink, then straight into our jammies.” I tried to block out that image. “Can you suggest a place nearby?”

“How about in your hotel?” I said. “They’ve got a nice little bar there.” With any luck, we could get him back there and they’d decide to skip the drinks.

“No,” Hagerty said. “I’ve already spent too much time there,” he said, laughing alone.

“Okay,” I said. “Ryan, how about the Cactus, on Fifth? I’ll take Mr. Hagerty. You take Mr. Ahern.”

The Cactus was a semi-dive for students, working-class guys, and a handful of bleary-eyed regulars who were already in position on the sidewalk when the owner threw open the heavy wooden door every morning around eleven.

The windows were full of neon, the lights were low, the TVs old and small, the bar sticky. I chose the Cactus to speed things up, but Hagerty and Ahern walked up to the bar with big smiles on their faces. Arlen Hagerty turned to me and flashed a thumbs-up. “Excellent choice, Detective. Just my kind of place.”

“That’s great,” I said, returning the thumbs-up, realizing that about half the time these days, I was saying the opposite of what I meant. Ryan and I settled in at a booth near the two men, close to the door.

The server came over, a college-age girl in a tight white t-shirt over a red bra, a silver loop where her left eyebrow trailed off. She had barbed-wire tattoos on each bicep and some heavy black Chinese characters down the inside of her right arm. Ryan ordered a club soda. I wanted a Jack Daniel’s double but said “Make it two.” I sat there, glum, waiting for the girl to come back with the drinks.

When she placed the two club sodas down in front of us, the Chinese script on her arm swept six inches from Ryan’s face. Once she left, I said to Ryan, “What the hell was that girl thinking?”

Ryan looked at me, puzzled. “Thinking about what?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said. “Never mind.” Fifteen years’ difference in our ages might as well be a hundred. I looked over at the bar, where Hagerty and Ahern seemed to be having a great old time, talking and laughing like best buddies.

I was counting on this to suck, just not this much. The cubes melted in my club soda as Ryan watched ESPN, his head bobbing to the Creedence Clearwater on the jukebox. I could tell he was straining to hear what the two guys were saying. “They’re talking football,” he said. “Mind if I join them?”

“No, you run along and play,” I said, giving him an unconvincing smile.

“Thanks,” he said, bolting out of the booth and joining them at the bar. For the better part of two hours, they talked football.

They say men look more distinguished as they get older. I wasn’t seeing it. Ryan looked real good. He stood straight as a steel beam, his shoulders and biceps testing the fabric of his sport jacket. When he moved, you could see he was an athlete: graceful, comfortable in his body. His light-brown hair was cut like a soldier’s, just long enough to comb on the top, short on the sides, razored around the ears. His eyes were Caribbean blue, and they danced, as if there were just so many exciting things to take in, and he didn’t want to miss a single one. He smiled often, a big old grin that lit up his whole face.

Jonathan Ahern was twenty years older than Ryan, and each one of those years was etched on his face. The neon from the Coors sign in the window cast an eerie blue glow through his thinning hair. His shoulders had begun to slump. When he wasn’t talking, his expression settled into a frown of disappointment. When he laughed, he was a decent-looking man, but the laughter didn’t come often, and it seemed to cost him considerable effort.

Arlen Hagerty laughed all the time, usually right after he said something. It was a big, braying, spit-launching cackle. He was a toucher, always grabbing an arm, poking a chest, or slapping a back, like a salesman who was running out of month and hadn’t made his quota. Even with his expensive dark suit, there was no way he was ever going to look like anything other than what he was: a five-four, two-eighty troll with a sweaty scalp shining through a dyed combover.

I was gazing absently at the TV, watching the sports guy interview some football coach, when SPECIAL REPORT flashed on the screen, and the local anchorwoman appeared, announcing that James Weston had been killed in a parasailing accident in Maui.

“Weston, 61, Montana’s only billionaire, died tragically this afternoon,” she said, working hard to look somber, “at the vacation home on the Maui coast that he shared with his wife, Montana state senator Dolores Weston of Rawlings. Police believe Weston fell to his death from approximately two-hundred feet when a sudden wind gust snapped the harness that secured him to the parasail. The accident was recorded by an onlooker in this video, which might be too graphic for some viewers.”

In the shaky video, the red-and-white sail jerks upward, then the body separates from the sail and falls, arms and legs flailing, out of the video frame, while a voice says, “Oh my God, Janet, look at—”

I had never met my local representative, Senator Weston, and chances are I never would—unless, of course, a scammer in an unmarked pickup takes her for fourteen-hundred bucks on bogus replacement windows. Funny how all the money in the world can’t protect you from bad shit, even when you’re floating above the shoreline you own in Paradise, not a care in the world.

One thing for certain: we were all going to see that poor bastard’s final thrill a couple dozen more times before moving on to the next tragedy. The anchorwoman promised us more details tomorrow morning. Back to the sports report showing cars go round and round.

After another month or so, Ryan glanced over at me, looking guilty as he shook hands with his two new BFFs. The three came over to me.

“We’re awfully sorry, Detective,” Arlen Hagerty said, the two others nodding their heads in agreement. “We were just getting into the details of the issue and we lost track of time.”

“Stem-cell research?” I said.

“Hell, no,” Hagerty said, braying his wet laugh. “We don’t talk about that stuff. We were talking about the BCS ranking system.”

“Ah, the BCS ranking system,” I said, nodding my head wisely, not knowing what that was. “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” loped along in the background, punctuated by bursts of laughter from the four shitfaced college boys on the other side of the room.

“Your partner here played four years at BYU, you know,” Hagerty said, putting an arm on Ryan’s shoulder.

“Four years. How ’bout that,” I said. Earlier in the evening, I might have tried to figure out why that was important or interesting, but not now. “Well, boys, it’s been a long evening of stem cells and the BS ranking system,” I said. “What’d’ya say we call it a night?”

They all shook hands. Ryan leaned over and said into my ear, “I’m sorry. I should have hurried them along better.”

“That’s okay,” I told him. “I appreciate you helping me with them here.” We got our guys back to the Courtyard and safely up to their rooms.

I drove the seven minutes back to my house and parked in the carport. My place was easy to spot: it was the house with no lights on. Inside, I stood there in the dark. After a few seconds I started to pick out the mechanical sounds: the ticking of the clock on the living room wall, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint whoosh as the gas ignited beneath the water heater in the utility closet down the hall. Turning on the hall light, I threw my bag down on the narrow table, took off my coat, and hung it on the hook near the door.

I walked into the living room. There was the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, its cap off, waiting for me. “Hi, honey, I’m home,” I said to the silence.


Chapter 2

I was on my hands and knees, on the ice, beating at it with my fists, crying out to him. The wind wailed, mocking me, drowning out my voice as I screamed at him to wait, I was coming. But I couldn’t find a hole in the ice, and I didn’t have anything to break through it. No stick, no pistol, no rifle butt. I beat at the invisible ice, but it wouldn’t yield. He was underneath the ice, floating in a waterless void. He began to recede, getting smaller and smaller. I could still see his eyes, open wide in panic, his mouth distended in a silent scream. He drifted farther and farther away, his eyes locked on me.

The sound of my beeper drifted in, out of sync with my fast, heavy breathing. Climbing out of the nightmare, I felt the perspiration across my chest. The beeper grew louder, more insistent. Reaching for it, I knocked over a glass, spilling a half inch of melted ice. It rolled toward the edge of the night table and fell off, landing softly on the carpet.

I couldn’t read the beeper in the dark. I fumbled for the switch at the base of the lamp. The light was blinding, but after a second I could re-open my eyes. The beeper said Rawlings Police Department. Definitely not what I needed now. I turned it off and fell back onto the clammy sheets, my breathing heavy and labored. Placing my hand over my heart, I felt the thumping, wondering just how much a heart can take before it explodes.

I resolved to get up at the count of three. First, I had to check where the glass had gone. I looked over the edge of the mattress, couldn’t see it. Good enough. On the count of three: one, two, three. I sat up, the back of my t-shirt peeling away from the soaked bottom sheet. Another three count and I wrestled my legs out from under the sheets and placed them on the floor. My hand came up to cup my forehead, which really didn’t like that last three count.

I picked up the phone, pushed 1 on the speed dial. Two rings, then a voice said, “Hello, Rawlings Police Department.” I recognized it: it was one of the receptionists, Gladys or Glenda or something.

I forgot to say hello.

“Hello?” Gladys or Glenda said a second time.

“This is Seagate,” I said, my voice small and distant. I cleared my throat.

“Detective, come on in. Homicide.”

My head lifted. “Where? Who?”

“Arlen Hagerty. The stem-cell guy. At the Courtyard. Room 213.”

“Twenty minutes,” I said. I looked at my clock radio: 6:07 am. I’d need ten minutes to shower and brush my teeth, ten minutes to drive to the hotel. I should eat something, but there was no need for coffee. When I learned I was with the croaker less than seven hours ago, I didn’t need the caffeine. I showered, towel dried my hair, combed it straight back. Physics would part it.

I had worked about fifteen murders, but this was the first time I knew the vic. Didn’t know him well, of course, but it was weird to think that, a few hours ago, he was laughing it up and getting real intense about college football, while at the same time, close by, someone was planning to kill him. Arlen was in his room, brushing his teeth, then a minute later he didn’t exist anymore.

I could feel the excitement rising in my blood. I was going to figure out what happened and why—and who did it. There was nothing else like it in life. Well, not in my life, anyway.

I grabbed my coat, pulled the front door closed behind me, feeling the morning chill on my wet hair. I trotted to the cruiser parked in my carport and drove out to the Courtyard. Last night, it was another franchise hotel, just like all the others. It had the same college kids working the reception desk, trying to stay awake as they did their homework and hoped nobody would disturb them. The same sad-sack bartender trying to look happy about having to talk about the crappy airlines with the two exhausted businessmen at the same pathetic little bar, the same empty chairs and couches in the lobby, the same rack of dusty brochures for the river rafting and the ski resorts and the outfitters.

Now, it was magically changed. Now it was a crime scene. Walking into the lobby, I scanned the ceiling, looking for the closed-circuit TV. I checked out the location of the front desk, then looked back over my shoulder at the main entrance, calculating whether you could get inside and over to the elevator without being seen. There was a hallway off to the left. That probably led to the pool area and the exercise room, maybe the meeting rooms, too. There’d be another outside exit, so a guest or anyone with a plastic key could slip right in and take the stairs up to the second floor. I stood in the middle of the lobby, turning around slowly, my mind focused and my eyes intense, as I tried to make out the shapes of the jigsaw pieces that this building had become.

Room 213 was standard-issue, with a king-size bed. The wallpaper was a vertical stripe of beige and bone. The furniture was oak, good quality. The reading lights, one on each side of the huge bed, had pink shades that complemented the beige motif. Right inside the doorway was the thermostat, the kind that lets you choose the temperature without fiddling with the heat or the air. The prints on the wall were abstract, tasteful. All in all, a nice room.

Three feet inside the door, I recognized the broad back of Ryan Miner, who was standing there, hands on hips, looking at the body of Arlen Hagerty. Ryan turned when he heard me.

“Hey,” I said. He looked a little green around the gills. “You okay?”

Ryan just shook his head. “I can’t believe this,” he said. I didn’t know what he was trying to say: that he’s looking at a murdered guy, that someone would kill Arlen Hagerty, that this was his first homicide? “We were talking to him just last night.”

“Yeah, it’s a strange feeling,” I said. Ryan just shook his head. “Well, let’s start investigating your first murder.”

Standing next to the bed was Harold Breen, the Medical Examiner, who had been on the job for over fifteen years. “Hey, Karen, I’ve just been talking with your new partner about this skinny stiff on the bed here.” Arlen Hagerty was fat, but Breen couldn’t remember when he himself passed three hundred. The simple act of bending down over the corpse made Breen breathe hard. He was wearing cheap brown polyester pants, shiny, and black Hush Puppies with Velcro straps. His shirt was poly, short sleeve, a plaid from the K-Mart Clan.

As Breen stood up, his pants slipped farther down under his paunch, exposing the undershirt where one of the shirt buttons had come undone. It was real lucky for Harold he was about the nicest guy in the world. Otherwise, no way his wife, a decent-looking woman who shopped in the petite section and loved him completely, would have married him twenty years ago.

“Hi, Harold, tell me what you see,” I said. Even if Arlen Hagerty hadn’t been dead, it would have been a gross image. His liver-spotted scalp was exposed; the few dozen chestnut-dyed strands of hair that were grown long for the combover had surrendered to gravity, forming a delicate canopy over his ear. His grey eyes were half open, as if he was struggling to stay awake. His mouth was open, the jaw pulled down by his heavy chin.

He was flat on his back on the bed, his arms splayed out to the sides, each weighty breast, almost touching the sheets, capped with a large, soft pink nipple encircled by long, wiry grey hairs. The belly was a mass of pink wounds, the coagulated crimson blood coating the patchy hair. He was wearing boxers, which exposed, on the left side, an inch of fleshy scrotum. The legs were stumpy, hairless, the calves covered by heavy, squiggly blue broken blood vessels. He was wearing black nylon socks.

Breen spoke. “Well, there’s about twenty puncture wounds across his chest and abdomen. I don’t see a weapon, but I’m guessing something blunt, like a screwdriver, not a knife. And the splatter evidence—blood on the carpet, the side of the mattress, even on the other side of the bed—suggests the victim was a few feet away from the bed when the attack started, but he retreated toward the bed and fell onto it, or was pushed onto it.”

Ryan said, “So we’re looking at an amateur job, most likely a crime of rage.”

“Yeah,” I said, “something made the murderer flip out. You don’t need twenty jabs to kill a guy. What else do you see, Ryan?”

“The bed is unmade, like he’s been in it. Looks pretty rumpled up, like maybe he wasn’t alone. The pillows are set up two and two, each with an indent in it, which also suggests more than one person. And he’s lying on top of the top sheet and the blanket, like if he was in bed, he got up to do something. Maybe to open the door to the killer.”

“Tell me about what his clothing says,” I said to Ryan.

“Well, he might have been getting undressed, getting ready for bed, when he was attacked. Or maybe he just sleeps in his underwear and his socks. What’s that thing under his body there?” Ryan said, pointing to a black plastic device sticking out from under Hagerty’s kidney area.

Harold Breen was wearing gloves. He rolled the heavy midsection a few inches up, exposing the TV remote control.

Ryan said, “So maybe he’s in bed, alone or with someone else, watching TV. He gets up to open the door, tosses the remote on the bed. Lets the murderer in. The guy attacks him, punches these holes in him, he falls back onto the bed, landing on top of the remote.”

“All right,” I said to him. “Good. Harold, you see anything else, or anything different from what Ryan said?”

“Not yet. When I put him on the table I might see something. He could have some tissue under his fingernails that can help us understand who he shared his last night with. And when I open him up, there might be all kinds of surprises. But for now, Karen, you and Ryan are probably right. Somebody just went apeshit on this guy.”

I said, “One more thing, Harold. Can you give me a time of death?”

“Judging by the blood coagulation and the amount of rigor, I’d say between midnight and 2:00 am. Have fun, kids,” Harold said, peeling off his latex gloves. “I hope to open him up later today.”

“Thanks, Dr. Breen,” Ryan said.

“It’s Harold, okay?” Breen said, turning.

“Harold,” Ryan said.

Turning toward the bathroom, I said, “Okay, Ryan, let’s see what else we can see.” The Evidence Tech was in the bathroom, her head in the bathtub. “Hey, Robin,” I said. “Got any good stuff in there?”

Robin was wearing white coveralls, her natural red hair streaked with green highlights and pulled back in two pigtails. With an eyebrow ring and purple lipstick against her freckled face, still puffy with baby fat, she looked like she’d just escaped from a residential high-school for at-risk teenage girls. “Are you kidding?” Robin said cheerfully. “This is a hotel bathroom. Dirty towels, biologicals in the drain. I’m in fuckin’ heaven.”

“You’re a special person,” I said.

“I’ve always known that, but I appreciate you noticing,” Robin said, smiling. “I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

“Good. Ryan and I will look around out here.”

Ryan called from the main room. “Looks like we can rule out robbery,” he said, standing at the desk, looking in Hagerty’s wallet. “There’s over a hundred bucks in here.”

On the desk were the flyer from last night’s debate, the plastic room key, some change, and his wallet. His bag, a one-suiter on wheels, straddled the arms of the desk chair. The main compartment was unzipped. I lifted the flap. Inside was a big plastic bag with his dirty laundry. Today’s clean clothes—underwear, shirt, and socks—were folded. I looked in the closet, where his suit from yesterday hung neatly.

Robin came out of the bathroom, wiping her brow on her forearm.

“Okay, Robin, what do you see?”

“First I vacuumed the room. I’ll look at it when I get it back to the lab, but I didn’t see anything—except some iffy housekeeping. I took photos of the carpet first. No sign of anyone waiting for Tubby inside the room. Not sure if I’ll be able to see any impressions on this carpet to tell anything about the murderer.”

Ryan knelt down and ran his hand across the carpet. “Yeah, the nap is too short, and the weave too tight.” Robin and I looked at him. “One summer I laid carpets.”

I said to Robin, “You didn’t turn up a big old screwdriver, did you, with the shaft all covered in red, sticky stuff?”

“I’ll check in the vacuum-cleaner bag,” Robin said, smiling. “I’m going to go over the sheets carefully once your boys bring in a crane and remove Shamu. See if he’s been playing hide the salami.”

“What did you see in the bathroom?”

“I got some good prints off the toilet handle, and a couple of dirty towels on the floor. I won’t know about the towels till I bring ’em in,” she said, her face brightening, “but I think I see semen on one of them.”

“Jesus, Robin. Semen on a towel?” I said.

Ryan said, “Like he jacked off?”

I looked at Ryan. “Guys jack off into towels?”

Ryan laughed. “Well, I’ve cut way back, Karen, but you can’t rule it out. I’m just trying to figure out if it’s a big clump or only a little.”

Robin said, “I don’t think he was pumping. More like he hit the shower afterwards and didn’t do such a great job cleaning himself up.”

Ryan said, “Karen, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing” I said, sighing. “Just that, this morning I woke up with only four or five illusions left. Now it’s down to three, max. Maybe two.”

Robin said, “Come see me in the lab in a couple of hours. I’ll show you the ten places in this room where you wouldn’t have expected to find fecal matter. Then you could cross another illusion off your list.”

“You trying to make me hurl right here?” I said.

Robin said, “If you did, I could bag it and tell you all kinds of cool shit about yourself.”

“You know, Robin,” I said, “you’re disgusting.” I turned to Ryan, who was laughing at me. “What are you laughing at, Semen Boy? You’re as bad as she is. In fact, you two’d make a truly disgusting couple.”

“How about the three of us getting some breakfast?” Ryan said, wearing a big grin.

“Sounds good,” Robin said. “I could show you how to check the water glasses for e. coli. What do you say, Karen?”

“Good Lord,” I said, shaking my head, my hands up in front of me. “I gotta get away from you two. Ryan, you canvass that direction,” I said, pointing to the rooms to the east. “And the room under this one. I’ll do this direction. I’ll meet up with you downstairs when you’re done.”

He looked at the clock on the night table: 6:45. “They’re not going to be happy.” I gave him a look. “I’ll start the canvass,” he said.

It didn’t take long to canvass my half of the second floor of the hotel. Fourteen of the rooms were occupied the previous night, and the guests responded concisely to my questions about if they’d seen anyone or heard anything out of the ordinary. I got a couple of spirited explanations of the meaning of the Do Not Disturb sign. I declined an invitation from one gentleman to come in and make myself comfortable.

*  *  *

When I finished the canvass, I took the stairs down to the lobby. The killer probably used the elevator, or more likely walked back to his or her room, but no harm looking at the stairs to see if anything caught my eye. Nothing. I walked over to the reception desk and pulled my shield out of my bag and hung it around my neck. The clerk on duty, a pasty-faced boy with gelled hair sticking straight up, looked petrified when he saw it.

“Peter,” I said, reading his name off the badge on his sport jacket, “I’m Detective Seagate, Rawlings Police Department.” He tried to talk, but he couldn’t even manage a stammer. “Peter, take it easy. Nothing to get upset about, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Detective.”

“Okay, Peter, here’s what I need you to do.” He picked up a pen and started to take notes. “First, figure out who was on the desk last night between 7:00 pm and 6:00 am today. Phone them and get them in here. Second, what’s the manager’s name?”

“Mr. Carlucci.”

“Call Mr. Carlucci, have him come in. If you need someone else to work the desk while you do this, go back there right now and get someone. I need you to do this immediately. I’m gonna be right here in the lobby if you have questions. Okay?”

“Yes, Detective. Immediately.” He ducked back into the manager’s office and came out with a young woman to work the desk. His face was all earnest determination as he hurried over to the computer and started to type.

Seeing that the boy was on the case, I went over to the reception area and sat on a couch where I could see the desk and the front door. The young woman from behind the desk came over and asked if I wanted some coffee and something to eat.

“You know, that’d be terrific. Coffee, black, and some kind of roll or muffin or something. Anything with some calories in it.” She returned in a minute, carrying a small tray with orange juice, coffee, a muffin, and a Danish. “Thanks so much,” I said to her. “Really appreciate it.” I ripped into the Danish, realizing the only calories I’d had in the last sixteen hours came out of a bottle.

I was finishing the food when I saw a forty-year old guy wearing the hotel blazer, hair still damp, rush in and head for the desk. The young woman pointed to me, and he scooted toward me, like he had a silk scarf tied around his knees. He stood before me, bent slightly at the waist, hands clasped together, head cocked.

“Detective Seagate? My name is Steven Carlucci. I’m the manager of the Courtyard.”

I stood and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming in. I need to talk with you.” By this time, the news of Arlen Hagerty’s death had made the radio and TV news, but I wasn’t sure if Carlucci had heard it. “Do you know what happened here?”

“All I know is what my clerk told me on the phone: there was a death here last night.”

“It was a murder.”

“Oh, my goodness,” he said, his fingers coming up to his mouth. He was wearing a fresh flower in his lapel. Apparently, he was the kind of hotel manager who gets a call there’s been a death in his hotel and thinks, this outfit could really use a boutonniere.

“The victim was Arlen Hagerty, the guy who was in that debate last night at the university.”

“This is terrible,” he said, looking like he was going to start crying. “There will be reporters, and cameras—”

“Yes, there will,” I interrupted. “And there’s nothing you can do about that. The best thing to do from that standpoint is just forget about them and work with us. The more help you can give us, the quicker we’ll be out of here, and the quicker you can get back to normal.”

“I understand completely,” he said, his eyes drawn to the squad cars parked out in front of the main entrance. “Is there any way I can get your people to move their cars to the lot on the west side of the building so they are not so visible from the road?”

“No, there isn’t, Mr. Carlucci.” He was starting to panic, his eyes scanning the lobby, as he noticed the uniform near the elevator. “Mr. Carlucci, I need you to look at me now.” He turned to me, looking like a little boy who had to go to the bathroom right away. “And pay attention. All right?”

“Yes, it’s just that—”

“It’s just that this is a murder investigation, and you have one more chance to focus on what I’m saying or I’ll shut down the entire hotel because it’s a crime scene. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Carlucci?”

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. “Yes, Detective, I’m sorry. I’ve been in the hospitality industry for more than twenty years, and I’ve never had something like this happen to me.”

“I understand, sir, but looking at it from another point of view, it didn’t so much happen to you as it did to Mr. Hagerty, which is why I’m here. Come with me, please,” I said, taking his elbow and steering him over to the reception desk. “Heather,” I said, reading her badge, “could you get me a floor plan of the hotel and point me to an empty meeting room. And when my partner, Detective Miner, comes down from the second floor and asks where I am, direct him to the room, okay?”

“Yes, Detective,” she said, handing me the photocopy of the floor plan. “The Willoughby Room, right around the corner on the right.”

“Thanks,” I said, leading the manager to the room. I closed the door behind us and told him to sit down. “Okay, Mr. Carlucci,” I said, pushing the floor plan in front of him. “How many entrances are there on the main floor?”

“Four,” he said, pulling a designer pen from his inside jacket pocket and drawing X’s on the map.

“Okay, good. And they’re locked or unlocked.”

“Locked 9:00 pm until 6:00 am.

“I appreciate this information. Now, tell me about closed-circuit security cameras.”

“We’ve got two in the lobby area, one in the exercise room, and one in the pool. Shall I mark them on the map?”

I looked up at him. “Yes, that would be helpful.”

“Shall I use a ‘C’ for camera?”

“C would be fine, Mr. Carlucci. I’ll remember that. C for camera.”

“Would you like the tapes from those cameras?”

I paused, wondering what it would be like to work for this guy. “Just the two in the lobby. From 7:00 pm last night through 6 am today.”

“I can do that,” he said.

“Yes, you can,” I said, giving him a smile. “And I would appreciate it.” Just as I was thinking about whether Carlucci could manage to make time literally stop, Ryan came into the room. “Steven Carlucci, Detective Ryan Miner.” The two shook hands.

I said to Ryan, “Can you go back out to the lobby and see if the clerks from last night have shown up yet?” He nodded and left. He was back in a minute, leading a young man and a young woman.

“This is Michael Harper and Melissa Pierson. Detective Seagate,” Ryan said.

“Please sit down, both of you. Just a couple questions.” The two had saucer eyes. “First, do either of you have any memory of anyone phoning for Mr. Arlen Hagerty in room 213, or leaving a message for him?” Both of them shook their heads no. “Did anyone come to the desk and ask about him or leave a message there with you?” Again, no. “Any recollection of anything having to do with Mr. Hagerty or room 213? Did he make any calls to you, or did anyone call you to report any unusual noise coming from that room?” No. “All right, thank you both,” I said, standing. “We appreciate you coming in.” I handed each of them my card. “You think of anything, give me a call.” They nodded and left.

“Okay,” I said, sitting down again. “Just one more question. What dry cleaner does the hotel use?”

“Downtown Dry Cleaning, on Eighth Street.” Ryan jotted down the name.

“Great, thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate all your help, Mr. Carlucci. Here’s my card. We’re gonna do everything we can to speed up our investigation at the hotel and get out of your hair.” I stood and shook his hand. He turned left, stopped, and turned right, like he was disoriented, before walking back toward the reception area.

“Okay, Ryan. Tell me what we know and what we don’t know.”

“Let’s see. We think it was a crime of rage. Someone with some decent physical strength. Probably someone who knew Hagerty, unless he was in the habit of letting strangers into his room. Or someone from the hotel, but that’s not likely. This is all based on the premise there was no forced entry and it wasn’t a robbery.”

“Right,” I said. “And what do we know about the vic?”

“Good-time Charlie, got along well with Jonathan Ahern. We think he had sex last night with someone in his room, then took a shower. He was watching TV, probably from bed, then he probably let someone in his room. Then he got ventilated.”

“And what don’t we know yet?”

“Almost everything. We don’t know who’s here in town as part of the debate. We don’t have a motive, and we don’t have a weapon.”

“That’s right. Good.” I paused, closing my eyes to think. “Yeah,” I said, finally. “That’s the way I see it, too. All right, here’s what I’d like you to do next.” He turned the page in his pad and nodded. “First, check with the reception desk and get a list of everyone accompanying Hagerty. Second, check with the dry cleaner. If anything came in from the hotel since, I don’t know, 10 pm, tell them to hold it.”

“In case there’s some biologicals we can link up to anyone from the debate.”

“Right. Next, check with Housekeeping. They haven’t cleaned the rooms today, but see if for any reason they were called to any of the rooms from the debate people in the last twelve hours.”

“Got it.”

“And we need a murder weapon. Have the uniforms check all the trash from the hotel, the dumpsters outside, see if anyone from the debate could have thrown anything out a window. The windows open, right?”

“The skinny vent windows on either side of the big window open.”

“Yeah. And one other thing. I want the uniforms to check every public trash can and dumpster in a half-mile radius.”

“They’ll love that.”

“That’s why I’m having you tell them.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Hey, two months ago, you’d’ve been diving yourself.”

“I really appreciate that.”

“Okay, any questions?”

“No,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

*  *  *

Robin’s car was already in the lot at headquarters when we got there. It was hard to miss: a 72 Volkswagen Beetle painted with the swirling black and white markings of a Holstein cow, the rear window covered with decals of punk bands that cut their own MP3’s in their bedrooms and gave them away online. First time I’d seen it, I asked Robin if it had been a company car for Gateway Computers or some kind of ad. Robin looked at me, puzzled, and said no, she didn’t like ads. So, you painted it that way yourself? Of course, she said. Cool, huh?

Ryan and I went down to Robin’s lab in the basement. Because she had the place to herself, she controlled the music. It was horrible. “Hey, Robin,” I said as we walked over to Robin’s bench. She was hunched over her microscope. On the steel counter extending the length of the lab were the tools of her trade: four microscopes, a gas chromatograph, an x-ray diffraction unit, an emission spectrograph, a mass spectrometer, and an array of personal computers.

“Hi, guys,” she said, lowering the volume of the music. “Just give me a second here.” She stared into the eyepiece for a moment. “You like Rancid?”

“What?”

“The music,” Ryan said. “It’s Rancid.”

I assumed that was supposed to mean something. More and more these days, I feel like I’m in some kind of parallel universe that makes even less sense than the regular one.

Robin was still looking at her microscope. “Just what I thought: a bunch of dead boys.”

I noticed the towel on the bench next to the microscope. “Semen on the towel?”

“Yup,” Robin said. “Not a whole lot. Just a trace.”

“Are you saying your sample is just a trace, or it looks like a low sperm count?” Ryan said.

“Actually, both. It’s just a trace of fluid, more consistent with him washing up in the shower and missing a spot than him pumping into the towel.”

“How do you know that?” I said.

“If he was pumping and that’s all the fluid he pulled up, I doubt he could’ve gotten it up in the first place.”

I looked at Ryan for confirmation. He shook his head. “Makes sense to me, but I have no idea.”

“Trust me on this. I’ve dated some older guys,” Robin said.

“That’s your evidence?” I said.

“No,” Robin said, breaking into a smile. “Just messin’ with you. Seriously, there are data correlating potency and ejaculate levels of men at different ages and levels of fitness.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, it’s true. I looked it up. Plus,” she said, brushing a strand of green hair back behind her ear, “I’ve dated some older guys.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I said, shaking my head. “You said the sperm count looked low.”

“Yeah, I can’t draw any hard conclusions, because maybe we’re looking at an atypical sample of the ejaculate, but if the sample is representative, it should be two-to-five percent sperm. I’m seeing less than one percent. In other words, I think we’re looking at geezer cum here.”

“Did I mention you’re a lovely young lady?” I said.

“I think you did, but I never tire of hearing it, Detective. I’ve always tried to be,” Robin said with a smile.

Ryan said, “You know, we’re assuming the semen is Arlen Hagerty’s. It doesn’t have to be.”

“I’m on it, Ryan,” Robin said. “I grabbed a cheek swab and a couple of strands of hair before Harold bagged him. I’m running the DNA to make sure it’s him.”

“Of course,” I said, “we’re also assuming the towels were clean when Hagerty used them, right?”

Ryan said, “I’m pretty sure the towels were clean. They wash them at temperatures over one fifty. I doubt if any biologicals would have survived that.”

Robin said, “Karen, are you saying maybe the towels were from whoever had the room before, and Housekeeping didn’t change them?”

“Yeah, maybe the day before, another old goat pumped a load of geezer cum into the towel after watching some pay-per-view, you know, maybe some donkey-on-girl action, but he was ashamed, so he put the towel back nice and neat, then along comes Hagerty, after a long car ride, and he washes his face, grabs that towel off the rack, and rubs the cum all over his face.”

Robin said, “That’s kinda disgusting, Karen.”

“Am I grossing you out?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Excellent,” I said, extending my palms as if that wasn’t that difficult.

“Okay, girls,” Ryan said. “If we can get back to the case, just for a moment.”

I let out a chuckle and said, “Okay, Robin, tell me what you’ve got on the hotel room.”

“There were no signs of forced entry on the door. The door locks automatically when you leave the room. And the lock is working correctly.”

“And the windows that open?” Ryan said.

“The windows on either side of the big window crank open, and they’re ten inches wide. But unless you remove the panes themselves—which there was no evidence of—the opening is less than seven inches. And it’d be really hard to climb up to the second floor, with no terraces or anything. I’m not saying it couldn’t be done, but the person would have to be real small and real athletic.”

“Okay,” I said. “So we’re assuming the killer either had a key or Hagerty let him in.”

“Have we ruled out the killer was already in the room when Hagerty came in?” Ryan said.

“We can’t rule that out,” Robin said. “With that carpet not showing any footprints, plus it’s a hotel and it’s got all kinds of shit in it anyway, we can’t be sure the killer wasn’t already there. But there’s no evidence in the bathroom or the closet, which are the only two places he could hide so Hagerty would get inside the room without seeing him, that there was anyone inside.”

“All right, Robin,” I said. “You got anything else for us?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll keep looking to see if I can pull anything else off the towels or the sheets to help us identify whoever he was banging. Not sure the drain’s gonna do us any good, since the biologicals in there could be from days ago. I already did a quick check of the vacuum cleaner bag; nothing fun like an earring or anything like that. But I’ll keep going and let you know later today.”

“Okay, thanks a lot, Robin.”

“See ya,” Robin said, clicking her mouse to turn the volume back up on her awful music.

Ryan and I left the evidence lab and walked back up the stairs. I said, “Let’s run this by the Chief.” Ryan nodded. We headed down the hall to the private offices. All the way at the end we came to the Chief’s. It was the only office with a big glass panel on the door with his name written on it.

Helen Glenning looked up from her screen and said, “Can I help you, Detectives?” I wasn’t expecting the question. With the former receptionist, Kari, you could just walk right in. This one was maybe fifty, hair mostly grey, tight curls. A plain cranberry sweater, single strand of good quality imitation pearls, a pin of a cat. Framed photos of kittens on the walls.

“Can we see the Chief?” I said.

“Did you have an appointment?” she said. The receptionist’s desk had been moved to block a straight path to the Chief’s inner office. Probably his idea.

“No, no appointment. We wanted to bring him up to date on the Hagerty murder,” I said. “No time to make an appointment. He just got killed around midnight.”

Helen paused, raising an eyebrow to signal she caught the implication of that last sentence. The gesture said, Don’t go smartass on me if you want to see the Chief. She hit the intercom button. “Detectives Seagate and Miner, on the Hagerty homicide.”

“Okay,” the Chief’s voice said on the intercom, equal parts bored and annoyed.

Ryan said to her, “Thanks very much, Helen.” She gave him an official smile and turned back to her screen. No smile for me.

For a municipal office, the Chief’s was nice: paneled walls, real wood furniture, a couch off to the side, upholstered arm chairs in front of his desk. The Chief didn’t acknowledge our entrance. He kept looking at the screen, which obviously was more important than his detectives reporting to him on a murder that had already made the national news.

I stood there, hands clasped before me. Looking down at my feet, I studied the wine-colored carpet. I poked Ryan and pointed to the carpet. “Nice nap,” I whispered. He nodded. If I was to hole up in this office, then kill the Chief, I’d have to remember to remove my footprints—or wear clown shoes.

After ten seconds or so, the Chief looked up from his screen and nodded at us. “Yeah?” he said.

I was silent. Ryan looked at me, but I just stood there. He spoke. “We wanted to bring you up to date on the Arlen Hagerty murder.”

The Chief nodded, the signal for Ryan to speak. “He was killed around midnight, multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen, probably not from a knife but something more like a screwdriver. We haven’t recovered a weapon. He probably had sex with someone in the room. We think he was watching TV, then got up and let the murderer in, or the murderer was the person he had sex with. That’s all we’ve got so far.”

“All right,” the Chief said, nodding to Ryan and looking to me. “What are you doing now?”

I said, “We canvassed the hotel and we’re nailing down any contacts between Hagerty and the hotel staff. We don’t think there was anything. We’re getting a list of who was traveling with him. We’ll start interviewing them this morning.”

“Who was he screwing?” the Chief said to me.

I caught a whiff of condescension here, as if I wasn’t thinking enough about the sex angle. “We’re not sure yet,” I said. “He’s married. We have to find out whether the wife was along with him, or if there was anyone else in the group.”

“Check to make sure he didn’t call an escort service.” Ryan pulled out his notebook and start writing in it. I had already asked the hotel for the phone records for Hagerty’s room and was going to ask for authorization to get his records if he had a cell phone.

I saw the Chief looking approvingly at Ryan. The kid was smart, making him think he was really contributing to the investigation. The reason the Chief asked about an escort service probably had less to do with helping us than with how he spent his time at cop conventions four or five times a year.

“Okay,” the Chief said, shifting his weight in his chair to signal the interview was over. “Anything else?”

“No, not at the moment,” I said.

“Stay in touch,” he said to me, as if this was my first case.

“Absolutely,” I said, mouthing the word asshole as I turned to leave.


Chapter 3

Two others were along for the debate gig: Arlen Hagerty’s widow, Margaret, and his assistant, Connie de Marco. We decided to start with his wife. She was in room 217.

“Ms. Hagerty, I’m Detective Karen Seagate. My partner, Detective Ryan Miner.” She nodded in acknowledgment, stepping back to let us enter. The room was identical to the one in which her husband had been murdered. “First, we’d like to express our condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Please come in.” She walked over to the desk, picked up the phone, and pushed a button. “One more side chair, please.” She sat in the upholstered chair and motioned for me to sit in the desk chair. “Detective Miner, another chair will be here in a moment.”

“I don’t mind standing, ma’am.” He looked at the king-size bed, which Margaret Hagerty or Housekeeping had already made up.

“As you wish, Detective.”

I said, “Ms. Hagerty, I realize how painful it must be to have to talk with the police so soon after this terrible event, but I hope you understand that time is important. I promise you we’ll do everything we can to prosecute this case professionally so as to minimize the pain we cause.”

“I appreciate your saying that, Detective Seagate, and I would expect nothing less.” She sat motionless in the chair, her hands folded in her lap, her legs crossed. Her gaze was direct. Any grief she was feeling for her husband, she wasn’t showing us. She was about sixty, but it was sixty with money. The hair was honey-blonde, perfectly shaped to round out the contours of her long, thin face. The jaw was slightly too big, and her left eye, a little higher than her right, make her look as if she was tilting her head slightly. The makeup was understated. Eighteen-carat gold earrings set off with large opals, and a matching necklace. Her dark grey suit was silk, her shoes crocodile, with low heels. The shoes cost more than I spend on clothes in a year.

“Ms. Hagerty, we’d like to learn as much as we can about Mr. Hagerty and your relationship with him. We’d also like to learn what we can about the two others who travel with you on these debates.”

“I understand,” Margaret Hagerty said. Her teeth were capped and whitened, and not with the cheap stuff you buy at the drugstore. “But I must tell you we have chartered a plane for two this afternoon. We’re returning to Soul Savers headquarters in Colorado Springs.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hagerty, but that won’t be possible. We need you all to stay here in Rawlings to assist us in the investigation, at least for several days. In addition, an autopsy needs to be performed here.”

“That cannot be performed elsewhere?” she said, her eyebrow arched, as if surely there must be some way a person of her standing could be spared this inconvenience.

“Unfortunately, no. Because this is a murder investigation, the autopsy must be performed here.”

“I see,” she said. “Excuse me.” She stood and walked to the desk, hit three buttons on the phone. “Put the plane on hold, please, and notify the hotel we will all be staying until further notice. Thank you.” She returned to her chair.

“Ms. Hagerty, can you tell us when you last saw your husband?”

“Arlen came to my room, as he does every night when we are traveling, at ten o’clock to wish me goodnight.”

“I apologize for getting into personal territory here, Ms. Hagerty, but can you tell us why you and Mr. Hagerty stayed in separate rooms?”

“Mr. Hagerty, as you know, was somewhat overweight, and one of the results of that is he suffers … he suffered from a condition known as sleep apnea. I won’t go into a long explanation. The simplest way to answer your question is to say he snored, making it impossible for me to sleep. We maintained separate bedrooms at home, as well.”

“And last night,” I said, “when he stopped by at ten, did he seem any different than he usually does? Did he seem upset about anything, or troubled or afraid?”

“No, he seemed perfectly normal. He had had a nightcap with Jonathan, as you know, and he seemed content. He thought the debate had gone well.”

“Did he mention anything he had to do, anyone he was going to meet with? Anything out of the ordinary at all?”

“No, no, and no to your three questions.” She unfolded her hands and placed them on the arms of the chair. She uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them in the other direction. She kept looking straight at me, as if I was the only other person in the room.

There was a knock at the door. Margaret looked to Ryan, like he should seize this opportunity to participate.

Ryan said, “I’ll get it.” It was Housekeeping with another chair. He carried the chair in and sat down. “Sorry,” he said, for no reason.

“Ms. Hagerty, I apologize in advance for this next question, but I have to ask it. It’s a routine part of any investigation—”

“I understand, Detective Seagate. No, I can provide no alibi. I was here in this room, alone. As I do every night, I read for about twenty minutes in bed. Then I turned off the light and went to sleep.” I glanced over at the bed table. There was a hardcover book, with a tooled leather bookmark sticking out of it.

“And you heard no unusual noises and were not awakened?”

“Correct, Detective.”

Ryan had his notebook open and was taking notes.

“I see.” I paused a second. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Jonathan Ahern and Connie de Marco, if you don’t mind.” She nodded. “Let’s start with Mr. Ahern. How did you and Mr. Hagerty meet him? What kind of man is he?”

“As you may or may not know, Arlen and I have been appearing for some eight years at various civic functions and college campuses. Although the specific topics of our talks have changed over the years in response to new developments and events, we have maintained a consistent focus on family values and respect for the rights of the unborn. At one appearance at a community college in Macon, Georgia, several years ago, Jonathan was in the audience.

“During the question-and-answer portion of the program, he stood up and asked a number of well-formulated questions. His manner was polite and respectful, and the audience appeared to like him. At colleges, there are always a number of people in the audience who oppose our agenda. That night was no exception. His questions elicited considerable applause from the audience. I think it was at this moment I devised the idea of a debate format as a means of presenting our message. At the conclusion of the program, I sought him out, and we had an interesting chat. The topic was stem-cell research.”

“How soon before you started incorporating Mr. Ahern into the program?”

“Not long after. The next night we presented our program in Atlanta, and we brought him up onto the stage to deliver a kind of rebuttal. It went extremely well. That night he was—as he continues to be—articulate, well informed, and diplomatic. I noticed his potential right away.”

“What sort of man is he?”

“To be perfectly frank, Detective Seagate, I do not know him personally. I know he had some minor position in politics as some kind of assistant to a Democrat in the state legislature in Georgia, but I believe he was no longer in that position when we met him in Georgia. I spend very little time with him when we travel. Arlen liked him—I imagine you and Detective Miner saw their camaraderie when you went out with them that night. But I never socialize with Jonathan.”

“The fact that Jonathan and Mr. Hagerty were on different sides of the issue—you don’t think that could have led to an argument that got out of hand?”

“That is out of the question. Both Jonathan and Arlen are adults. They understand that such issues are matters of public policy that need to be resolved in the legislatures and courts. Arlen has always opposed the violence espoused by the radical fringe of the right-to-life movement, as he makes clear in the debate. And Jonathan comes from a legislative background as well. Let me add one other point, if I may.”

“Of course,” I said.

“As I am sure you have discovered or will soon discover, Jonathan Ahern travels with us on these debates. His formal association is with the organization he runs called Research Horizons, but he is on our payroll when he travels with us. We cover his expenses and have him on a per diem. I do not wish to appear petty, but I am not sure what means of support Jonathan would rely on were it not for our debates.”

“Thank you. That’s useful information,” I said. “Let me turn to Connie de Marco. What can you tell us about Connie?”

“Connie is our assistant. She travels with us and makes all arrangements. She handles the charters, the limousines, the food, the hotels, the correspondence with the colleges and the event planners. Without Connie, we literally could not make our presentations.”

“How did you and Mr. Hagerty meet her?”

“As I have explained, Soul Savers, over the years, has been a voice for family values and the rights of the unborn. One of the activities of which we are most proud, although it is not well known to the public, is assisting people in crisis. Every year, we minister to thousands of lost souls in need of guidance. Connie was one of those lost souls.

“She came to our crisis center in Colorado Springs some three or four years ago. She had a very troubled background, including sexual abuse at home, an abortion, drug abuse, prostitution, homelessness. We took her in, got her off the streets, and helped her finish school. Arlen recognized her potential and arranged for her to begin working at Soul Savers headquarters. Eventually, she began to travel with us. She is a Godsend.”

“I see.”

“Soul Savers is a big organization, and like all big organizations, it comes with its share of bureaucratic complications and difficulties. But when I look at Connie, I am reminded of our core function and our purpose. We save souls, one at a time.”

“That must give you great satisfaction,” Ryan said.

“It certainly does, Detective Miner. It certainly does.” She rewarded him with a suggestion of a smile.

I said, “And what sort of person is she, I mean, personally?”

“Connie is very efficient. In terms of the presentation she makes, she has grown considerably in the years she has been with us. As you can imagine, when we first met her, she was quite rough around the edges. She didn’t know how to speak, how to dress, how to eat properly, anything. I have taken a special interest in working with her, however, and I think the results will be obvious to you when you meet her. I am quite proud of how far she has come.”

“Well, yes, we will be talking with her soon,” I said. “We look forward to meeting with her. I have one more question, Ms. Hagerty.”

“Proceed.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Mr. Hagerty?”

Margaret Hagerty remained motionless and silent for a moment. “I am as mystified as you are.”

I stood, and Ryan followed my lead. “Ms. Hagerty, again, our condolences for your loss, and we appreciate you making the time to meet with us.” Margaret Hagerty nodded from her chair. “We might need to meet with you again as the investigation proceeds, but we will certainly try to respect your time during this difficult period. And, of course, we will keep you informed at all times of the progress of the investigation.” I handed her my card. “Please do not hesitate to call me if you can think of anything that will help us in our investigation or you simply want to talk.”

“Detective Seagate, Detective Miner,” she said, nodding to each of us.

*  *  *

“Margaret Hargerty’s something, huh?” Ryan said, once we were back in the hotel meeting room off the lobby.

“Yeah, she’s something, all right. The question is, What?”

“What’re you getting at?”

“Okay, let’s start with what we saw.”

Ryan said, “I saw a sixty-year old lady, very together, she’s got some money, knows how to give orders, expects people to follow them.”

“That’s right. The room’s already made up, so either she did it herself or she got Housekeeping to do it. She calls Housekeeping to get you a chair, I guess so you don’t sit on her bed and get cop cooties all over it. She tells us she’s planning to leave town this afternoon.”

“I was wondering about that. Could she possibly think we’d let her jump on a plane, toss her husband in cargo, and take off?”

“No. She knows there’s gotta be an autopsy, and it has to be done here.”

“So what’s the point of her telling us that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe she’s telling us we’re putting her out. You know, putting us on notice.”

“But we saw her phone someone—probably Connie—to tell her to cancel the plane, right?”

I started walking the perimeter of the room. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean anything. She could’ve told Connie to make those arrangements, to make it look realistic. Or, shit, maybe she wasn’t even calling anyone at all when she picked up the phone. The little red light goes on as soon as you pick up the phone.”

Ryan said, “What do you make of the fact she seemed so together? Could she be that cool with her husband just murdered?”

“Yeah, she really did seem poised. But I’ve seen that before. Right after it happens, the spouse can sorta be in shock, so they do what they know how to do. For her, it could be she cleans up the room and puts on her good clothes. She might fall apart later.”

“Like she’s exerting control,” Ryan said.

“Exactly. When shit happens, you retreat. You impose order wherever you can. That’s why you make sure everything looks in place.”

“Yeah. Did you see the book on the night table? With a real bookmark, not a scrap of paper?”

“Maybe that’s what’s going on,” I said, “or maybe it’s just a prop for her story about Arlen coming in to say goodnight at ten.” Ryan was sitting in a chair, his eyes following me as I circled the big table in the middle of the room. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got right now for suspects.”

“Start with Margaret.”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s her motive?”

“Easy. He’s having sex with someone: Connie, Jonathan Ahern, hookers. It doesn’t matter. But it’s not his wife. She finds out. She’s angry, humiliated.” He paused. “You know, there’s one thing I wanted to ask you about.”

“What’s that?” I said.

“Did you notice Arlen’s room and Margaret’s room aren’t next to each other? Connie’s between them.”

“That could be just the way it worked out this time.”

Ryan took out his notebook. “I think it’s worth a call to the clerk who checked them in yesterday—see if they said anything to him about it or just booked the four rooms.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Long shot, but worth following up.”

Ryan said, “Could Margaret not know that her husband is having sex with someone else?”

“It’s probably more like she doesn’t want to know, so she ignores the signs that are obvious enough to everyone else. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.” I knew we didn’t have enough to go on yet. “Okay, what about her role in the Soul Savers business?”

“Yeah, she’s jealous that Arlen is the front man and getting all the attention. And maybe all the bucks?”

“That’s right,” I said. “Did you notice she said it was her idea to put Jonathan up on the stage?”

“Yeah, and she said she sought him out that first night in Georgia. She sees that she’s the brains.”

“We definitely have to get to the bottom of that,” I said. “Follow the money and the perks. Okay, another suspect.”

“Jonathan Ahern,” Ryan said.

“Motive?”

“He disagrees with Hagerty on the issues?”

“Okay,” I said. “But Margaret says they’re adults about it. And we saw them acting like buddies last night at the bar.”

“Right, but maybe Ahern was faking it, really hated Hagerty.”

“True. What do you make of Margaret going out of her way to tell us Soul Savers is supporting Ahern?”

“Well,” he said, “it’s something she has to figure we’re going to find out eventually, so she gets points for tipping us off to it.”

“Or it’s her way to tell us he’s a lowlife who’s sponging off people he doesn’t even agree with.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But her argument is plausible: he doesn’t have any other means of support. Maybe Research Horizons is just a web site and a P.O. box, and they don’t even have enough money to support him. So if he kills Hagerty, there goes his own job.”

“Okay,” I said. “What about the sex angle?”

“Let’s see. Ahern could be having an affair with Connie.”

“Or with Hagerty.”

“If he’s involved with Hagerty,” Ryan said, “they could’ve had some kind of fight. But there’s no evidence either of them is gay.”

“Yeah, I know that,” I said, still walking the room. “But at this point, we’re just talking about the possibilities. When we find out whose sperm is on the towel, we’ll know a little more.”

“Or Ahern and Hagerty could’ve both been involved with Connie and they got into a fight.”

“That could make sense. Ahern’s an okay-looking guy, much closer to Connie’s age. Connie’s a junkie hooker shows up at Soul Savers, Hagerty takes her in, starts doing her, but after traveling around with Ahern, those two get together.”

“Yeah, I like that better than the two guys are gay.”

I laughed. “Well, I don’t know which image is worse: those two guys in bed, or Hagerty boning the young girl, with his socks on.”

“One more suspect: Connie.”

“That one’s easy. He’s doing her. One night she realizes how disgusting he is. He makes her do something kinky and she wigs out. Picks up whatever it was with a point on it and just goes crazy on him.”

“That is, if she has the physical strength to do it,” Ryan said.

“Yeah, that’s right. So, we definitely have to check that out when we interview her.” I had another idea. “Boot your laptop, okay? I wanna look at those two sites.”

Ryan drummed his fingers on the conference table while the laptop came to life. The heating system rattled and hissed in the ceiling, pushing out the warm air with its stale metallic smell. “Okay, here’s Research Associates,” he said as I sat down next to him. “What do you want to see?”

“I want to see whether the organization has any money.”

“To see if Ahern really travels with the debate for his spending money?”

“Yeah. Any reference to other people in the organization? Any photos of the staff or the headquarters?”

There was a home page, with a little bio of Jonathan Ahern and a thumbnail photo of him. No other people, no list of contributors, no endorsements. The address was a P.O. box. “Looks like Ahern is the whole show,” Ryan said. “Let me look at the source code, see if there’s any credits to someone for making the site.” He hit a few buttons. “No. It’s an old FrontPage template. Ahern could’ve made it himself in half an hour.”

“Okay, go to Soul Savers,” I said. Ryan pulled up the site. “Now we’re talking.” While the site was loading, we saw a video montage of Arlen Hagerty speaking to a packed church, Arlen hugging a little black girl at a picnic, Arlen with a furrowed brow sitting at a table in a business meeting, studying important-looking documents. “Looks like the Arlen Hagerty Show, huh?”

The video faded into a screen that linked to other videos and all kinds of information about the mission, position papers, photos of Arlen Hagerty with national political figures, and instructions on how to get involved with the mission and donate to its causes. Ryan clicked on About Us, which pulled up a group of photos of a stately three-story brick building on a broad expanse of land, the lush green lawns accented by ornamental fountains and massive rock sculptures. White clouds dotted the brilliant blue sky, the sun rays glittering off the golden cross atop the building.

One of the photos was a group shot of the headquarters staff, with Arlen standing proudly in front of a group of a dozen mostly young, well-scrubbed staffers. They were named in a caption.

Ryan said, “No Connie in the picture, or Margaret.”

“That’s interesting, isn’t it? I can understand why Connie isn’t there, but you’d think he wouldn’t diss Margaret. What’s she called in the list of officers?”

“Vice-President.”

“Uncool. It’s an expensive site, though, isn’t it?”

“Judging by its size and complexity, I’d say we’re talking about a full-time person to maintain this. It wasn’t made by a secretary.”

“Yet no space for Margaret.” I got up out of the chair. “Let’s track down Connie.”

*  *  *

She was in the coffee shop off the lobby, sitting at a small table in the corner, half hidden by a pillar.

“Are you Connie de Marco?”

She looked up, then paused. “Yes.”

I touched my shield. “Detective Karen Seagate, my partner Detective Ryan Miner. Mind if we sit down?”

Connie’s face was impassive. She nodded, gesturing for us to sit.

Ryan said, “First, we want to express our condolences. Arlen Hagerty was an important part of your life. His death must be quite a shock to you.”

She sat there, her expression blank. “Thanks.”

I said, “We’d like to talk with you about him. Can we talk here?”

Connie had finished a plate of something that had syrup on it. A big glob of butter, still round from the scoop, balanced on the side of the plate. A cup of coffee, half empty, sat on the table. To its side were three empty creamer cartons, each with its torn corner pointing to the bowl holding the full cartons. Next to each empty carton was an empty packet of sugar, aligned neatly. “Here’s fine with me,” she said.

“All right, thanks,” I said. “When did you last see Arlen Hagerty?”

“Last night. We were going over arrangements for the next few days. Next stop was going to be Lewis and Clark State College in Idaho.”

“Where did you meet with Mr. Hagerty?”

“In his room, about 10:30 last night.”

“Was this an unusual meeting in any way?”

“No, we met most nights on the road. My job is to do all the arrangements—the hotels, the sites for the debates, the transportation, everything. I’d go over all the arrangements with him.”

“Did you generally meet in his room?”

Connie looked at me for a moment, the silence telling me what she thought of the question. “Yes,” she said. She drank the rest of her coffee in one gulp, put the cup down, and turned it so the handle lined up with the edge of the table.

“And when did you leave his room?”

“Not sure.” She didn’t look like she was trying to remember. “Between 11:00 and 11:30, I think.”

“Tell us a little about Mr. Hagerty,” I said. “How did you meet?”

Connie sighed. She started to talk, the words coming out like someone else had written them. Her eyes looked distant. “I was in some trouble at the time. I’d left home. I was maybe sixteen, had some problems with my folks. I got mixed up with some people I shouldn’t’ve. I saw a billboard for Soul Savers. I was hungry, they took me in.”

Ryan said, “This was a shelter for runaways?”

Connie looked at him like she’d rather be talking to me. “You could call it that,” she said, then turned back to me.

“You seem to have come a long way, this position of responsibility Mr. Hagerty gave you,” I said. “Tell us about that.”

Connie’s face was expressionless. “Soul Savers got me back in school. I took courses in computers, you know, secretarial stuff. Started helping out at their headquarters. That’s where I met Mr. Hagerty. He liked me, let me help the woman who did his arrangements from the main office. I learned the routine. That’s pretty much it.”

“How’d you get from the main office to traveling with him?”

“As the trips got longer, Mr. Hagerty decided he needed a person with him on the road. The woman I worked for didn’t want to do it—she was older, had a family. So he invited me. Not like I had a reason to stay in my studio apartment.”

“Did he ever consider having Mrs. Hagerty do your job?” I said.

There was a trace of a rueful smile on Connie’s face. “No, I don’t think that would have worked out.”

“How so?” Ryan said.

Connie turned to him. “She doesn’t want to have to do that kind of thing. She wants to concentrate on the big picture. That’s what she calls it: ‘the big picture.’” She looked impatient. “I want a cigarette. Do you mind if we go outside?” She signed the restaurant check.

“No, that’s fine,” I said. Connie led us out of the restaurant and around to the side of the hotel. We were out of the wind, and with the sun high in the sky, the temperature in the forties, it was pleasant. She took a cigarette out of her bag and lit it. She leaned against the brick wall of the hotel and closed her eyes in the bright sunshine.

I said, “Tell us a little about Margaret Hagerty. What’s your relationship with her?”

Connie paused, as if she was planning what she had to say. “Margaret has been very good to me. Not everyone would let me travel with them.”

“You mean because of your background?”

“That’s part of it. Someone like me, most people assume I’m going to steal from them, whatever. Or that I’m still using.”

“What kinds of things have you learned from her?”

“You met her, right?”

“A few minutes ago,” I said.

“She knows how to dress, how to act polite. You know, how to behave with other professional-type people. I didn’t know anything about that world. You understand.”

The sun was bright on her face. Her hair was a medium brown, pulled back in a ponytail. She wasn’t wearing any makeup. The sun showed faint crows’ feet starting around her eyes. There were a few acne scars on her left temple. Her nose, thin and straight, was framed by strong cheeks bones. She had a minor overbite, not really obvious, but enough that her parents would have rushed her to the orthodontist if she had come from the right side of the tracks.

A logging truck downshifted to make it up the slight rise on the highway in front of the hotel. I waited for the rumbling to stop. “Do you get along with her okay?”

“Sure,” Connie said. “I do my job, she does hers. I mind my own business. She’s not looking for a friend.”

“And Jonathan Ahern?” She turned to me and focused, for the first time. “What can you tell us about him?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Is he a friend?”

“No,” she said, her gaze drifting off again. “He’s part of the show. Just another room to book.”

“Do you ever go out for a drink after the debates with him and Mr. Hagerty?”

“No, I don’t drink,” she said, taking a folding metal ashtray out of her coat pocket and stubbing out her cigarette. She folded the ashtray and put it back in her pocket. “Besides, I’m not one of the guys. That’s not my role.” She unbuttoned her jacket and pulled back the lapels so the sun could warm her dark blue cotton turtleneck.

“Got it,” I said, catching a whiff of the diesel from the logging truck. “Did Mr. Hagerty or Mrs. Hagerty ever talk with you about why they have separate rooms?”

“I know they have separate rooms at home. Maybe she just wants some privacy. I don’t get into that.”

“Do you know whether they sleep together?”

Connie gave me a look that said, Back-off. “I don’t know—and I don’t care.”

“Do you know whether Mr. Hagerty used to have sex with anyone, either at home or on the road?”

Connie said, “Listen, Detective. I’ve told you what I know. I’ve got a job with the Hagertys. I make the arrangements for the debates. I also do anything else they need me to do, like getting special food when Mrs. Hagerty wants it, or dry cleaning. I’m their assistant. Whatever they do in their private lives, that’s not my business.”

“One more thing. Any idea of who might want to kill Arlen Hagerty?”

She looked like she was thinking about the question. “I didn’t kill him. I know that.”

“Okay, Ms. de Marco, thanks a lot for talking with us. We might want to come back to you and talk some more, so I’m afraid you’ll have to stick around here in town.”

“Yes, she told me that. That’s okay with me. Can I go?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” I said, as she walked back around the corner toward the entrance of the Courtyard.

“Let’s go sit in the cruiser, see what we’ve got,” I said. The car was about fifty yards away. It was warm from the bright sun. “What do you make of her?”

“Well, she’s got herself a pretty wicked case of OCD.”

“What?”

“Obsessive compulsive disorder. See the way she lined up the creamers and the sugar? And carrying around an ashtray?”

“Yeah, I saw that. What’s it mean to you?”

“Well, it could mean nothing. I just noticed it because one of my sisters has it. It can be a reaction to stress.”

“Yeah, well, she’s had plenty of that. And that’s only counting the shit we know about. If she wants to line up her sugar packets and carry around cigarette butts, I’m good with that. What else did you see?”

“Her affect is kind of blank. You notice she doesn’t laugh or smile. Her voice is flat, and her eyes look empty.”

“Could just be the circumstances of his murder. Or a reaction to cops. My guess is she hasn’t had a lot of positive experiences with us in her lifetime.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, “but you noticed she didn’t come right out and say she doesn’t know anything about who Hagerty was sleeping with. Or who might have killed him.”

“It was like she didn’t want to outright lie to us,” I said, “but she just wanted to set up boundaries.”

“She probably hasn’t had a chance to think through how the murder screws up her job, but she knows there’s no way it can be good. So she’s stalling.”

“Okay,” I said, “but it’s obvious if she wasn’t doing Hagerty she knows who was. So we’re gonna have to stay on top of her.” I paused. “You see her as strong enough to kill Hagerty?”

“Oh, absolutely. She’s got pretty good upper-body strength. Good shoulders, biceps.”

“You could see that through her turtleneck?” I said.

“Yeah, when we were walking up to her in the coffee shop. She’s strong.”

“And you can see Arlen wanting to sleep with her? I mean, she’s young and all, but you see her as attractive?”

“Well,” he said, smiling, “I’m a married man, you know. But yeah, I think she’s attractive. Really good figure.”

“How do you know that?”

“You see her unbutton her coat out in the parking lot?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, well, so did I,” Ryan said.

“That’s all it takes?” I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to learn about Connie or about Ryan.

“No, if you insist. What I like about her is she covers stuff up. The hair pulled back. No makeup. The turtleneck. It’s like she isn’t thinking about how she looks.”

“That’s sexy?” I said.

“To me it is.”

“You’re sure it’s not just you knowing she has a past?”

“Now you’re getting too deep for me,” he said, smiling. “I took Psych 101. I didn’t get to 102. All I know is she’s attractive without advertising it.”

I didn’t know if I was getting too deep, but I was losing my focus. It didn’t matter what kinds of pictures were flashing in Ryan’s mind. Maybe he was Jesus to her Mary Magdalene. Maybe she was just a sweet piece of ass. It didn’t matter. The important point was if a good-looking guy like Ryan saw her as attractive, it’s a good chance Jonathan Ahern would, too, and it’s dead certain Arlen Hagerty would. “Yeah,” I said, “we’re gonna have to come at her again. Let’s track down Jonathan Ahern.”

*  *  *

“You a vegetarian?” I said. Ryan had ordered a veggie burger.

“Vegan: no meat, no dairy.”

“That a religious thing?”

“Nah, just for health,” he said, smiling.

“You feel better?”

“Yeah. More energy. Only problem is, I have to force myself to take in extra calories if I do a lot of cardio workouts.”

I looked at him and nodded. This was one strange guy. He could change his whole diet around because it was good for him. We sat silently for a few minutes. The server brought the meals.

I pointed at the tomato slice sitting on a half-wilted piece of lettuce on my plate. “You need this tomato?” I said.

“No thanks,” he said. “You eat it. It’s good for you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, poking at it with my fork.

We ate for a few minutes without talking. We weren’t yet at the point in our relationship where we could be comfortable without talking, but that would come.

“So,” I said after shoving the last bite of the hamburger into my mouth, “what do you think’s the percentage chance Arlen was doing Connie?”

Ryan put down his fork and knife and tilted his head upward, as if he was doing some calculations. “I’d say ninety-five. With a margin of error of two points.”

I smiled. “And that’s because of what? The way Connie smiled when she said Margaret wouldn’t—what was her phrase?—wouldn’t do what Connie had to do?”

“I think her phrase was that Margaret ‘doesn’t want to have to do that kind of thing.’”

“You read that as Margaret didn’t want to have to sleep with Arlen?”

“Yeah, that’s how I read it, but that’s not the reason I’m ninety-five percent sure Connie was doing him.”

“Okay, so why?”

“Because men are pigs.”

“Just like that: men are pigs?”

“You can take it to the bank,” Ryan said, nodding.

“So you’re a pig?”

“No, not me, personally. I have the potential to be a pig, but I choose not to be.”

“You just choose to be what you are?” I could tell Ryan was half teasing me, maybe borderline flirting.

“No, you don’t choose to be what you are. God chooses that for you when He creates you. But then you choose how you act, what you do. And that in turns defines what you are.”

I stabbed a couple of fries with a little more force than necessary. “So then you create what you are, after all?”

“Unless you think God gave you the potential to make those choices that you make, in which case He creates you.”

I put my fork down. “You okay with the fact you’re talking in circles?”

“The circle’s the perfect shape, you know: no beginning and no end, just like God’s love for you, Karen.” He gave me an open smile. “That’s why wedding rings are circles.”

“Yeah, and because a square ring wouldn’t fit so good.”

He laughed. “I can see you lack a taste for the mystery of God’s creations.”

“Guess I just don’t like mysteries,” I said. “Like who killed Hagerty.”

Ryan had finished his meal. He pushed his plate away. “We’ll figure this murder out, Karen. No question about it. And when we do, we’ll put the bad guy away. And we’ll have solved one more mystery.”

“Yeah, and we’ll find out Hagerty was some kind of perv, and someone else is a murderer. So much for God’s mysteries.”

“Sinners only serve to highlight God’s majesty,” Ryan said, taking a sip of his ice water.

“Are you gonna be like this all the time?” I said, sighing.

“All the time,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning in to me, “except when I’m taking in Connie’s bodacious rack.”

“You’re right. Men are pigs.”

“All part of God’s majesty,” Ryan said, his palms up in a gesture that said, Case closed.

“Oh, Lord,” I said, shaking my head.

“Amen, sister,” he said, toasting me with his glass.

We paid our bills, left the restaurant, and approached the uniform posted at the reception desk. I told him we wanted to interview Jonathan Ahern.

The uniform pulled out his notebook. “Mr. Ahern went to the driving range about forty-five minutes ago.”

It was a three-mile trip to the driving range, which was attached to the local municipal course. In late Fall, the course was open on weekends, unless there had been snow. But the driving range was always open.

From the parking lot, we saw a solitary figure hitting with a driver. The ball arced high and smooth, landing out past the 200-yard flag. Ryan said, “Look at that. He’s pretty good.”

“You play?” I said.

“In college. But for some reason Kali’s not sure it’s the best use of forty bucks and five hours on Saturdays.”

“Women, huh?”

Even though we were crunching the gravel path pretty loud, Ahern didn’t hear us because the wind was in his face. He jumped a little when I said “Mr. Ahern?”

“I’m sorry, Detectives, you startled me,” he said, putting his driver back in the black nylon bag leaning against the stand near the tee. “Hope I didn’t take you too far out of your way. The policemen at the hotel said it would be okay.”

“No, this is fine. Can we talk over there?” I said, pointing to the clubhouse patio. A few green plastic chairs were set up around one of the tables. The rest of the chairs were stacked and locked together up against the clubhouse wall. The sunshine snuck in under the roof, hitting the table.

Once the three of us were seated, Ryan said, “We’d like to offer our condolences. Seemed like Mr. Hagerty was a friend.”

“Seemed, was,” he said, shaking his head. “No way I saw that coming.” Ahern looked down at the table, tracing the pattern on the plastic tabletop with his finger.

“When did you see him last?” I said.

“Same time you did. After we left the bar and you brought us back to the hotel. I went upstairs, watched some TV, went to bed.”

“Tell us a little about how you met Mr. Hagerty and got involved with the debates.”

“It was about four years ago. I had just lost my job as a legislative aide to Johnny Trautman. He was a state senator from outside Atlanta. I’d always been interested in politics, and when the chance came to work for him, I grabbed it. He was a Democrat, which was pretty rare outside the city. He was quite a man. A hunter, fisherman. He knew how to appeal to the rural Georgians. Very big on church values, the Second Amendment.”

“You say ‘was.’ He died? That’s how you lost your job?”

“No, he’s dead now, but he was voted out of office. His wife, Rebecca, got MS. She was a wonderful woman. She had some other health problems, and the MS just tore right through her. This was when all the publicity started for stem-cell research. So, Johnny came out for the research, both guns blazing. That turned out to be one liberal position too many for his constituents. In less than a year, he lost the election, Rebecca died, and he died.”

Ahern was tearing up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was with him on his last night. He’d had a stroke a few days before, but they were sure he was going to live. He looked at me and said, ‘Jon, I just don’t have any more fight left in me.’ If you knew Johnny, that would have knocked you over. Even at seventy, he had more fight in him than I do at my age. He squeezed my hand. I looked down at his hand as I felt the grip loosen. I looked at his face. He closed his eyes and, just like that, he was gone.”

Jonathan Ahern pressed his thumb and index finger up against his red-rimmed eyes. It looked like he’d been up the whole night. He hadn’t shaved; the stubble, more grey than brown, added ten years.

“So how did you link up with the Hagertys?”

“By chance. I had written some campaign literature for Johnny about stem cells, so I knew the basic arguments on both sides. I was at one of Arlen’s gigs near where I lived, just outside Atlanta. I asked some questions. Margaret came up to me, started talking. We just took it from there. I had formed Research Horizons, as an interest group. I wanted to honor Johnny and Rebecca, and I hoped to bring in contributions. It’s never taken off, though.”

Ryan said, “What did you do before you got involved with the state senator?”

“I was an accountant.”

“Was it hard to give that up?” I said.

“Not really. I’d always loved politics, and I was just drawn to Johnny. And the way he threw himself into the stem-cell debate … This probably sounds a little corny, but I found it inspiring. Besides,” Ahern said with a sad smile, “Western civilization will survive without one more CPA.”

“You know, my partner and I were kind of surprised last night when we saw how well you and Arlen Hagerty got along. I mean, with you two being on different sides of the issue.”

“Yeah, we got that a lot. But it’s really no mystery. Both Arlen and I have been around the block. We know how these things work. You make your case, you try to get to the appropriate public officials, you raise money, you talk to ten people in a living room. You work the system, try to change minds, one at a time.

“We both understood this is an issue that’s going to play out in the legislatures and in the courts. It’s going to be with us for the rest of our lives, back and forth, just like abortion. Besides,” Ahern said, “Arlen treated me with respect. And, to be honest with you, taking me on the road with him means … meant that I don’t have to do people’s taxes anymore.”

“What are you going to do for a living now?”

“Haven’t had a chance to think about it yet.” He shook his head. “It’s Margaret’s call.”

“You think she might be able to find a place for you?”

“She might decide to take over in the debates. If so, I might still have a job. I haven’t talked with her except to tell her how sorry I am.”

“I see. You think she might want to do the debating herself?”

“She’s a great talker. She doesn’t have the fire that Arlen had, but the sentences come out smooth. She’d do fine.”

I said, “I take it her position is the same as Arlen’s was?”

“You know,” Jonathan Ahern said, “in all my years with them, I never spoke with her about the issue. I remember once—it was a few years ago, I don’t remember where—I asked her about stem cells, and she said she leaves all that kind of thing to Arlen. I don’t know whether she meant the debating or the issue itself.”

“But you think if she figured she could make a go of the debates, she’d do them with you?”

“Yes, I do. I hope so. It’s important to me that I get e-mails from college kids telling me they really learned something. Sometimes I hear from them after a parent gets Parkinson’s or has a spinal-cord injury, and that breaks my heart, but I think we did some real good with the debates. I hope we can keep doing them. It’s up to Margaret.”

The shade had crept up my legs, and I was starting to get cold. “What can you tell us about Connie de Marco?”

His eyes brightened. “Connie is really something.”

“How so?”

“I assume you heard her story. Lots of problems. She was homeless, using drugs, when she showed up at Arlen’s door. What I love about her is that there isn’t an ounce of artifice about her. She is exactly what she seems to be: a beautiful soul who’s been knocked around a lot, but she holds her head high, does her job.”

“Seems like you talk with her a lot?”

“Oh, yeah, we spend a lot of time just talking on the road. Her outlook is terrific. She doesn’t have any education—you know that—but she’s one of the wisest people I’ve ever met. Everything that’s happened to her, she’s learned from it. She’s not bitter or cynical. She knows there’s bad out there but there’s good out there, too. And she’s determined to experience that goodness without looking back.”

“She sounds pretty special.”

“As special as they come,” he said, nodding. His gaze drifted off over the driving range, where the winds were whipping the three flags. Dead leaves scratched across the patio.

“Can you help us out with anyone who would want to kill Arlen Hagerty?”

He shook his head. “I’m sure there’re some people out there. We get hate mail all the time, both of us. I guess you’re running down that angle.” His brow was furrowed. “But Margaret? Connie? I just don’t see it,” he said. “Sorry.”

I nodded to Ryan. He said, “Well, thanks very much, Mr. Ahern, for talking with us. We’ll get in touch if we need to talk more. And we’re going to try to wrap up our investigation as soon as possible so you can get back to your life.”

“Good luck,” Ahern said. “Get whoever did this to Arlen, will you?”

“Count on it,” I said, as Ryan and I stood and walked back toward the parking lot. I was shivering when we got inside the big Ford. We watched Jonathan Ahern walk over to the driving range and pull a club from his bag.

*  *  *

“Well, this is starting to get kind of interesting,” Ryan said, blowing on his hands.

“It always does,” I said, shaking out my fingers to get some blood in them. “Assuming the killer was someone who knew the vic.”

“How’s that?”

“I mean, if the room-service guy cracked him on the skull and grabbed the cash from his wallet, that’s not very interesting. But if one of his own people killed him, that’s juicy.”

“Yeah, but if it was random, like the room-service guy, that’s interesting, too, in its own way. You trace back how he got to where he was, what decisions he made, the kind of pressures he was living with, and you start to understand what brought him to that decision.”

“Yeah, if you’re into sociology. But if you’re a detective, that kind of investigation usually goes pretty quick. The room-service guy blows off work the next day, you find out where he was born, you alert the cops there, fax his picture, and they pick him up when he gets off the Greyhound. Or he’s bunking with his best friend from high school.”

“That isn’t how Matt Damon would do it if he were the room-service guy.”

“Yeah, well, Matt Damon’s writers are smarter than the room-service guy.” I was starting to warm up, the sun coming in the windshield. I undid the buttons on my coat and pulled it open to let the sun hit me, then got self-conscious and closed it up again. “Since there’s no evidence there was a room-service guy, let’s assume we’re dealing with a murder among friends.”

“Good,” Ryan said. “So what does Jon Ahern add to the mix?”

“You tell me. Did you buy that story about the Johnny Trautman and his wife with MS?”

“It’s easy enough to check out. I’ll run it down as soon as I can,” Ryan said, taking his notebook out of his pocket and jotting it down. “I got kind of a funny feeling with the way he started crying about the wife.”

“Why’s that?”

“Trautman and his wife were older, right, around seventy? It just didn’t ring true that Jon was crying about his boss’ wife.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but it looked real enough. You never know. Maybe this woman was a mother figure or something. I can see it. Or maybe Jon lost a parent or someone to a bad disease when he was younger. The emotion can attach itself to a different story. That’s assuming there was a Johnny Trautman and his wife.”

“That should take ten minutes, tops, to confirm.”

“All right, let’s talk about motive. He’s opposed to Hagerty’s side of the debate.”

“Yeah, but he’s traveling with him.”

“At the bar, when you guys were talking football, what did you get off of Ahern?”

“Unless he’s a heck of an actor, he was sincere. I was thinking about their relationship the whole time, trying to read it in their faces, because remember we were both pretty surprised they seemed to be friends. Arlen Hagerty definitely liked Jon Ahern.”

“How’d you see that?” I said.

“Not so much what he said. His body language. It seemed that Hagerty was the senior partner, you know what I mean? He didn’t have to suck up to Jon Ahern, so what you saw on Hagerty’s face and the way he moved was the truth.”

“And the fact Hagerty was nailing someone in his room? That doesn’t change that for you?” I said.

“Not really. I’m not saying Hagerty was a saint. Maybe Margaret won’t sleep with him. Maybe he was into some kinky stuff with Connie or hookers. But it looked like he really liked hanging with Jon. Like Jon was his son, but with none of the father/son baggage. A guy he could talk football with.”

“And you think Jon felt the same way toward Hagerty?”

“It’s hard to say. Knowing what we know now—that someone was going to kill Hagerty in an hour or two—I’m sure I might see something different on Jon’s face. You know, I’d love to crack this case right here, right now, impress the heck out of you. But, tell you the truth, I didn’t see one thing suspicious about Jon last night. He seemed completely comfortable with Hagerty the whole time.”

“All right,” I said. “One thing for certain, it doesn’t make sense Jon would want to take out Hagerty, who’s paying his salary.”

“Yeah, unless Jon’s already worked it out with Margaret that she’s going to take over the road show.”

“You saying she could’ve had Jon take out her husband?”

“Just that it’s possible,” Ryan said. “That way, she gets the respect she thinks she deserves from Soul Savers, a nice promotion. She doesn’t have it in her to kill her husband, but she’s got no good feelings for him. She goes to Jon with a deal: you do it and you get a serious raise. You don’t do it, it happens anyway—and you’re out of a job.”

“Geez,” I said, smiling. “You’re kinda weird.”

“Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

“Don’t be a wiseass,” I said, like a big sister.

“One other thing makes me not like Ahern for the murder. You notice he didn’t try to throw any suspicion on either Margaret or Connie?”

“Yeah, I caught that,” I said. “But maybe he’s just smooth. You know, he realizes we’re watching him carefully. He figures we’re gonna be looking for anything like that. So he talks up the two women, which makes him look cool.”

Ryan said, “Okay, but listen to what he said about them. He did say he didn’t think Margaret could have had anything to do with killing her husband, but he didn’t say anything positive about her. He didn’t even say she believes in their stem-cell cause.”

“Yeah, whereas Connie wears a halo.”

“I see it more like he admires the heck out of her for what’s she’s put up with. She’s been victimized for years, but she’s got dignity.”

“Which means what? He’s doing her or not?”

“I don’t think so,” Ryan said. “He’s old enough to be her father.”

“Yeah, but you told me Hagerty’s doing her, ninety-five percent, and he’s old enough to be her grandfather.”

“True, Jon might be a creep, but the way he called her a beautiful soul, I think he sees Connie as a daughter, not a young girl with a hot body.”

“So, call it.”

“On the other hand, maybe that stuff about her having a beautiful soul is his way of talking himself into not seeing her as a junkie whore. She’s got a hot body, and the beautiful soul compensates for all the miles on her odometer. So my guess—right now, since you’re making me call it—is that both guys were doing her, and Jon flipped out and killed Hagerty because the old guy just saw her as a reliable hard-on. Is that how you see it?”

“I don’t see it at all,” I said. “We don’t have enough facts. Only an inexperienced detective would call it this early.”

“Thanks for the sucker punch,” Ryan said, laughing.

“Not a problem,” I said. “Anytime.”

“I’d sure love to figure out who’s sleeping with who. If we knew that, we’d be in a lot better shape to figure out motive. Got any ideas except for waiting for the DNA?”

“Well, we could come back a little harder on Margaret Hagerty or Jon Ahern, but they won’t be easy to rattle.”

“Then there’s Connie.”

“That’s right,” I said, “and since we’re pretty sure Connie is where we ought to be looking, why don’t we push her a little harder?”

“She’s the one who’s probably most afraid of cops. She might think she’s the path of least resistance because she already has a record and doesn’t have the resources to fight back like the others do. That makes her more likely to slip up. But what do you want to use to push her? We don’t have any new information, right?”

“Right,” I said, “but she doesn’t have to know that.”

“So what do we say we have?”

“DNA. She’s not gonna know we don’t have it yet.”

“But if she meets with Hagerty every night, there’s got to be DNA all over his room.”

“We don’t say it’s all over his room. We say it’s all over his dick.”

Ryan said, “And if she calls our bluff?”

“You mean if she wasn’t screwing Hagerty?”

“Either way: if she was or if she wasn’t.”

“If she wasn’t screwing him,” I said, “we’ll be able to tell by the way she says it. If she was screwing him, she’ll tell us, and then we’ll be closer to figuring out who wanted to kill Hagerty. Either way, it’ll shake up the three of them, assuming they’re talking with each other.”

“Is there a down side of bluffing her?”

“You mean, like she could lose some respect for the Rawlings Police Department?”

“Good point.”


Chapter 4

The uniform in the lobby pointed and said, “The pool.” We followed the signs to the outdoor pool, past the empty exercise room and the locker rooms. The chlorine smell, which lingers even through the winter, told me we were almost there.

The pool and the Jacuzzi were covered for the winter with dark green tarps attached to hardware built into the pebbled cement. In the center of each tarp was a large puddle, filled with dank brown water. The chairs, brown-painted steel with tan plastic straps, were stacked in a corner. The tables and the umbrellas must have been stored somewhere else.

Connie was sitting with her face to the sun, a pale gauze of smoke obscuring her face. This woman must really be addicted to cigarettes if she’s willing to grab a chair and sit out on the pool deck in November just for a smoke. As she watched us approach, her hand shielded her eyes from the sun.

“Ms. de Marco, can we talk with you again?” I said.

“Okay,” she said, no intonation in her voice, no expression on her face. It seemed like she meant exactly what she said: it wouldn’t be particularly good or bad, just okay.

I glanced around for someplace for me and Ryan to sit, but there were no chairs. Seeing that Connie had just started on that cigarette, I turned up my collar and began to talk. “There’s been some new information from the lab,” I said. Connie didn’t say anything. She just kept looking right at me. “We know you were with Arlen Hagerty last night.”

Connie took a long pull on her cigarette, then exhaled slowly. “Yes, I told you that earlier. I met with him almost every night.”

“That’s not what I mean, Ms. de Marco.” I paused. Some people get so uncomfortable with silence they start saying things they hadn’t meant to, but Connie wasn’t one of those people.

“What is it that you mean, Detective?”

I didn’t say anything for a couple of moments. “Why did you lie to us about your relationship with Arlen Hagerty?”

Connie sighed, looking out over my shoulder at the sky. The sky was a pale blue, a few wispy clouds hurrying across.

Ryan said, “Ms. de Marco, lying to us is obstruction of justice.” She looked at him for the first time. “That’s a felony.”

Connie turned her gaze back to me. “Should I get an attorney?”

“No,” I said. “We’re not interested in pursuing that if you help us with the investigation.” Connie nodded slightly, the first sign she was willing to be more forthcoming. “But we need to understand the relationships among the four of you who traveled with the debates. We want to solve this murder. That’s all we care about.”

“What do you want to know?” Connie said, her voice level and low. She took her folding ashtray out of her coat pocket and stubbed out her cigarette.

“Okay, you were in Arlen Hagerty’s room last night.”

“Yes.”

“You had sex with him last night.”

Connie was looking straight ahead, not at me. “Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“What happens every night after that.”

“Which is?”

“I go back to my room, take a long shower, and go to bed.”

“What time was that?”

“About 12:00.”

“When you left him, Arlen Hagerty was alive.”

She looked at me, waited a beat. “Yes.”

“You didn’t kill him.”

“No, I didn’t kill him.”

“I could understand if something happened in that room that got to you, made you want to hurt him.”

“No,” she said, sighing, “there was nothing like that. I didn’t kill him.”

“Do you have any knowledge of what might have happened to Mr. Hagerty after you left his room?”

“No, I don’t.”

“And you say you went back to your own room. You didn’t go to anyone else’s room or see anyone else.”

“That’s right.”

Ryan said, “So you don’t have an alibi for the period from around midnight to 2:00?”

“That’s right.”

I said, “Do you have an intimate relationship with Jonathan Ahern?” Connie smiled slightly.

Ryan said, “Why are you smiling?”

She turned to him. “I was just thinking about the Detective’s words: ‘intimate relationship.’”

“Tell us what you’re thinking about those words,” I said.

Connie reached into her pocket and pulled out her pack of cigarettes and lighter. She tapped one out, lit it, and put the pack and the lighter back in her pocket. “If your question was ‘Am I fucking Jon?’ the answer is no.”

“My question was, ‘Do you have an intimate relationship with Jon Ahern?’ Do you?”

“If by that you mean, do we talk, are we friends, do I enjoy spending time with him, then the answer is yes. I value his friendship more than I can say.”

“But you didn’t go to spend time with him last night after you left Mr. Hagerty’s room. Correct?”

“That’s correct. My relationships with Mr. Hagerty and with Jon are separate. As separate as I can make them.”

“So you don’t know where Jon Ahern was around midnight?” I said.

“That’s right. I never spend time with Jon late at night.” She took a long pull on her cigarette, then exhaled. Picking a piece of tobacco off her lip, she said, “That time was reserved for Mr. Hagerty.”

“Tell us a little more about your relationship with Mr. Hagerty.”

“What exactly do you want to know?” She looked old. Not old, exactly, but I could see what she was going to look like when she got old. It was more like she was incredibly weary, as if I was making her go someplace she didn’t want to go—because she went there all the time on her own.

Ryan said, “Let’s start with what you told us this morning about how you met him. That was true, right?”

Connie looked at me as if to ask whether she had to answer Ryan’s questions. I wanted to tell her no, she didn’t have to. But I stood there, holding her gaze. “Was it true?” I said.

“Yes, it was true.”

Ryan said, “You said this morning you know that the Hagertys have separate bedrooms at home as well as on the road. Are we correct in assuming you know that because you’ve been in his bedroom at home?” She looked straight ahead. “So we can modify your story a little bit, about how you came to travel with the debates? It wasn’t that he needed an assistant on the road so much as he wanted you available. Is that right?” She nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Tell us a little more about your routine—with Mr. Hagerty—on the road.”

This time she asked the question. “Do I have to?”

“Ms. de Marco,” I said, “you’ve admitted you sleep with him. You’re how old—twenty one? Twenty two? He was sixty-something or seventy. And not exactly a Clint Eastwood seventy. So we have to think there was some sort of coercion in that relationship. And since you don’t have an alibi for last night, and you were the last one to see him alive, it’s looking like it’s either Margaret killed him because he was having an affair with you, or you killed him because you just couldn’t stand the humiliation of having to have sex with him night after night. Which one do you think seems more plausible?” Connie sat there, motionless.

“And we could hurry this investigation along by just going to Margaret and telling her what you’ve told us about sleeping with him. One way or the other, something’s gonna happen that will help us figure out who killed her husband. And one thing’s for sure: that ends your employment with the road show, right? So, the way I see it, Ms. de Marco, it would be smart for you to help us understand your relationship with Mr. Hagerty.”

Connie took a deep breath. “I came to Soul Savers just as I said. I was using, and I was hooking. I had left home at fourteen or fifteen. My step dad was abusing me, and my mother was drunk most of the time. She told me that was the price I had to pay, that I should feel lucky he wasn’t hitting me or anything. I was on the streets. No skills. Pretty soon I was using. My dealer was a full-service guy. He pimped me out, too. I show up at Soul Savers because I see a billboard for it. I think, it couldn’t be much worse. And it wasn’t.

“Mr. Hagerty used to meet all the new street kids they took in. He took a liking to me. Within a couple of days, he was taking me aside, rubbing up against me. Then he was sticking his fingers in me and having me give him a suck every once in a while. I was out of the dorms, into my own place. I figured that wasn’t a bad deal. Pretty soon, I’m learning how to run a computer and traveling with them. I just have to stop by around 10:30 at night.”

“Margaret Hagerty knows about this?”

Connie gave me a look that said, You’ve got to be kidding. “I think it was her idea to bring me on the debates. Mr. Hagerty didn’t think she’d let him be so out in the open about it.”

“Okay, so what’s the routine at 10:30?”

“He’s already taken his pill. I change into something hot and lie in the bed next to him. He watches Leno while I fondle his dick. At the first commercial, he turns off the TV. If he’s got a hard-on, he fucks me. If he can’t, he has me suck him. If he still can’t get it up, he lets me go after a few minutes. If he can get it up, I suck him till he comes, or if he’s feeling real manly, he tries to fuck me. After he’s done, he lets me go. I go back to my room.” Connie looked at me. “Is that specific enough?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said. “And last night?”

“Last night he was able to fuck me the first time. I didn’t have to suck him. Then I went back to my room.”

“So nothing unusual happened?”

“Detective,” she said, lighting a cigarette, “I was raped, the first time, I was nine years old. By my uncle. I was sucking my step dad starting when I was twelve. I worked the streets for about three years. So did anything unusual happen last night? Know what would’ve been unusual? If I didn’t have to fuck an old man for money.”

“Thank you, Ms. de Marco. I know this must have been hard for you to tell us. I hope we don’t have to bother you anymore.”

Connie turned to Ryan. “How about you, Detective? Did you get what you needed?”

Ryan turned away, his head down, and he and I walked back toward the hotel. I turned and saw her sitting there, smoke rising and disappearing into the cool November air.

*  *  *

Ryan sat with his elbows on the table, his fingers tented, supporting his jaw. I gave him a minute to process what he just heard from Connie. I looked at his face. He was still a good-looking guy, with strong cheek bones, a long, straight nose. But his eyes were clouded. For the first time since I met him, he looked upset.

He looked like he was realizing for the first time that there really were people like Connie, people with shitty stories to tell. I didn’t get why he seemed so shook up about this one. He must have seen this kind of thing often enough when he was a uniform.

“Hey, Ryan,” I said, hoping he would look at me, maybe start telling me what was on his mind. But he didn’t even seem to hear me, so we sat for a while in the meeting room in the hotel, three feet from each other.

Suddenly, he spoke. “Did you hear the last thing she said to me?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to think of it. “Actually, no. What’d she say?”

“She said ‘How about you, Detective? Did you get what you needed?’”

I hadn’t caught that. I could see now why Ryan was bent out of shape. “Listen, partner, you were doing your job. You were asking things that had to be asked.”

“So I could get off on her sad story?”

“No, that wasn’t what you were doing. Like you say, it’s a sad story, not a sexy story. If you asked her to describe the nightgown she wore to bed with Hagerty, then I’d be thinking you were getting off on it. But you were doing the right thing. You remembered she’d said Hagerty and Margaret have separate bedrooms at home, and you got her to say he used to do her at home, too. Which tells us something about Margaret, because there’s no way she doesn’t know he’s screwing her in her own house. So, you were being a good detective.”

“So that’s why I’m feeling so bad?”

“Yeah, pretty much. You’re going to see a lot of brutal stuff, ugly stuff. And an awful lot of sad stuff. And you keep doing your job. You figure out who killed Arlen Hagerty.”

“I guess I’ll just have to toughen up.”

“Well, maybe a little. If you fall apart and can’t think clearly about Connie and the others, you’re not gonna be able to do this job. But if you get too hardened to the stories you hear, you’ll forget you’re dealing with real people. Then, you won’t be able to get inside their heads, see things through their eyes. And you won’t be able to figure out who killed Hagerty.”

“And after you figure out who killed him, how do you forget about all the bad stories you heard along the way?”

I paused. “What I do is … In fact, I’ve known two detectives who knew how to do it. They were both married to strong people, had families, like you do. Somehow they were able to leave it in the locker. So maybe you’ll figure out how to do it, too.”

“And you, Karen? What did you say you do?”

“I didn’t actually say. But the truth is … the truth is I get drunk most nights.” My hand came up to my mouth and I began biting at a fingernail, like I’ve done since I was, maybe, four. I could see Ryan noticing a drop of blood on my finger.

“Why did you tell me that, Karen?”

“Shit, I don’t know.” I thought a moment. “Didn’t want you to think there was something wrong with you because Connie’s story bummed you out.” That might have been part of it: I told him because it’s something a new detective needs to hear. I was glad when I saw Ryan nod his head. But maybe another reason is I hadn’t talked with anyone for a real long time. My ex and I didn’t talk. We didn’t talk since before he became my ex, which had a lot to do with him becoming my ex. And I didn’t have any girlfriends. Pulling night shift had something to do with that, but so did the divorce. You can lose them in a divorce, too. Those would be the two big reasons.

I decided right then not to let Ryan see anything more about me, at least not for a long while. “All right,” I said, “let’s get back on task here.”

“Absolutely,” Ryan said. “Thanks, Karen.”

“Forget it,” I said, with a melancholy smile. “Really: I mean forget it.”

“You got it, partner.” I was glad to see him smile, even though it wasn’t his big grin.

“Okay, so what are you getting from Connie’s story?”

“Well,” he said, “I’m seeing a motive as big as the sky. I could see myself just flipping out one night and killing him. All it would have taken is one wrong word or one funny look from that creep. Or one perverted request too many.”

“Yeah, you could be right. She could have a good ten years of resentment built up and all of a sudden it busts out.”

“That’s the way I’m seeing it right now,” he said.

“But what about her affect—you know, the monotone voice, the OCD, the smoking? All of those are ways you keep a lid on things, right? If she had flipped out last night and killed him, don’t you think we’d see something weird today that would show her struggling to keep it together?”

“I just don’t know,” Ryan said. “Maybe you flip out, and that helps you get back on track the next day.”

“Yeah, maybe. But how about the lack of an alibi. If I was planning to kill him, I’d work something out with Jon earlier. Even if I wasn’t planning to kill him, the first thing I would’ve done afterwards was go to him. He’s the one I trust. Then I’d have an alibi.”

“You’re making a bunch of assumptions there,” Ryan said. “First, you’re assuming she was thinking clearly enough to set up an alibi. Twenty holes in Hagerty doesn’t suggest clear thinking. And you’re assuming she’d go to Jon. Maybe they’ve got some kind of close relationship but she doesn’t trust him to lie for her. Or maybe she doesn’t want to involve him. You know, she loves him but she wants to protect him. She realizes her life is over now, and she’s not going to take him down with her.”

“Yeah, everything you say is right. She could be the one.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think so,” I said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Her story rings true to me. She’s led such a crappy life for so many years, I see her as being numbed to it. You know, it’s part of her job. And given what she’s had to go through on the street, having to do Hagerty isn’t that bad in comparison. If he doesn’t beat her up and doesn’t make her do anything more degrading than she told us about, she might be okay with it. Sex is part of the job, but he gives her her own room and she mostly gets to control her own time. It adds up, especially given her relationship with Jon Ahern.”

“How do you see that?” Ryan said.

“Well, they’re in love. But since sex is one of her job requirements, she’s not sleeping with Jon. She’s never seen sex as part of a loving relationship. Sex is one of the things she does to get along. So she screws Hagerty, like she does the bookkeeping and arranges the hotels.”

“Okay, so what next?”

“Why don’t we have another chat with Margaret? We can tell her what Connie said about her relationship with her husband. She might try to push us toward thinking Connie’s the one.”

“Let me find out where she is,” Ryan said, getting up and heading out to the uniformed officer at the reception desk. He came back a moment later. “She’s in her room.” We took the stairs to 217 and knocked.

Margaret Hagerty opened the door. She was wearing the same expensive suit she had on this morning. “Detectives,” she said, with a slight edge to her voice. Obviously a little annoyed at having to meet with a couple of municipal workers twice in one day. She was holding her book, her finger keeping it open to the page she was reading.

“Ms. Hagerty, we’re so sorry to interrupt you again, but some new developments have arisen we’d like to talk with you about.”

She said, “Have you captured whoever did this?”

“No, ma’am, not yet.” Apparently, she’d seen some cop shows on TV. “But if we could just come in for a moment to talk with you.”

She sighed. It was a mixture of disappointment that the case had not yet been solved and skepticism that Ryan and I were quite up to the task. She stepped back, allowing us to enter, and motioned with her hand for us to sit as she settled into the soft chair. Ryan took the extra chair that had been delivered this morning.

“Ms. Hagerty, we’ve had a couple of opportunities to interview Connie de Marco.”

“I see.”

“And we wanted to talk with you about something she said, about a relationship with Mr. Hagerty.” Margaret Hagerty’s face was a porcelain mask. I’d never seen anyone maintain her composure so well when she was about to learn something truly embarrassing—or, at any rate, hear something truly embarrassing about her late husband. “I realize how painful this whole episode must be, but for us to carry out this investigation we need to ask you an embarrassing question.”

“I understand completely, Detective. Proceed.”

“Connie told us she had a long-standing sexual relationship with Mr. Hagerty. Would you like to comment on that?”

A hint of a smile broke the mask on Margaret Hagerty’s face. “Is that the embarrassing question you wished to ask me? Whether my husband had a sexual relationship with Connie?”

“Well, yes, Ms. Hagerty. Yes, it was.”

“Detectives, you can both relax. There is no cause for embarrassment. I am aware that Connie had—what did you call it, ‘a long-standing sexual relationship’?—with Mr. Hagerty. Yes, Arlen began his relationship with Connie soon after she presented herself at Soul Savers. He had not yet concluded his sexual relationship with Gail Something, which followed his sexual relationship with Jackie Something, which followed more sexual relationships than I can name. My memory for such things is not what it once was.”

“So, Ms. Hagerty, these relationships didn’t make you jealous?”

Margaret Hagerty laughed, her capped teeth white and perfect. It was the first sign of joy we had seen from anyone in the debate party since Hagerty had been iced. “Jealous? May I ask you a question, Detective Seagate?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have you lived in Montana your whole life?” The smile was gone, but her eyebrow was raised theatrically.

“Ms. Hagerty,” I said, deciding not to respond to that question, “could you tell us a little about the relationship between you, Connie, and Mr. Hagerty?”

“Certainly. Mr. Hagerty and I married six years ago. Ours was his third marriage, my fourth. Neither of you is quite at the stage of life Mr. Hagerty and I were in at that time, but I need you to trust me when I say that, for us, at any rate, sex was not part of our relationship. I will not elaborate on this point except to note that I entered our marriage fully aware that Arlen still had sexual appetites, although I can say that our several less-than-successful attempts revealed his performance could not keep pace with his desires.

“When I discovered he often found willing partners from among the young girls who presented themselves at our gates, I was somewhat concerned. For one thing, if his relationships with these girls became known, the publicity could have a serious negative impact on the operations and revenues of Soul Savers.

“For another, these girls are not, by and large, blushing virgins. The danger of a serious disease cannot be overlooked. Consequently, when I saw that he had taken a liking to Connie, I did what I had done with the previous girls.”

“What was that?” I said. As I finished my question, I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I made a mental note to check it when the interview was over.

“I had her tested thoroughly for every manner of sexual disease. She turned out to be free of any disease that can hurt male partners. She has HPV, which could affect other females, but that is, of course, none of my concern.”

“And about Connie traveling with the debate?”

“It dawned on me, perhaps a year or fifteen months ago, that having Connie travel with us would be practical. She is a very efficient worker, and with her along, Arlen would not have to go to the trouble, the expense, and the risk of retaining an escort on the road. Connie understood the arrangement, and she is apparently content with it.”

“Apparently, yes,” I said. “And what is Connie’s relationship with Jonathan Ahern?”

“Connie assured me she is not intimate with Jon, and therefore there was no danger she would contract a disease that would infect Arlen. In fact, Connie agreed to my demand that she commit to celibacy—except for her relationship with Arlen, of course—and I have no reason to believe she has reneged on the agreement.”

“Did you know Jonathan and Connie are in love with each other?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said, uncrossing her legs and re-crossing them in the other direction, “but I’m pleased to learn that. Love is a beautiful experience when you’re young.”

That’s one of the perks of this job: you get to meet really interesting people. But Margaret was right, of course: love is for the young. The young don’t understand Newton’s first law of marriage: if you can fall in love, you can fall out of love. If you married the guy because you believed your love was special—he wouldn’t get bored, wouldn’t drift away, wouldn’t turn into someone so different that you not only didn’t love him anymore but couldn’t even imagine why you once did love him—well, that just shows you were too young to get married. Margaret’s way was a whole lot smarter: get your own money, form a partnership with another person who’s got his own money, and let him bring his mistress along so he won’t get the clap and have to cancel a gig because he’s pissing razor blades.

I looked over to Ryan, giving him a chance to ask Margaret any questions. He shook his head, the gesture appearing to capture his mood at that point. “All right, then, Ms. Hagerty, thank you very much for your candor. I hope we don’t have to disturb you again.”

Margaret Hagerty remained in her chair, her face telling me nothing as she watched me and Ryan leave.

*  *  *

Downstairs in the lobby, Ryan said, “Could you use a coffee or something?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s getting kind of squirrelly up on the second floor. How about right here at the bar? It’s on me.”

Ryan nodded, and I got us a couple of club sodas from the bartender, a fifty-something woman, hair dyed a red I’d never seen in nature, wearing too much turquoise eye shadow and Raggedy Ann rouge. The Courtyard had her in a starched white shirt, buttoned to the neck, with a shiny black clip-on bow tie. I had no idea what kind of tone she was supposed to be setting.

Ryan said, “Margaret’s a piece of work, huh?”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen weirder.”

“You’re kidding. She’s pimping out Connie to her husband, and she says she’s glad Connie’s in love?”

“That’s what you’d call irony, right?”

“No,” Ryan said. “That’s what I’d call sin.”

“Yeah, that, too,” I said. “The thing pissing me off is we’re not getting any straight answers from these people. They start out talking like they all come from Mayberry, then we confront them and they reveal a little more.”

“And they’re not even embarrassed or anything when they get caught lying.”

“Well, don’t ever expect that. I guess if you’re the kind of person who’s pimping a girl for your husband, your natural reaction when someone calls you on it is to suggest they’re small town.”

Harsh light from the fluorescent bulbs in the tiny gift shop next door spilled over into the bar. The bartender was talking with a younger woman wearing the hotel blazer. She was leaning with her chin on her fist, elbow on the bar, the other hand lazily stirring her ginger ale, looking like she talked with this bartender just about every day at this time, and they’d run out of things to say a long time ago. The woman in the blazer looked at her watch, her break apparently over, and got up and left, waving halfheartedly to the bartender.

“So, what next?”

“I think we should talk with someone from Soul Savers who might be able to tell us who’s being straight with us.”

“Yeah, if anyone is. Let me take a look at the site again,” Ryan said, pulling out his laptop and booting it. “You want another club soda?” he said.

“No,” I said, draining off the remainder of my glass. “I’m good.”

“I’ll get the next one.” Ryan pulled up the site and clicked on About Us. “How about this?” he said, pointing to the link for the Board of Directors.

“Yeah, follow that,” I said. We scanned the list of the six members of the Soul Savers Board. There was an evangelical pastor, a priest, two presidents of church-related universities, a business leader, and the founder of Soul Savers.

“How about this guy: Archbishop Brian McManus?” Ryan pointed to the Chairman of the Board of Directors. We read the little bio after his name. A Doctor of Divinity from Notre Dame, Archbishop for the Archdiocese of Denver, covering all of northern Colorado. “He looks legit,” Ryan said.

“Google him, will ya?” Ryan pulled up the site for his archdiocese. “Appointed in 1999 by the Pope. He’s officially the Most Reverend Brian L. McManus, O.F.M. Cap., whatever that means. BA in Philosophy, Loyola Marymount; MA in Theology, Catholic University; Doctor of Theology, Fordham University. Pastor in Brooklyn; Scranton, Pennsylvania; Colorado Springs. Secretary and Treasurer for the Archdiocese, then the co-chancellor of the Archdiocese of Chicago, then Archbishop of Denver.”

Ryan said, “Look at this, will you? In Chicago he was Secretary of the Archdiocesan Commissions on Ecumenism and Human Relations, on the Chicago Conference on Religion and Race and the Interreligious Committee for Urban Affairs. Professor of Canon Law at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome, a consultor of the Congregation for the Clergy.” Ryan scrolled down the page. “It just keeps going. National Conference of Catholic Bishops. All kinds of committees in Chicago, Denver, Rome. Four honorary doctorates, served on two Presidential commissioners, on race and on poverty.”

“Okay, I’ve heard enough. He’s the real deal,” I said. “Read me his phone number,” I said, rummaging through my big leather shoulder bag for my notebook. “I think he’s worth a call.” As Ryan was giving me the number, I remembered I’d gotten a call when we were interviewing Margaret Hagerty. “Wait a second,” I said, grabbing my phone and studying the screen. “Harold Breen called me. Maybe he’s got something from the autopsy. Let me call him real quick, then I’ll call the Archbishop and see if he’s got anything.”

I dialed the Medical Examiner at headquarters. “Harold, Karen. You got anything on Arlen Hagerty?” I listened for a moment. “Great, ten minutes,” I said. “Harold’s got some results for us. Let’s go back to headquarters. I’ll call the Archbishop, then we’ll see what Harold’s figured out.”

As we walked out to the Crown Vic, I got the first sense we were really going into winter. The wind had a kick to it. We could see it on the faces of the people we passed; they looked grim, hunched over, holding their coats shut, like winter had Montana in its teeth and was going to hold on tight and shake the life out of it for four or five months.

Back at headquarters, I settled in at my desk and dialed the archdiocese. I got caught up in phone tree—three different people before I could get someone who would talk with me about the Archbishop’s schedule. I explained it was in regard to the murder of Arlen Hagerty. The Archbishop was very busy, the woman said.

Why do they always say things like that? Do they think I expect the Archbishop to be flipping pennies off the edge of a table, trying to land them in a shot glass?

The assistant told me the Archbishop would be able to phone me in an hour and could give me ten minutes. The hour would give her time enough to check out if there was a Karen Seagate or a Rawlings Police Department or, in fact, a Rawlings or a Montana.

“Okay,” I said to Ryan, “let’s see what Harold’s got.” We walked downstairs, past Robin’s crime lab to the ME’s office.

“Hey, kids,” Harold Breen said as he looked up from a microscope.

I loved Harold but hated his lab, with its tile walls and floor, the harsh, bright fluorescent lights, the astringent chemical smell that got up in your nose and stayed there for a couple days. Plus, there was usually a corpse or two lying on steel gurneys.

On a good day, the bodies were covered with sheets. Today was not a good day. Arlen Hagerty lay on a metal table, uncovered, his torso a huge empty red and purple cavity, the organs on a shiny steel tray on a cart next to the corpse. “What did you figure out, Harold?” I said to him, looking straight into his eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at the body.

“Well, I’m pretty sure it was foul play,” he said.

“Good, so we can rule out twenty identical sharp objects falling out of the sky?” Harold always started with the same joke, and I had to respond with a victim-appropriate “so we can rule out” response. Then he would answer me straight. I didn’t mind.

“Yeah, what happened was someone, probably right handed from the angles, used a reasonably sharp instrument, maybe a screw driver, to put twenty-four holes in your guy’s chest and abdomen. He bled out, but he would have died of multiple organ failure anyway because there were a bunch of significant lacerations to his heart, his lungs, and a handful of other important parts they told us about in doctor school. He was probably dead in ten minutes.”

“What have you got on the killer?” I said.

“As I said, right handed. Reasonably good strength: the weapon hit a bunch of ribs and took pretty big chunks out of them. And pissed. He was really pissed.”

“From the number of wounds?”

“Number and severity. If you were just trying to kill this guy, you’d’ve known after four or five stabs he was a goner. The blood would be geysering out of his chest. Let me show you something else over here,” Harold said, pointing to the steel tray next to Hagerty’s body.

“Show Ryan,” I said. “I’ll be waiting over here.” Ryan walked over to the cart, his heels tapping on the tile floor.

“Look at this,” Harold said to him, pointing to an organ on the tray. “Know what it is?”

“Well, it’s kidney shaped,” he said. “I have no idea.”

I was really starting to like Ryan.

“Very good, young man. Now see that slit in it?”

Ryan leaned in a little closer. “That’s a puncture wound. You saying the killer stabbed Hagerty in the back?”

“No, that’s the interesting thing. There were no entrance wounds on the back. The killer pushed the weapon in with such force it traveled a good twelve or fifteen inches and took out this kidney. I’m telling you, this guy was really pissed.”

Ryan said, “I’m going to write that down in my notes: ‘really pissed.’ Any defensive wounds on the vic?”

“No,” Harold said. “I did find some tissue under a couple of fingers on each hand. I got it to Robin, who’s following up on the DNA.”

“Anything else, Harold?” I said.

“Thank you for asking, Karen. There is one other thing. The murderer didn’t have to kill him. He was going to die anyway.”

Harold liked to save the interesting things for the end. “I didn’t go to doctor school, Harold, like you did, but aren’t we all going to die anyway?”

“Yes, Karen, that’s true, but not before the end of the year.” He paused, a tiny smile creasing his fleshy face, turning his eyes into slits.

“Really? What was his problem?”

“Dilated cardiomyopathy.”

“English?”

“Big sick heart.”

“How big?”

“Your heart is about the size of your fist. His was double that. It was huge, and the muscle was all slack. Which means it wasn’t pumping blood efficiently. So I opened it up. Look at this, Ryan.” My partner peered in. “The veins and arteries were clogged to about twenty percent of capacity. Watch,” he said, picking up a scalpel and making a two-inch incision along a big artery connected to the heart.

“What’s all that yellow stuff?” Ryan said.

“That’s the cholesterol. You know, you want to convince people to eat healthy, you’d open up a vein or artery like this.”

I’ve always wondered how Harold can understand the workings of the human body so well and still stay about three-fifty. Another irony, I guess.

“So to confirm the diagnosis, I opened up the lungs. Look here,” Harold said, making a small incision in one of the lungs. A pale, milky fluid oozed out. “As you may remember, lungs are supposed to be full of air, not fluid. This is another marker for DCM. And look at his swollen ankles. He was in end stage.”

“And that’s because of his size?”

“That’s part of it. He was carrying about an extra hundred and twenty-five, hundred and fifty pounds. So he was officially morbidly obese, which of course is a killer in itself. But I also checked his liver. Here, get this,” Harold said, pointing to a black organ on the tray. “It’s huge. And you see the pebbling on the surface? It’s supposed to be smooth, with a handful of little holes. You’re looking at advanced cirrhosis. So don’t drink.”

Ryan said, “I don’t drink.”

“What are you, a Boy Scout?”

“Pretty much. Mormon.”

“Good for you. I bet you’ve got a good-looking, smooth liver.”

“I get compliments.”

“I like your new partner, Karen.”

“Me, too. So, Harold, you’re saying there’s a good chance Hagerty would have died soon?”

“No, I’m saying it’s a certainty he would have died within two months, probably one month.”

“Did he know it?”

“Well, it’s pretty hard to miss you’ve got something really wrong. He’d have heart palpitations, shortness of breath, leg pain, chronic fatigue. People tell me fatsos have a lot of those symptoms,” he said, “though of course I wouldn’t know personally. Whether he went to a doc, I don’t know. Most of the tests for DCM are non-invasive. Some, like cardiac catheterization or endomyocardial biopsy, would leave scars. But with this guy sliced up worse than a Thanksgiving turkey at a homeless shelter, no way you’d be able to see anything.”

“All right,” I said, “so if you knew his medical condition and wanted him dead, all you’d have to do is wait.”

“Yeah,” Harold Breen said, “but if you also hated him and wanted him to know it, or you just flipped out—a good long-necked screwdriver sends s clear message.”

“Thanks, Harold. Ryan, you two boys can stay down here in the den and play. I wanna get back upstairs in case the Archbishop calls.” As I left, I caught Ryan asking Harold if he could try making a couple of cuts in an artery. I didn’t stay to hear Harold’s response.

*  *  *

I was glad to be out of Harold’s lab. I could use a few minutes away from Ryan, too. He seemed like a good guy. He was smart and didn’t seem to mind letting me be the senior detective. That in itself was something, because I didn’t think any of the four other detectives, all of them closer to my age or even older than I was, would tolerate it for a minute. But still, I didn’t know Ryan well, and—shit—he was closer to my son’s age than to mine.

I wasn’t sure how much he had heard about me. I assume he knew about my one-night stand with a uniform, which enabled my ex-husband to grab custody of Tommy and got me in trouble with the Chief. Ryan had to know that. One thing I learned from my time in blue is that uniforms love to watch detectives screw up, that they keep score of everything, from gossip to bending regs to full-blown corruption. It’s a class system, as unforgiving as anything the British had devised. And the fact a uniform could become a detective—that all detectives started as uniforms but most uniforms would never become detectives—makes the resentment that much greater.

I sat there at my desk, waiting for the Archbishop to call, thinking about how good a Jack Daniel’s double would taste. I wasn’t counting on him calling. Big shots like him didn’t tend to pick up the phone and call small fry like me. Still, he might, if he thought the Hagerty murder would bring a shitstorm of bad publicity to an organization he was associated with. He might want to cooperate if only to help me get the story off the TV and the Web. But if that was the way he was thinking, I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to call when his assistant said he would. Important people loved to be running a little late. It showed how much the little people needed them, and how gracious and compassionate they themselves were in granting them the extra little time they didn’t actually deserve but deeply appreciated.

I was starting to get really pissed off at this pompous asshole I had never met who would keep me from getting home on time. The phone rang. “Seagate,” I said.

“Detective Seagate, this is Brian McManus calling.”

Holy shit. One, he calls. Two, he uses his name, like he’s a human. “Archbishop McManus, thanks for calling.”

“My pleasure, Detective. This is about Arlen Hagerty, I assume?”

“Yes, it is, Archbishop. First, though, what should I call you?”

“How about ‘Archbishop’? We’re not at a barbeque, but we’re not at the Vatican, either.”

“Okay, great, Archbishop. I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, so let me get right to it. I called you in your capacity as Chairman of the Board of Soul Savers. I’m the lead detective in the Arlen Hagerty case, and I was hoping you could give me some perspective on the people who were here with the debate.”

“I’ll be happy to try, Detective, but you should know that as Chairman of the Board, my duty is to oversee the operations of Soul Savers, to make sure they are adhering to best practices in running a charitable and philanthropic organization. I might not know as much about the personalities of the Soul Savers leadership as you think.”

“I understand, sir, but let me ask a couple of questions,” I said. “About Margaret Hagerty. Could you explain her role in the organization?”

“Sure, Margaret is the vice president. In Soul Savers, that means essentially that she is the second in command behind her husband, who was the president. I haven’t had time even to contact the other Board members and schedule a meeting to discuss the tragic passing of Arlen Hagerty, and I must admit I haven’t even had a moment to think about the issue of succession. I believe the by-laws call for the Board to appoint an acting president, but that the vice president does not automatically become president if the president cannot fulfill the duties of the presidency.”

“Do you think Margaret would wish to be president?”

“Yes, indeed. Margaret is a woman of many talents. She has a keen organizational mind. She can think at an extremely high level, both tactically and strategically. I assume she would wish to carry on her husband’s work, because it was she who approached the Board several years ago, seeking an official role in Soul Savers. She had spent some years assisting her husband in an informal capacity, and I must say she always impressed the entire Board with the clarity and depth of her thinking, as well as her numerous ideas for improving the operations of the organization.”

“So you think the Board would be positively disposed to her being president?”

“Well, I hesitate to speak for anyone other than myself … Oh, my goodness, Detective. I forgot for an instant that I was speaking with a police detective. Please tell me you are not considering the possibility that Margaret Hagerty had anything to do with the murder of her husband.”

“No, no, Archbishop, absolutely not,” I said. He sounded upset. No point in rattling him more. “I’m just trying to get a sense of who the players are. No, we don’t suspect Margaret Hagerty at all.” I was pretty sure this was the first time I’d lied to an archbishop. I lie to everyone; it’s what I do. I just don’t talk to a lot of archbishops.

“I’m greatly relieved, I must say. Margaret Hagerty has worked tirelessly on behalf of Soul Savers for many years, and I would feel terrible if I thought anything I said had given you the impression—a wholly unfounded impression—that her motivations were anything other than completely selfless.”

Ryan came up to my desk, and he stood there, unsure whether I wanted him to sit down. I motioned for him to sit and hit the Speaker button.

“No, no, I didn’t read you as saying that at all. If I could, though, I’d like to get back to that question you were just about to answer, about whether you think the Board would look positively on her becoming president.”

“Yes, of course. I would imagine—again, I cannot speak for anyone other than myself—that the Board members, with one possible exception, would look on Margaret’s candidacy with pleasure and relief.”

“Who would that possible exception be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“No, there have been several items in the local media about a split on the Board. I hesitate to even call it a split. It is certainly nothing that would rise to the level of a schism. The Board member I refer to is Timothy Sanders, the founder of Soul Savers.”

“What should I know about Mr. Sanders?”

“Mr. Sanders, who is, incidentally, the only other Roman Catholic on the Board, founded Soul Savers some fifteen years ago. He envisioned it as a charitable organization built on the principles of family and respect for the life of the individual. His positions reflected, fairly closely, those of the Church.”

“Help me understand what you’re saying, Archbishop. How did his views come in conflict with those of the rest of the Board, or of Arlen Hagerty?”

“I would say the conflict was more a question of means than of ends. Mr. Sanders wished Soul Savers to remain a fairly small charitable organization in Colorado Springs, ministering primarily to young women at times of crisis. His focus was always on protecting the lives of the unborn by helping these young women find families that wished to adopt their babies.”

“And what was Mr. Hagerty’s focus?”

“Mr. Hagerty always took a keen interest in young women.” I shot Ryan a look. He gave me the abbreviated closed-fist jab, which my ex taught me was the universal male gesture for sex. “However,” the Archbishop said, “Arlen saw that Soul Savers could become a much larger organization that could branch out into other family-values issues. But he thought the organization could grow only if it took a more public stance in the civic arena. The stem-cell debates, for instance, were the idea of Arlen Hagerty, and of Margaret, of course.

“Timothy Sanders thought the debates cheapened Soul Savers, turning it into—I believe his phrase was a ‘sideshow act.’ He warned that the organization was on a slippery slope, that it was in danger of becoming a political organization that would be swallowed up by the greater Christian conservative movement and lose its identity. He objected, for instance, when he learned the Hagertys were distributing get-out-the-vote pamphlets and voter-registration forms at the debates.”

“I take it Timothy Sanders lost the battle?”

“I’m afraid he did. When he presented an ultimatum to the Board—we must stop the debates and return to our original mission or he would step down as president—the Board called his bluff and installed Arlen. I might add that my election as chairman of the Board was probably a sop to Timothy. As a highly visible member of the Roman Catholic Church who was originally appointed to the Board primarily, I suspect, to enhance its ecumenicalism, I certainly did not expect to assume its leadership. But then I was elected to chair the Board, and Timothy was appointed a life member, in honor of his accomplishments.”

“Does Timothy Sanders still live in Colorado Springs?”

“No, he moved back to this home town of Waco, Texas, I believe, when he resigned as president.”

“Let me ask you one more question about Margaret Hagerty, if you don’t mind. I realize you’ve been very generous with your time, Archbishop. Do you know whether she was aware her husband was critically ill?”

“Heavens, no, I had no idea he was ill. What was his illness?”

“He had heart disease. It had progressed quite far.”

“I had no idea.”

“And one more question, Archbishop. Do you recognize the names Jonathan Ahern or Connie de Marco?”

“Jonathan Ahern is the fellow who debates—debated, I should say—Arlen. I never met the man, although I had heard Arlen was quite fond of him. And the other person—Connie, you said?—I haven’t heard of her.”

“Archbishop, I’ll let you go now. Let me express again how grateful I am for being so generous with your time.”

“My pleasure, Detective Seagate. I hope you can apprehend whoever committed this terrible crime.”

“We’re sure going to do everything we can. If you can think of anything you’d like to add, please call this number.”

“I certainly will, Detective. Godspeed.”

“Yes, Archbishop, you, too,” I said, cringing at my signoff as I hung up. Well, at least I didn’t say, “Right back at ya.”

“Okay, Karen,” Ryan said, his hands clasped behind his head, “what did you learn, except that Arlen Hagerty took a keen interest in young women.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think that’s something we can all agree on. The Archbishop describes Margaret as smart and ambitious, but he was horrified at the thought I was considering her a suspect.”

“So you told him she isn’t.”

“Sure, why not? No reason not to.”

Ryan said, “Did you get the impression he was pointing to her and just pretending to be horrified?”

“No, not at all. I think he was being completely straight with me.”

“Well, we need to track down this Timothy Sanders.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“But we haven’t gotten any closer to ruling out Margaret as a suspect.”

“Not until we can find out she knew he was gonna die anyway.”

“I don’t know,” Ryan said. “That would make it less likely she would kill him, but it doesn’t rule it out.”

“Yeah, you’re right. People can flip out and do stupid things. Still, it’d be good to know whether Margaret knew Arlen was circling the drain. I think that sounds like a nice project for you.” I looked at my watch. “I’m gonna head on home, Ryan.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” he said.

I was walking out when I heard someone call my name from the break room. I looked over. It was Matt, a uniform.

“Detective Seagate, got a second?” he said. Since our one-night stand almost two years ago, I had tried to avoid him. One of the ten or twelve things I had learned from that mistake is, you don’t ever want to get involved with someone you work with.

“Hey,” I said.

“Say, Detective—”

“Just use my name, okay?”

“Yeah, sure, Karen,” he said. “I hear you and Ryan caught the security for the stem-cell guy.”

“That’s right.”

“That didn’t go down too good, did it?” he said, smirking.

“You mean him getting killed?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Where you going with this? You got something you’re tying to say?”

“No, nothing. It just seems the security didn’t work out that good, know what I mean?”

“Yeah, Matt, everyone always knows what you mean.”

“Hey, no need for an attitude,” he said, palms up, forcing a little laugh.

“He was in his hotel room, where someone killed him. How’re we supposed to prevent that?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Of course, if you’d been there with him …”

I shook my head in disgust. “I’m just wondering, Matt. Are you disappointed you turned out so incredibly stupid, or you okay with it?”

“You didn’t think I was stupid that night at the club—or in your bedroom.”

“Yeah, I did,” I said, walking out of the break room. Truth was, I couldn’t recollect anything he said, ever. He might have been speaking Greek the night we were together. I did remember his beautiful grey eyes and his smile, like a little boy’s, and the way he looked that morning, asleep on my bed. I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about Matt.

In fact, I never thought about him—unless he threw it in my face. Now, reviewing my decisions that night, I wondered whether I was so taken with him I didn’t see what an idiot he was, or if I had him figured out all along and just didn’t care. I wasn’t feeling real good about either of those explanations. One thing for sure: with the two of us working in the same building, I was never going to put that one night behind me. I turned to face him. “You’re an asshole.”

*  *  *

I was exhausted when I picked up the phone and hit the On button. I do a lot of stupid things these days, but I don’t think I’m basically a stupid person, if that distinction makes any sense. But I was sure I was calling him too much. I turned the phone off and put it back on the table. Screw it. I picked it up a second time, hit On again, and punched his speed dial.

“Hello?”

Shit, it was the girlfriend. “Angela, this is Karen. Is Tommy in?” This girl’s been around over five months, which could be a record for Bruce. His strategy, although he would never admit it, probably never even recognize it, was to make up for the time we were married. Thirteen years, at maybe three or four women per year. Forty-five, give or take, is a lot of women. And while he was going through them, the clock kept ticking, dozens more girls turning eighteen every day. He would never catch up.

“Let me see if I can get him.” Angela called out Tommy’s name. Her voice was clear and strong, unconcerned. Living in the father’s house, getting a call from the mother—she didn’t find it uncomfortable. Why should she? If anyone was out of line, it was me, not her.

I heard the tiny tap as Angela placed the phone on the table. It sounded like soft wood, probably the pine end table near the front door. Angela was humming something cheery as she sailed off to do the next thing.

A moment later Tommy picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi, honey, how are you?”

“Oh, hi, Mom. Shitty, thanks, and you?”

“Hey, watch your language. Cursing on the phone is a federal offense, asshole.”

“Yeah, I know, and you’re a cop.”

“That’s right. And I can bust you anytime I want.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, sweetie, I just wanted to talk to you, see what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on. Like I told you yesterday, and the day before that.” The words struck me like a fist. The one thing I feared most was happening: he was pulling back. I knew I was trying too hard to stay in his life, to show him how much I loved him, to help him stay on top of things. But I wasn’t doing it smart enough. I was screwing it up, just as I had the divorce and the custody.

When Bruce left, I’d fallen apart. We hadn’t been close for a while, and I had concluded Bruce was a cold, self-centered jerk who mostly wanted to be left alone to play with his stupid fishing rods. His idea of a great day was to trailer the aluminum boat to the lake and sit there for five or six hours, staring at the fishing line, making sure it didn’t twitch, taking a break every now and then to piss beer into the water.

When he couldn’t go out in the boat and sit there for hours doing nothing, he would turn on the TV and watch some other idiot sit in a boat, doing nothing. My God, at least when you watch golf on TV you’re pretty sure someone’s gonna take a swing at the ball every once in a while, not just stand there for an hour staring at the grass.

But Bruce was an attentive husband every third night. Hey, I need it, he would say, and I couldn’t tell whether he was too stupid to know how that made me feel or just didn’t give a shit. Which of course made it worse when he left. If he had been half as good a man as he was when we got married, that would have been one thing. People can grow apart. Marriages can get parched and die. Still, when an enormous waste of space like Bruce decides to move on, it’s hard seeing that as a compliment.

The custody arrangement was routine. Tommy stayed with me, and Bruce picked him up on weekends. This was when that thing happened with Matt. Two days later, the Chief called me into his office and told me I was transferred to the night shift. I said I couldn’t do that, because of my son. He told me it was night shift or I was gone. He couldn’t have me “fucking the uniforms”—he was always something of a poet.

I was furious. I said why don’t you move Matt? The Chief said I was the one who slept with him. As a detective, I should have known better. I still wonder whether Matt slept with me just for bragging rights or to help the Chief get rid of me.

So I went to Bruce for help. Kind of a mistake. He blew up at me, saying I was whoring around in front of Tommy. He told me it was my problem; there wasn’t anything he could do. But that next week he thought of something: he went to the judge who handled the divorce and got custody. Bruce’s mother, Eileen, who lived in town, said she was willing to fill in after school at Bruce’s house.

“Well, come on,” I said to Tommy on the phone. “There’s gotta be something going on in that pathetic teenage hell you call a life. I mean, you do wake up, right? And go to school, don’t you? Something’s gotta happen.” No response. I counted one, two, three. “Listen, pal, you give me two sentences in a row right now or I’m coming over, and you know I’m gonna make you brush your damn teeth, which I know you hate doing.”

“All right, all right.”

“Okay, now we’re gonna talk, like two advanced primates.”

“Great.”

“So, the basketball camp ended, right? How was that?”

“Yeah, the basketball camp ended. I almost forgot about that. We had our big awards thing at the pizza place.”

“Yeah, you have fun?”

“Fun? Sure, I had a lot of fun. The perfect ending to the perfect season. It starts with me not making the A team. It continues with me taking four whole shots in twelve games.”

“But, honey, that’s not the point of—”

“What did you call for?”

“I told you, to see how you’re doing. Listen, Tommy. You’re going to have to deal with this. So you’re not the world’s greatest basketball player. There’s a lot worse things—”

“I don’t give a crap about the basketball, Mom. I know I suck. It’s just, they could’ve given me one of those shitty trophies—”

“All right, that’s it. You have the right to remain silent—”

“Okay, okay. But they could have made one up saying ‘Made the Other Team Feel Good When He Stepped on the Court’ or something. Anything. Shit, they even gave one to the wheelchair kid who just flaps his—”

“Tommy, you know what we agreed about referring to Mike.” It came out harsh. I meant it to.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just if they could give—”

“It’s just nothing. You talk about him respectfully. End of story.”

“Okay, okay.” His voice was small. “I’m sorry.”

I could feel his shame. I let it hang there for a moment. “Well, you never know, brat. Maybe they ordered you an extra-small trophy and it got tossed out with the packing peanuts.”

“Ha, ha. That’s hilarious.” But I could hear he was trying to cover up a small laugh.

“So, is Angela all moved in?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Dad made me go over to John’s for the weekend.”

“I understand. He didn’t want to make it any more crazy for you than necessary.”

“Sure, this way I didn’t notice anything. I just came down to breakfast and said ‘Good morning, Mom. We got any corn flakes? Say, wait a minute. I thought you had brown hair, Mom. And weren’t you a little taller? And didn’t your name used to be Karen? Wait: I think I figured it out. You’re not my mom, are you? That’s right, you’re my dad’s new girlfriend.’”

“Okay, that’s enough. Look, this is hard for everyone. Your father’s trying to do this the best way he can—”

“And he’s doing a really shitty job at it.”

“Honey, you’re gonna have to be patient. Everyone’s just feeling their way along here. There’s no easy way to do these things.”

“Duh.”

“You know your father loves you, wiseass, and you know I love you, too.”

“And does Angela wuv me, too, Mommy? Does she, Mommy? Does she?”

“I take that back. I used to love you. Then you turned into an idiot teenager, and now I don’t love you anymore.”

“Oh, Mommy, you’re bweaking my wittle heart.”

“In fact, I happen to know Angela wanted to move in with your father for quite some time, but she put it off for a while.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Well, she thought your father lived alone. So one night she said to him, ‘Bruce, I’d love to move in with you, but unless you have a really annoying fourteen-year-old boy—’”

“This is extremely funny.”

“‘A horribly obnoxious fourteen-year-old boy living with you, the whole deal is off.’”

“Can you hear me laughing hysterically?”

“‘A foul-mouthed, moody, sucks-at-school, couldn’t-sink-a-basketball-if-he-had-a-six-foot-step-ladder-and-twenty-minutes …’”

“Well, it’s been great talking with you, Mom, as always.”

“Get the point, twerp?”

“Yes, Mommy, I get the point.”

“I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Thanks for calling, Mom.”

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye.”

I couldn’t even turn off the phone and get it back in the charger before the tears came, all at once, screwing up my whole damn face. I picked up my drink, but my hands were shaking so bad the JD was jumping out of the glass. Slumping over on the couch, gasping for breath in long, desolate sobs, I put the drink back on the end table. This was a first for me: shaking too much to drink. Better learn how to do it. One more life skill to put on my to-do list.

I thought, How am I doing? Shitty, thanks, and you?


Chapter 5

I was forty-five minutes late when I stumbled in and collapsed into my chair. I was still wearing my coat, a muffler wrapped around my neck, my big leather shoulder bag hooked on my shoulder, hanging over the side of the chair. I looked at my watch. “Shit,” I said. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

I think he was looking at me funny. I thought I looked pretty good, considering I was working on about three hours’ sleep, having passed out the night before and not had time to shower or put on some makeup and clean clothes. True, my hair was a little on the oily side, my eyes a little bloodshot, and the pale grey bags under my eyes not so pale. I’m forty two. I don’t bounce back as fast as I used to.

“Good morning,” Ryan said.

It took me a moment to focus on his face. “Good morning,” I said, the words coming out fuzzy. I shook off my coat, leaving it hanging limply on the back and arms of my chair. I didn’t realize my scarf was still on. I dropped my bag to the floor. “You seen the Chief out here this morning?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Ryan said, his voice low.

“That’s good,” I said. “He’s the last thing I need this morning.”

“You might want to hang up your coat, take your scarf off, in case he wanders in.”

“Good idea. Thanks. Soon as I can get some coffee and something to eat.” I tried to stand, but my scarf was caught up in my coat and I fell back down into my chair. “Isn’t that how Isadora Duncan died?” I said, unwrapping the scarf from my neck.

“Standing up out of a chair?” Ryan said. I don’t think he knew who Isadora Duncan was.

“Something like that,” I said, this time successfully escaping from the chair. I walked slowly to the break room. A moment later, I made it back to my desk with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a doughnut in my hands. I looked at my chair, confused. “What the hell?” The coat and scarf had disappeared.

“I hung ’em up,” Ryan said.

“Thanks,” I said, slumping back into my chair.

“Karen, we need to talk.”

He was looking at me. I raised my head and tried to focus on his face. “Are you breaking up with me, Ryan?”

“I’m serious, Karen.”

“Not now,” I said, my palm on my forehead. “I had kind of a shitty night. Just give me a chance to wake up, will ya?”

“That’s what I’m concerned about.”

“Just drop it,” I said, and I heard it come out sharp. I put the doughnut down on my desk and looked up at him, my eyes burning. “What’s your problem? That I’m late? That I need a couple minutes this morning to get alert? You’re a concerned taxpayer who isn’t getting his money’s worth? You want me to refund your taxes? What do you want? Five bucks? Ten? Just tell me how much you want.” I was fishing through my bag, looking for my wallet.

I could feel another set of eyes on me. It was the only other detective in the bullpen, an older guy named Campbell, looking over at me, shaking his head. I turned back to Ryan. He was sitting back in his chair, looking clouded and hurt. “Answer me, Ryan. What the hell do you want from me?” I couldn’t let it drop.

“I tried to track down Timothy Sanders,” he said.

“What? Who?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“The founder of Soul Savers. The guy the Archbishop was telling us about yesterday.” Ryan’s voice came out extra calm and controlled.

“Yeah, Timothy Sanders, great.”

“I tried all kinds of directories for Waco, Texas—”

“Listen, I know you’ve got everything all worked out, with your perfect little wife and your perfect little daughter, and another one who’s also gonna be perfect—”

His face was stony. “There’s six guys named Timothy Sanders in Waco.”

“That doesn’t give you any goddamn right to butt into my affairs. What are you—twenty-five? Twenty-eight years—”

“Then I called Soul Savers to confirm his phone num—”

“And this so-called church you belong to, which, no offense, but it’s really more like a cult. And let me give you some advice, Brother Ryan. When they start passing around the Kool-Aid—”

“Soul Savers doesn’t know where Sanders is.”

I stopped talking. My eyes closed. I covered them with my palms. My arms came down onto the desk, one hand on top of the other. I felt my head sinking down onto my hands.

“Then I called the Archbishop’s office. There’s no meeting or conference call set up with the members of the Board of Di—”

“Why don’t you just go fuck yourself,” I said, pushing myself up out of my chair. I walked over to the coat rack, grabbed my coat and scarf, and walked out of the detectives’ bullpen, my coat knocking over a metal trash can.

*  *  *

Ryan was working at his desk. I heard Campbell clear his throat theatrically. Ryan looked up and saw me walking over to my desk. I was walking at a normal pace, as if I’d pulled myself together. When Ryan looked at me, I could tell he knew I’d been crying.

My voice was soft. “It’s almost noon. Want to head out to lunch?” I looked him straight in the eye. He knew I wanted to talk about what had happened.

“Where do you want to go?”

“You choose. Just not here, okay?” I said, glancing over at Campbell.

“How about Romeo’s?” he said. It was an Italian place within walking distance that makes veggie pies. They had old-fashioned booths that would give us some privacy.

“Sounds good,” I said as Ryan walked over to get his coat. We left headquarters by the front entrance, heading down Lombard toward Romeo’s. The sky was a threatening grey, the wind pushing and pulling the dirty clouds across the sky. The recent rain and sleet had stirred up the soil, which had not yet frozen for the winter.

I could smell the earth in the little rectangles where the trees were planted in the sidewalk. Candy wrappers and bits of newspaper were caught in the metal grates encircling the trees. Was it always crappy and dirty like this? With two garbage cans on every damn block downtown, couldn’t we keep a patch of dirt five feet square from looking like a garbage dump?

Luckily, there was enough traffic—semis, SUVs, diesel pickups, construction vehicles—to make it impossible to talk. And with the business people heading for the diners and the restaurants, we had to weave through the sidewalk traffic. I was glad: it gave me time to think about what I was going to say. I wasn’t coming up with much.

We made it to Romeo’s. The girl said, “Two for lunch?”

“Can we have that booth in the back?” I said. She nodded, grabbed two menus, and led us back. It was an old restaurant. In my fourteen years in Rawlings, it had been a workingman’s bar, a crepe place that lasted about three months, and a sandwich shop. In all its incarnations, it had kept its slightly shabby look: a few wooden tables with mismatched chairs, a bar area, and eight booths along the wall. The dark wood separating the booths, a good inch thick, had been carved up by patrons for at least a half century.

I looked at the various inscriptions surrounding Ryan’s head. I wondered if Jenny was still reliable for a good time, and whether Kim and Johnny were still in love—or still alive.

Ryan didn’t say anything as we looked at the menus. I studied mine as if it was a final exam. I was still thinking about how to begin the conversation when the server came over. “What can I get ya?”

“You go first, Ryan. I’m still thinking.”

“I’ll have the Veggie Delight, small, and a glass of water.”

“I’d like the Louis Prima and an iced tea,” I said.

“Will that be separate checks?”

“Yes,” Ryan said, “if you don’t mi—”

“No,” I said to the server, “give me the check.” She nodded and walked away.

I looked up at Ryan. “Did you notice yours has a dorky name: Veggie Delight? Mine has a cool name: Louis Prima.”

“Yeah, I did. Who’s Louis Prima, anyway?”

“I think he was some kind of bandleader in the fifties. Worked in casinos. Kind of like Desi Arnaz.”

“Was he big and fat?” Ryan said, referring to the pepperoni, sausage, bacon, and beef toppings on the pizza. I recognized the criticism poking through his question, although I was the same one hundred and twenty pounds I had been in college. Good thing about drinking: you skip the occasional meal.

“Don’t know,” I said, forcing a smile, trying real hard to be an adult. “I don’t have a clear picture of him in my mind.”

We knew we would have ten or fifteen minutes before the pizzas arrived. Ryan sat there, tracing the scratches on the wooden table with his finger. I would just have to jump in. “Ryan,” I said. It was a second before he looked up. “I’m sorry.” He looked at me, silently. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Yes, you do.”

He wasn’t going to forgive me right away. “Yes, Ryan, you’re right. I know exactly what happened.” He was still looking at me. “Last night I drank a little too much.” His expression was grim. He reminded me of my father, who was gone now. “I drank way too much.” He didn’t say anything, just like my father. “I passed out. I didn’t hear my alarm.” I looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

He sat there, looking directly into her eyes. “You’re sorry you were late? Isn’t that something between you and the Chief?”

“No, Ryan, I’m sorry about the things I said.”

“What gives you the right to criticize me because I’ve got a family?” I could tell from his voice—each word coming out distinctly, his voice low—that he was furious, that he had spent some time this morning going over what he was going to say to me. “Why did you say I have a perfect wife and a perfect kid? You’ve never even met them. Do you really think everything in my life is perfect? You think I’m some sort of robot?

“Where do you get off saying my religion is a cult? Do you even know anything about it? Or is it stupid because everything is stupid that isn’t the way you do things? Like your way is really the smart way to do things? You’ve got no friends, no boyfriend, no husband—your own kid doesn’t even live with you. You drink yourself to sleep every night. And you’re criticizing the way I live? Are you out of your mind?” He was breathing heavily from trying to stay under control, to not shout at me.

I took a deep breath. “Yes, Ryan,” I said softly and slowly. “I am out of my mind.” I closed my eyes but couldn’t stop the tears. I sat there, my hands folded on the table, the tears, one right after the other, running right down my cheeks. I knew you could never cry in front of other cops because they would never let you forget it. But I didn’t care anymore.

“I have a mind, Ryan, but it does not control my thinking or my words or my actions.” Ryan’s expression had softened. “I can’t do what you can do. I can’t say meat is no good for me so I won’t eat meat. I can’t say liquor is killing me so I won’t drink. I can’t … I can’t control myself. The way you can. I just can’t. I don’t know … how to live.”

I wiped at my face, tried to pull myself together. “When I said your family is perfect, don’t you see what I was saying? It is perfect. I know it’s not really perfect. But your wife loves you, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you love her, right?”

“Yes.”

“And your daughter, she’s healthy, right?”

Ryan looked ashamed. I could see the blood rising to his face. “Yes, she’s healthy.”

“Ryan, that is perfect. I said it mean, like I was being sarcastic or something, but look at me. Listen to me. I had that. A wonderful husband, who thought I was the most terrific woman in the world. And a beautiful, healthy boy, who thought … who thought I was the moon and stars. I had that. I used to have that. And I miss it. I miss it so badly. I was just being a shit, Ryan. That’s what happened. You come from a big family, right, a bunch of brothers and sisters? Haven’t you ever seen that happen?”

Ryan looked like he was struggling to stay composed. “Yeah, I’ve seen it happen.”

“And maybe you’ve even done it to someone yourself?” He closed his eyes and nodded. “That’s all it was, Ryan. I’m in trouble. I know it. Big trouble. I want what you have, and I know I can’t have it. So I got mad. I wasn’t thinking. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“You notice I didn’t order the Kool-Aid?”

I had forgotten about that crack I’d made. My God, it was good to see a small smile on his face. It wasn’t his big grin, but I would take anything at this point. “I don’t know anything about your church. I don’t know anything about any church. It’s just part of my stupid problem. Remember how you said my life would be simpler if I could believe in something? Well, you’re right. Of course you’re right.”

“Did you ever believe in anything?”

“A long time ago. Santa Claus and the Easter bunny. Then my husband and my son’s love for me. Then in my ability to take care of myself.”

“And now?”

“Now, I don’t believe in anything. Or anyone.”

“Not even in yourself?”

I looked at him. “No.”

“Not even in God?”

“Especially not in God.”

The girl came with the pizzas on small aluminum pans. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thanks,” I said, my hand up to my face to cover the tears. The server didn’t seem to notice. She turned and left. We started to eat our pizzas.

Ryan said, “How’s your Louis?”

“Good and greasy. How’s your Veggie Delight?”

“It’s fine,” he said, and took another bite. “I’m going to help you, Karen.”

I laughed. “You gonna tell me that God loves me?”

“No, I don’t have to tell you that. You already know that.”

“You gonna tell me you love me?”

“No,” he said. “That wouldn’t be true. I’ve known you less than a week. Plus, you were pretty crappy to me this morning. No, you’re kind of a mess right now. I don’t love you. Maybe someday, but certainly not now.”

“Oh, Lord, no. You gonna tell me to come to your church?”

“No way. I bring a nutjob like you into my church, they’ll run me out of the stake.”

“Okay, then what are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to do absolutely nothing.”

“And that’s gonna help me, how?”

“I’m not going to ask for a new partner. I’m not going to tell the Chief you’re late all the time and you get drunk every night and you piss on me and my family and my church. I’m going to do nothing. We’ll stay partners. We’ll become friends. You’ll begin to trust me, and I’ll trust you. We’ll make mistakes, we’ll annoy each other occasionally, but we’ll keep trying to do better. I will love you, and you will love me.”

“What the hell planet are you from?”

“The same one you’re from, Karen.”

“How exactly is that gonna help me?”

“I’ll tell you—exactly. You’ll see that people love you. That you are worthy of being loved. And you will learn to love yourself again. And then the perfect life you once had? You will have it again. It will happen.”

I put down my knife and fork. “You know, you’re out of your mind.”

“No, I’m not, Karen. You are. Just like you said, two minutes ago. And I’m right, now, when I tell you you will get better.”

“You gonna guarantee it?”

“I’m not going to tell you Who guarantees it. I don’t want to freak you out worse than you already are. Let’s just say, count on it.”

I looked at him, feeling the attraction of his warmth, his self-confidence, wanting to be pulled in, to believe him. But I knew that believing a twenty-eight year old’s wisdom about life made about as much sense as believing an eighteen-year old’s promise to love me forever. “All right, partner,” I said, placing my hand on his. “It’s not like I’ve gotten a lot of better offers lately.”

And that much, at least, was true.

*  *  *

I was feeling a lot better about things when we left the restaurant and headed back to headquarters. I had shown him this morning that I was a walking train wreck, so I’d earned the humiliation at lunch. I deserved it, and much more. In a way, I was glad I’d fallen apart at the pizza place. It was possible—barely possible, but technically possible—that Ryan would turn out to be a friend, even though he was way too young, way too male, and way too religious for my tastes.

He had every right to be furious with me, but the way he let out his anger, then listened to me—he seemed to really listen—was a wonderful surprise. If he had turned out to be the kind of hardass who ratted me out to the Chief because I was super high maintenance and he didn’t have to put up with that, I’d be feeling like shit, plus unemployed. And unemployment, I assumed, probably wouldn’t make me feel less like shit. Now I just felt like shit, which wasn’t bad, considering how the day had begun.

Except for the Louis Prima, which was a sack full of nuts and bolts in my stomach, I concluded that I was feeling a lot better than I had any right to.

Ryan held the door for me as we entered headquarters. I didn’t like that—after all, opening doors was still something I could accomplish most of the time—but I didn’t see any reason to bring it up. Maybe it was his way of showing me he was done being mad at me. Or that I was a woman, or a woman older than he was. Or maybe it was just the way he was raised. Or maybe I should stop thinking so much about myself and get back to work. Yes, I remembered that, for the moment, I still had a job. I was a detective. Someone had been killed a couple of nights ago. I was supposed to figure out who did it.

As Ryan and I walked past the front desk at headquarters, the receptionist, a mousy girl named Crystal, called out, “Detectives.” She motioned for us to come over to her. She spoke in a low voice. “You missed all the excitement. A couple of detectives were here—from Maui.”

“Maui?” I said.

“Maui,” she said, nodding her head to emphasize how unusual that was. I’d never seen her so excited.

“What for?”

“They arrested a guy who worked for Dolores Weston.”

“The state senator?”

“That’s the one,” she said, excited to have the opportunity to tell the story. “You know that parasailing accident, where her husband falls out of the sky?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Seems it wasn’t an accident.”

“Really?” I said.

She looked to her left, then to her right. “The guy just happened to travel from Rawlings to Maui and start working on Weston’s boat, even though the regular crew lives in Maui all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That night, after the accident, the guy gets into a fight in a bar in Maui, after drinking and buying some coke. The cops pat him down, he’s got a thousand bucks and this folding knife on him. The knife’s got some fibers jammed into the handle. The fibers match the harness on the parasail. Couple hours later, he flips on Dolores Weston.”

“Wow,” I said. “He say why she hired him?”

“Said he didn’t know. She never told him. That’s all he’s saying. That plus he’s sorry he got mixed up with it.”

“Yeah, I bet he is,” I said. “Is this public?”

“News at 5:30,” she said, nodding her head.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Crys—”

“One more thing, Detective …”

“The other gunman, from the grassy knoll in Dallas? He stop by?”

She looked confused. “No, it’s about the Hagerty case …” She bent her index finger, gesturing for me to lean in. “There’s someone here to talk with you.” She looked down at a pad. “Says he’s Timothy Sanders.” With her eyes, she signaled that he was sitting on the couch twenty feet away. I nodded thanks. “Good luck,” Crystal said, giving me a Mona Lisa smile.

As Ryan and I approached the man, he seemed perfectly ordinary, except he was dressed better than just about anyone with a Montana license plate. He looked maybe fifty, with thinning blond hair, carefully trimmed and groomed, and a full beard. His blue eyes followed us as we approached him.

He was wearing a black turtleneck shirt I could have sworn was silk, or at least a silk blend. His black and white herringbone jacket was well tailored, with black leather buttons and soft shoulders. The slacks, black wool, set him back at least a hundred bucks. On his feet were oxblood tasseled loafers. He sat in an erect position, his hands folded in his lap, one leg crossed over the other.

I held my hand out. “Mr. Sanders, Detective Karen Seagate. My partner, Detective Ryan Miner.”

He rose to shake my hand, his face contorting into a grimace, his eyes closing, his jaw muscles flexing and unflexing spasmodically as if he were in terrible pain. I thought maybe he was stroking out. “P-P-P-P-leased to m-m-m-meet you, De-e-e-e-tec-t-t-tives.” He was breathing heavily, his neck getting all blotchy and pink from exertion or embarrassment, or both. Then I felt the blood rise to my own face, too. I’d never had to talk with someone with such a God-awful stutter.

Ryan stepped in, thankfully. “Mr. Sanders, why don’t we go inside and talk?” Sanders gestured for us to lead the way.

I wondered how we were going to talk with this guy. When we got to our desks in the detectives’ bullpen, Ryan pulled up a chair next to our two desks and gestured for him to sit. He did, crossing one leg over the other, straightening the crease on his slacks.

“I tried to reach you this morning,” Ryan said, “but didn’t have any luck.”

I dreaded what would happen next. Sanders opened his mouth, the spasmodic jaw clenching, the grimace on his face again. “You’ll ha-ha-have to excu-cu-cuse me.” He paused to catch his breath. “I-I-I-I th-th-th-think I no-no-no-notice one of-of-of-of us ha-ha-ha-has a s-s-s-slight stu-u-u-utter.”

I looked at Sanders, unsure what to do. Suddenly, he smiled a forlorn little smile, and I realized this was his way of breaking the ice. I said, “I hadn’t no-no-no-noticed.” Immediately, I realized what I’d done, and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. “Oh, my God,” I said, my hand coming up to my mouth.

“Th-th-thank goodness,” Sanders said, “it’s n-n-not me, it’s y-y-y-you.”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Sanders,” I said. “I’m just nervous. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you or anything. Please believe me.”

“That’s qu-qu-quite all r-r-r-right, Detect-t-tive. That someti-ti-times happens.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sanders, for being so understanding. I’m very sorry.”

“You will n-notice that I b-b-beat my fi-fingers wh-when I-I talk.” I looked down at the desk. He was tapping along to the rhythm of his speech. “It h-h-helps me.”

Ryan said, “Yeah, I’ve read about that. If you can kind of sing it rather than say it, you can prevent the stuttering, or at least reduce it.”

“Ex-Exactly,” Sanders said, his four fingers tapping out the first syllable, his thumb the double beat at the end of the word.

Thank goodness for Ryan, I thought. I decided it was time to get into the interview before I did anything else embarrassing. “Well, Mr. Sanders, we want to offer our condolences on the passing of Mr. Hagerty.” I wanted to see how Sanders would spin the fight over Soul Savers, or whether he would mention it at all.

“Th-Thank you, Detec-tective. Ar-Ar-Arlen is in a b-b-better place, now.”

“Yes,” I said, “yes, of course.” I never knew how to respond when someone played a religious card so brazenly. I didn’t like it. If Sanders thought everyone shared his religious beliefs, he was dumb, which he obviously wasn’t. If he was merely making a tactical move, he was being patronizing, daring me to counter it gracefully. In fact, I was so tired and fed up with myself from all the crap that had gone on this morning I decided to just file the information and let him think whatever he wanted.

“I ca-ca-came as s-s-soon as I h-heard about the tra-tra-tragedy,” he said, tapping on the desk.

Ryan said, “How well did you know Mr. Hagerty, Mr. Sanders?”

Sanders said, “Q-Q-Quite well, Detect-t-tive. When I stepped down as p-p-president of Soul Savers, he succeeded m-m-me. Therefore, we ne-ne-necessarily c-c-communicated extensively, especially during that p-p-period a number of years ago.” His fingers were working out some polyrhythm only he understood.

I said, “Did you get to know him personally?”

“N-N-No, I c-c-cannot say I knew him on a p-p-p-personal level. He had already m-m-m-met and m-m-married Margaret. They were in-in-inseparable.”

“I see. Did you know the Hagertys had each been married before?”

“I b-b-believe I had h-h-h-heard that, though I am not aw-w-ware of the particulars. It is indeed a b-b-blessing when two people can f-f-f-find love later in life.”

“Yes, it certainly is.” How about that? Margaret Hagerty believes young love is beautiful; this guy believes old love is beautiful. For your consideration now, ladies and gentlemen, a lovely set of bookends, each made of primo horseshit. “What did you think about the debates that Mr. Hagerty and Mr. Ahern did?”

“W-W-Well, debating has never been my f-f-favorite means of c-c-c-communication,” he said with his understated smile. I admired some of his rehearsed lines. No getting around it: he was pretty suave dealing with the stutter. “But I th-th-think the debates were an ef-f-fective way to publicize the organiz-z-z-zation and get our m-m-message out.”

I said, “You’ve met Mr. Ahern, I take it?”

“Oh, yes, s-s-several times. I never so-socialized with him, as Arlen di-did, you underst-st-stand. But he seems like a perfectly, a per-r-fectly fine man.”

“Do you know someone named Connie de Marco?”

“C-C-Connie de M-M-M-Marco,” he said, his brow furrowed, his eyes drifting up toward the ceiling for divine inspiration. “No, I’m not familiar with that n-name. Who is s-s-s-she?”

Ryan said, “She was Mr. Hagerty’s assistant, when they traveled.”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Sanders said. “Yes, I ha-ha-had heard he had an assis-s-stant. I did not re-re-recognize the n-n-name.”

I said, “I take it you came to town to console Mrs. Hagerty.”

“Yes, indeed. That was the m-m-main purpose. In ad-d-dition, I wi-wished to meet with D-D-D-D-Dolores Weston on behalf of the B-B-B-Board.”

This time it was me who looked confused. “Dolores Weston?”

“The s-s-state representative from R-R-Rawlings,” Sanders said. “Arlen was g-g-going to meet with Representative Wes-s-ston to discuss the m-m-m-matter of the pharmace-ce-ceutical company. Unfortunately, that m-m-m-meeting never took p-p-place.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. I had no idea what he was talking about. Five minutes ago I learn her husband’s swan dive was no accident, and now I hear something about her, a pharmaceutical company, and a relationship to Soul Savers. I made a quick decision not to telegraph my ignorance to Sanders. There were enough discrepancies between Sanders’ story and the Archbishop’s that I didn’t want to reveal any more than necessary. I knew Ryan and I had more investigating to do. “One more thing we’d like to ask you, Mr. Sanders.”

“Of c-c-course.”

“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Mr. Hagerty?”

“That is ab-b-bout all I have been thinking about s-s-since I heard the n-n-news early this m-m-morning. I can-n-n-not imagine Margaret or Mr. Ahern was involved in any way. My g-g-guess is it w-w-was s-s-someone who op-posed the philosophy of S-S-S-Soul Savers. I a-a-assume you are pur-pursuing that angle?”

“Yes, we are, Mr. Sanders. We’re trying to pursue all angles we can think of. Well, sir, thank you very much for stopping by. Can I ask you how long you plan to stay here in Rawlings?”

“I’m n-n-not really s-s-sure, Detective. I purchased an o-o-o-open-ended return ticket this m-m-morning in W-W-Waco.”

“I only mentioned it to invite you to get in touch with me here if you think of anything else that might help us with this investigation.” I handed him a card from a holder on my desk. “Are you staying at the Courtyard with the others from Soul Savers?”

“Actually, n-n-no. I just b-b-booked a room at the R-R-Red Lion this morning on Or-Or-Orbitz. Th-Th-Thank you for making the t-t-time to speak with me.” He turned to Ryan. “Very n-n-nice meeting you, Detective M-M-Miner.”

“Ryan, would you mind showing Mr. Sanders out?”

“Of course,” Ryan said, escorting Timothy Sanders out of the detectives’ bullpen.

*  *  *

I started making notes on a yellow pad about all the things Sanders had said that I wanted to go over with Ryan. I was still writing when Ryan came back.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he said, with a big smile.

“What’s that?”

“I try to contact Sanders for the better part of an hour this morning, and he’s nowhere to be found. So I send out my magic brain waves to make him appear, and he shows up downstairs in Reception.”

“Oh, that’s how that happened. Magic brain waves. Give me a second,” I said, looking down at my pad. “I need to cross off one of my questions.”

“By the way,” he said, wearing a sincere expression, “I want to compliment you on the way you handled his stutter. What did you say? ‘I hadn’t no-no-no-noticed’?”

“Shut the fu-fu-fu—”

“Hey, come on. Two F-bombs in one day?” he said, laughing. “I still get to tease you a little, don’t I?

“I didn’t realize I used up my quota. I gotta put in for a bigger allotment.” I was shaking my head, looking down at the pad. “All right, let’s try to untangle the web Mr. Sanders is trying to weave. What’s the biggest thing he said sounds like bullshit to you?”

“It’s not anything he said. It’s something he did: showing up here.”

“Yeah, what’s with that? Any way he knew you called him this morning?”

“Well,” Ryan said, “if he was at home and he had Caller ID, he would know I called him. And maybe he found out from Soul Savers in Colorado Springs, but I don’t think so. The way the woman there responded when I asked her, sounds like she didn’t know or care where the Board members were. Like that was the Archbishop’s problem. Besides, I doubt if he could’ve made it here by now if he just found out this morning.”

I said, “If he wanted us to know he came in because he knew we were looking for him, he’d have told us, right, to show he’s being real cooperative? What would you have done if you were him, assuming you didn’t kill Hagerty?”

“As soon as I found out, I’d go wherever Margaret is to console her.”

“So you wouldn’t stop by police headquarters?” I said.

“No, I wouldn’t be thinking of that. Maybe I’d notify the police where I am in case they want to talk to me. But I wouldn’t just present myself like he did. If I wasn’t in town when the murder occurred, and I didn’t do it, I’d assume I wasn’t a suspect.”

“Exactly,” I said. “He stopped by to send us an official message. We just gotta figure out what it is.”

“Okay,” Ryan said. “There could be several messages. One could be that he’s a religious man. You know: all that stuff about how Arlen’s in a better place. Personally, I’m not sure Arlen’s in a better place or a worse place.”

I laughed. “Well, I think most of him’s in the big fridge downstairs—but let’s not get into that. One thing we can probably agree on: Hagerty didn’t like the way he got from the Leno monologue to wherever he is now.”

“Sanders did lay it on pretty thick,” Ryan said, “like that line about how Arlen and Margaret were inseparable, and the wonder of finding love later in life.”

“Yeah,” I said, “like Margaret is Yoko breaking up John and Paul.”

“Not following you there,” Ryan said.

“Never mind, kid,” I said. “Okay, so the religious stuff is a signal.”

“A signal that he’s such a pious guy he couldn’t possibly be a suspect.”

“Or he’s saying we’re such hicks,” I said, “all he has to do is play the religious card and we’ll cross him off our list.”

“Or he’s taunting us. We’re smart enough to read it as a bluff, but he’s so much smarter than we are, even if we like him for the murder, there’s no way we can prove it.”

“I like that one, Ryan.”

“That’s the way I read it. He has to figure we’ll be in touch with Soul Savers. Someone—”

“Like an Archbishop, for instance?”

“Right,” Ryan said. “The Archbishop will fill us in about the two guys fighting it out for the future of Soul Savers. We’ll find out Hagerty won, then he started doing the debates and turning it into a political organization.”

“Yeah, and then there’s the main message he wanted to send: we should be looking at Dolores Weston. Do you know what he was talking about, that pharmaceutical company he mentioned?”

“No idea.”

“Okay, I know a political science teacher who knows all about that kind of stuff: Carol Freeman.”

“She’s the one on the political show on PBS?”

“Yeah, and she’s on CBS on election nights. She’ll be able to point us in the right direction.”

“You know,” Ryan said, “there’s one other thing Sanders said that I think we should follow up on.”

“What’s that?”

“You notice the two or three times he mentioned coming in this morning from Waco. And that he booked his room on Orbitz this morning?”

“What are you saying?”

“Well, it seems to me a little odd he didn’t start traveling until this morning. The murder was on the national news yesterday morning by ten o’clock. Where was he all yesterday that he didn’t see a TV or go on the Web? I don’t see this guy out hunting and fishing.”

“You seeing that as him taunting us?”

“I’m getting more that he’s covering something up, that he rehearsed it and wants to be sure we hear he’s so concerned about the tragedy that he jumped right on a plane.”

“Well, there’s a couple ways we can try to track that down.”

“We could try Orbitz.”

“Yeah, but they would only know about what reservations he’s made, not about his actual travel. The place that would know is TSA.”

Ryan said, “They’d have the passenger manifests, right?”

“I don’t know if they’d have them in real time, but eventually they’d know who flew from where to where in which seat.”

“Do you know how to tap into TSA?”

“No, but I know who does.”

“The FBI guy? What’s his name?”

“Allen Pfeiffer. Let me try him.” I opened my online address book, then dialed Pfeiffer’s number. “Shit,” I said to Ryan as I heard his phone ringing. “He’s not in.” Then, into the phone, “Allen, this is Karen Seagate. I need your help on a case. Could you give me a call when you get a chance? I’ll try you back later this afternoon.”

“You want to try Carol Freeman now?”

“Yeah, might as well.” I checked my address book again, dialed, and hit Speaker. “Hello, Carol? Karen Seagate.”

“Hi, Karen. How are you?”

“Good, good. Things calming down after the election?”

“Pretty much. But just when I got that out of the way, the semester’s winding down, which means advising for next semester, thesis defenses, writing reference letters, and students going into panic mode about this and that. You know: same old, same old.”

“Carol, we need to visit with you, maybe ten minutes, fifteen, tops, about Dolores Weston. Can we run over now?”

“Sure, but who’s the ‘we’?”

“‘We’ is me and my new partner, Ryan Miner.”

“Oh, really? Tell me about him. What should I know?”

“You should know he’s listening to us on the Speaker now.”

“Shit,” Carol said. “Sorry, Karen. Good afternoon, Detective!”

“Hello, Dr. Freeman,” Ryan said, smiling.

“Karen, I’ve got a student coming by at 2:00; we should be done by 2:15. Would that work?”

“Terrific, we’ll be there.”

“Look forward to it,” Carol said, hanging up.

I said to Ryan, “Carol’s a good person. She’s always trying to fix me up. She doesn’t realize you don’t want to be in a relationship with someone else on the job. She’s married to another professor in the university.”

“He in the same department with her?”

“No, he’s on the other side of campus, in a different college. They don’t have anything to do with each other professionally.”

“So she doesn’t see how two cops in the same building wouldn’t work.”

“That’s right.” I wanted to get the conversation back on track. “But she’s absolutely solid. If there’s something we ought to know about Dolores Weston and Soul Savers, she’ll know it. And if there’s anything to know about Weston icing her husband, she’ll know about that, too.”

“But will she tell us?”

“Yup. She used to be a reporter on a city paper, somewhere back East. Philadelphia, I think. She understands confidentiality. She likes dealing with me. Makes her feel like she’s still in the game.”

“Good, let’s go,” Ryan said, and we started to leave.

My phone rang. “Let me see who it is,” I said, running back to my desk. Caller ID said “Pfeiffer, Allen.” I dropped my coat on my desk, waved Ryan back, and picked up the phone. “Hello, Allen?” I hit Speaker.

“Hi, Karen. This about the Hagerty murder?”

“Yeah, here’s the situation. There’s this guy named Timothy Sanders. He founded Soul Savers about fifteen years ago, but then got squeezed out by my vic, Arlen Hagerty, who wanted to make the organization more high-profile, more political. So Sanders is still on the Board of Directors. We wanted to talk to him; he lives in Waco. Can’t get through to him. Suddenly, this afternoon, he just pops into headquarters and starts giving us this song and dance about how religious he is, blah-blah-blah, and he just flew in from Waco as soon as heard this morning.”

“He said he just heard this morning? That’s about a day late.”

“That’s what we’re thinking. So here’s my question. Can I get TSA records to verify if he flew in from Waco today?”

“No, you can’t, but I can. TSA is a federal agency. They require a request from another federal agency.”

“I’d really like to lean on this guy while he’s still in town. How long would you need?”

“About thirty seconds. So it’s Timothy Sanders—normal spelling?—going from Waco to Billings today, right?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, give me a second.”

While we were waiting, I said to Ryan, “This is what they call interagency cooperation.”

“I like it,” Ryan said.

“Karen,” Allen said. “Sanders said he traveled from Waco to Billings today?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Well, that’s sort of what he did, except he stopped off for three hours in Milwaukee. Funny thing is, it doesn’t look like a layover.”

“How do you know?”

“They’re different airlines: it took him two flights to get to Milwaukee on Southwest. Then he took Frontier to Billings. I don’t think those two airlines are related. I think they’re competitors.”

“Hmm. That’s odd. Well, okay, thanks a lot, Allen. Hope I don’t have to bug you anymore on this case.”

“Not a problem, Karen. Take care.”

“You, too,” I said, hanging up.

“You think the side trip to Milwaukee is something?” Ryan said.

“Maybe. I don’t know. It could have been weather or something that forced them to divert to Milwaukee, and he needed to switch airlines to get here quickly.”

“I don’t like it. There hasn’t been any weather here or in the whole state,” Ryan said.

“Let’s make a note to see if there’s a Soul Savers office in Milwaukee after we talk with Carol. Maybe he stopped by there for some reason.”

“Okay,” he said, jotting it down in his notebook. We grabbed our coats and headed out for the parking lot. “Before we go,” he said, waving me in toward him so he could speak quieter, “You think we ought to tell the Chief that Sanders mentioned something about Dolores Weston? Seeing as she’s going to be all over the media this evening?”

I thought for a second. “Why don’t we talk to Carol first, see if she knows anything. Dolores Weston hitting her husband and the Hagerty case are probably a coincidence. Besides, you want the Chief messing around in our investigation?”

“Let’s go talk to Carol,” Ryan said.


Chapter 6

“She’s right down here, I think,” I said as we walked down the long hallway on the second floor of the Social Science building on the Central Montana campus. Students sat at the tables and mix-and-match old chairs in the hallway, typing or playing games on their laptops, trying to quiet their squirming babies, eating takeout. The hallway smelled like a lunchroom. Carol Freeman’s door was open. I peeked in and saw Carol talking to a female student.

The student came out of Carol Freeman’s office shaking her head as if things had gone badly. She was wearing a tight blouse, low cut, showing way too much boob. Her jeans were tight, the heels high, the makeup Barnum and Bailey. I decided to give Carol a moment to collect herself before going up to the door. Carol popped her head out. “Karen,” she said cheerfully. “Come on in.”

We walked into the small cinder-blocked office. Every inch of wall space was covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Papers, newspapers, and books were stacked in foot-high piles. Her desktop seemed to sag beneath the piles of stuff. “Glad I had a chance to clean up yesterday,” she said. There was only one visitor’s chair. “Grab a chair from the hall, Detective,” she said to Ryan. When Ryan left the office, Carol said to me, “Very nice, kid. I like those shoulders. Good stamina in the sack, no?”

I laughed. “That’s my new partner. He’s extremely young, and extremely married.”

“Great,” Carol said. “Then he knows how to operate all the equipment, right?”

“I see you still live in Fantasyland.”

“Like it’d be more fun living here in Rawlings?”

Ryan returned with a cheap plastic chair.

I said, “Carol, this is my partner, Detective Ryan Miner. Ryan, Dr. Carol Freeman.”

“Glad to meet you, Dr. Freeman,” Ryan said.

“God, do I look that old?” she said. “Call me Carol, okay? Sit down, both of you. Ryan, close that door, would you?” She was about sixty, her face comfortably creased and lined. Her brown eyes were ringed with liver spots. Her grey hair was cut Beatles 1964. Her reading glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, tethered by a neon green cord around her neck. She wore a black and red checked men’s work shirt, blue jeans, thick pink woolen socks, and Birkenstocks. She slapped her palms down on her knees and leaned in to me. “Okay, kiddo, what do you need? It’s about Dolores Weston, right?”

“Well, her name is on our radar for a couple of things. Let’s start with her link to Hagerty, okay? Hagerty’s organization was established by a guy named Timothy Sanders, who popped in on us after lunch. He lost out on a power struggle at Soul Savers some years ago—”

“Yeah, I think I remember reading that.”

“So Sanders says he came here to Rawlings to talk to Dolores Weston about the pharmaceutical company. We don’t have any idea what the hell he’s talking about, but I told Ryan I knew who would,” I said, pointing to Carol.

“Oh, this is good,” Carol said, her brown eyes lighting up. “You looking at this guy Timothy Sanders for the murder?”

I shook my head. “Come on, Carol. You know I can’t tell you anything about our investigation.”

“Can’t blame me for trying, am I right, Ryan?”

“No,” he said with a smile, “sure can’t.”

“Okay,” Carol said to me, “what do you want to know about Dolores and the pharmaceutical?”

“Everything I need to know.”

“Dolores Weston is blue blood, one-hundred percent. She’s from Bryn Mawr, right in the heart of the Main Line.”

“Where’s that?” I said.

“That’s the ritzy suburbs west of Philadelphia. Named after the main train line linking Philly and Chicago in the nineteenth century. Bryn Mawr College is one of the tony Seven Sisters. She’s a debutante, some sort of beauty queen. Second or third marriage is to this guy named Weston, who started a wireless company that went big. He was smart enough to cash his chips before everyone else got into the business. That’s how he’s worth a couple billion and buys the place in Maui, along with a half-dozen other places. Back East she was a Rockefeller Republican: fiscal conservative, free trader, philanthropist. So they move out to Rawlings, where they have one of their homes. They call it a lodge. Around eight-thousand square feet. My place would fit in the kitchen.”

I said, “So how’d she get into politics?”

“She hadn’t done anything in politics before, but she got into the Junior League, started hosting fundraisers, people saw she was smart and knew how to throw a party. So the R’s tap her for a state senate race. Her kids are off at college, she needs something to do, she says yes.”

“So how does she turn into the big-sky conservative?”

Carol laughed. “That was all show biz. She saw that the conservatives out here were not the pro-business types from Philadelphia but socially conservative, borderline libertarian.”

“And she just turns into that?”

“Sure, why not? You remember those commercials with her sitting on that boulder, she’s wearing jeans, a shotgun leaning on the rock, the dead quail on the ground? She told me those things were foreign to her. I said, ‘You mean the bird and the rifle?’ She said, ‘I was referring to the jeans.’ She’s really a hoot.”

“You were there when they shot that commercial?” Ryan said.

“Honey, I wrote that commercial. Brought the props. Got the dead bird from an otherwise useless student of mine.”

I said, “So you were working for her? I thought you were a Democrat.”

“I am, but since I’m also a realist, I try to help those Republicans who don’t scare the crap out of me. And she’s one of them. And keep that info about me helping the Republicans under your hat,” Carol said with a burst of laughter. “I’m officially non-partisan. You know, above the fray, and all that nonsense.”

“Okay,” I said, “what’s this pharmaceutical company?”

“It’s Henley Pharmaceuticals. They’re based in New Jersey, along the Jersey Turnpike up near the city. They want to build a facility somewhere out here in God’s country.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’ve getting squeezed by the high real estate near New York, so they’re salivating over our land prices. We can be a fifth the price. They can buy the whole damn prairie in case they want to build a bigger place later. In addition, we’re non-union, and the state’s got all kinds of tax incentives for high-tech companies with more than a hundred workers. The company’s looking at a number of cities out here with universities. They want to take advantage of the semi-skilled labor, as well as the science faculty.”

“Sounds like a match made in heaven. How come the talks aren’t in the paper?”

“There’s one problem, and it’s a big one. Henley Pharma is working on some procedures for stem-cell research.”

“What’s Dolores Weston have to do with that?”

“Since she’s smart enough to tie her own shoes, she’s all for the research, but some of her colleagues are dumb as dirt, and she has to play nice with them. It isn’t public yet, but some of them are trying to block the tax incentives to companies that do anything they don’t like, such as working on embryos or anything to do with birth control. In fact, these troglodytes had some draft language forbidding any activities that involve killing. Dolores was telling me she asked her caucus if they’d block a company that makes chemicals used in lethal injections, and the head yahoo says no, why would we block that? We got a good laugh out of that one.”

“Where do things stand now?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t talked with Dolores since election night, but I assume she’s still trying to figure out some way to convince her colleagues to stop frothing at the mouth about Henley, because the company would bring a lot of good jobs to the area.”

Ryan said, “What do you know about any financial relationship between Dolores and the pharma?”

“I know Dolores says she doesn’t take any money from any companies out of state. She doesn’t want to put anyone’s nose out of joint, especially since there’s a two-thousand dollar limit on contributions. It simply wouldn’t be worth the bad publicity.”

“How about private financial dealings? Does she own any stock?”

“No idea,” Carol said. “The reporting laws don’t make you reveal that.”

“About the science faculty,” I said. “Henley interested in working with anyone in particular on this campus?”

“Not sure. But I think I remember reading about this new hot shit in Biology. Lakshmi Something.” Ryan took out his notebook and started writing. “About fifteen letters, a real jaw breaker. Everyone was talking about her because the department not only hired her, they hired her husband, too, as some kind of post-doc. That can annoy people.”

“That means she’s good?” I said.

“No, that means she’s great.”

“One more thing,” I said. “What do you know about Dolores’ relationship with her late husband?” I wasn’t going to tell her about the arrest of the kid for killing James Weston, but it was safe to ask a softball question.

“What do you mean, like were they in love?” Carol was wearing a confused look.

“Well, sure, anything like that. What kind of couple were they?”

“Don’t really know. I met him a couple times at parties. He seemed very—what’s the word?—solicitous of her. But he was such a cool dude, I wouldn’t expect anything less of him. No talk of any girlfriends, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not getting at anything in particular,” I said. I didn’t like being evasive with her, but I had to. “Just wanted to get a sense of their relationship.” I paused. “Do you know if James Weston was closely tied to his wife’s political career?”

“He showed up at her fundraisers, donated up to the limit, things like that. But I think he saw it more as her hobby. He was on about a dozen boards here and overseas. Playing in a bigger league, the way I see it,” Carol said.

I said, “Anything else you wanna ask, Ryan?”

“No, I’m good,” he said.

“Carol, this was terrific. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“My pleasure, Karen. Always good to talk with you. And nice meeting you, Good Looking.”

Ryan blushed. “You, too.”

Carol touched my arm. “Try not to hurt Dolores, would you? She’s one of the good guys. And this is a tough time for her.”

“I hear you, Carol. I’ll be careful.”

“Thanks, honey.”

*  *  *

Outside Carol Freeman’s office, Ryan said, “You think there’s any link between the James Weston murder and the Hagerty murder?”

“At this point, I don’t think so, but it’s kind of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Sure I do,” Ryan said, “but all there is at this point is a drugged-out loser saying Dolores paid him to take out her husband—and he doesn’t know why. And there’s rope fibers on the guy’s knife. Unless they can definitively match those fibers to the parasail rope, the Weston case isn’t even a murder yet.”

“Yeah, I know, the cash in the guy’s pocket was more likely from a drug deal than a payoff from Dolores Weston, but let’s keep our eyes open. The Chief must’ve met with the Maui detectives. If they showed him any evidence pointing to a connection between Dolores and the doper here in Rawlings, he’ll be sitting in his office right now figuring out how he can be the hero by nailing her. We’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime,” I said, “wanna go over to Biology and see if we can get some information on Lakshmi Something?”

“Might not have to. Let me see if she’s online. Give me a minute.” We walked over to a table and he pulled out his laptop. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I can get her vita right here. Probably all kinds of info on Henley, too.” He booted the machine, Googled the university site, and navigated to the Biology Department. “Here she is: Lakshmi Kumaraswamy. Let me see if she’s got her vita online.” He scrolled for a moment. “Here it is.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Now we don’t have to tip off her department that we’re looking at her.”

“Yeah, these faculty sites are great. It’s like Facebook for Ph.D.s. How about we go back to headquarters and let me paw around for a little bit? I bet we can figure some stuff out. And you can see if there’s anything we can learn about the James Weston thing.”

“Sounds good,” I said, as Ryan packed up his computer and we headed to headquarters.

Back at our desks, I told Ryan to check out Lakshmi Kumaraswamy. I decided to hang back a little on the James Weston case. I figured if I asked the Chief if he got anything from the Maui detectives, all I’d accomplish was tip him off that I was thinking the two murders might be related, which would make him work harder on sending me off to investigate a dead end.

I picked up the phone and dialed Larry Klein, the District Attorney. “Hey, Larry, Karen Seagate. I need five minutes,” I said.

“Sure,” he said, “go ahead.”

“Could we talk out at the fountain near your building?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said. “In a half hour?”

“A half hour,” I said.

I got there early. I didn’t want to keep him waiting. “Thanks a lot, Larry,” I said to him. “Sorry to pull you out of your office.”

Lawrence Klein was a small, busy man about my age. The deep wrinkles on his forehead rode like waves on his owlish black plastic eyeglasses, the thick lenses magnifying his dark brown eyes. I’d known him eight years, since he’d come to Rawlings as a self-proclaimed Philadelphia Jew lawyer just out of Penn. Maybe he saw me as another outsider trying to fit in. We shared a disdain for the Chief, who he called Boss Hogg.

“What’s going on, Karen?”

“I wanted to find out what we know about the James Weston case, see if it’s got anything to do with the Hagerty case.”

“You don’t want to go through Boss Hogg?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

“Don’t blame you,” Klein said. “The Maui cops are going to arrest the doper who was on the boat.”

“They’ve got the forensics?”

“Apparently,” he said. “The harness on the parasail was cut, and the marks match the pattern on the doper’s knife. The threads in the knife handle match the harness, so they’re pretty confident the case will work.”

“Can they prove Dolores Weston paid the doper to do it?”

“I don’t think so, at least not yet.”

“So they’re gonna sweat the kid while they keep investigating?”

“Yeah,” Klein said. “I think the strategy is to pressure him to think a little more deeply about helping them make the case. If he helps them, he walks on the drug possession and they cut him some slack on the conspiracy. If he doesn’t, he’s on the hook for murder one. At least that’s how they’re going to go at him.”

“What do they think their case is?”

“At this point, I think it’s circumstantial. The kid used to work on the property at the Weston place here in Rawlings. All of a sudden, he’s on a plane to work on their Maui place, with a wad of cash in his pocket. He just shows up at the dock one day, saying Mrs. Weston wants him to help out on the boat. The Hawaiian guys who run the boat didn’t even get a heads up.”

“And the Hawaiian guys check out?” I said.

“That’s what I’m getting.”

“So the Maui detectives aren’t ready to arrest Dolores Weston.”

“That’s right. They don’t have a motive yet. Unless the kid can give them something better than he’s given them so far, they can’t move. They’d love to get her, of course.”

“Because she’s a rich white woman?”

“That’s part of it. There’s a lot of bad feelings about rich whites who drive up property values on the islands, but I think they want to be able to show that none of the native boys were involved in killing him.”

“To make it all all-Haole murder?”

“Exactly,” Klein said.

“So, just between you and me, did she do it?”

“Not sure. I don’t see her having him killed for something obvious, like he’s fooling around.”

“Montana’s a community-property state,” I said, “so she could divorce him and walk away with well over one point five billion, right?”

“That’s right,” Klein said. “So she’d have to be extremely pissed off at him. Hiring a kid to do it shows some real premeditation, so it’s not a crime of passion. Either he’s diddling one of her teenage girls or he’s trying to wreck her political career or something like that. Whatever it is she thinks he was doing, I bet it would humiliate her big time. But what it was? You’re the detective, you tell me,” he said, smiling.

“Yeah, I’ll go detect it,” I said.

“And when you do—if it’s a crime in this county, you give me a call, okay?”

“You bet, Larry,” I said. “Thanks for the conversation.”

“Always a pleasure, Karen. Keep in touch.”

Back at headquarters, I hung my coat up and walked over to Ryan’s desk. “Something’s wrong here,” he said.

“What is it?” I said.

“Well, Carol Freeman says Lakshmi’s a superstar, right? How come there’s not a whole bunch of articles?”

“She doesn’t list the articles?” I said, pulling my chair over next to his.

“No, that’s not it. She’s got them listed. But there’s only one or two articles a year since her PhD four years ago. And look at what they are.” He pointed to the screen. “A couple of little articles in a journal on science education about working with students on senior projects, an op-ed thing about science education in the school system, stuff like that. I’m not seeing this woman doing anything of interest to Henley Pharmaceuticals.”

“So why did the university give her a job—”

“Two jobs, according to Carol,” Ryan said.

“That’s right,” I said. “Her and her husband.”

“I don’t get it,” Ryan said. “She was doing real science up to that point. There’s a good fifteen articles—one from her undergrad years, all the rest from her MS years. We’re missing something here.”

“Maybe we just don’t how to read these damn things. Hold on a second,” I said. “Let me give Carol a quick call. She’ll know what we’re doing wrong.” I dialed Carol and hit Speaker. “Hey, it’s Karen,” I said. “Sorry to bother you again, Carol. We’re looking at the vita of Lakshmi Something in Biology, and she sure isn’t looking like the superstar you said she is. She doesn’t have any good research articles in the last four years. What are we doing wrong?”

“Let me think,” Carol said. “If it isn’t articles, then it’s grant applications. Check that section of the vita. Look for dollar signs and numbers with a lot of zeroes. The only thing I can think of is she’s working on something really juicy and it isn’t ready for publication yet, you know, like a book.”

I said, “Wouldn’t an up-and-comer like Lakshmi work on articles first, saving the book for a little later?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Did she ever write articles?”

“There were a whole bunch before she got her PhD four years ago.”

Carol said, “Did she have another academic job before she came here?”

“No, she’s listed as a post-doctoral researcher at Princeton.”

“I got it,” Carol said, excited. “If she was at Princeton, she was working for Henley. They’re just up the road. They must have grabbed her based on her dissertation.”

“How do we get our hands on her dissertation?” I said.

“There’s something called Dissertation Abstracts International. You can probably buy it online. Bet anything that dissertation has something to do with stem-cell research, and Henley grabbed her then.”

“I owe you, Carol. Thanks a million.”

“Anytime, Karen.”

Ryan was already onto the Dissertation Abstracts International site, downloading a copy of the dissertation. “It has to do with research on using GDNF to foster regeneration of dopamine-producing cells for Parkinson’s disease research.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Give me a second,” he said, reading the introduction. “Okay, GDNF is glial derived neurotrophic factor. It’s some kind of protein.” He read another few moments. “She worked on putting it into the part of a mouse brain to stimulate the growth of dopamine, which is the chemical that’s missing in Parkinson’s. Just give me another minute.”

“Take your time,” I said, wheeling my chair back to my desk and sitting down.

“When you get Parkinson’s, your brain isn’t producing a chemical called dopamine. She was working on putting this protein called GDNF into the part of the brain that produces dopamine. The mice she was working on had reduced symptoms of the disease. In other words, the cells that make dopamine started working better.”

“So how is that of interest to Henley?”

“Not sure yet. I’m going to have to read this a little more to try to figure that out. Wait a second. I’ve got an idea.” He scrolled to the bibliography. “Let me see the authors she lists in her bibliography.” He scanned the six pages of the bibliography. “There’s these three names show up over and over: John K. Yee, Lars Swendt, Jerome Westerberg.”

“You gonna Google them?”

“I’m already there,” he said. “John Yee, Henley Pharmaceuticals. Lars Swendt, Henley Pharmaceuticals. Jerome Westerberg, Henley Pharmaceuticals. That’s it.”

“Okay, great. We think she was working on GDNF research related to Parkinson’s with scientists from Henley. How does that link up with her job at Central Montana and Henley Pharmaceuticals maybe coming to Rawlings?”

“Let me ask someone at BYU,” Ryan said. He Googled Brigham Young University, his alma mater, then punched in a phone number.

“Lanahan.”

“Professor Lanahan, this is Detective Ryan Miner, from Rawlings, Montana.”

“Ryan Miner. We had a Ryan Miner here eight or ten years ago. Wide receiver.”

“That’s me. Class of ’03.”

“And what’d you say? You’re a detective?”

“That’s right, professor. A detective in Montana. I was hoping I could pick your brain for a minute.”

“For an alum and a detective, you bet. What’s up?”

“We’re working on a case we think might be linked to stem-cells.”

“That murder?”

“Yes. I’m calling because of your expertise in cell biology. We’re looking at a university biologist up here who we think might be working on GDNF implantation for Parkinson’s research. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes, I do. Go on,” the professor said.

“Any link between that subject and Henley Pharmaceuticals in New Jersey?”

“Who are the people at Henley?”

“I’m looking at John K. Yee, Lars Swendt, and Jerome Westerberg.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with their work.”

“What are they doing these days?”

“They’re working on modalities for getting GDNF targeted to the right cells in the part of the brain where the dopamine-producing cells are dying.”

“What’s the problem they’re working on?” Ryan said.

“There’s a number of technical problems. One is getting the GDNF across the blood-brain barrier. That has to do with the brain cells having a barrier to keep out large substances. It’s a protective measure to block large viruses so the brain doesn’t get infected all the time.

“Another is to get the new cell growth to integrate correctly with the existing neural network. Then there’s the vector problem. Currently, the GDNF rides on deactivated viruses, but that’s inherently risky. Plus, the host-resistance problem. The stem cells are foreign organisms.”

“Any other problems?”

“There’s the risk of cancer. That’s the one I think those guys are working on. We know how to put the GDNF anywhere we want it and turn it on. The problem is we don’t know how to regulate it. If it starts growing in the correct part of the brain but doesn’t turn off, it’s a cancer and it can kill the host.”

“And how does this relate to stem-cell research?”

“Those three guys are working on growing stem cells programmed to become dopamine-producers that self-regulate.”

“How do you do that?” Ryan said.

“Well, you’ve got a couple of options. Either you engineer the cells so they can sense when there are enough other cells of the same sort doing the job they’re supposed to do. That’s the way it works in a normal organism. You don’t just keep producing billions of blood cells. You produce only enough to do the job and replace the ones that die naturally. Or you engineer the cells to be receptive to an external signal. You send in a substance that’s like a key. When the key fits in the lock, it turns off the cell.

“Sounds like pretty high-level stuff.”

“It’s the highest-level research going on in the world: it’s neurology, molecular biology, chemistry, even physics, all rolled up into the most complicated mystery we’ve every tried to unravel. I tell you, Ryan, I am so glad to be able to witness this in my lifetime. I try not to get carried away, but when I read what these guys are up to, it’s like they’re getting closer and closer to discovering the nature of life itself. They’re going to figure out the nature of life.”

“Are you worried about the ethics of it?”

“You bet I am. But as a scientist, this is without question the most exciting thing that’s ever been done. The way I look at it, Ryan, if I’m lucky enough to live to see today’s researchers crack this, what we’re all going to see … I can barely talk about it. What we’re all going to see is God Himself.”

“I never thought about it that way.”

“It’s absolutely incredible.”

Ryan said, “So the practical implications are pretty important, right? If they can figure out how to deliver the GDNF the right way and get it to integrate successfully, that could be the key to beating Parkinson’s?”

“That’s what we think right now.”

“Can it be used against anything else?”

“The devil’s in the details, you know, but if we can figure out the mechanism, there’s going to be a tremendous synergistic effect. One by one, we’ll adapt to all the other neurological diseases.”

“You’re talking about MS, Lou Gehrig’s, Alzheimer’s?”

“And meningitis and severed spinal cords.”

Ryan said, “So if Henley Pharmaceuticals can patent a delivery system and a self-regulatory system, they’ll make some money, right?”

“They’ll be measuring it in billions, plus a shelf full of Nobel prizes, too. It will dwarf every other advance in the history of medicine.”

“Wow. Could this explain why this researcher we’re looking at doesn’t have a lot of research articles the last few years?”

“This is one of the big ethical issues in science today. It’s a tremendous conflict of interest. Science relies of peer-review publication, so other scientists can verify that the work is legitimate and build on it. But science today is so expensive it can’t be done by independent scientists or even by most universities without external funding. And since the potential profits of a breakthrough technology or drug are so great, the big pharmaceuticals are always looking to buy the next great researcher.

“If he’s being financed by a pharma, they’re not going to let him tip off other researchers until they can get the patents to protect their investment.”

“Professor, this has been great. You’ve helped me an awful lot. I want to thank you.”

“No problem, Detective. Say, do you remember that catch against Oregon in ’01?”

“You mean the slant out that went for 38 yards and a TD and gave us the game?”

“That’s the one.”

“No, I don’t seem to remember that one,” Ryan said, smiling.

The professor laughed. “Good talking to you, Ryan. You call me back if you want to talk about stem cells—or football.”

“Will do, professor. Go, Cougars.” He hung up.

“That catch was a big deal?” I said.

“Well, not like curing disease, but it was a big deal if you follow Cougar football,” he said.

“How ’bout that?”

“Yeah, we’re lucky BYU’s big cell-biology researcher is a football fan.”

“All right, so we’ve got a faculty member in town we want to talk to.”

“And a state representative.”

“Good work, Ryan.”

*  *  *

The local news made a big deal of the arrest of the doper for killing James Weston. They said they didn’t know his motive. They didn’t float any link to Dolores Weston. I wasn’t real happy about not being able to figure out whether Dolores Weston iced her husband—and whether it had anything to do with the Hagerty murder. But the pieces would come together when they were ready to, not when I wanted them to.

I pulled myself off the couch and walked into the kitchen, took the Jack Daniel’s down off the shelf. On the counter sat an orange-juice glass that looked reasonably clean. I poured myself a couple of inches and went back into the living room to sit down.

The fight with Ryan earlier in the day had drained all my energy. He was a good guy, and he hadn’t deserved that shitstorm. Good thing about him, though: he was willing to let me talk to him about it, get it out in the open, and resolve it. I had it under control.

I carried the drink over to the desk in the corner of the living room and booted my laptop. This seemed like the perfect time to get myself a terrific deal on some penny stock, pick up that ten million dollars from the African king for helping him transfer his huge estate to the U.S., or increase my manhood at least two full inches, guaranteed.

Instead, what I got was an automated e-mail from Tommy’s vice principal, Mr. Wilhelm, informing me that Tommy’s truancy had reached a rate that not only threatened his learning but also raised the possibility he would not be able to progress to the next grade along with the rest of his classmates. Would I please contact Mr. Wilhelm first thing Monday morning to set up an appointment, along with Tommy’s father, Bruce Seagate, to come to school to discuss this matter?

Holy shit. I could feel my pulse start to race. Bruce hadn’t mentioned anything about Tommy cutting school. Or didn’t he know? Yes, of course, this was the perfect conclusion to the week, realizing that there was a big son of a bitch of a problem I hadn’t even seen coming: my son was falling apart.

One thing I’d learned about this kind of problem was if you fail to acknowledge it and pay it the respect it knows it deserves, it gets pissed off and decides to teach you a lesson. Well, here it was at my door, rapping with its huge, hairy knuckles. What a surprise! Come on in, won’t you stay a while? I downed the rest of my drink and walked over to the kitchen counter to refill it.

I picked up the phone to call Bruce but decided something this serious called for a visit. I poured and drank another inch of JD, picked up my keys, and hurried out to the carport. I didn’t remember the drive over to Bruce’s. Wasn’t aware of any other cars, the stop signs, the red lights. I couldn’t say whether it was clear or raining. All I knew was the blur of shock, fear, and regret, knowing my screw-ups were now hurting the one person I had wanted, more than anything, to protect. I pulled into Bruce’s driveway, the car parked crooked. Out of the car, up to the steps, knocking on the door fast and hard.

I heard the footsteps coming to the door fast. They were too heavy for Tommy, and Bruce never saw a reason to hurry like that. The door opened quickly, and Angela wore an expression close to panic. “Karen, what is it? Is everything okay?”

“No, Angela, everything’s not okay.” I could tell my voice was too loud, the pitch too high. I pushed past Angela. “Where’s Bruce?”

Angela was scared. “He’s out back, on the patio. What is it, Karen?”

I ignored her, striding down the hall, into the living room, to the screen door to the patio. There he was at the redwood picnic table, working on one of his rods. I slid the screen door hard, startling him.

He put the rod down on the table, a mean look coming over his face. “I thought we agreed to call first.”

I ignored the comment. Standing there, hands on my hips, I said, “Did you get that e-mail from Tommy’s school?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, picking up a screwdriver to work on the rod.

“The e-mail from the vice principal saying Tommy’s cutting school and they might hold him back because of it.”

“No, I haven’t seen that. Don’t look at e-mail much.”

This is typical Bruce. I tell him his son’s in trouble and he thinks I’m interested in his approach to e-mail. “Did you know he’s been missing a lot of school?”

“I know he’s missed a few days. Maybe he’s missed a few I don’t know about. So what?”

“‘So what?’” I tried counting, made it to five. “Bruce, listen, we have to talk about this.”

“Okay, talk.”

“Look, I know it’s been real bad between us. We’ve both done some things and said some things—”

“Shit, you’re admitting you said some things?”

“Yeah, Bruce, I know I got a mouth.” I looked at him. His face was a blank. “Bruce, you know there’s one thing we agreed on when we split: that we were both gonna be there for Tommy. We weren’t gonna let this shit between us get to him. You remember, even when you got custody and I was ready to kill you. In the courtroom that day, when we both told Tommy that.”

His face seemed to soften a little, as if he was remembering. I waited for him to speak, but all he said was “Yeah.”

“Well, Bruce, this is one of those times we gotta work together.” I paused. “When Tommy was born—remember that?—and you picked him up for the first time, I saw something in you that made me love you all the more. I saw it. You were crying. You knew, then, we both knew, we were gonna protect him from all the bad shit out there.” Bruce was still fiddling with his damn fishing rod. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I thought he was listening. He never was able to speak about anything important, but I was sure he loved Tommy. He had to know this was important.

“I’ve taken him fishing a few times. He gets more out of that than he ever will out from school.”

The words stung. “No, Bruce, think for a second about what you’re saying. You can’t mean that. You know he’s gotta go to college, so he can make something of himself. You know that. Please, Bruce, tell me you know that.”

I was on my knees, next to the bench. I reached my hand up and touched Bruce’s cheek. “Please, Bruce. I know you and me agree on what Tommy needs.” I felt the tears rising up. “Please.”

He turned toward me, our faces a few inches apart. He said, “I just don’t see it as that big a problem. But I tell you what: you think it’s important, I don’t mind you going to the school and talk to the vice principal, whatever he is.”

I said, “No, Bruce,” crumpling to the concrete on the patio.

Bruce pulled back, like he used to when we were together and fighting. He spoke slowly, in a level tone, showing how he was being reasonable and I was hysterical. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. I just told you go do what you want. I’ve always met you halfway, Karen, but halfway’s never been good enough for you.”

I stood up, wiping the tears with the back of my hand, and walked back into the house, past Angela, who was wearing a worried look as she stood by the screen door to the patio.

“Is there anything I can do, Karen?” Angela said, touching my shoulder. I pushed her aside, kept going, out of the house. I got in my car and drove home.

Back in my house, I picked up the JD bottle and filled the glass. Sitting alone at my kitchen counter, I cried and drank. Some time later—maybe an hour or three—the bottle was empty. Damn it. I stood up, steadied myself, and started looking for my car keys. I found them on the coffee table. Bending down to pick them up, I lost my balance and fell onto the couch. Lucky the couch was there, I thought. I got up and walked out of the house, my hands on the hall walls for balance. The liquor store was less than a mile away, but no way was I going to walk that far in my condition.

The sun had set, with just a pale band of yellow remaining on the horizon. My eyes traced the yellow, watching where it disappeared behind a house, a store, a truck. A car coming in the other direction honked at me, and I realized I had maybe drifted a little into his lane. I didn’t remember whether I had my credit card in my purse. I fished the purse out of my big leather bag on the passenger seat, opened it, and pulled out the stack of plastic. The light was bad. I had to strain to see the cards.

Looking up, I saw the blue minivan crossing the intersection. Just visible over the passenger door, the girl, maybe eight or nine, her blond hair hanging in bangs, the seat belt snug against her neck. The girl’s eyes were wide with terror, her mouth open, as if she was screaming.

God, no, I thought, unable to move, as I heard the explosion of steel on steel, then the rifle shot of the airbag erupting in my face.

*  *  *

I felt the car rocking back and forth as a voice drifted in, the sound separating into words. “Come on, you son of a bitch,” it said. I lifted my head off the steering wheel, looked to my left, following the sound, and saw a pair of men’s hands working my car door, trying to get it open. I didn’t know where I was.

My head throbbing, I lifted my right hand and felt at the lump on my forehead. I pulled my left arm from beneath the tent of the deflated airbag. Grasping the door handle, I flinched in pain as my left wrist bent. “I got it, lady; just stay still,” the man’s voice said.

I half-closed my eyes to block out the piercing red, white, and blue flashes from the squad car, the fire-department dispatch truck, and two ambulances—the lights violent and out of sync. The memory was coming back to me, first in indistinct images. I read an e-mail about Tommy, then out to the patio at Bruce’s, then nothing. Then, in an instant, the images connected into a narrative and I gasped.

I looked out my windshield. The minivan, four feet in front of me, the passenger compartment crumpled, its window broken in the center by an impact, cracks radiating out like a spider web. The minivan was empty.

I unlocked my seat belt with my good hand and started pounding at the car door with my shoulder. “Just a second, ma’am; you could be hurt,” the man’s voice said, but I kept pounding through the pain. Suddenly, the door pulled open and I started to fall, a man’s hand catching my shoulder before I hit the glass-littered street.

Recovering my balance, I pulled my bad wrist in toward my stomach and snaked my body out of the car, past the windshield frame, twisted down and in from the crash. “Stay where you are, lady,” the EMT said, but I pushed him out of the way with my good hand.

I was over to the minivan, its sheet-metal skin crumpled like balled paper from the front wheel to the back. “No, God, no,” I screamed as I saw the blood on the inside of the passenger window at the impact point. I looked down at the shattered plastic shards of the passenger door panel jutting out over the passenger seat.

Panicking, I looked around. What happened to the girl? Shielding my eyes from the blinding strobe of emergency lights, I saw two paramedics loading a gurney into the back of their ambulance. I ran over to it, but a woman wearing a neck brace saw me coming and intercepted me, pushing me off to the side. “You stay away,” the woman screamed in my face, then lifted herself into the ambulance as a paramedic pulled himself in and shut the doors behind him.

Two paramedics from a second ambulance ran over to me, restraining me. The senior one started talking to me in a calm but strong voice. “Ma’am, you need to calm down.”

I was straining against him. “I need to find out what happened to that girl.”

“Ma’am, the paramedics are getting her to the hospital. I need you to come over here to the curb and sit down. You could be hurt.” It took the two big men to half push, half lift me over to the curb, but I wouldn’t sit down. “Ma’am, you were the driver of the grey car, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

He was looking at my eyes, trying to get a read on my pupils. He could smell the liquor on my breath. He saw the lump on my forehead. “Ma’am, can you tell me if anything hurts? Are you aware of any injuries?”

“I’m okay. Bad wrist,” I said, waving my left arm at the paramedic. “Can you get on the radio now and find out the status of that girl? I need to know she’s okay.”

“No, ma’am, I can’t do that now. They’re gonna take care of that girl, and we’re gonna take care of you. I have to find out if you’re okay.”

“I told you, I’m okay,” I said, my voice rising, frantic, when I saw a second squad car pull up, the pitch of the siren falling as the driver shut it down. The lights, punching red and blue and white, stayed on. Matt hurried out of the squad car and ran over to us.

“Matt,” I cried out, reaching my arm out to touch him, “help me with this. There’s an ambulance taking a little girl in to …”

“Officer,” the paramedic said, interrupting me, “do you know this woman? I think she might be in shock.”

“Yeah, she’s a police detective. I work with her.”

“Okay,” the paramedic said, “can you help me get her calmed down so I can get her vitals?” He leaned in to Matt. “You need to do a BAC on her.”

I heard this, pulling Matt off to the side. “You can’t do that now.”

“I’m sorry, Karen, there’s nothing I can do,” Matt said. “You were involved in a crash, an injury crash. I don’t do a BAC now, it’s my job.”

“Please, Matt, listen to me. I can’t take a DUI now. It’ll be my shield. I’m right in the middle of this Hagerty case.”

“What are you asking me to do, Karen?”

“Just give me two hours, Matt. Two hours. That’s all I ask.”

“What am I supposed to do with the paramedics?” he said, pointing to them, leaning against the ambulance.

“I can take care of it. Follow me,” I said, leading Matt over to the paramedics. “Guys, I’m real sorry about flipping out like that. I’m okay, really. Officer Anderson here is gonna do the BAC on me, then run me over to the hospital.”

The two paramedics looked at Matt skeptically. The senior one said, “Officer, you wanna do it that way?”

“It’s Moore, right?” he said, reading off his ID badge hanging from his neck.

“Ronnie Moore.”

“Okay, Ronnie, give her the Denial of Care form. I’ll take it from here.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll sign it.” The paramedic handed me the clipboard and I scrawled a signature. Matt and I watched as the two paramedics turned and walked back to their ambulance. “Thanks, again, guys,” I called out to them. They started the engine, shut down the lights, and pulled away.

I turned to Matt. “Thanks, Matt. I really owe you.”

“Forget it. You’d do the same for me,” he said. “Come on over to the squad car. We need to talk before the crew comes to clean up the mess here.” I followed him over and got in the front seat.

“How do you want to handle this?” he said to me.

“I’m okay. I sprained my wrist, but it’s not broken,” I said, grimacing as I moved it back and forth. And I got a lump on my head, but it’s not a concussion.”

“What I meant was, about the BAC.”

“Listen, Matt, if you do it now, I might be over the limit. Maybe way over. I’m willing to plead to Inattentive Driving, but if I get a DUI, the Chief’ll have my shield.” I started to break down. “My kid—Tommy?—you never met him. He’s going through a real bad stretch now, screwing up at school and everything. I just can’t let him read about me getting fired, causing an accident, hurting a kid … Oh, God. Just give me a little time to tell him before you write it up, will you?” He was looking at me, his face impassive. “C’mon, Matt, please. It would mean everything to me.”

Matt looked around at the bystanders, fifteen or twenty people standing at the intersection, gazing at the busted-up vehicles. “I’ll tell you what I can do. I need to be able to show I did the BAC on you. Hold on.” He walked over to his squad car, popped the truck, and pulled out the BAC kit. He came back over to me. “Okay, you know the drill.”

“No, Matt. Shit, don’t make me do this now.”

“Trust me, will ya? Just blow into it.”

Finally I understood him. “Oh, God, thanks, Matt,” I said, blowing on the tube for everyone to see. “Anything you want,” I said. “Anything.”

He packed up the kit, escorting me to his squad car.

“You gonna bring me to the hospital?” I said, getting in the front seat. “I gotta check on that girl.”

“I tell you what. They’re not gonna let you see her. I’ll check on her for you. But if I bring you over to the hospital now, they’ll ask if I’ve done the BAC. They might want the results. It’d be better to bring you home, let you sit there for a few hours. Then, you can say you’ve still got a headache and I can bring you over to the hospital and we can check on the girl. That way, you’ll be under .08 if they check you. What do you say?”

“You can run me over to the hospital?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna stay with you.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said. “I’ll be able to get to the hospital myself. I got neighbors with cars.”

“I’m not leaving you alone. In case that head injury is worse than you think.”

“All right,” I said. “I really appreciate it.” He started the car and started to pull away.

“No big deal,” he said. “You’ll owe me one.” And at that moment I understood I’d just made another really bad decision.


Chapter 7

I parked the rental car in the lot, then shut down the engine and sat there, unable to move. The breeze had already picked up, bringing some cold down from Canada. It was all over the news last night: a big high-pressure ridge or front or whatever the hell it was coming in from the northwest, giving us our first real taste of winter. The branches at the top of the elms near the hospital entrance brushed back and forth against the sky. People walked fast toward the hospital entrance, heads lowered, arms tight across their chests.

The TV stations were in a competition to see which one could devote the most time to the weather and report on it earliest in the broadcast. Another soldier from Montana killed. Two people killed in a house fire. Kid hurt bad in a car accident. But wait, this just in: cold snap on the way. November in Montana—who’d have seen that coming?

I got out of the car and walked toward the entrance. A new mother was going home. She sat in the wheelchair, huddled over the baby, invisible beneath its layers of swaddling clothes. The mother was adjusting the layers to make a protective cone the baby could breathe through but remain untouched by the cold. The father was hovering over the scene, unsure what to do.

The nurse was motioning for him to go get the car; she would stay there to protect the mother and the new baby during this time of transition. He looked concerned, but the nurse reassured him, waving him toward the parking lot. With those three adults on duty, the new cargo would be protected. But in a moment, it would be just the two adults, and the baby would be in a car, and then they would be naked and vulnerable.

I stopped at the information desk near the entrance. I didn’t know where Pediatrics was. I was directed to the fourth floor. Yes, I knew where the elevators were. Arriving at the fourth floor, I knew I was in the right place. The walls were covered with giant murals of children romping through the fields and playing on jungle gyms. Even the dogs in the murals were smiling, which was creepy enough. Balloons in bright blues, reds, and yellows were attached to the walls and hung from the ceiling. I walked toward the nurses’ station, past rooms with tiny patients in beds, surrounded by adults. Many of the adults looked relieved and cheerful; others looked frightened or dazed or empty.

The nurse said, “Can I help you?” She was taking in my injuries: black eye, lump on the forehead. I don’t know if she saw the bandage on my wrist.

“Detective Karen Seagate, Rawlings Police Department. Can you give me a room number on Annie Pritchard?”

“She’s in 415, in the ICU.”

“Oh, God, no. ICU?”

“Yes. She had a brain trauma injury. I don’t know if you knew that.”

“No, I didn’t … Well, I guess I knew. I’m not sure.”

“Are you all right, Detective?” The nurse stepped around from behind the nurses’ station and took my hand, looked at my eyes.

“Yeah, I’m all right. I’ll be all right.”

“You sure? You look kinda pale.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be that bad.”

“She was in a T-bone crash.”

“How badly hurt … Is she gonna be okay?”

“Detective, come over here and sit down. I don’t like your color,” the nurse said, leading me over to a small couch in the nurses’ lounge. “Let me get you some water.”

I sat and waited. I took the water and said, “Tell me how bad she is.”

“Well, she suffered a skull fracture and contusion to the brain. Then she developed an intracranial hemorrhage, but we drained that and got it under control. She’s still in a coma.”

“What’s the prognosis?”

“It’s still too early to tell. It’s only been twelve hours.”

“The coma, what does that mean?”

“It’s fairly common in cases like this. We’re hoping she’ll come out some time today.”

“Long term?”

“Don’t know. She could be perfectly fine, everything normal in a month or so.”

“Or?”

“Well, there’s a range of potential problems, but we don’t want to get ahead of ourselves. We’re hoping to see progress every day.”

My shoulders slumped, my head sinking into my hands. I began to weep quietly. The nurse said, “Detective, are you investigating what happened to this girl?”

“No,” I said, lifting my head and looking at the nurse, “I am what happened to this girl.”

The nurse said “I’m so sorry,” and went back to her post behind the nurses’ station.

I took a tissue out of my bag and wiped at my eyes, stood up, and walked down the hall to room 415. I looked in the window, through the half-closed blinds. The mother was sitting on the bed, clutching the girl’s hand. The mother wore a neck brace. The girl’s head was shaved and bandaged, with a tube running from the right side of the skull, out under the bandage.

I walked in slowly. The mother appeared to hear the door opening but didn’t turn to see who it was. Nurses and doctors were in and out all the time. I stood there, noiselessly. The woman turned and saw me but said nothing.

“Mrs. Pritchard, my name is Karen Seagate.” I didn’t know what to say next. I had no idea whether Mrs. Pritchard knew who was in the accident. “I’m a police officer with the Rawlings Police Department,” I said, immediately realizing how that would mislead her.

Mrs. Pritchard placed her daughter’s hand down gently on the bed and stood. “I’m pleased to meet you. Aubrey Pritchard.” She walked over, extending her hand to me. Suddenly, her expression clouded as she noticed the brace on my wrist, then the knot on my forehead. She said, “It’s … it’s you.”

I said nothing. Aubrey Pritchard’s hand came up suddenly. I saw it coming but chose not to block it. The slap to my face knocked me off balance, but I recovered my footing before hitting the wall. Aubrey Pritchard stared at me as I looked down at the floor. Neither of us said anything.

After what seemed a long while, Aubrey said, “Where do you find the nerve?”

I was silent for a moment. “I came to see Annie. To see if there is anything I can do.” My voice was low and flat.

Aubrey Pritchard said nothing. She walked slowly over to the bed, sat down in the chair, and then gently took Annie’s hand. I stood motionless. “Annie is in the second grade at Riverside. She has a brother, Mike, who is in kindergarten. She says Mike is a real pain, but she is very protective of him. And she has an older sister, Kathleen, who’s just starting junior high. Kathleen is pulling away from Annie now that she has discovered boys. Or, to be more precise, boys have discovered her. And Annie has a cat, Marmalade, who she promised she would take care of. For the most part, she has kept her end of the bargain. And Annie has a father, Russell. Russell and I love Annie very much.”

She was weeping.

“Mrs. Pritchard, I cannot express how sorry I am this happened.”

“Annie was working on a project at school. She was going to measure the growth rate of beans. One group of seeds was going to be placed in the shade all the time. One group was going to get four hours of sun every day. And one group was going to be placed in the sun all the time. She was going to measure how high each group grows.”

I let the words hang in the air. “Mrs. Pritchard, please talk to me. Please. I have done a horrible thing, Mrs. Pritchard. I know that. I do. But I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. And I will do whatever I can to make it better. I won’t dispute your version of the accident. I’ll give you all the money I have. Mrs. Pritchard, please talk to me.”

Aubrey looked up at me. “How did you run that stop sign?”

It was a few seconds before I could speak. “I wasn’t paying attention. I … I took my eyes off the road.”

“I was told you were given a Breathalyzer test at the scene.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Had you been drinking?”

I swallowed. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Pritchard.” She turned back to Annie, as if I had already left the room, as if I no longer existed. I said, “Mrs. Pritchard, may I come to see Annie?”

Aubrey Pritchard turned to me, like she was surprised I was still there. “No, you may not,” she said softly, turning back to her daughter.

*  *  *

Ryan was working at his desk when I walked in to the detectives’ bullpen, hung up my coat, and sat down at my desk. He looked up. I could see him checking out my busted face. “How’re you feeling?” he said.

I felt pretty beat up, with new purple bruises popping up all over my body and everything sore, but I wasn’t even conscious of my injuries. Before the car crash, I would have been able to answer Ryan’s question easily. I had a bunch of problems, each of which I could name. This was shitty and that was shitty, but I knew I could work through it all. I’d think about my problems, analyze them, put them in categories, go to work on them, and with time and luck I’d tick them off my list. I’d get through it.

Before, I knew I was a nuisance. The people in my life—my son, my ex-husband, my partner—had to make allowances for me when I screwed up, which I was doing with increasing frequency these days. But I was still functioning. And even though I had long since become a pain in the ass to everyone in contact with me, I was still doing valuable work. Ryan and I were making progress on the case.

But when I put that little girl in the hospital, everything changed. I had hurt her, maybe for life, maybe killed her. I had become toxic. I was now a poison, seeping out from my own circle of people, infecting strangers. Clearly, I could no longer be trusted to do my job, to work with Ryan. Now, the calculations had changed. I could no longer say that, yes, I had some serious problems, but in the big picture I was doing more good than harm. No, it was clear I could not say that.

How did I feel? I felt, for the first time in my life, like I deserved to die. And I wanted to. “I’m sorry, Ryan, what did you say?”

“I asked you if you’re okay, you know, the accident?” The accident had happened too late to make the paper.

“I’m fine. Just a little beat up.”

“The wrist broken?”

“No, just sprained.”

“I’ve had that before. It’s a pain because you keep banging it against things. But it’ll get a little better every day.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.” I didn’t know whether the word had gotten out I had been drinking. Maybe Matt didn’t tell anyone, particularly because of the way he faked the BAC test and drove me back to my house. Yes, Matt was a shithead, but he wasn’t a stupid shithead. He wasn’t the kind to jeopardize his own career by talking it up around headquarters.

The way Ryan was treating me supported this. If he knew I’d been drinking, he wouldn’t have mentioned his own sprained wrist, talking like this was a routine car accident. But what did it mean that he didn’t ask whether it was a one-car or a multi-car? I thought he surely would ask if all he knew was that I was in a car crash. He would ask me how bad I was hurt, then whether there was anyone else in my car, then whether there was another car. That’s what anyone would ask. So he must know. Maybe he just didn’t know I was drunk.

Ryan said, “The Chief wants to see you. As soon as you get in.”

Well, I thought, soon I would know how much everyone knew. I nodded. “While I’m gone, why don’t you try to find out why Timothy Sanders went to Milwaukee?”

“Yeah, I’ve got that on my list.”

In the Chief’s office, Helen Glenning, the receptionist, waved me in, wearing an expression that told me most of what I needed to know. There was no understanding or disappointment or even pity, just disgust.

I stood in front of the Chief’s desk. On a good day he was likely to make the detectives stand. Today, he sure wasn’t going to invite me to sit. He kept writing for five seconds, then ten. I didn’t care. Finally, he looked up.

“Close the door.” I did it. “I talked with the prosecutor this morning to see what you’re going to be charged with. I was hoping it would be DUI, because I know you’re a drunk, and then I’d be able to fire you. Unfortunately, the BAC wasn’t filed early enough. So it looks like it’s going to be Inattentive Driving, which is a gift. You got lucky.”

“Funny,” I said. “I don’t feel lucky.”

“If the victim dies, of course, then the prosecutor can re-file for Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter, which will carry time.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m aware of that.” He kept looking at me. “Why did you ask to see me, Chief?”

He shook his head. “Just to let you know where you stand.”

I knew where I stood. I knew that he had been gunning for her ever since I had made detective. This might turn out to be his chance. Good, I thought. Let’s get it over with. If he thought I cared whether I got in trouble at work, disappointed him, got fired, he didn’t understand me. I simply no longer cared. I didn’t care about being humiliated in front of Ryan and everyone else on the force. It didn’t matter. I realized I wasn’t even ashamed of myself. What could that mean?

It hit me. I wasn’t ashamed of myself because I hadn’t let myself down. I didn’t do anything I should not have done. I was a drunk. That’s what drunks do. They drink, then they hurt people. For me to be ashamed, I would have had to be a better person than that. I would have had to be in control of myself. I would have had to be responsible. I would have had to know my actions affected other people. But that would have been too much to ask of myself. I was just a drunk. I did what drunks do.

“Do you have anything to say?”

I thought for a moment. That I was sorry I embarrassed the department by getting in a car crash after having too much to drink? No, that wouldn’t be quite true. That I understood why he wanted to fire me? No, that was fairly obvious. That I felt an aching pain in my soul that I had never felt before, that I could not have imagined before? That I wanted to unholster my service revolver, place the barrel up against my temple, and stop it? No, I didn’t think I wanted to share that with the Chief.

“No, Chief, I don’t have anything to say.”

“Since I can’t suspend you, here’s what you’re going to do on the Hagerty case,” the Chief said. “It could be a while before the Hawaii cops can get that kid to either back off on his story how Dolores Weston had her husband killed—or give them something they can go on. I don’t believe in coincidences. My money’s on her being the link. If she was into something dirty, maybe her husband found out about it and she had him taken out. Then she had to take out Hagerty for the same reason. I want to be ready to grab her up if it turns out that’s what happened.”

“Okay, so what do you want us to do?”

“You and Miner get the phones and financials on Hagerty and Dolores Weston. Figure out what kind of shit they were into. With any luck, I can connect the dots and get her for both murders before the Hawaii guys flip the kid.”

“That would get your picture in the paper, wouldn’t it?”

“Seagate, get the hell out of my office and do your job, while you still have one.”

I turned and left. I wasn’t seeing the connection between the two murders. The Maui detectives must’ve sweated the kid hard on the conspiracy. If there was any evidence, they would have been all over Weston’s place here in town when they were here. But they went home the next day. Even if Weston’s employees in town said the doper kid was an asshole, since when was that a crime? No, I didn’t see any reason to pursue the James Weston murder—until something else turned up. In the meantime, Ryan and I would work the Hagerty murder.

“All right,” Ryan said when I got back to our desks. “How’d it go?”

“He authorized us to get the phones and financials on Arlen Hagerty and Dolores Weston. Wants us to nail Weston for killing her husband and Hagerty.”

“We’re a ways from making that connection.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But since he’s letting us get the information we want, let’s just do it.”

“Okay,” Ryan said. “I’ll start rounding up the records. Oh, and one other thing. I called Soul Savers in Milwaukee. There’s an office there, but there’s no record of Timothy Sanders stopping by.”

“You work on Hagerty’s records. I’ll do Dolores Weston.” I looked at my young partner as he began to fill out the forms on his computer. Either this kid is one hell of an actor, I thought, or he doesn’t know what happened in that car crash.

*  *  *

Getting the phones and financials on Hagerty and Dolores Weston took the rest of the morning. We had to officially route the requests through the Chief’s office. He forwarded them to the prosecutor, who signed off on it. The phones were simple because there were only a handful of carriers who could have had accounts for Hagerty and Weston. The financials were more complex. Naturally, Soul Savers had so many layers of bureaucracy I had to spend a lot of time on the phone getting shuttled between various administrative and accounting offices in Colorado Springs.

The search for private accounts for Hagerty took a call to the Colorado Association for Bank Security, which puts law-enforcement in touch with the right bank during a criminal investigation. For Weston, it was more complicated because she had residences in four other states, which we had to run down.

Ryan ate his bag lunch from the other day. I bought some calories from a machine in the break room. By 1:00 we had what we needed to start talking with each other.

“Okay, Ryan,” I said, tossing my empty chips bag into the garbage can, “tell me about Hagerty.”

“He didn’t have a cell, or at least he didn’t have a registered one. All he had was a home phone. When he was on the road he used hotel phones. I got his itinerary from Soul Savers going back three months and contacted the various hotels. There are calls from the hotels at each of the places he’d been during that period, so he didn’t appear to be using a calling card.”

“Okay, who’d he talk to?”

“The most calls were back and forth to Soul Savers headquarters, a few to the Archbishop. He called a lot of restaurants. The only thing that jumps out is he was talking a lot to Dolores Weston.”

“When was that?”

“The whole time. Going back to late August, at least once a week. The last month, more than that. Couple times a week. And there were two calls—one to her, one from her—the day he was killed, in the afternoon.”

“So when he’s here in Rawlings, he’s using the hotel phone. What phone is she using? A number in the legislature or home?”

“Day he was killed,” Ryan said, looking down at the records, “he called her at her office in the legislature a little before 3:00. The call was fifteen seconds, so I’m guessing he left her a message. She called him back, from her home, around 4:00. That call lasted nineteen minutes.”

“Those other calls to Dolores, going back the three months, are they during the day or the evening?”

“Both. And they range from less than a minute to more than forty minutes.”

“That’s a little more chatting than I’d expect between these two,” I said.

“Seems like it to me. I guess Dolores would want some sort of endorsement from Arlen running up to the election. Let me look at the pattern.” He ran his finger down the record. “But the frequency doesn’t change after the election. In fact, some of the longest calls were in the last couple of weeks.”

“They could be talking about the Henley Pharmaceuticals thing,” I said. “What did you get from the financials? That might tell us something.”

“Okay,” Ryan said. “He had an operations budget and a travel budget from Soul Savers. He had control of them, although I couldn’t get straight whether Connie de Marco had any authority to draw on them. But there’s nothing particularly interesting about them, anyway.”

“Anything interesting separate from Soul Savers?” I said.

“Maybe. He’s got three different accounts: two joint accounts in his name and Margaret’s, one in his name only. He’s got no trusts or anything fancy. The bank account in his name, he makes a five-thousand dollar deposit around the fifteenth of every month.”

“Those deposits coming from Soul Savers?”

“No, not according to Soul Savers,” Ryan said.

“They have any fingerprints on them?”

“No, they’re not checks, they’re cash.”

“That’s weird,” I said. “Where’s he getting five K a month in currency?”

“Maybe that’s something we want to talk with Dolores Weston about,” Ryan said. “What’d you get on her?”

“Okay, start with the phones,” I said, scanning the records. “I’m seeing the same calls you saw between her and Hagerty.”

Ryan said, “Anything between her and the doper kid? What’s his name?”

“He’s Robert Cowan. A couple, but nothing right before the husband died.”

“Which doesn’t tell us much either way, right?”

“Right,” I said. “If he’s working for her here and in Maui, she could say she was calling him to see how he’s doing in Maui.”

“Anything interesting in her financials?” Ryan said.

“Yeah, a bull’s-eye on that one,” I said. “She was withdrawing five thousand a month, cash, from a private account.”

“Which is exactly what Hagerty was depositing, right?”

“Exactly,” I said.

“What’s she paying him for? And why in cash?” Ryan said.

I said, “We’ll, those are good questions, Ryan. Want to see how the rich and famous live?”

“I’ll set it up,” Ryan said. He tried Dolores Weston’s office. “She’s probably not there since the legislature doesn’t convene till January.” He let it ring, then left a message asking to speak with her. Next he tried her home. She wasn’t there, but he left a message with the housekeeper, asking her to call when she got in.

Twenty minutes later, Dolores Weston phoned to tell us how on the advice of her attorney she would have no comment on the ludicrous allegation that she was involved in the death of her husband. Ryan assured her we understood that but that we were interested in talking with her about her relationship with Arlen Hagerty. We arranged to meet her at her home in fifteen minutes.

“Do you know where this place is?” I said to Ryan as we got into a cruiser.

“She told me to stay on Harrison, as far as you can go.”

We drove north on Harrison out of town toward the foothills, past the fancy developments with names like Ravensmere and Bryn Arden. The houses gave way to meadows. “You sure you got that right: all the way out on Harrison?”

“That’s what she told me,” Ryan said. We were on a one-lane dirt and gravel road, nothing around us but prairie and rolling hillside. “There it is,” he said, pointing to the red-sided barn, big enough for at least a dozen stalls. Next to the barn was the paddock, enclosed by a gleaming three-rail white fence. The paddock was covered in grass. Irrigation heads, surrounded by tires, dotted the expanse. Seven horses were eating grass and hay. A mare was walking lazily around the paddock, her colt trotting beside her. A young man and a young woman were sitting on the fence, talking. “Look at that, will you? It must be a couple of acres.”

“What kind of horses are they, do you know?”

“The expensive kind. Three of them are Arabian, four are quarter horses. They’re beauties, every one of them.”

“Give me a number.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Can’t tell without seeing their papers, but I’d guess the quarter horses go for ten or twenty thousand each. The Arabians, they could be a hundred thousand each. Sky’s the limit with them, really.”

“Good, I just wanted to know how much to dislike Dolores Weston.”

“Well, if it’s a question of money, you should hate her,” he said, pointing to her house.

With the big red barn and the bright fence, I hadn’t even noticed the estate tucked into the hillside. It was a flat-roofed modern building made up of rectangles dominated by horizontal expanses of warm Montana stone, ash, and huge floor-to-ceiling windows that mirrored the sky and the sun. Cantilevered decks surrounded the three sides I could see.

We drove up the driveway covered in pavers set in a herringbone pattern. We got out of the car and crossed the sandstone steps to the main entryway. I pressed the buzzer next to the ten-foot tall double doors. A moment later a uniformed Hispanic woman opened one of the doors.

“Detectives Seagate and Miner to see Dolores Weston.”

“I’ll see if Senator Weston is available. Please come in.” She turned and retreated into the house.

Ryan and I walked into the foyer. I said, “You said she’d see us, right?”

“Yeah, she told me so herself on the phone.”

“So what’s with the ‘see if she’s available’ crap?”

“That’s how important people talk, Karen. Haven’t you heard it in movies? Fifteen minutes ago, she thought she’d be available. Now she might not be available. If she can’t see us, that’s our problem, not hers.”

“Like something so important happened in the last fifteen minutes she’s gonna tell two cops to take a hike?”

“Karen, you know Senator Weston is rich. If you can’t understand how that makes her more important than a couple of cops, you’re never going to get anywhere in life.”

“Yeah, well, I think that ship’s already sailed,” I said. A moment later, Dolores Weston emerged from inside. We knew she was close to sixty, but she looked barely forty. Her dark hair was sleek, cut stylishly short. Her wide set eyes framed a long, graceful nose. Her berry-shaded lipstick picked up the cranberry of her cashmere sweater and complemented the charcoal wool slacks.

“Detectives,” she said, extending her hand and smiling broadly, giving us an opportunity to appreciate the wonderful mixture of two of God’s most important blessings: physical beauty and old money. “Dolores Weston. You must be Detective Seagate and Detective Miner. Please come in,” she said, leading us in.

Why, this is going to be simply a delight. “Senator Weston,” I said, “let me say how sorry we are about the loss of your husband.”

“Thank you very much, Detective,” she said. “You know, James and I worked on this house together—it’s the only one of our places … When I look around this beautiful house, I see him everywhere. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” She paused, but only for a second. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

“This is the great room,” she said, her eyes sparkling again. It was like she was done thinking about her dead husband. Now it was time to show us the house. “I just adore this view,” she said, gesturing through the wall of glass to the prairie stretching out to the foothills that touched the sky.

Ryan picked up on her shifting gears. He said, “This is a beautiful home, Senator. I can’t help but notice how the interior colors mirror the earth tones.”

“I’m so glad you saw that, Detective. My late husband and I wanted to merge the inside and the outside so seamlessly you momentarily forgot whether you were inside or outside. That’s why we settled on the natural palette: the leather, the stone columns in the corners, the fireplace, the reclaimed beams, the tiles—everything.”

“Well, you’ve certainly achieved that,” he said. “It’s simply magnificent.”

“Let me show one other thing, Detective,” she said, bestowing a broad smile on Ryan, who seemed to be the one worthy of her attention. “Step over here for a moment,” she said, gently guiding his elbow. “Look that way,” she said. He smiled, turning obediently in anticipation of another enchanting surprise. “We just didn’t want the kitchen to look like a kitchen when you’re standing in the great room. Do you know what I mean?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said as he walked up to the entryway. “Are those zinc counters?”

“Yes, they are,” she said, clearly impressed. “And the cabinets are wenge-wood.”

“Do you mind?” he said, asking permission to enter the kitchen. He shook his head in wonder at the magnificence. “And the white bronze inlays …” He was rendered speechless by her impeccable taste.

Dolores Weston turned to me. At the moment I was considering which earth-toned surface would be highlighted most effectively when I blew lunch, which could occur any moment now. “Your detective is simply priceless, Detective Seagate.”

“He came out top of his class in interiors at the academy,” I said.

“You kid, of course, but it is so rare to find a young gentleman who notices the details.”

“We’re awfully proud of him,” I said.

“Well, I realize you didn’t stop by to look at my lodge,” Dolores Weston said.

“Unfortunately, no,” I said.

Dolores Weston led us back out to the great room, her low heels clicking on the flagstone. “Please take a seat, Detectives,” she said, gesturing to an oversized cream Scandinavian leather couch as she settled into a matching loveseat across from us.

“Your name came up in the investigation of the murder of Arlen Hagerty.”

“Oh, that was such a tragedy,” Dolores Weston said, shaking her head.

“It certainly was, Senator,” I said. “Can you tell us how well you knew him?”

“I can’t say we were close friends, but I’ve always been an admirer of his organization. I feel they do tremendously valuable work. In fact, I asked him for Soul Savers’ support for my Senate candidacy.”

“And he did support you, is that correct?”

“Yes, I am happy to say he did.” She smiled, turning the wattage down a little, given that he was murdered a few days ago.

“Can you help us understand your relationship with Henley Pharmaceuticals?” I said.

She looked a little surprised, but she recovered quickly. “Henley is a firm based in New Jersey. They are considering building a facility somewhere in this region. I’m hoping to convince them to build right here in Rawlings.”

“How are you trying to do that?”

“You may remember that last year the legislature passed—and the Governor signed—legislation offering tax breaks to out-of-state companies that would set up shop in Montana and employ more than one hundred people. I think this would be just a wonderful boost for our economy. There would be jobs for the semi-skilled, university-trained, everyone. There would be tremendous opportunities for consulting for the university faculty in science and business. It would be win-win, all around.”

Ryan said, “Can I just get back to Arlen Hagerty for a moment?”

“Of course,” Dolores Weston said, smiling and turning to him.

“When did you last speak with him? Do you remember?”

“Let me think,” she said, her brow furrowed, her index finger on her chin. “Well, I know we spoke right before the election. I was thanking him for the support from Soul Savers. That’s the most recent I can remember.”

Ryan pulled the sheet with the phone records out of a folder. “That’s odd, because I’m seeing a phone call from here to his hotel room Tuesday afternoon.”

“Oh, Detective, yes. Yes, we did speak. I thought you were asking about when I last saw him. Yes, we did speak.”

“Can you tell us the subject of your conversation?” I said.

Dolores Weston looked flustered, as if she was deciding whether to tell me it was none of my business. “Well, this and that,” she said, pausing. “I thanked him for the support during the election—”

“You thanked him again?” I said.

“Well, yes. I see nothing wrong with that.”

“Me, neither,” I said. “It’s good to be polite. Any other subjects?”

“I’m not sure, Detective. It was a brief call.”

I said to Ryan, “Do you have the length of the call?”

“Nineteen minutes and forty-two seconds, it says here.”

“Let me ask it this way, Senator,” I said. “Was Henley Pharmaceuticals one of the subjects?”

“Detective, I cannot remember with any specificity. It might have been. I know only that I considered Mr. Hagerty an important colleague and supporter of conservative values.”

Ryan said, “Senator, have you ever given money to support Soul Savers?”

“As a matter of fact, I have been a supporter for some time.”

“Do you know how much money you have contributed?” he said.

“No, I do not.”

“Is it five thousand dollars a month?”

“Really, Detective, I don’t see how my private donations to a charitable organization are any of … relate in any way to your investigation.”

I said, “Well, Senator Weston, we want to thank you very much for sharing your time with us. We hope we don’t have to disturb you again. And again, our condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you, Detective,” she said, rising and standing very tall. “And Detective Miner, a pleasure to speak with you, as well.” She offered her campaign-poster smile and led us out to the tall front doors.

Back in the car, I said, “Nice question about the five thousand bucks.”

“What do you think the chances are she was paying him off?”

“Based on the look she gave us, I’d say a hundred percent,” I said.

“Sampling error?”

“Zero percent.”

“Let’s say it’s her five K Hagerty was depositing, why is she giving it in cash?” Ryan said.

“You answer that one,” I said, “and I think you’ve got the motive.”

“If she’s just donating to his organization, she’d give it to the organization, not him, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “And it’d be in a check, so she could declare it on her taxes.”

“That’s what I thought. I thought she’d be smarter than that.”

“Why, ’cause she’s rich enough to have a ‘great room’?”

“Well, yeah, and a zinc countertop, and wenge-wood cabinets,” Ryan said.

“What the hell is wenge-wood, anyway …” I paused, holding up a finger as if I had just had an important insight. “Wait a second, I just realized something: I don’t give a shit.”

The pampered horses receding in the rear-view mirror, we headed eight or ten rungs down the socioeconomic ladder to our grey steel desks in the tan-brick police headquarters. “We better go check in with the Chief,” I said. Ryan nodded.

At his office, we were greeted by an icy “Yes?” from Helen Glenning.

“We need to see the Chief. It’s important.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.” She hit the intercom button. “Detectives Miner and Seagate, Chief.”

As we waited for the Chief’s decision whether or not to allow us entry into the inner sanctum, Ryan whispered to me, “Notice I get top billing?”

“Gee,” I said, “I hope this doesn’t mean he likes you more than he likes me.”

Helen Glenning waved us in. The Chief kept staring at his screen for a long moment. Then he looked up at Ryan.

Ryan said, “Chief, we wanted to tell you where we are on the Hagerty case.” He nodded for Ryan to proceed. “We interviewed Dolores Weston.”

“Get anything linking her husband and the Hagerty murder?”

“No,” I said. “She made it clear she wasn’t gonna get into her husband’s death. And she’s right. From what we know right now, if it was murder, it occurred in Maui, not here. Until it’s established she conspired with the doper here in our jurisdiction, there’s no case in Montana.”

The Chief looked like he wanted to get out of his chair and just smack me. But since he didn’t say anything, I could tell he knew I was right. After a long moment he said, “You get anything off the phones and financials?”

“Nothing that helps with the husband—”

“Miner, you agree with Seagate?”

“Absolutely, Chief,” Ryan said.

The Chief was a real son of a bitch, asking the junior detective if he agreed with me. I wasn’t going to let him cut me out. “Like I was saying, there was nothing that helps us with her husband getting killed. But there’s a clear connection with the Hagerty murder. She was withdrawing five thousand a month, cash, and Hagerty was depositing five thousand a month, cash, into a private account. When we asked Weston about it, she got evasive.”

“Why would she be paying him off?”

“We’re not sure,” Ryan said. “She said she solicited Soul Savers’ support during the election, but that doesn’t add up because she wouldn’t be using cash, and she wouldn’t be paying him to a private account.”

“So give me another explanation.”

“We’re trying to track down another angle,” I said. “Weston wants to get this pharmaceutical company, Henley, to build a facility here. We think there might be something to that.”

“What’s that something?”

“We’re not sure, Chief,” I said, “but we want to find out a little more about a new biology professor at the university who might be linked to the pharmaceutical. It all might lead back to Dolores Weston.”

“I just got a call from Senator Weston.”

I said, “That didn’t take long.”

The Chief looked at me and said, “She said you accused her of paying off Hagerty.”

 “Chief, nobody accused her of that, or of anything else,” Ryan said. “That was my line of questioning. I asked her if she supported Soul Savers. She said yes. I just asked her if she was giving them five thousand a month. That’s when she got all flustered. We think we hit a nerve.”

“All right,” the Chief said, “but I want you to connect the dots on the Weston murder and Hagerty.”

“Yeah, we got that,” I said.

*  *  *

Ryan said, “How do you want to go at Lakshmi Something?”

“Let’s see what the Biology chair says about her first. Then we’ll be in a better position if we decide to talk to her.”

Ryan found the chair’s number from the university site and called him. He invited us over. On the drive to the university, Ryan said, “I was sorry to hear about that girl in the accident. She going to be okay?” It had led the morning news.

“Don’t know yet.”

“I’m really sorry it happened,” he said.

“Yeah, me too.” I kept my eyes on the road. “Me too.” I was hoping he wouldn’t see me tearing up, but I think he did. He didn’t say anything else on the drive over.

We entered the Life Sciences Building, on the western corner of the campus. This was the corner the university had set aside for new construction for the sciences and engineering. But with the economy tight, the state hadn’t yet started construction. So the Life Sciences were stuck in their 1960’s building, with its boring functionality. The classrooms were old style, with the chairs bolted into the amphitheatre pattern. The Biology Department was on the second floor. A young man greeted us in the office and led us back to Marty Stenhouser’s office.

“Dr. Stenhouser, I’m Detective Karen Seagate, this is my partner, Detective Ryan Miner. Thanks for making the time to see us.”

“Sure. Not a problem. Call me Marty. Everyone does. What do you need?” He sat and gestured to us to do the same.

“We’re here about the Arlen Hagerty murder, earlier this week.”

He looked puzzled. “Yes, how can I help?” Stenhouser was tall, maybe six three or four. He had a long face ringed by an explosion of curly white hair and a full beard. He wore rimless glasses, high powered, that made his eyes look even bigger than they were. He was wearing a cheap polyester sport shirt, short sleeve, exposing his thin, hairy arms.

“We want to talk about your new professor, Lakshmi Kumaraswamy.”

He sighed. “Get in line. That’s what I’m doing about half the time these days.”

“Really? Why is that?” I said.

“Well, we’ve had national media here to talk about why the brilliant biologist turned down two Ivy Leagues to take a job at a humble working-class state university. Then there’s my other faculty, who aren’t thrilled she has a lighter teaching load and all kinds of perks they don’t get.”

“We’d like your take on those two questions. I don’t mean to be insulting—I’m sure this is a great place to work and everything—but why did she take this job?”

Marty laughed. “You’re not insulting me at all. Academia is a class system, just like the military. I know we’re Central Montana, not Stanford.”

“So how did you land her?”

“I’m not really sure, to tell you the truth. We were surprised as hell when we got an application from her. You know, like it was some kind of clerical error, you know what I mean? Some candidates just use a shotgun to send out applications, but with her credentials, we didn’t expect a letter at all. We assumed she would have worked out which school she was going to choose without formally applying. So, anyway, I phoned her, just to be sure she had in fact intended to apply.”

“And she had?”

“Indeed she had. She said she’d had informal talks with our president. You know, President Barnum is working real hard to bring up the reputation of the whole university. He wants us to become a Carnegie research university, which calls for a certain number of students in a certain number of doctoral programs.”

“So you think the president greased the wheels for her?”

“I think the way I’d put it is the president asked me to come over and chat with him about her application. He outlined the ways I could be instrumental in putting us on the map—you know about her work in stem cells—and how this is a great opportunity, and so forth.”

“In other words, he helped you pony up for her?”

“As chair, I have a budget for the hire, and I’ve got to cover so many courses, etc.”

“Bottom line, what kind of deal did he authorize you to make?”

“Bottom line,” Marty said, shifting uneasily in his chair, “she’s making forty percent more than anyone else in the department, including me. And she teaches one course per year.”

“What’s the typical teacher do?”

“Five or six per year.”

“That would explain why some of them are stopping by to talk with you, right?”

“It’s the salary, the teaching load, three grad assistants she brought with her from back East. And one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“A job for her husband.”

“That’s unusual?”

“First time we’ve done it at this university.”

“He brilliant, too?”

“How do I put this?” He paused. “Off the record?”

Ryan said, “Off the record.”

“Let’s just say some people would be surprised he earned a PhD,” Marty said.

I said, “Maybe he didn’t earn it, just got it.”

“I like that,” he said, laughing. Then, he turned serious. “I need your word you won’t tell anyone I said that.”

“You have our word,” I said, looking somber. What the hell, I thought. He wants me to give my word, I’ll give my word. “What are you getting from hiring her, besides national press and pissed-off faculty?”

“In all honesty, we’re getting exposure we couldn’t have gotten any other way. Lak is definitely brilliant. That’s the only person in the whole department—including myself, of course—that I or anyone else would say that about. She’s working on four million dollars in grants, with twenty percent filtering down directly to me. I brought one point five in equipment—”

“That’s one and a half million?”

“That’s right. A good young biologist can cost a university from half a mil to a mil in equipment, for starters. So I saved us a bunch we can spend on other people. That’s a point, by the way, I try to make to my other faculty when they complain to me about her salary and so forth.”

“Anything else you’re getting?”

“The most important thing is we’re being mentioned in the same breath as places like Stanford, Johns Hopkins, UT Austin. The big boys. And if she comes through, the benefits will just multiply. More young faculty, more grants, maybe a research center. She can fast-forward us twenty years.”

“What do you mean ‘if she comes through’?” I said.

Marty Stenhouser said to Ryan, “Would you mind closing the door, Detective?” Ryan did it. “The stuff she’s working on is cutting edge. If she can come up with a vector for delivering cells where she wants them, or a cell line that’s easy to program and get to multiply or won’t cause rejection …”

“We’re talking about patents?” I said.

“The dollars would be unbelievable.”

“Who’s funding her grants, the ones she has now?”

“They’re private grants. Henley Pharmaceuticals. They gave us the equipment, too.”

Ryan said, “If a faculty member gets a patent on something she invented while working for the university, how’s the money split up?”

Marty Stenhouser said, “Across the country, the rate varies. The university gets the biggest portion, the researcher a smaller portion.”

I said, “What’s the standard rate for the faculty member here?”

“One third.”

Ryan said, “What’s Lakshmi’s rate?”

Marty paused. “Half.”

I said, “Did you work that percentage out for her?”

He shook his head. “Much higher up the food chain.”

“If she worked for Henley, what would her cut be?”

“Industry people don’t get any cut at all. They get high salaries and other perks. But they don’t earn patent royalties. The company does.”

“Ryan, you have any other questions?” I said.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Dr. Stenhouser—Marty—thanks very much for helping us understand the situation here a little better.”

“Sure, Detective. But please remember: We’re all thrilled Dr. Kumaraswamy has joined our staff.”

“Thrilled,” I said. “You got that, Ryan? Dr. Stenhouser is thrilled.”

“Thrilled. Got it,” Ryan said.

*  *  *

“Ryan, did you get a chance to finish up those loose ends from the crime scene and the other details?” We were back at our desks.

He took out his notebook. “Yeah, nothing of interest. Nothing on the CCTV. The uniforms didn’t find a weapon, the dry cleaner didn’t get any clothes from the hotel during that period, Housekeeping has no record of any contact from his room, the kid who worked the reception desk has no memory of anyone asking for any special arrangements for the four rooms when the debate people checked in, and Jon Ahern’s story about working for that legislator in Georgia checked out.”

“Okay, so except for the DNA under Hagerty’s fingernails, the only thing we still need to track down is this Henley Pharmaceuticals thing, right?”

“One other thing,” Ryan said, looking at his notebook. “We wanted to find out whether Margaret knew how sick her husband was.”

“Yeah, okay. You got calls from Hagerty to a doctor?”

Ryan scanned Hagerty’s phone log. “There’s a number of calls to a Dr. Jeffrey Jameson in Colorado Springs.” He tapped a few keys on his desktop. “Give me a second to see if he’s a cardiologist.” He waited a moment for a page to load. “Yeah, he is.”

“Let’s try him now,” I said. Ryan circled the number on the phone log and passed the sheet to me. I dialed the number and hit Speaker. I got a recorded phone tree, the velvet female voice suggesting I dial 911 if this is a life-threatening emergency, 1 if I was calling from another physician’s office. I pushed 1, and was routed immediately to a person. I identified myself and asked to speak with Dr. Jameson.

He picked up. “Dr. Jameson, this is Detective Karen Seagate, Rawlings Police Department, calling from Montana. Can you give me a minute for a question about Arlen Hagerty?”

“Yes, one minute, Detective. I’m with a patient now.”

“I’ll be real quick,” I said. “The autopsy on Arlen Hagerty showed that he was terminally ill with heart disease. You diagnosed that, am I correct?”

“Well, Detective, I’m not at liberty to disclose the details of any of my patients’ conditions. Confidentiality.”

“I understand that, Dr. Jameson. But since he’d dead, you’re free to break confidentiality. When my Medical Examiner looked at his heart, it was twice the normal size. You’re a cardiologist. You knew about his disease, right?”

“Really, Detective, I see nothing to be gained from discussing this. He was murdered. What difference does it make to you if he had heart disease?”

“All right, Doctor. Let me explain how this works. I’m in charge of the murder investigation. One of the things we try to figure out is why someone would want to kill him. That’s called motive.”

“Detective, don’t take that tone with me. I’m familiar with the concept of motive, but my obligation is to protect the confidentiality of my patients’ medical information.”

“All I’m asking you is if you diagnosed his heart disease.”

“Why don’t I put it this way, Detective? If a person came to my office and presented with Arlen Hagerty’s symptoms, a first-year intern would have automatically done an ECG, a holter monitor, or an echocardiogram and diagnosed the heart disease.”

“Okay, Doctor, we’re communicating now. I don’t mind you calling this hypothetical if it makes you more comfortable. But now I have to ask you another question: Did Arlen Hagerty’s wife, Margaret, know of this diagnosis?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not going to answer that question.”

“Here’s where I’m going, Doctor. Let’s say, hypothetically, there’s this guy who’s got this real bad heart disease. His wife finds out he’s been doing something horrible. It’s so horrible, she wants to kill him. If she doesn’t know he’s gonna die soon, she might be motivated to kill him ’cause of this horrible thing he’s been doing. But if she knows he’s gonna die real soon without her having to do anything, she might decide to just wait a little bit so she doesn’t have to risk killing him. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, Detective, I’m capable of following that logic, but I’m not going to divulge any information about Margaret Hagerty’s knowledge of her husband’s condition. My decision on this is final.”

“Okay, I understand, Doctor. Let me just check on one other detail. Your address is 3200 Westmore Avenue, Suite 104, correct?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“I need it for the paperwork. I’m gonna bring this to my boss for an authorization to fly down Monday to talk with you.”

“You can talk with me Monday, but I’m not going to tell you anything I didn’t already tell you.”

“I get that, but I might need to bring you back here to Rawlings, Montana, to make a statement to that effect.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

I held out my hand, palm down, and fluttered it back and forth. Ryan shook his head sadly. It was a judgment call.

“Doctor, I’m getting some real pressure to close this case. We’re pretty sure Margaret Hagerty killed her husband. We’re gonna bring you up to Rawlings to make an official statement. We’ve got a helluva prosecutor up here. I can’t quite quote the law, but I think there’s something about you having to make the statement and testify in a criminal case if your testimony addresses a tangential fact that does not directly get at the medical facts. I don’t know, I could be wrong. But the prosecutor just loves to play the obstruction-of-justice card. He’s done it three or four times on doctors. We could have you back in Colorado Springs in a week. Two weeks, tops.”

“Okay, Detective, I see how you’re going to play this. Let’s speak in hypotheticals.”

“Great, there’s this guy with the bad heart disease, his wife wants to kill him ’cause of some horrible thing he’s doing. When you talk with this guy, is his wife in the room with the two of you?”

“Yes, this guy’s wife is in my office with us and is fully aware of his medical condition. So even if this guy is Adolph Hitler, the wife is aware of the seriousness of his heart disease.” He paused. “Can I expect a visit from you on Monday, Detective?”

“No, Dr. Jameson, I don’t think we’ll need to disturb you on Monday. Thanks very much for your cooperation.” The click on his end was forceful.

“See, Karen, sometimes your manner is a little brusque,” Ryan said, smiling.

“Yeah, well, if that jerkoff can’t figure out I’m not asking him to violate any sacred confidentiality—and if he tells me Margaret already knew her husband was a dead man anyway, which would clear her as a suspect so she doesn’t go to jail and she can tell all her friends what a wonderful doctor he is and he’ll keep making three or four hundred K a year—if he can’t figure all this out, he’s too damn dumb to be in practice. And he deserves to have me talk to him like he’s an idiot.”

Ryan smiled. “Agreed. So we scratch Margaret?”

“Yeah,” I said. “He was telling the truth. She knew Arlen was a goner.” I picked up my phone and hit Robin’s number in the lab. “Robin, any idea on when you can get me the DNA on Hagerty?

“I just checked. They’re up to the Polymerase Chain Reaction. They should be able to start typing on Monday. Should have it ready late Monday, early Tuesday.”

“Okay, thanks. Let me know as soon as you get it, would ya?”

“Sure, Karen. Have a good weekend.”

“I already have other plans. Talk to you Monday.”


Chapter 8

“Pediatric ICU.”

“Hello, yes, my name is Karen Seagate. I wanted to inquire about the status of one of your patients, Annie Pritchard.” I heard the nurse talking with someone in the background. The voices were muffled, as if the nurse had her palm over the mouthpiece.

“I’m sorry. Mrs. Pritchard has asked that information about her daughter not be made available. I hope you understand.”

Yes, I understood. “Thank you,” I said, pushing the Off button on my phone. If I were the girl’s mother, I thought, I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me, either. All I wanted was to learn the girl was getting better, so I wouldn’t have to worry about her dying. But I realized it was a little late to be thinking about the girl’s welfare. A better time would have been before I got in the car drunk, or right before I ran the stop sign. Yes, I understood.

My hands shook as I looked at the glass of Jack Daniel’s in my hand, the glass I wasn’t going to pour because I wasn’t ever going to drink again. I knew I had to tell Tommy. How do you call your son and tell him something like this? It’s really quite easy. You pick up the phone and watch your finger hit the speed dial. Then, when he says hello, you tell him what happened.

It will confuse him, hurt him, too. Everything will be different forever. Someday, he might be sufficiently mature to pretend he doesn’t think about it, or that he understands how it happened, that he forgives you. He might try to hide it, might even be able to fool you. But he will always know what you did, what you are. It will be there. Forever. Where else could it go? I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello?” It was my ex-husband.

“Hi, Bruce. Is Tommy in?”

“No, he’s not here.”

Apparently he didn’t know about the accident. He wouldn’t have been able to resist offering an insight or two about it. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Not really. He’s out,” Bruce said. “With Angela.”

“He’s out with Angela?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Angela took him. She’s got a driver’s license and everything.” Bruce had told me, a couple or maybe eight times, his girlfriend was only twenty-seven.

“What’d you want to talk to him about? Is something wrong?”

Annie has a cat named Marmalade. “No. Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to talk to him.”

“I’ll tell him you called.”

“Thank you, Bruce.”

“You sure you’re okay? You sound kinda screwed up.”

“I’m okay,” I said, my voice distant. “Just tell him I called, please.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bruce said. I heard the click as the line went dead. This was best, I thought. Tommy should be with him and Angela. She would work out fine. Any girl willing to take on a guy with a fourteen-year-old boy had to be more mature than a typical twenty-seven-year old. A lot of things for her to learn about being a mom, but no reason she couldn’t learn. If she loved Bruce she would love Tommy, too, eventually. He was a good boy, full of promise. She would see that in him. Bruce and Angela—that would be best.

Having made the decision—a rational decision, my first selfless one in a long, long time? ever?—I felt better. I was calm and free, liberated. Picking up my glass, I took a deep breath.

I waited around Friday night for Tommy to return my call. I waited all day Saturday, too. He wouldn’t have decided not to call me; he always returned my calls. Maybe Bruce had decided not to tell him. I wouldn’t really blame him. Or maybe Bruce had forgotten.

I wanted to tie up the loose ends. I wanted to tell him what had happened, let it sink in, give him time to get used to it, start to understand what I had become. But it didn’t really matter. Having decided to let him go, I realized there was no need to carry out the ritual of self-humiliation. One way or another, sooner or later, Tommy would learn what he needed to know about me. If I merely let him drift farther and farther out of my orbit, he might still retain some loving memories of me, back from when he was little and I was still an adult. Why not let him keep those memories? They were the best he was going to get from me.

I usually spent Sundays with Tommy, but since he didn’t return my call I assumed we would cancel. I decided to just let it go. I didn’t have anything to do. The department didn’t have enough resources to work more than two detectives on the case. There were no detectives for night or weekend duty. I sat on the couch in my living room, listening to the clock tick.

I walked over to my desk and got out the phone book. I looked up Kumaraswamy. There was only one listing. No surprise there. Rupesh Kumaraswamy. I jotted down the address. It was in one of the high-end developments on the east side of town: Ravensmere. I decided to take a drive.

It took me twelve minutes to drive my rental over to Ravensmere. I parked it about a hundred yards from Lakshmi’s house. There I sat, unsure what I was going to do. It was a bright, crisp day, moderate winds, temperatures in the twenties. I kept the windows up, let the sun warm the car. I looked around at the houses, each a different style, from phony ski lodges to two- or three-story brick mansions with columns and gables to expansive stucco single-levels. There were no fences separating the houses. I remembered reading how this development had won a bunch of awards for landscaping. The idea was it was supposed to look like a golf course, with the lawns flowing into one another like the sweep of a manicured fairway.

I sat there a half hour, an hour. Two different teams of landscapers descended on a nearby McMansion, four or five Hispanic guys in beat-up old pickups, carrying rakes and blowers and tarps. They waded into the shrubbery, getting the dead leaves and debris out and into the beds of the pickups. I wondered if these guys were getting time and half for working the weekends, Sunday no less. If they were getting overtime, they weren’t spending it on work clothes. Their jeans and hooded sweatshirts were tattered and filthy. Most of them had no gloves. Not one of them I could see was dressed warm enough for the job.

The door opened at the Kumaraswamy house. Out came a stroller, one of those swanky ones with three big fat rubber wheels, the kind I couldn’t afford when Bruce and I were raising Tommy. Pushing the stroller was a copper-skinned man. He must be Rupesh, the overachieving husband. A good-looking man, tall, with glossy black hair and mustache. He wore a ski hat and a tan suede leather coat, down to his thighs. Behind him was an older woman, her silk sari incongruous beneath her ski parka. Next came an older man, tiny like the woman, wrapped up in a knee-length black wool business coat.

I couldn’t tell which set of parents it was until Lakshmi completed the party. She closed the front door behind her and scurried over to her mother to adjust the scarf on the woman’s head. Next she attended to her father, pulling up the collar on his coat and buttoning the top button. Finally, she hurried over to the stroller, which Rupesh obediently stopped for her inspection. I couldn’t see through the plastic windows protecting the infant from the cold, but Lakshmi’s hands were inside the windows, making necessary adjustment to ensure that the infant was comfortable and safe.

The family walked along the pathway to the street. They turned north. They’d be headed for City Park, which straddled the river. A paved pathway ran alongside the river for four miles. I got out of the car, strolling along behind them, being sure to leave a good hundred yards. Other neighbors were out strolling on the sunny Sunday afternoon, the temperature climbing up to freezing. Most of them gave me a friendly hello. That was what you did in Rawlings.

I noticed a few of them gazed at me a little longer than usual. At first I thought it was because they didn’t recognize me from the neighborhood. Then I realized they were probably looking at the lump on my head, which was still visible, or my shiner, which was now a hideous purply green. I wondered whether they thought someone had beaten me up. I was feeling beat up.

I followed the family down toward the river. Once they were on the river pathway, there were even more people out, and I felt like I was blending in better. The family walked along at a stately pace, stopping now and then on the path to look at one of the miniature rapids on the river, or one of the eddies where beavers had constructed their dams. Rupesh pushed the stroller while Lakshmi walked along with her parents. The young woman held her mother’s hand and her father’s. Every few minutes she ran up to stroller to make sure everything was okay.

The family came to a bend in the river. Rupesh stopped the stroller, disentangling the infant from his straps and belts, lifted him out, and carried him over toward the water. The infant was wearing a one-piece powder blue snowsuit. Rupesh placed him down on the sand and took his tiny hand. The wobbly infant walked along the sand until he came to the large river rocks leading to the water. The father bent down and took the child’s other hand.

Holding the infant’s two hands above his head he half led, half carried the little boy across the rocks, which were three times the size of his feet. The boy picked up pebbles and, crying out gleefully, tossed them toward the river, the wood ducks cautiously paddling away. Lakshmi and her parents huddled close, smiling and laughing. I calculated the infant was twelve months, maybe fourteen.

Grandma took a little camera out of her pocket, calling out her grandson’s name to get his attention. He turned and gave her a big smile as she snapped a few pictures. Lakshmi waved at her husband to carry the boy back to the path. Grandma handed Lakshmi the camera and she directed her family into the correct pose. She took one picture, then another, looking back over her shoulder to get the right light, motioning them first a little bit to the right, then a little more, then back to the left. I heard them all laughing, the grandparents mock lecturing her about her fussiness. I didn’t know any Hindi, but I understood everything they were saying.

I stopped and gazed up at the bare, fragile cottonwoods lining this stretch of the river. Looking more carefully, I noticed how many nests they hosted. I never took the time to look at birds or other animals. I saw squirrels scurrying around the water’s edge, carrying nuts, watching the people on the pathway. They were semi-domesticated, having learned to rely on the office workers who walked along the pathway on coffee breaks, luring them with peanuts. Menacing black crows cawed when the squirrels got too close. Off in the distance, on the other side of the river, a bald eagle soared motionless and serene above the activity down on the river.

I started walking back toward my car, my head down, watching first one foot then the other hit the path, as if they were not my feet, as if I did not control them. I didn’t notice the other people on the pathway, except when an exuberant puppy on a leash scampered over to me, its tail swishing in delight, before the owner pulled it back with an affectionate correction.

I looked behind me to see the Kumaraswamy family, but they had moved on and were out of sight.

*  *  *

I’d made a point of getting to work on time. In fact, I was at my desk by 7:57, a full minute before Ryan got there.

“How was your weekend, Karen?” Ryan asked.

“Good, thanks,” I said, reaching for a sincere smile. I was determined to start the week clean and cheerful. “How ’bout you?”

“Great. Went out snowshoeing with the family yesterday.”

“You put snowshoes on your baby?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “I get to carry her. Kali made some kind of harness. She’s always making something like that.”

“That’s great,” I said.

“Well, partner, what’s up first?”

“I’m hoping to hear something from Robin today about the DNA from under Hagerty’s fingernails. The only other thing we can pursue right now is Lakshmi Something. Let’s see if she can help us understand whether the Henley Pharmaceuticals angle can give us a motive for hitting Hagerty.”

“I couldn’t figure out from Dolores Weston if Lakshmi’s really involved. We think Dolores was paying off Arlen Hagerty, but I don’t know how much Lakshmi knows.”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Just seems to me a little too cozy the state senator is in bed with Henley Pharmaceuticals, which happens to be subsidizing Lakshmi. I’d like to get Lakshmi to tell us her version.”

“Sounds good. Let me see if she’s in.” Ryan phoned her office. She picked up and invited us over to her lab.

We parked in the faculty lot outside the Science building. The lot was only a quarter full. A light snow was falling. We headed for her lab on the second floor. From out in the hall, we heard her voice. She looked up and saw us standing in the hall.

“Okay, Andy, you understand what I want?”

“Got it,” the student said, heading off to his desk at the far end of the spacious lab.

“Detectives, come in,” she said brightly.

“Prof. Kumaraswamy, my name—”

“Please, call me Dr. K,” she said. “My students say they find it much easier.”

“Okay. Dr. K, Detective Seagate and Detective Miner,” I said to her.

“I’m very pleased to meet you both.”

Nameste,” Ryan said to her, placing his palms together and bowing slightly.

Nameste, kaisī hai?” Dr. K said, breaking into a big smile.

Ryan said, “Teek, āp sunāiye.”

Dr. K said, “Mai thīk hū. Where did you learn Hindi?” I was relieved when I recognized English. I was thinking maybe I was having some kind of stroke.

He laughed. “I wouldn’t say I learned Hindi. I picked some up when I did my mission in Delhi a few years back.”

“That’s wonderful,” Dr. K said. “I know your church has been very active in my country for many years. You’ve done many excellent things, particularly in the Delhi area, where I came from a hundred years ago.” She had a full, round face, with puffy cheeks and a wide mouth highlighted by bright red lipstick. Her jet-black hair was pinned back neatly. Her luminous eyes were almost black, too, accented by long, fluid brows. She was wearing a white lab coat. With each phrase she spoke, her long fingers, adorned with false nails the same shade as her lipstick, fluttered. I counted at least ten rings on the two hands.

“Dr. K,” I said, “we know you’re very busy, so let me try not to waste any of your time.”

“No, that’s quite all right,” she said. “I assume this has to do with that murder?” She gestured for us to sit on two nearby stools.

“Yes, it does. We’re trying to understand whether the Henley Pharmaceuticals deal has any relationship to the crime.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Detective,” Dr. K said, looking puzzled.

“You know Senator Weston, is that correct?”

“Yes, that is true. I have met her once or twice, in social circumstances. But I am not aware of the ‘deal’ you refer to.”

I said, “You didn’t know Henley is considering building a facility here?”

“Oh, yes, I had heard that the company might build here or somewhere else in this part of the country. Yes, I had heard that.”

“But that’s all you know about that possibility?”

“That is all I know. It would give me great pleasure, of course, if there were a Henley facility here. I would have much easier access to the kinds of resources that would be of great benefit to my research. In addition, it might make it less necessary for me to travel back East so often, which, I must tell you, I would welcome.”

“Can you help us understand your relationship with Henley, Dr. K?”

“Yes, of course. I was completing my doctorate at IIT—”

“IIT?” I said.

“Indian Institute of Technology. I’m sorry. It is my alma mater. During my final year there, I became acquainted with several representatives from Henley, who had read a number of the articles I had written. They were very interested in the work I was doing. They recruited me to their headquarters in New Jersey, where I worked happily for some years.”

“And how did you come to Central Montana State?”

“I was very content there, in New Jersey. My husband was with me, and my parents, as well. But I wanted to get into academia, and Central Montana was kind enough to offer me a very attractive deal.”

“I imagine with your credentials you could have gone to a number of more prestigious universities.”

“Yes, Detective, I think that is true. But Central Montana created a position for my husband and is giving me a salary that enabled me to bring my parents along, as well.”

“What is your relationship with Henley now? Did you leave on good terms with them?”

“Yes, I would not have left them if it meant I could not continue my work, and Henley has been extremely generous to me. They have purchased the equipment I use now, and I have full access to the scientists I was working with when I lived in New Jersey.”

“Dr. K, do you have any problems fitting in here in the Biology Department?”

“You mean because I am Indian?”

“No, I’m sorry, I meant because you have less teaching to do and get other perks?”

Dr. K paused, her face clouding. “Let me tell you a little about my background. I was born in a cardboard shack in a shanty slum of Delhi. My mother gave birth to eleven children, of which six survived the first year. My father was a janitor for the Indian National Railways. He cleaned the toilets for tracks 6 and 7. My mother took me and my brothers and sisters with her to the garbage dumps, where we scavenged for waste paper, iron-scrap, and glass pieces, which we sold that night for a few rupees.

“In addition, we gathered food that had been discarded. We brushed off the maggots and worms and flies and ate it as we worked. If there was any left over, we brought it home to eat when my father returned from his job. There were no toilets for us to use, but that was not a problem because we worked in a garbage dump.

“Every morning, the trucks lined up for more than a mile, waiting to unload the new garbage. The boys would climb up onto these trucks, hoping to find some valuable items before the truck dumped its contents. Sometimes, the boys would slip and get stuck in the garbage, then be crushed when the garbage was emptied. That is how I lost my brother Haroon. That name, by the way, means hope.

“Do you see this?” she said, pulling back the sleeve of her lab coat. Her forearm was covered with ragged scars, each some three inches long. I couldn’t tell what had made them. “I got this from two dogs that were more hungry than I was.

“When I was ten years old, a nun from a Catholic mission in Delhi selected me to attend her church school. I had never attended school before. She gave me a uniform. I sat with other young girls in chairs at desks in a clean room with a blackboard up front and maps of the world on the walls. There was a bathroom with flush toilets. We had books and pencils, and there was a computer in the classroom. I had never heard of a computer.

“I learned to read and write in Hindi, then in English. I had food to eat. When I returned to my family in the afternoon, my belly was not rumbling from hunger, as were those of my siblings. This nun enabled me to attend a university in Delhi. I studied and was admitted to the graduate school at ITT, which is the most prestigious university in India. And I came to the United States.

“I have two goals that drive me in this life. The first is to ensure that my parents, my siblings, my husband, and my son do not go to bed hungry. Ever. My second goal, Detectives, is to unlock the promise of stem cells.” She looked at each of us in turn. “I am absolutely convinced stem cells will enable us, one day, to eliminate the terrible diseases such as Parkinson’s and MS that devastate the lives of so many, many people around the world. And—I know this sounds vain, and I ask you to forgive me—I am absolutely certain I will play an important role in unlocking the key to stem cells.

“So, you ask me whether I have any problems fitting in here with my colleagues in the Biology Department. I am, of course, aware that some of my colleagues are envious of my working conditions—my light teaching load, my graduate students, my equipment, my salary. But to be perfectly frank with you, Detectives, I take no interest in such petty things. God has given me certain aptitudes. I do not know why. And God has given me some years here in this life. I do not know how many. I can only believe that my purpose is high, and that the proper thing for me to do is to work diligently to accomplish that purpose.

“I wish none of my colleagues ill; several of them I like very much and consider my friends. I am glad to know them and work with them. But they are not why I am here. In this life, I exist to fulfill my two goals. And that I intend to do.”

“Dr. K, we want to thank you very much for spending the time with us this morning.”

“It was my pleasure, Detective Seagate. And a pleasure meeting you, too, Detective Miner. I hope I have answered your questions satisfactorily, and I invite you to get in touch with me again if you wish to talk further.”

“Thank you, we’ll do that,” I said as Ryan and I rose and left the lab. When we got back to the cruiser, a light dusting of snow had covered it. Ryan swept the snow off the windshield and back window as I fired the engine and put on the defroster and the rear-window defogger.

We waited a minute for the car to warm up. I said, “Her story about growing up in Delhi, you buy it?”

“I’ve seen it. Those scars on her arm? Packs of dogs roamed through those shanty towns and the garbage dumps. Those wounds were never treated. They didn’t have access to doctors. They didn’t even have bandages or clean water. I’ve seen kids dying from infections they got from feral dogs and rats.”

I said, “What’d you make of the story about her involvement with Henley?”

“I think she was telling the truth. She didn’t try to cover anything up. She basically said, yeah, I make better money because I’m smarter than the others and I work harder. I didn’t hear anything made me think she’s involved in something dirty with Henley.”

“But it’s no coincidence Henley’s looking at Rawlings to build a facility, right?”

“No, it’s no coincidence. Henley’s priming the pump by financing the university through equipment and placing her here. She’s part of Henley, it’s as simple as that. I wouldn’t be surprised if the company builds here, then relocates some of her old team out here to make it more convenient for Dr. K.”

“You think the company’s paying her under the table?”

Ryan said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s violating some university policy in doing more ‘consulting’ than she’s allowed to. But since she negotiated her own patent royalties out in the open, I bet she negotiated her own consulting rules, too.”

“You got a crush on Dr. K?”

Ryan laughed. “Not at all. But the way her experiences have shaped her, it all fits together. You and me, we’ve never seen poverty like Delhi in this country. We’ve never had to compete with wild animals for our meals. It makes sense the most important thing for her is to make sure she and her whole family are fed. Then, the commitment to her research, that comes from her experience with the nun. Education saved her—and her whole family. She sees this stem-cell thing as her mission, her way of giving back.”

“You have a very pleasant view of the world, young man.”

“You know, Karen, when people think of LDS missions, they think it’s two guys in white shirts and black ties, riding bicycles, knocking on doors, being a pain in the ass. But when I was in Delhi, I worked for a while in a clinic, where I saw stuff even worse than Dr. K talked about. Kids dying of diarrhea that could have been cured for ten cents a day. And I did some teaching. I know my church just reached down, grabbed a whole bunch of kids, and pulled them right out of that sewer. When I was at BYU I met students from Bangladesh, Indonesia, all over Africa. They wouldn’t have made it out of those slums. Some of them wouldn’t be alive.”

*  *  *

I picked up the phone and punched in the four numbers for Robin in the lab.

“Sorry, Karen, not yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got it.

“Okay, thanks, Robin.”

An aide walked in and, dropping an interoffice envelope on my desk, said, “One more set of financials for Dolores Weston.” I thanked her and opened the envelope.

“What is it?” Ryan said.

“Give me a minute here.” I could feel myself smiling. A couple minutes later, I said, “Ryan, can you get me the stock price on Henley Pharmaceuticals on August 20 of this year?”

“Let me see,” he said, turning to his computer. A few moments later, he said, “Okay, got it.”

“Listen to this,” I said, arranging the papers on my desk. “On August 21 of last year, Dolores Weston received from Henley Pharmaceuticals an option to buy five thousand shares of their stock.”

“Why are they giving her stock options?”

“It’s listed as ‘consulting services.’”

“What’s she doing for Henley, except helping them get tax breaks for setting up shop in Rawlings?”

“Here’s the good part: the stock options are dated August 10, eleven days earlier, with a share price of forty-eight bucks. So that’s … how much is that for five thousand shares?”

Ryan used the calculator on his computer. “That’s two hundred and forty thou,” Ryan said. “Not bad for a consulting fee.”

“But what did you say the stock price was on August 10?”

Ryan looked down at his pad. “Thirty-seven fifty.”

“Times five thousand?”

Ryan said, “One hundred and eighty-seven and a half.”

“Okay, here’s what they’ve done. On August 21, the company gave her stock options worth two-forty. But they back-dated them to August 10, when they were worth only one eighty-seven and a half.”

“Is that legal?”

“According to Sarbanes-Oxley, you have to value the options at the current price.”

“So if you give them on August 21, you have to use the August 21 price?”

“That’s right. What they’re doing, in effect, is giving her almost a quarter million of value but calling it only one eighty-seven on their records.”

“Why’re they doing it that way?”

“It’s an old accounting trick they use to make their expenses look small. Companies give their executives a big salary through back-dated stock options. They date the stock options for some time in the past when the price was low, so when the executives get the options they’re already ahead of the game.”

Ryan said, “And since the companies can easily track the history of their own share price, they can manipulate the date however much they want to make the options worth a little more or a lot more.”

“Exactly. But Sarbanes-Oxley requires that the company date the options honestly to make the company balance sheet accurate. If the company is really paying the executive, say, ten million in options, the law doesn’t let the company call it eight million. That kind of fiddling can understate the company’s real expenses and make it look more profitable than it really is.”

“Which is just another way to take advantage of shareholders, who are paying retail for a company that’s less profitable than it looks,” Ryan said.

“That’s it,” I said.

“Time for another trip to the Senator’s great room?”

“No, I think it’s time to have her come in here and make a statement. I want to get her out of her element.”

“Want me to call her?”

“I’ll be happy to do it,” I said. I picked up the phone, then put it back in its cradle. “One thing I did want to ask you about, though. When we were out there at her house, how’d you know about that fancy wood and the zinc whatever?”

“I’d Googled her, and there was this article about her house in Architectural Digest. She was bragging about the wenge-wood and the zinc countertops and the white bronze inlays.”

“You’re a crafty son of a bitch,” I said, nodding.

“Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, picking up my phone and punching in Dolores Weston’s number. “Things are gonna get more fun now,” I said to Ryan as the senator’s phone rang. “Yes, can I speak to Senator Weston, please? Detective Seagate, Rawlings Police Department.” I hit Speaker.

“This is Dolores Weston.” The tone was chilly.

“Senator Weston, Detective Seagate. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Well, I’m always busy, Detective. How can I help you?”

“We need to talk to you a little more about the Arlen Hagerty case. Some new information has come in.”

“Go right ahead, Detective, what do you need to say?”

“We’d rather talk face-to-face, if you don’t mind, Senator.”

“I’m right in the middle of something now, Detective. Can you stop by early this afternoon?”

“I’m afraid we’re gonna have to ask you to come in to headquarters, make a formal statement.”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary, Detective.”

“With all due respect, Senator Weston, the police are authorized to require a person to come in to headquarters and make a statement. We record it. That way there’s no confusion about what was said.”

“Are you suggesting I am a suspect in the murder of Arlen Hagerty?”

“Absolutely not, Senator.” Ryan made a face that said, Heavens, no. “It’s just that we need an official statement from you to help us understand some things about the case.”

“Can you tell me what those things are?”

“They have to do with your financial relationship with Henley Pharmaceuticals.”

“I see,” Dolores Weston said. “I’ll be at police headquarters at 1:00 sharp. Please do not keep me waiting. I have a very full schedule.”

“We’ll try to be considerate of your time, Senator.” Dolores Weston hung up. “Seems like we got her attention.”

Ryan and me worked on forms for the rest of the morning. Ryan ate his bag lunch in the break room. I went scavenging through the machines. We were back at our desks at 12:55.

At 1:02, I got a call from the front desk that a Senator Weston was there to see me. I told the receptionist I’d be right out.

“Now, whatever you do, Ryan,” I said as we walked out to Reception, “we mustn’t waste the Senator’s time.”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “She has a very full schedule, I hear.”

“Exactly. Accepting bribes is time-consuming, you know.”

Senator Weston was standing there. No smile this time. She had on a double-faced camel’s hair beret, a matching coat with epaulets and a belt, and chocolate leather boots. She might be a crook and a murderer, but hell, she looked like a million bucks. Next to her was a tall, distinguished looking gentleman, about sixty. His eyes were dark and close set. It wasn’t until I was up close I could see pale silver eyebrows and a one-inch ribbon of thin silver hair on his translucent scalp. His overcoat was black, with a velvet collar.

“Senator Weston, thank you for coming in,” I said.

Senator Weston offered a barely perceptible head nod. The man by her side said, “Lester Ingram, counsel for Senator Weston.” He didn’t offer his hand, so I didn’t, either.

“Detective Karen Seagate. Detective Ryan Miner. Ryan, why don’t you lead the way. I think Interview 2 is available.” Interview 2 is the shabbier of the two interview rooms, the one with the handcuffs attached to the top of the table. The ones in Interview 1 were attached under the table and therefore less obvious.

“Senator Weston, why don’t you take that seat over there. Mr. Ingram, I imagine you’d like to sit next to your client.” Dolores Weston looked at the handcuffs as if they were silver snakes, then shot me a hostile look. Good—nothing establishes a tone as effectively as a set of shiny cuffs bolted to a steel table.

I hit Record on the tape recorder sitting in the middle of the table. “We wanted to talk with you today about a couple of matters related to the Hagerty murder. First, I want to inform you we are tape recording this conversation. It is 1:04 pm, Monday, December 1. In the room are Detectives Karen Seagate and Ryan Miner, Senator Dolores Weston, and her attorney, Lester Ingram.

“Senator Weston, we want to ask first about your consulting activities for Henley Pharmaceuticals. Could you tell us what your duties were?”

Dolores Weston said, “I’m not sure what you mean by—”

Her attorney placed his hand on her forearm to silence her. “Let me take this question, please,” he said. “For some years, both here and in New Jersey, Senator Weston has been associated with Henley Pharmaceuticals, providing various consulting services.”

I waited, like the lawyer was just getting started. Apparently, he had just finished. “I’m sorry, Senator Weston. I asked you what your duties were. What did you actually do for them? Did you, for example, provide scientific expertise? Business consulting? What did you do?”

The attorney responded. “The nature of Senator Weston’s consulting activities is covered by trade-secrets protection.”

“Trade secrets? You mean like the formula for Coca-Cola?” I said, leaning in toward Ingram.

“That is one example of trade-secret protection, yes. But the Senator is not compelled to provide specifics on the services she provided.”

“Senator,” I said, “I’d like to establish a cooperative tone for this statement, but I gotta tell you, when I play this tape for the prosecutor, he’s gonna say, ‘Sounds to me like they’re paying her off for something she doesn’t want us to know about.’ I mean, that’s the kind of guy he is. So, I wanna give you another chance to answer my question about what kind of consulting you were providing to Henley Pharmaceuticals.”

Dolores Weston leaned over to speak in Ingram’s ear. He nodded, then said, “We’re going to stick with our previous statement.”

I put on a disappointed look, but I was liking where we were going. “All right. Let me turn to the nature of the consulting fees. This last year, Senator Weston, you received on August 21 options to buy five thousand shares of Henley stock, which that day was selling at forty-eight dollars even, is that correct?”

Lester Ingram inhaled and leaned back, his large, bald head rising. “I assume those facts are accurate, Detective. I don’t have the paperwork before me.”

“Yes, Senator Weston, those facts are accurate. Did you know those options were dated August 10?”

“Again, Detective, if you say so,” Ingram said, looking at his watch to signal his annoyance that I was getting bogged down in trivialities.

“Okay, just one more question on this point.”

Lester Ingram waved his hand indulgently, inviting me to proceed so he and Senator Weston could leave. I said, “Now, if we were to subpoena last year’s financial statements from Henley, would we discover that those options were properly expensed at their current value—that is, the value on August 21—or at their lower value—the August 10 value?”

“Surely, Detective, this is not a matter Senator Weston could possibly have any knowledge of or, for that matter, any control over. I cannot see why you are asking the senator this question.”

“Well, Counselor, I bring it up only to point out that if we decide to get a subpoena for the Henley financials, that news will certainly become public. If the public was to discover that Senator Weston received almost a quarter million dollars last year from a drug company back East for some consulting services she chooses not to describe … I don’t know, it might not look so good. Add to that that the Senator is trying to get her Republican colleagues to write in extra tax breaks so that Henley sets up shop here …” I decided to just let that thought hang in the air for a moment.

“Detective,” Ingram said, “would you and your colleague mind giving us a minute?”

“Absolutely,” I said. Into the tape recorder, “Mr. Ingram has asked for a moment to confer with his client. It is 1:16. Detectives Seagate and Miner are leaving the room.” I turned off the recorder. Ryan and I left the room and walked into the passageway behind it. We looked through the one-way mirror and turned on the speaker. Ingram looked over his shoulder at the mirror. He and Dolores Weston continued to whisper to each other, too low for the microphone to pick up. A minute later, he stood, walked over to the mirror, and tapped on it.

We re-entered Interview 2 and I turned on the recorder and spoke the time and names into it.

Dolores Weston said, “All right, Detective. Let’s move beyond the innuendo and the threats. What do you want from me? What do you want to know?”

“I take that as an indication you’re willing to be a little more forthcoming. That’s good. But there’s one other fact I want to put on the table before I tell you what we want from you.”

Lester Ingram said, “What would that ‘fact’ be?” emphasizing the word as if he wasn’t willing to concede anything I said was a fact.

“Remember, at your house, when Detective Miner asked you whether you gave any money to Soul Savers, and you said you did, and he asked if it was five thousand a month, and you didn’t respond? Do you remember that?”

“I have a recollection of that, yes.”

“Well, I think we solved that little mystery. For more than a year now, on the tenth of each month, you have withdrawn five thousand dollars from your Wells Fargo account. And around the fifteenth of each month, Mr. Hagerty deposited five thousand dollars into his First Colorado account.” I was looking directly at Dolores Weston. “Do you want me to give you the number of your Wells Fargo account?”

“No, Detective, that won’t be necessary. As I said, those were charitable donations to Soul Savers.”

“Do you make charitable contributions to other organizations, Senator Weston?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Do you make those contributions in cash?”

Lester Ingram said, “I will respond, Senator.” To me, “The Senator is under no obligation to make the contribution in the form of a check or to declare it on her taxes, which I am sure is your next question. If she gave those contributions as cash, I am certain that was at the request of Arlen Hagerty, who presumably desired it in that form so he could distribute the monies easily to different accounts in Soul Savers according to his discretion.”

I laughed. “I’m not sure a grand jury would find that a persuasive explanation, Counselor, but, I gotta say, I enjoyed it.”

“Detective, what is the purpose of this fishing expedition? Are you willing to tell us now what you want?”

“Well, here’s the big picture, Counselor. Someone killed Arlen Hagerty. You know that, correct?” His face was impassive. “To help us figure out who did it, we need to establish a motive. If Hagerty was blackmailing Senator Weston, that could be a motive.”

“That accusation is outrageous,” Senator Weston said, rising halfway from her chair.

“Please sit down, Senator. I didn’t make any accusation. I merely said if Hagerty was putting the touch on you for five thousand, that could be interpreted as a motive for you to kill him.”

“I will not tolerate this,” Dolores Weston said.

Lester Ingram touched her arm, signaling for her to calm down. He said, “I’ll ask one more time. What do you want?”

“I want your client to explain to us, honestly, what was going on with her and Henley and Arlen Hagerty.”

“And what consideration will you give the Senator if she answers you candidly?”

“If she had nothing to do with Hagerty’s death—or any other crime—I will thank her sincerely and personally escort her out of the building. If she tells us, accurately, who killed Hagerty, but has committed a crime herself, I will tell the prosecutor she was cooperative. But if she committed a crime and makes us spend a lot of the taxpayer’s money finding that out, I will recommend the prosecutor offer her no consideration. How’s that? Is that clear enough, Counselor?”

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. She spoke. “The payments from Henley were for my efforts to help them secure tax breaks for building a facility here. Doing so would be to my constituents’ advantage because of the employment it would bring to Rawlings and surrounding towns. Not one penny of the payments went to my personal use.”

“Where did they go?” I said.

“They went to campaign expenses.”

“In other words, that quarter million went to defeat the Democratic candidate, who raised about a tenth of that amount. Is that correct?”

“Detective,” she said, “candidates are permitted under Montana state law and the U.S. Constitution to spend as much of their personal funds as they wish for their campaign. It’s called free speech.”

“Oh, so those were your personal funds.”

“Yes,” Dolores Weston said. “Yes, they were.”

“Let’s move on. Arlen Hagerty was blackmailing you for the support from Soul Savers.”

“That is absurd. We reached an agreement that five thousand dollars would be forthcoming each month for his discretionary use at Soul Savers.”

“Okay,” I said, “so we agree he was putting the touch on you for five grand a month.”

“I want to go on record,” Lester Ingram said, “that we disagree most strenuously with that characterization. Those were nothing more than regular charitable gifts to Soul Savers, to enable that organization to plan effectively.”

“And Arlen Hagerty and you came to this agreement because he knew he would have a hard time selling his people on supporting Henley because they’re into stem-cell research, is that correct?”

Senator Weston whispered into Lester Ingram’s ear. He whispered into hers. She said, “No, there were never any discussions about that. Any arrangements to encourage Henley Pharmaceuticals to locate in Rawlings will be offered with the clear understanding that the company will abide by provisions expressly forbidding the company to engage in any research or manufacture of any product that could be used in human cloning or would involve the destruction of any human embryos.”

“Senator Weston,” I said, “did you kill Arlen Hagerty, or do you know who did?”

Dolores Weston’s eyes were on fire. “Detective, I did not kill Arlen Hagerty, and I do not know who did. That is the truth, and I will be willing to swear it, any time or any place.”

“Thank you. We are terminating this interview. The time is now 1:31 pm.” I switched off the recorder.

Lester Ingram and Senator Weston rose from their chairs, both looking a lot less pulled together than they were a half hour ago. “May I ask you, Detective,” Ingram said, “whether you plan to bring the financial information to the prosecutor?”

“We haven’t decided how to proceed yet.”

“Can you tell me when you plan to reach a decision?”

“Can’t really say. It depends on other information that may come to light in the course of our investigation.” I pulled a card out of my bag. “I think the important thing is, like I said, we’re trying to figure out who killed Arlen Hagerty. The sooner we can do that, the more consideration we can offer anyone who helps us in the investigation. So, if Senator Weston thinks of anything that can help us, I strongly encourage her to get in touch with us.”

“Detective,” Senator Weston said, “I’m certain you understand how damaging to my career any unfortunate publicity about my finances would be. Although I would of course be able to defend—clearly and honestly—my financial relationship with Henley Pharmaceuticals, doing so would be very costly in terms of my time.”

“You mean you wouldn’t be able to do as much of the people’s business if you had to spend time defending against the bribery charges?”

Dolores Weston chose not to respond to my choice of words. “I am simply saying I would appreciate your getting in touch with me in advance if you plan to publicize that information. I hope you understand my meaning.”

“Yes, I do. And I intend to do everything I can to determine who killed Arlen Hagerty. I hope you understand my meaning.” To Ryan, “Detective, would you mind showing our guests out.”

“Good afternoon, Detective,” Dolores Weston said as she and her attorney turned to follow Ryan out of police headquarters.

I sat back down in the empty interview room. I was pleased we had gotten Dolores Weston to concede she was taking bribes from Henley. But I wasn’t sure I had convinced Weston that if she didn’t cooperate in the investigation, I would subpoena Henley records to see whether the company was fiddling with accounting law. If Dolores Weston had a chance to think about it, she’d probably realize that was my strongest weapon: the threat to embarrass Henley and make them pull out of any deal with Weston. She was smart. She’d figure it out.

I went down the hall to the detectives’ bullpen. Ryan was sitting at his desk. The Chief was sitting at mine.

“My office. Both of you. Now,” the Chief said, as he stood and marched back toward his corner of the building. A couple of other detectives looked on, curious. The Chief didn’t usually plant himself at a detective’s desk, which was smaller than his own. The Chief strode into his office, the two of us following behind.

“Anything?” he said.

“She’s been taking bribes from Henley Pharmaceuticals. And she was paying off Hagerty for Soul Savers to keep supporting her,” I said.

“I mean, anything on killing her husband?”

“No, Chief,” I said, “We didn’t go there. We’re just working on the Hagerty case. The key is her arrangement with Henley Pharmaceuticals. If we can get her to own up to killing Hagerty and she killed her husband because he was gonna blow the whistle on the Henley bribes, we can work with Maui to get her to deal down on the charges. But we gotta start with what we’ve got, which is the bribes.”

“So why’d you have to bring her in for a statement? I told you I want to move quick,” the Chief said, “before the doper kid flips on her.”

“Chief, can I talk with you in private?” The Chief waved his hand for Ryan to leave. My partner looked angry as he turned and left.

“That was my decision, Chief,” I said. “Yeah, we could’ve questioned her about killing her husband, but her attorney would know we don’t have anything about that taking place in our jurisdiction. Then she could go to the media and cry witch hunt when we push on the bribery and the Hagerty murder.

“My way gives us more leverage. She’ll be so scared we’re gonna go public she’s on the Henley payroll, she’s gonna be a lot more cooperative with us. If she knows anything about the murder, she’ll deal by giving it up so long as we keep quiet about her dirty money.

“Let me explain why I’m not doing this the way you told me to do it.” I looked at the Chief. The lines on his face recorded all of his sixty-two years. Heavy lids half covered his small gray eyes. His pink nose and cheeks were covered with tiny veins. “Here’s the way I see it,” I said. “I understand you want to solve two murders and be the big hero, but my paycheck says Rawlings Police Department, and I’m gonna work on the murder that took place in Rawlings. When you give me evidence or even probable cause Dolores Weston conspired—right here in Rawlings—to kill her husband, I’ll start working on that case.”

“Let me give you another reason I’m doing it the way I want to: I don’t give a shit about what you want. And I don’t give a shit about pissing you off. You want me to quit? Fine, I’ll quit. But first I’m gonna solve this goddamn case. And if you try to block me by pulling me off the case or making me chase after the Maui connection, I’m gonna go straight to the newspaper. I’ll lay out the money trail, and I’ll explain your role in preventing me from doing my job.”

I sat down in the chair facing his desk, which seemed to piss him off more than what I’d said. “You’ve got, what, thirty years on the job? One more to go, right, to sixty-five? You remember when you got your ass chewed out by the mayor for buying patrol cars from your brother-in-law’s dealership? How do you think it’s gonna look, you keeping me from getting to the bottom of the investigation of a dirty state senator? People might think you were on Henley’s payroll, too. I wouldn’t conclude that, personally, ’cause I know what a stand-up guy you are, but I couldn’t rule it out, either. I’d have to be honest with the reporter. You see where I’m going?”

His hands were shaking with rage. “Just give me an opportunity to fire you.”

I laughed. “I’m not gonna give you anything. I just told you: I don’t give a shit about you. You don’t exist. I’m free. But remember this: I go down, I’m taking you.” I was pointing a finger at him. “I’m taking you with me.”

I got up from the chair, walked back out to the bullpen, and plopped into my chair.

“What was that all about?” Ryan said, his tone cold.

“I’m sorry, Ryan, it wasn’t anything I didn’t want you to hear. It’s just I didn’t want to spray any shit on you. I told him if he tries to derail the investigation or fire me, I’d go to the newspaper and explain how he was stonewalling.”

“I could have been there for that.”

“No, there’s no reason for that. You’re there, he might think you’re with me on it and try to hurt you, too. This way, I can say honestly it was just me talking. You’re clean. You’re gonna be working here a lot longer than I will. You should stay friends with him if you can.”

“This is our investigation, Karen. We’re partners.”

“Yeah, and I’m treating you like a partner. And you’ll get all the credit when we solve the case. But I want to protect you.”

He was angry. “I’m not looking for the credit. I’m looking to be a good detective. I want to learn from you.”

“You’re already a good detective, and you’re just gonna get better. But if you want to learn from me, learn this: keep your distance from fuck-up detectives.”

Ryan shook his head, as if there was no way he was going to get me off that idea. “You think Weston’s involved in hitting Hagerty?”

“Not sure,” I said. “Obviously, she’s dirty, but I don’t know if it goes any farther than that.”

“The way she was pleading with you not to divulge the dirty money from Henley, it sounded to me like that’s as far as it went.”

“Yeah, could be. But it could just be her opening move. We know she’s a little dirty, so she concedes that point. But who knows? She could have something to do with the murder, and she’s waiting for us to show her some evidence on that. Then she falls back to her next position.”

“And the tie-in to Maui?”

“Like I said to the Chief, we work on our own case. If they’re related and she sees she’s going down on one of them, she’ll use the other one to bargain with.”

“Because,” Ryan said, “at that point her career is over.”

“Yeah, at that point she’s just trying to avoid the needle.”


Chapter 9

I looked down at the blinking light on my phone. I listened to the message. It was Allen Pfeiffer from the FBI. Call him right away.

“Pfeiffer.”

“Allen, Karen Seagate. What’s up?”

“You know that guy Timothy Sanders who flew from Waco to Rawlings. I got an idea this morning and went back into the TSA database.”

“Yeah?”

“Everything I told you about his flight from Waco to Billings was accurate. But guess what? That wasn’t the only flying he’d been doing recently. He flew to Billings on Sunday, November 23. Then he flew back to Waco on Wednesday, November 26.”

“Holy shit. He was here in town when Hagerty was hit.”

“I’m just telling you where he flew.”

“You know my next question?” I said.

“Yeah. He hasn’t flown anywhere since he landed in Billings last Thursday and visited you.”

“Allen, what made you think to check the earlier flight manifests?”

“Don’t know. Could be the way you said he made a point of telling you about the flight that morning from Waco. It sounded like maybe he took that flight to lay down an alibi.”

“I should’ve thought of that.”

“It was just a hunch.”

“Nice of you to say, but I should’ve caught that. All right, you say he hasn’t flown anywhere. Does that cover all flights?”

“It covers everything, unless he arranged a private charter and paid the guy not to list him on the manifest.”

“Allen, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Forget it. Just get him.”

“You bet we will.” I hung up.

Ryan was hanging up his phone. “I tried his hotel. He checked out the morning he came in and talked to us. Didn’t tell the clerk what his next stop was. The clerk remembers he had a rental car. And no, he didn’t leave a plate number on the registration form.”

“Okay,” I said, “call the rental companies at the airport in Billings and get the specs on his rental car. Then put that on the National Alert.”

“Got it,” Ryan said.

“And give me the number for Soul Savers in Colorado Springs.”

I called Soul Savers first and, after climbing most of the branches on their phone tree, got a woman who said they had not seen him in months. I tried the Archbishop’s office in Colorado Springs. No luck there, either. The Archbishop was booked solid the whole week, and his calendar showed no calls to the Board of Directors, and no incoming calls from Sanders to the Archbishop.

“Ryan, give me the number for Sanders’ home in Waco, will ya?” I punched it in.

“Hello?” It was a man’s voice.

“Hello, this is Detective Karen Seagate, Rawlings Police Department, calling from Montana. I’m trying to reach Timothy Sanders. Is he in?”

“Did something happen to Timothy?”

“Nothing’s happened to Timothy, sir. Can you tell me who I’m talking to?”

“My name is Stephen Friedl. Is Timothy in some sort of trouble?”

“Mr. Friedl, I need you to calm down. I’m the police detective in charge of the investigation of the Arlen Hagerty murder. You heard about that, is that correct?”

“Yes, I did. But I’ve just been so worried about Timothy.”

“Mr. Friedl, do you know where Mr. Sanders is now? We’d like to talk with him.”

“No, Detective, I have no idea.”

“Can you tell me when you last saw him?”

“It was last week. I’m not sure what day it was. Let me think. It was Wednesday, I believe. He told me he was going to meet with Arlen Hagerty. I said, why not just call him. He said it had to be face-to-face. I said, Timothy, you’re going to fly all that distance? I know you’ve had your differences with Mr. Hagerty, but can’t it wait until the next Board meeting? He said, Stephen, I know you mean well, but this is something I have to do. It’s between me and Mr. Hagerty. I said to him, when will you be back? He said he didn’t know.”

“And since then, has he gotten in touch with you?”

“No, that’s why I’m so frightened. We haven’t been apart for more than one night in the six years we’ve been together, and he always calls.”

“I see. Will you do me a favor, Mr. Friedl? Will you give me a call the second you hear from him?”

“Of course, of course, Detective.” I gave him my number.

Friedl said, “And will you promise to call me when you find out where he is? This is just not like him. He’s always so considerate.”

“I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure it’s just some misunderstanding. Do you have a cell or some other number so I can call you?”

“Yes, certainly. I have a cell, and if I’m not at this number I’m at the gallery.”

I took down his numbers. “Okay, Mr. Friedl, we’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, please, Detective. Bye-bye.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Friedl.” I hung up.

Ryan said, “You buy that?”

“Yeah, I do. That kind of worry, you can’t fake it. You hear the first thing he wants to know: if something’s happened to Timothy. That was genuine. If he knew where Timothy was, he’d have been in touch. What do you think?”

“Yeah, that’s the way I read it, too.” Ryan said, “Okay, so what does the fact he’s gay tell us?” We were silent a minute. “I’m not getting anything off of it. It doesn’t tell us anything about his motives—whether he’d want to kill Hagerty.”

I said, “Even though Hagerty was anti-gay in his politics?”

“Yeah, I know, but gays have been up against that for so long they’re used to working with people like Hagerty. It’s not a motive for murder.”

“Okay, does it tell you anything about where he is and what he’s gonna do next?”

“His being gay tells me he’s gay. That’s it,” Ryan said.

“Shit. What have we got? He’s not here, he’s not home with his partner, he’s not at Soul Savers. Where the hell is he?”

Ryan said, “He probably doesn’t have any ex-wives or dependents. Maybe he’s got other relatives? Parents, maybe?”

“Yeah, that’s an idea. How ’bout we check back with Soul Savers. They might have some paperwork on him gives us a previous address or something about a family.”

“I’m on it,” Ryan said, picking up his phone.

“Great. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” I grabbed my leather shoulder bag and my coat and headed out to the parking lot. The sky was grey, the patchy clouds hurrying across the sky. It wasn’t that cold, but the wind was picking up, scattering dead leaves and debris in the lot. I got in my cruiser and tossed my bag on the passenger seat. I took out my cell and dialed the number.

“Pediatrics.”

“Hello, this is Karen Seagate calling again. Is it possible for me to get an update on Annie Pritchard?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Seagate. Ms. Pritchard has asked us not to give out any information over the phone.”

“Please, ma’am. Is Ms. Pritchard there? Could I speak with her?”

“Let me see. Hold on.” I counted ten seconds, twenty, thirty. Finally, the nurse came back on. “Ms. Seagate, I’m sorry. Ms. Pritchard is not available.”

“Please, ma’am, could you tell me your name?”

“I’m Lauren Weddle.”

“Ms. Weddle, what do you mean when you say she’s not available?”

“Ms. Seagate,” she said, her tone annoyed, “‘not available’ means not available. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“She’s there, Ms. Weddle, right? Please ask her if she’ll come to the phone. Tell her it’s Detective Seagate. Ask her, please.”

“Detective, I did ask her. She knows who you are.” The nurse’s tone softened. “She knows who you are. She asked me to tell you not to call anymore. Not to come by.”

I sank. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry, Detective. I’m very sorry.”

“Me, too,” I said softly. I folded my phone shut but couldn’t get it back in my pocket before I lost control. Five minutes later, I took a tissue out of my bag, rubbed off the smeared makeup, and went back to my desk.

Ryan looked up at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“You sure? You want to talk?”

“I want to talk about Timothy Sanders,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Did you find out anything from Soul Savers?”

“I couldn’t get anything from them about a family or any dependents. I did get that he attended Loyola University Chicago. It was almost twenty years ago, but maybe they can point us to a home address. Want me to try that?”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I’ll be right back.” I figured with Ryan noticing my face looked all screwed up, I should stop by the bathroom and see if I could straighten it out. No sense frightening him any more than necessary. I got back to my desk two minutes later.

“When he went to college, he listed a home address in West Chester, Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia,” Ryan said. “He lists a Gerta Skarzenski. I looked her up. She’s still there, same phone number,” he said, passing me a slip of paper.

“Great, thanks,” I said, picking up my phone and dialing.

“Hello?” The voice was tiny and rough. I pictured her as a small woman, maybe seventy or seventy-five years old, with a cigarette.

“Hello, I’m trying to reach a Gerta Skarzenski.”

“Let me save time. Whatever you sell, I not buy, so hang up now—”

“No, no, Ms. Skarzenski, I’m not selling anything or asking you to donate any money. My name is Karen Seagate. I’m a police detective in Rawlings. It’s a little town in Montana.”

“You say police detective? Why you call me?”

“Ms. Skarzenski, don’t be alarmed. Nobody’s been hurt, nobody’s in trouble. I just want to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Questions is fine, but my program is on in few minutes. I talk to you, then my program is on.”

“That’s fine, Ms. Skarzenski. We’re trying to find Timothy Sanders. Can you help us? Do you know where he is?”

“Timmy? No, I don’t know where Timmy is. Is Timmy in trouble?”

“No, Ms. Skarzenski, he’s not in any kind of trouble. We just need to talk to him about the Arlen Hagerty murder last week.”

“Someone murdered last week?”

“Yes, ma’am, Arlen Hagerty. The president of Soul Savers, the organization that Timothy founded.”

“Oh, Soul Savers. Now, who was murdered?”

“His name was Arlen Hagerty, Ms. Skarzenski. You don’t need to worry about that. I was just hoping you could tell me where Timothy is.”

“I’m sorry. What is your name?”

“My name is Karen.”

“Karen, no, I don’t know where Timmy is.”

“Do you know where Timmy lives?”

“I think Timmy lives Colorado someplace. I’m not so good with names anymore.”

“Ms. Skarzenski, when did you last hear from Timmy?”

“Long time ago. Ten years. Maybe more. Long time.”

Ryan pointed to himself, asking me if he could talk to Ms. Skarzenski. I nodded yes. “Ms. Skarzenski?”

“Who is that? Who talks now?”

“Ms. Skarzenski, my name is Ryan. I’m another detective here in Montana. Can we talk for just a moment?”

“Okay, Ryan. But my program.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can, ma’am. Can I ask you why Timmy’s last name is Sanders and your last name is Skarzenski? Was Timmy adopted?”

“No adopted. Timmy my son. I don’t know why. Timmy change name a long time ago.”

“That’s interesting. He didn’t tell you why he wanted to change his name?”

“No, I ask him. He tell me he just wants new name. I go to courthouse with him because he too young to make paperwork himself.”

“How did Timmy’s father feel about changing his name?”

“Timmy’s father gone a long time. He not there then.”

“Do you know how old Timmy was at that time, when he changed his name?”

“Just a boy. Twelve or thirteen, maybe.”

“About twelve or thirteen,” Ryan said.

“Twelve. I remember now. Bad year. I remember.”

“What happened that year, ma’am?”

“Bad, bad year …” Her voice trailed off.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Timmy was wonderful boy. Happy, friendly. Everybody like Timmy. Then something happen. I don’t know. Maybe it was age, you know kids change when they are teenagers.”

“Yes, I do,” Ryan said. “I’ve got a teenager myself. I know.”

“Well, I hope your teenager doesn’t do like Timmy.”

“How do you mean, Ms. Skarzenski?”

“Moody. Very mean to people. He spends all the time in his room. I ask him what he is doing in room alone all the time. He doesn’t tell me. He just say ‘nothing.’ He wasn’t listening for music. Doesn’t play with friends. Just terrible. Then the stuttering. So bad. I cannot understand half of what he say. I hope he doesn’t have stutter anymore. He never find nice girl if he stutter.”

“Did anything else happen that year, Ms. Skarzenski?”

“All that was very bad, but then he stop the church.”

“Was the church important to your family?”

“The church is most important thing, most important thing. One day, he stop the church. He say he no go church anymore. I ask him why that. ‘Because I’m not.’ That’s what he say. He is like I didn’t know him anymore. I think on it now, it is exactly what I think. I didn’t know him anymore. And now, I don’t know where he is now.”

“That church you attended, was that the Roman Catholic Church in West Chester?”

“Oh, no, we don’t live in West Chester then.”

“Where were you living then, ma’am?”

Wisconsin. It was so cold, I couldn’t take those winters. It is cold in Pennsylvania, but not like Wisconsin.”

“Can you tell me where you lived in Wisconsin, Ms. Skarzenski? What city was that in Wisconsin?”

“It was Division Street.”

“What was the city, ma’am?”

“Oh, Milwaukee, in Wisconsin.”

“And that church you attended, do you remember the name of that church?”

“Beautiful church. Very old, beautiful old church. Our Lady of Mercy. Hill Street. Beautiful old church.”

“Well, Ms. Skarzenski, we’ll let you go now. Your program is probably about to start.”

“Will you do one thing, young man? I’m sorry, I no remember name. If you find Timmy, you ask him to call me? If he has time? I like to talk to him. See how he is.”

“I’ll be sure to do that, ma’am. I’ll certainly do that.” We heard her phone go dead.

I was already on the Internet, getting the phone number of the church in Milwaukee. “Good work, Ryan,” I said to him as I dialed the number.

“Hello, Our Lady of Mercy.”

“Hello, my name is Detective Karen Seagate, Rawlings Police Department, in Montana. Can you tell me who you are?”

“My name is Cynthia O’Neil. I’m a volunteer here.”

“Ms. O’Neil. I need to speak to, well, I don’t know who specifically, the senior priest for your church. Is that person in?”

“That’s Father Hrbek. I saw him around earlier. Let me see if I can find him for you.”

“Thanks very much.”

While we waited, Ryan said, “How’re you going to go at him?”

I shook my head. “No idea.” I sat up straight in my chair as I heard someone pick up the phone.

“This is Father Hrbek. Can I help you?”

“Father Hrbek, sorry to bother you out of the blue. My name is Detective Karen Seagate. I’m in charge of the investigation of the murder of Arlen Hagerty in Rawlings, Montana, last week. Can I speak with you a minute?”

“Yes, I read about that. What a terrible tragedy. How can I assist you?”

“We’re trying to locate a man named Timothy Sanders. He was an associate of Mr. Hagerty’s. He used to be a parishioner of Our Lady of Mercy, some years ago. I imagine that was before your time.”

“I’ve been here only two years, so, yes, that would have been considerably before my time.”

“Father, we have some reason to think he might be in Milwaukee. Have you seen Mr. Sanders recently? He’s about fifty years old, blond hair, receding, a beard, about five eleven, one eighty?” There was silence on the line. “Hello? Father Hrbek? Are you there?”

“Yes, Detective, I’m here.”

“I don’t know if we had a bad connection, or something, but did you get my description of him, of Timothy Sanders?”

“Yes, Detective, I did.”

“Okay, good. Has he stopped by your church?”

“Detective, I don’t know where Timothy Sanders is.”

Ryan was giving me the thumb-up sign. I nodded. “Okay, well, thanks very much, Father Hrbek. Have a good day.”

“Yes, you too, Detective.” He hung up.

“Bingo,” Ryan said.

“You think the priest is gonna tell him we got him?”

“It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”

“I don’t want to give him a lot of time to put two and two together,” I said. “Let me try the Milwaukee police, see if they can hold him.”

“Want to run that by the Chief?”

“No, let’s see if we can get them to grab Sanders, then we’ll ask permission to go interview him. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

“Ancient wisdom,” he said as he looked up the number for the Milwaukee Police Department. He wrote it down and passed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said as I dialed. I got the main number and asked to be switched to the precinct where Our Lady was located. I asked the receptionist to connect me with the precinct lieutenant, a Lieutenant Dayley. I introduced myself.

“Lieutenant Dayley, I’m the lead on the Arlen Hagerty murder, last week here in Rawlings, Montana. I need your help. We’ve got a person of interest, a Timothy Sanders, who we think is in hiding in Our Lady of Mercy.”

“In hiding?”

“Yeah, I’m not sure what you call it. He was a parishioner there some years ago, and I think he’s kind of—I don’t know—seeking sanctuary in the church. Like he’s having some kind of breakdown or something.”

“Did you contact the church?”

“Yeah, we did. The priest there, Father Hrbek, didn’t exactly say so but didn’t deny it, either. More like he didn’t want to admit Sanders was there, but we got a pretty strong impression he’s there.”

“What’re you asking for?”

“He’s a suspect in the Hagerty murder, and we think he’s on the run. Could you go in and grab him, bring him down to your precinct? We’d fly in, as soon as possible, just interview him and either ask you to let him go or work on extraditing him to Montana.”

“Your CO authorize this?”

“He’s out sick today but he okayed it. I just talked to him.”

“You say he’s a person of interest or a suspect?”

“I guess he’s a person of interest. We’re not quite ready to charge him, but, like I said, we think he’s trying to run. So if you could just hold him. We could get there maybe by tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“I hate to get into a jam with Our Lady. They’re good people …”

“I understand, Lieutenant, but this would look real good for you if you help us with this guy. That murder has been all over the national media. It would be quite a coup for the Fourth Precinct. What do you say?”

“I want to talk it over with my Commissioner. Let me get back to you as soon as possible.”

“Okay, great, I appreciate it, but like I say, I think he wants to run.”

“I hear you. As soon as possible.”

I gave him my number. “Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said, hanging up. “Ryan, you stay here in case he calls back. I’m gonna go ask the Chief for authorization to fly there.” I rushed out of the bullpen and down to the Chief’s office. I brushed past his gatekeeper.

The Chief looked up, annoyed. “What is it?”

“Chief, we like this guy Timothy Sanders in the Hagerty case.”

“Which one’s that?”

“He’s the guy who founded Soul Savers. Then he had a power struggle with Hagerty—and he lost. Then we found out he lied to us about his whereabouts when Hagerty was killed. He was really here in town at that time, and now he’s on the run.”

“Know where he is?”

“We’re pretty sure he’s hiding out in his old church in Milwaukee. The police lieutenant there is working on grabbing him. Ryan and I want to fly to Milwaukee to interview him.”

“Jesus, Seagate. What is that? A thousand bucks? More?”

“Chief, this guy’s got a screw loose, and he’s the only one of the whole bunch who’s on the run. If he flips out and commits another crime, we don’t want to be in the position of not having grabbed him when we could. The Milwaukee lieutenant said he’d pick him up from the church, and it’s fine with him if we fly in and interview him. Grabbing him would look real good for the department, Chief.”

“Go. But you better be right about him.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Chief.”

Back at my desk, I said to Ryan, “The lieutenant call?”

“No, the Commissioner did.”

“Shit, what’d he say?”

“He said he’ll do it. He used the word reluctantly four or five times. They’ll hold Sanders till noon tomorrow at the latest. And we better be right.”

“Yeah, that’s what the Chief just told me. So, Ryan, you better be right about this.”

“I better be right? How about ‘we’ better be right?”

“No,” I said. “See how much you can learn from me?”

*  *  *

I got the call saying Milwaukee had Sanders in custody. Ryan booked our flights. We spent about an hour and forty-five minutes in the air, but the trip took more than five hours. We were routed through Denver to Milwaukee, tracing a big triangle of wasted taxpayer time.

On the cab ride into Milwaukee, I saw some of the reasons I chose to live in Montana: the obstacle-course ancient highways with potholes so deep they spit out hubcaps onto the trash-filled shoulders; the abandoned factory hulks that nobody had the money to tear down; the scary looking unemployed guys, shoulders hunched, hands in their pockets, gathered close around the bonfires in the rusted oil drums. I gazed at the past that hadn’t finished dying, the future that would never be born.

When we got closer to downtown, it looked a little better. There were people out on the streets, doing errands, headed home from work, living their lives. It was a mixed neighborhood, with whites, blacks, Asians, and people from the Middle East mingling, if not in harmony, at least without apparent hostility. Some of the old row homes, built with care a century ago, needed paint and had plywood windows, but most of the houses still had their dignity.

Ryan said to the driver, “Do you know where Our Lady of Mercy is?”

The driver, a dark skinned Asian man, nodded yes. He said, “You want stop?”

Ryan said, “Yes, just for a minute.” A moment later, we pulled up to the curb. The church was a blend of stone and brick, built, according to the year on the cornerstone, sixty-three years ago. It was bordered by a six-foot tall wrought-iron fence with sharp points that were installed for decorative purposes when the church was built but had probably become part of the security in recent years.

I looked at the heavy lock at the gate at the entrance, remembering when churches were always open. Near the heavy wooden doors at the main entrance was the glass-covered notice board announcing the hours of services and masses and the names of the priests. The glass was cracked diagonally, with a piece the size of a fist missing near the bottom. The glass had not been repaired, the brown city air dirtying the white letters on the black felt background.

Ryan and I got back in the cab and asked the driver to bring us to the Fourth Precinct. He pulled up to an old red-brick building, four stories, set back from the curb. There were ten parking spots inside the high chain-link fence enclosing the front entrance to the building. A wooden sign, hand-painted in a fancy script that looked like it dated from the 1930’s, announced Milwaukee Police Department, Fourth Precinct.

We walked up the seven gum-blackened stone steps and into the precinct house. Unlike our own building, which had a receptionist at a desk and could have passed for the entryway at any of a hundred businesses in Rawlings, the Fourth Precinct looked like an old precinct building. To the left, a wooden counter stretched back some thirty feet. Behind it, two uniformed sergeants stood guard, processing the drunks, the mugging victims, and the petty thieves the uniforms brought in. A staircase on the right led up to the detectives’ bullpen, the holding tanks, the interview rooms, and the showers and bathrooms.

We walked up to the sergeant on duty at the counter. He was a black man, about fifty, a little too heavy for street patrol. He looked like he was in the last couple of years of his twenty. His badge said Willey.

“Can I help you?” he said in a voice that signaled it would be just fine with him if we turned right around and walked out and never came back.

I took out my shield. “Hi, we’re Seagate and Miner, from Rawlings, Montana.” Sergeant Willey just stood there, as if I would have to do better than that if I wanted to motivate him to do anything. “Lieutenant Dayley said he would be holding a Timothy Sanders for us to interview.”

The sergeant looked down at his counter, in no hurry, his eyes scanning papers, looking for anything that might help him figure out what he needed to do. A long minute went by. Finally, Willey called out to the other officer, a young woman who was talking with a man who looked like a detective at the far end of the counter. “Hey, Barner.” She looked up, annoyed at the interruption. “You know anything about the lieutenant holding someone for two detectives from—where’d you say you’re from?”

“Rawlings, Montana,” I said.

“From Montana to interview?”

Barner said, “Yeah, I got it,” waving for Ryan and me to come down to her. She looked down at a slip of paper. “Seagate and Miner, right?” I nodded. “Let me call Detective Knox. You want to take a seat over there on that bench? He’ll be right down.”

We sat down. “They look like they’re thrilled to see us, huh?” I said.

“I guess their eight-hour shift is a lot longer than ours,” Ryan said.

“Apparently.”

“Well, if they have Sanders and we can figure out he’s our man, it’ll be worth it.”

“You’re always looking for the bright side, aren’t you, Ryan?”

“You bet. I’ve got a good feeling we’re about a half hour away from solving this case.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see.” I was tired of sitting around, waiting. I saw a man come down the stairs. He was forty, a shaved head, goatee, half-closed lids over tired eyes. This would be Knox. He walked over to us.

“Johnny Knox,” the detective said. He looked at a scrap of paper in his hand. “Karen Seagate,” he said, shaking my hand. “And Ryan Miner. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I said. “We want to thank you for picking up Sanders for us.”

“Not a problem.”

“Hope that didn’t mess things up too bad with the church.”

“No. It was okay,” Knox said, leading us up the stairs. “The lieutenant put in a call to Father Hrbek. They work together on a bunch of things. Hrbek’s had some experience counseling prisoners and parolees. I think you just caught him off guard when you called him. The lieutenant talked him through why he didn’t want to protect this guy. He told the Father you wanted to talk to him, that’s all. Worked out okay.”

“Great. So you’ve got him?”

“Yeah, we put him in one of the interviews,” he said, pointing down the hall we were walking. “We bought him dinner. He’s okay.” We stopped outside the interview room, which had a deadbolt that locked on the outside. “Okay, Detectives, have a good time talking to him,” Knox said with a sad smile.

“Yeah, thanks, Johnny. We’ve already interviewed him.”

We walked into the room. It looked like our own interview rooms, but a couple hundred years older. The walls were yellow tiles, many of them cracked and broken. The grout had turned a grey-brown. Sitting in the middle of the room was an old black steel table, its scratches, gouges, and dents testifying to some lively interviews. Four blue plastic stacking chairs ringed the table.

A cafeteria tray sat on the table. On it was the triangular plastic wrapper from a sandwich from a machine and a can of Coke. That was Sanders’ dinner. He was sitting on one of the plastic chairs, looking twenty years older than he had a few days ago. Puffy grey bags underscored his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. His skin looked a sickly yellow, thin as paper. His blond beard, which was carefully groomed when we last saw him, looked like it hadn’t been trimmed since then. Grey whiskers were visible in the inch of skin separating the beard from his neck. He wore a t-shirt with an old black V-neck sweater over it. He looked up at us but didn’t seem to realize he knew us.

“Mr. Sanders, you remember me? I’m Detective Seagate. This is Detective Miner.” His eyes shifted back and forth from me to Ryan. “Do you know why we asked the police to bring you in?” He was silent. I didn’t know how far gone he was, but he looked like he’d have a lot of trouble finding his way back.

Ryan and I sat down. I was thinking about how to carry out the interview. Suddenly, he spoke. “I ima-ma-magine you are here to arrest m-m-me for murdering Arlen.” His fingers tapped out the rhythm on the steel table.

“Did you kill Arlen Hagerty?”

“N-N-N-No, Detective, I d-d-did not. I w-w-w-wanted to, but I d-did not.”

“Let me tell you why we’re here, Mr. Sanders. When you came to our office in Rawlings last week, you told us you had just flown in that morning from Waco.”

“That was tr-tr-true.”

“Yes, it was. But you didn’t tell us you were in Rawlings a few days before, when Arlen Hagerty was killed. Why didn’t you tell us that?”

“Y-Y-You didn’t ask.”

“Now, you see, Mr. Sanders, what you just said, that’s the kind of thing makes us think maybe you did kill him. Then, when we wanna talk with you about it and nobody knows where you are, not even your partner, Mr. Friedl, that’s when we start thinking it even more.”

“I have co-co-committed no cr-cr-crime, Detective.”

“Nobody’s accused you of any crimes, Mr. Sanders. But Detective Miner and myself want to talk with you now, to understand what’s going on. You hear what I’m saying, Mr. Sanders?”

He looked at me as if I was insulting him. “T-T-T-talk.”

“We need to understand what you were doing in Rawlings that first time, before you flew back to Waco.”

“I c-c-c-came to t-t-talk to Arlen.”

“What about?”

“Ab-b-b-bout Henley Pharmaceu-ceu-ceuticals.”

“What about Henley Pharmaceuticals, Mr. Sanders? Don’t make me pull every sentence out of you. I can see you’re pretty tired, but we can sit here with you all night, if that’s the way you want to do it.”

“W-W-We had found out Ar-Arlen was supp-porting Dolores We-We-Weston, and that she was w-w-w-working to bring Hen-Henley to Rawlings.”

“How did you find that out?”

“I d-did the re-research. I s-saw an ad from S-S-Senator Weston that m-mentioned that S-Soul Savers was supp-p-porting her cam-campaign, and I d-d-d-discovered that she was working to get the Repu-pu-publican caucus to support the t-t-tax breaks for the c-c-company. I p-p-put it together. I w-w-wanted to ask Ar-Ar-Arlen if he k-k-knew she was doing this.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Y-Y-Yes,” he said, his face contorting. “I c-called S-S-Soul Savers and found where he was st-st-staying. I c-c-called him and met him that af-af-afternoon, at a c-c-coffee shop.”

“What day was that?” I could see the strain this was putting on him. His face was flushed with exertion, and he was breathing heavily. But I had to keep going.

“Tu-Tu-Tuesday, the d-day he was ki-ki-killed. We met at a c-c-coffee shop downt-t-t-town.”

“You didn’t meet him at his hotel?”

“N-N-No, I didn’t want to r-r-r-run into anyone else from that g-g-group. I wanted to sp-peak with Arlen alone.”

“Do you remember the name of the coffee house?”

“No, I-I don’t. It wasn’t a ch-chain, like S-S-Starbuck’s. It had a woman’s n-n-name in it.”

It could be Elsie’s. “Okay, tell us about the conversation.”

“I n-n-need a b-b-break,” he said.

“Take a minute or two to collect yourself,” I said. The three of us sat in the interview room. An awkward silence hung over the room.

After a couple of minutes, Timothy Sanders began. “It was like the c-c-conversations we u-u-used to have when I was p-p-president of S-S-Soul Savers but he was pulling the or-or-organization away f-f-from me. I p-p-p-presented the view that it was po-po-potentially very d-d-d-dangerous to get too closely involved with a p-p-politician, about how D-D-Dolores Weston’s ag-genda might overlap w-w-with ours to s-s-some extent, b-b-but her ultimate p-p-priority was to gain and m-maintain power. I felt her all-l-liance with Henley might necess-s-sarily draw her into c-c-conflict with our g-g-goals.”

“What’d he say to that?”

“He s-s-said what you w-w-would expect a m-m-man like that to s-s-say. That he underst-t-tood my concerns, but that he didn’t ag-g-gree there was a p-problem. He said that D-Dolores Weston had ass-s-sured him she b-b-believed strongly in our c-c-causes, in the r-r-rights of the unb-born and so forth, and he t-t-trusted her. He s-s-said she was a w-w-woman of her word. However, I had d-d-done considerable research on Henley Pharmaceuticals, and I d-d-did not see how it would be p-possible for them—g-g-given their research agenda—to b-be of like m-m-mind with us. All y-you have to d-do is read their annual reports. They say it as c-clearly as it c-c-can be said.”

“Then what happened?”

“The ar-rgument became more he-he-heated. He t-told me he had m-met with me, he had listened to my p-point of view, and th-that was that. When I r-reminded him I had f-founded Soul Savers and w-was a life m-member of the B-Board, and that the C-Chair was Archbishop McManus, he s-simply laughed in my f-face. He t-t-t-told me McManus—that’s what he called him: McManus—was not a p-problem. He would g-get the Board to do w-w-whatever he w-w-wanted, and th-there was n-n-nothing I c-c-could do about it.”

“And that was the end of the conversation?”

“N-N-No, he f-felt it ap-p-propriate to c-call me a ‘p-p-pathetic freak.’”

“He was talking about your stutter?”

Sanders was silent for a moment, his breathing labored. He looked down at his hands, folded on the table. “M-Many years ago, when I th-th-thought he was a m-m-man of s-s-substance, I had confided in him … I had c-c-confided in him that I was a v-v-victim of ab-b-buse.” He stopped talking.

I said, “He called you a pathetic freak because you were an abuse victim?” He didn’t reply. He just looked in my eyes. “Mr. Sanders, was that the end of your conversation with Mr. Hagerty?”

“Y-Y-Yes.”

“And then you flew back to Waco?”

“F-First I t-talked with D-D-Dolores Weston.”

“She knew who you were?”

“N-N-No, she didn’t. I explained to her on the ph-phone who I was and what I s-suspected was the r-relationship b-between her, S-S-Soul Savers, and Henley Pharmaceu-ceuticals. She ag-greed to meet with me.”

“What happened at that meeting?”

“S-S-She explained to me, as Ar-Arlen had, that she would n-never b-b-betray the r-r-rights of the unborn. She was quite poised, supplying a p-plausible answer to every q-q-question I had. F-Finally, I asked her if she w-w-was aw-ware Arlen was a man w-with, shall we s-say, unsa-avory s-s-s-sexual habits.”

“What did she say?”

“She smiled her b-b-beautiful smile and told me she had no interest in s-such things. She didn’t believe in the politics of c-character assassination. That was her phrase.”

“So what did you do?”

“I th-thanked her f-for her time and r-returned to the airport.”

“You went home?” I wanted to see if his story lined up with his partner’s.

“I d-didn’t g-go home. I w-was t-too angry. I d-didn’t want to d-d-disturb S-Stephen m-more than n-necessary. He g-gets so upset. I w-went s-somewhere else. I k-know other p-people in W-Waco.”

“Okay, why did you return to Rawlings?”

“When I l-learned of the m-murder, I d-didn’t know what to d-do. I w-wanted to p-p-present myself to you in hopes that you w-would not suspect me of the c-crime.”

Ryan touched my arm, asking for permission to speak. I nodded. “Mr. Sanders, tell us about the church.”

“W-What would you like to know, D-Detective M-M-Miner?”

“When you came to Rawlings two days after the murder, you stopped off here in Milwaukee, is that correct?”

“Y-Y-Yes.”

“The abuse occurred at Our Lady, didn’t it?”

Sanders held his gaze. “How d-do you know that?”

Ryan said, “I’m a Catholic, too.”

Sanders said to him, “W-Where did it h-happen to you?”

“In my church … in my church in Portland, Oregon. I was nine years old.” Ryan’s eyes began to tear. He put his thumb and index finger to his eyes.

“The p-priest?”

Ryan said, “Yes.”

“D-Did you t-tell anyone?”

“The only one I’ve ever told, before right now, is my wife.”

Sanders nodded his head in fellowship with Ryan. “H-Have you ever g-gone back to the c-church?”

Ryan said, “When I can, I go back there.”

Sanders said, “W-Why d-do you go b-b-back?”

“I don’t really know,” Ryan said. “I think it’s to see if I can see myself there. See who I was, see what happened there, how it changed me.”

“W-When I c-come here to Our L-Lady,” Sanders said, “I s-see how small the ch-church is. It’s j-just a few b-bricks, some c-colored w-windows, a few trinkets. It’s n-not where J-Jesus lives. It’s only a b-b-b-building.”

“And the priest, he was just a man,” Ryan said.

“He w-was the p-pathetic one. I w-was just a little boy,” Sanders said. “I s-still have J-Jesus. I still have Mary.”

Ryan got up from his chair and walked over to Sanders. He put his arms around Sanders’s shoulders, hugging him tightly. Sanders clung to Ryan’s arms and began to sob. Through his tears, Sanders said, “I c-couldn’t kill F-Father Heaton. I c-couldn’t kill Ar-Ar-Arlen H-Hagerty. I could n-n-n-never k-kill anyone.”

“I know that,” Ryan said, hugging him tightly, kissing the top of his head, stroking his shoulder. “I know.”

I didn’t know what was happening between Ryan and Timothy Sanders. I knew only that Sanders was telling the truth.

Ryan kissed Sanders on the head one more time and released him. Sanders’ arms trailed out, as if he didn’t want to let go of him. Ryan returned to his plastic chair. Sanders removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his eyes.

Ryan said, “Mr. Sanders, I think we’re ready to conclude our interview. We’re going to ask the police to release you and recommend to our Chief you be dropped as a suspect. But there’s one more thing we need to ask of you.”

“W-What is that, D-Detective?”

“Before we came here tonight, our Chief told us he wanted us to check you for defensive wounds.”

Sanders looked puzzled. “I d-don’t know w-what you’re ref-ferring to.”

“You don’t know this because you had nothing to do with the murder. You don’t know Arlen tried to fight off the murderer. The murderer will have scratches on his arms, maybe on his chest. We need to be able to tell our Chief we looked at your arms and your chest.”

Sanders stood up. He removed his sweater, then his t-shirt. His arms and chest were smooth and unblemished.

“Thank you, Mr. Sanders,” Ryan said. To me, “Do you have anything else for Mr. Sanders?”

“No, I’m fine,” I said.

Ryan walked over to Timothy Sanders and hugged him again. “May God bless you and heal you, Timothy.”

“G-God b-bless you, R-Ryan,” he said, kissing the detective on the cheek.

I watched them separate, their hands entwined. “Mr. Sanders, we’ll send the detective in, and he’ll arrange to have you put up tonight, then be on your way tomorrow, okay?”

“Y-Yes, Detective. Th-Th-Thank you.”

“I want you do a couple of things,” Ryan said.

“W-what’s that, D-Detective?” he said.

“I want you to call Stephen in Waco. He’s really worried about you.”

“Y-Yes, I will. W-What’s the other thing?”

“I think you should visit your mother, in West Chester. You need to talk to her. She’ll understand. She’ll understand everything. She loves you.”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Ryan and I left the room and walked down the hall to ask Detective Knox to take care of Sanders. Downstairs, we asked Sergeant Barner if she thought we would find it hard to get a cab to the airport. She told us it might be but offered to call an officer to run us out. We walked over to the wooden bench to wait.

“Ryan, if I asked you a question, would you tell me the truth?”

“There’s a pretty good chance I would, yes.”

I looked at him. “Are you a Catholic?”

“No, Karen, I thought I mentioned I’m LDS.” He shook his head, mocking my gullibility.

“So there was no priest?”

“No.”

“No abuse?”

“No.”

“So why that whole story?”

“I just wanted him to take his shirt off.”

“And you figured since we couldn’t force him to do it, you’d talk him into doing it.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“I see.”

Ryan said, “Just so I’ll know, am I going to have to explain everything to you, Karen?”

“There’s a pretty good chance,” I said.

*  *  *

Ryan and I made it back to Rawlings a little after noon. We each went home to change clothes and came back to headquarters to report to the Chief and see if Robin had the DNA results.

The Chief’s lunch was running a little long, so we sat in the armchairs in his outer office. Every time I looked up, I saw Helen Glenning giving me a nasty look for using up her oxygen. After fifteen minutes, the Chief walked in, taking off his coat, nodded to the two of us, and entered his office. A moment later, he used the intercom to tell Helen we could enter.

“Did Sanders give it up?”

“No,” I said. “We don’t think he did it. His story is kind of complicated, but we buy it.”

The Chief said, “He’s got an alibi for when Hagerty was killed?”

“Not exactly, but we believe his story about coming to Rawlings to talk to Hagerty and Dolores Weston about the Henley deal.”

“Why exactly is that, Detective?”

“Like I say, it’s kind of complicated, involving his beliefs in the Catholic Church, some past abuse by a priest, his relationship to Soul Savers, a whole lot of things.”

“So you’re saying you can’t put him somewhere else when Hagerty was being killed, but something about the church and abuse makes you sure he didn’t do it.”

Ryan said, “Chief, we could tell you the whole story, but it would take a while, and we need to get with Robin to talk about the DNA. Karen and I agree we need to keep looking.”

He shook his head, as if Ryan was getting dumber every day by hanging around me. “Great work, Seagate. Don’t forget to put in for your expenses in flying to Milwaukee to figure out that Sanders didn’t do it.” He looked back down at the papers on his desk, signaling that the interview was over.

Back at my desk, I saw the blinking light on my phone and ran over to it. I grabbed it and hit the message button.

“Okay, Robin’s got the DNA.” We rushed downstairs to her office.

“Hey,” Robin said. She turned down the horrible music coming out of her computer speakers.

“Well?” I said.

“No small talk, Karen? No ‘How was your weekend, Robin?’”

“After you tell me whose DNA was under Hagerty’s nails we’ll go back to your place and have a pillow fight, okay?”

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I gave her a nasty look. “Okay, there were two sets of tissue under his nails. One is our friend Connie de Marco. The other is a gentleman named Warren Endriss.”

“How’d you get Connie de Marco?”

“She’s on file in Colorado from her days hooking.”

“And who the hell is Warren Endriss?”

She smiled. “How the hell should I know who the hell Warren Endriss is? You’re the detective. Ryan, do you know who the hell Warren Endriss is?” Ryan shook his head no.

I said, “How’d you get his name?”

“He was on a bone-marrow donor directory in San Diego in 1993.”

“But that’s the only hit you have on him?”

“That’s it. Sorry.”

“Shit,” I said.

“You’re welcome, Karen.”

Ryan said, “‘Shit’ is Karen’s way of saying thank you. If you do a really great job, she might tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“Oh, okay, that clears things up,” Robin said.

“You two done?” I said.

Ryan looked at Robin, who nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Let’s go, Ryan, we gotta figure out who Warren Endriss is.” I turned to Robin, placing a hand on her shoulder tenderly. “Robin, dear, thank you so very much for analyzing the DNA for us. Your excellent work is going to be pivotal in solving this crime. And remember, Robin, I love you, just the way you are.”

“Now you’re creeping me out,” Robin said, shuddering.

Ryan and I started for the door. I stopped and turned. I patted my heart with my right hand, then pointed to Robin as Ryan and I left the lab.

“What next?” Ryan said once we made it back to our desks.

I thought a moment. “Well, we’re running out of possibilities. I want to call Allen Pfeiffer and see if he can help us track down Warren Endriss. While he’s working on that, I think we need to interview Connie again. Other than that, the only other possibilities are Dolores Weston, Dr. Z, and Jon Ahern. You got any other ideas?”

“No, I don’t,” he said, tapping his pencil on the desk.

I picked up the phone and punched in Allen Pfeiffer’s number at the FBI.

“Pfeiffer.”

“Allen, this is Karen Seagate. Mind if I put you on Speaker?”

“That’s fine. What’s up, Karen?”

“I need some database help on this Hagerty murder. We’ve got some DNA evidence pointing to two people: a Connie de Marco and a Warren Endriss. E-N-D-R-I-S-S. Connie de Marco’s here in Rawlings with us. We got her DNA from some solicitation charges a few years back. She was also a user. We can cover that one. But we can’t place Endriss. Our tech identified him from a bone-marrow donor database in San Diego in 1993. We’ve got a couple of other possibilities: Timothy Sanders, normal spelling, the guy who founded Soul Savers, and Jonathan Ahern, the other guy in the debates.”

“That’s A-H-E-R-N?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Sanders comes from West Chester, Pennsylvania, went to Loyola University Chicago, lived in Colorado Springs for a while. He’s now living in Waco with his partner, Stephen Friedl. F-R-I-E-D-L. Ahern lives somewhere around Atlanta. Used to be some sort of legislative aide for a state legislator there named Johnny Trautman, now deceased. Ahern says he used to be an accountant. That’s all I have.”

“Okay, let me see if I can run this down for you. I’ll get back to you. Might take an hour.”

“Thanks, Allen, I appreciate it.” I hung up and turned to Ryan. “Want to call the hotel, have them track down Connie and get her up to her room? She’s probably out smoking somewhere.”

Ryan made the call. Then, we grabbed our coats and drove out to the hotel. We knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she said.

“Ms. de Marco, Detectives Seagate and Miner.”

“Yes, I remember you,” she said. “Hello.”

“We’re coming to the end of our investigation. Maybe a day or two more, at most. I understand it’s been a real imposition on you and the others, having to stay here in the hotel.”

“I spend a lot of time in hotels. Doesn’t bother me.”

“Can we talk with you a few minutes?”

“There’s two chairs,” she said, pointing to the desk chair and the reading chair. She sat on the edge of her bed. The bed was made neatly. The room was made up like it is before a guest enters. On the night table lay the TV remote, the room-service breakfast card, and the TV guide, neatly lined up against the table edge.

“We’ve got the DNA results back from the tissue under Mr. Hagerty’s nails. It belonged to you.” I stopped there. She stood up and began to unbuckle her jeans. “What are you doing?” I said.

“I want to show you something,” she said.

Ryan said, “You want me to leave?”

“No, stay,” Connie said.

She pulled her crimson turtleneck over her head and removed it. She folded it carefully, the sleeves behind the back, then once across the chest, and placed it on top of the pillow. She reached her arms behind her and unfastened her bra, removed it, and folded it so the cups fit together. She placed it on top of the turtleneck and walked over to me.

She held out her arms, palms up. Pointing to her inner arms, she said, “These tiny brown marks are tracks from when I was using. There are some more on my stomach, right here,” she said, pointing. She walked over to Ryan. “Let me show you, too, Detective.”

Her breasts were ten inches from Ryan’s face as she showed him the needle tracks. He pulled his head back, blushing. Connie stepped back from Ryan, then walked back over to me. She turned around.

Her back was covered with long brown scars, running from between her scapula to the base of her spine. A set of eight tracks were fresh, dotted with crimson scabs. She walked over to Ryan and showed him.

“Because Mr. Hagerty was so heavy, he would lie on his back, with me on top. He would have me bend down, put my palms on the mattress above his shoulders. From that position he would suck on my nipples and rake his nails down my back, as if we were lovers. As if we were in love. If I had killed Mr. Hagerty, the scratches would be in front.”

She turned around to face me, holding out her arms again. She moved closer to me, lifting her breasts with her hands so I could see the undersides. She then repeated the procedure in front of Ryan.

“Would you like to see the rest of me?” she said to me.

“Would you put your clothing back on, please, Ms. de Marco?” Connie walked over to the bed, slipped the bra on over her shoulders, and hooked it. She pulled on the turtleneck and loosened the zipper on her jeans. She tucked her blouse in carefully and pulled up the zipper, buttoned the jeans, and fastened the belt.

“Detective Seagate, Detective Miner, in my life I have done many bad and stupid things. I have been sexually humiliated for many years by many hundreds of men. But I am not a murderer.” She looked directly at me, then at Ryan. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you, Ms. de Marco,” I said, my voice soft. “We appreciate your cooperation, and, as I said, we hope to be able to let you get on with your life as soon as possible.”

“There’s no need to hurry, Detective Seagate. This is my life.”

Ryan and I stood and left the hotel room. I looked back to see Connie rolling the desk chair back into the kneehole of the desk, aligning it properly.

We were silent as we drove to headquarters. Back at my desk, I saw my message light. It was Allen. I called him back.

“Pfeiffer.”

“Allen, Karen. Get anything?”

“Yeah, let me start with Timothy Sanders. He was born Timothy Skarzenski in Detroit. Family lived in Milwaukee for a year, eventually moved to West Chester. He went to Loyola Chicago like you said, then lived in Colorado Springs, then Waco.”

“Just like I said?”

“Just like you said.”

“And what about Jonathan Ahern?”

“That one’s a little messier. The story about living near Atlanta, working for the Georgia legislator, all that checks out.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“He died in 1991.”

I sighed. “Say again.”

“Jonathan Ahern was born in 1921 and died in 1991. He owned a plumbing business in San Diego. He paid taxes until 1989. Then he started paying taxes again in 1999.”

“So my guy’s grabbed Ahern’s identity?”

“Could be. I can’t connect the dots yet.”

“What have you got on Warren Endriss?”

“Endriss: born in 1965 in Sacramento, went to Sac State—”

“Major in accounting?”

“Yeah, accounting. Lived in San Diego until 1998.”

“Then what?”

“Then he went off the radar. No taxes, no Social Security payments. Nothing.”

“Bottom line?”

“Can’t be sure, but sounds like there was this guy named Warren Endriss living in San Diego until 1998. He grabs the Social Security number of a dead guy named Jonathan Ahern, moves to Atlanta, starts working for a Georgia state legislator.”

“Allen, thanks a lot. Talk to you later.”

“Anytime, Karen. Good luck.”

I hung up. I called Jon Ahern’s room at the Courtyard. No answer. I hung up and called the reception desk, asked to speak with the uniform.

“Hey, this is Karen Seagate. Who is this?”

“Officer Truman.”

“Truman, I’m trying to get in touch with Jon Ahern. He’s not picking up in his room. Do you know where he is?”

“Just a second,” Truman said, checking his notebook. “Sorry, Detective, I have no record of where he is.”

“Okay, have someone from the hotel let you into Ahern’s room, then call me back immediately.”

“Right away.”

I hung up. Ryan was on the phone to someone. “Is there a guy on the driving range? Forty, forty-five years old. Six one, one ninety?” Ryan paused. “Check the snack bar, the men’s room. Yes, I’ll hold.” He shook his head. “All right, thanks.” To me, “He’s not at the driving range.”

My phone rang. “Seagate.”

“This is Officer Truman. Ahern’s not in his room. The room is made up. I checked with Housekeeping. They didn’t have to make it up today. He didn’t sleep in it last night.”

“Thanks, Truman.”

Ryan was on the phone. “Ms. de Marco, Detective Miner. We’re looking for Jon Ahern. Have you seen him?”

“Not in a few days.”

“Ms. de Marco, I know you’ve been straight with us. This is really important, so I’m going to ask it again. If you know where he is, the best way to help him out is to tell us where he is. Have you seen him?”

“Not in a few days.”

“Do you know where he might be?”

“I haven’t seen him, and I don’t know where he is.”

“All right, Ms. de Marco. Thank you. Sorry to bother you again.”

I said to Ryan, “Come on. We need to check his credit cards.” We rushed off to the Chief’s office, brushing past his assistant.

“Chief, we identified the murderer. It’s Jon Ahern. He stole a dead guy’s identity, and he’s on the run. We need authorization to check his financials. All we need is his credit cards.”

“Another one on the run? Have you considered interviewing your suspects while they’re still in town, Seagate? You know, to cut down on expenses?”

“That’s really good advice, Chief, and I’m gonna take it next time, but right now I need your okay to look at his credit cards.”

“Will the two of you be going on another flight anytime soon?”

“Don’t know. We think he’s either in Atlanta or San Diego.”

“This time, it better be three of you coming back.”

“Got it,” I said as we rushed out of his office and back to our desks. “Ryan, you find out the banking organization in Atlanta, I’ll do San Diego. We just need the credit cards from last week through now.”

“I’m on it,” he said.

“I’ll call the prosecutor and ask him to put a rush on the authorization.”

We made the calls and got the rush authorization.

“Okay,” Ryan said, “Now what do we do?”

“Now we wait,” I said. “Where do you think he went: Atlanta or San Diego?”

“I’m guessing Atlanta. That’s where he’s been the last eight years. Maybe there’s a wife or something in Atlanta.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “When Sanders split, he went all the way back to his childhood, to Milwaukee.”

“It’s Connie. They were in love. Ahern couldn’t take Hagerty humiliating her.”

“I don’t think so. I believe Connie all the way. The way she took off her shirt in front of us. She wasn’t screwing Ahern.”

“Well, we’ll see. This is exciting, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “Until we figure out why he did it. Then it’ll probably just be real depressing.”

We tried to think of something to do, but neither of us could face starting the pile of forms we would have to fill out just for the trip to Milwaukee.

An hour later, an aide rushed up and handed me two envelopes. I tossed one to Ryan.

“It’s a blank for Atlanta,” Ryan said after a minute. “There’s nobody from there with credit cards that match our guy.”

“Here he is,” I said. Jonathan Ahern, with the right Social Security. Okay, buddy, where’d you go?” I said, scanning the printout. “He flew to San Diego yesterday. He rented a car. No listing for a hotel yet. You know what I want to do, Ryan? You stay here, track him for me. I’m gonna go down to San Diego and pick him up.”


Chapter 10

I made the flight reservations, drove home and packed a small bag, and made it to the airport. I got the full workup in security: the belt, the shoes, the wand, and the frisk. I figured it was because my black eye was now a ghoulish neon green, and my left wrist was still in a brace. The first leg, to Denver, looked like it was going to be only half full. That was a relief. I wasn’t looking forward to having to sit next to anyone, and I didn’t need a screaming baby nearby.

I sat down at the gate next to the one where my plane would board. I was close enough to see and hear what was going on but far enough away to be alone. A mom, her little girl, and a uniformed woman from Southwest walked up to the gate for the Denver flight. The little girl had a pink plastic suitcase on wheels. I couldn’t hear them, but I could follow the narrative.

The mom knelt down in front of the little girl, talking to her. The mom’s hands were busy, straightening and rearranging the girl’s blouse, making sure she had a tissue in her jeans pocket, checking that the shoelaces were knotted securely. The mom would be telling the little girl everything would be all right, mostly to reassure herself.

Then the airline woman leaned down to get closer to the girl’s height, and the mom reached out and took the airline woman’s hands. This would be the mom handing over physical custody of her daughter to the airline woman. Mom would be showing the little girl that this was her temporary mom, you can trust her, honey. I could tell the mom hated this part and was getting really scared, wondering if the airline woman was indeed trustworthy, whether her daughter would survive the flight, whether she would ever see her again.

The mom hugged the daughter once, twice, kissed her several times on the cheek, on the top of her head, and, with her hand to her mouth, stood up. The airline woman took the little girl’s hand and reached out to the mom. This would be where the airline woman became the adult, reassuring the mom, who was starting to come undone.

Taking the little girl by the hand, the airline woman walked over to the counter and began talking with the attendant. The mom stood still in her tracks, her hands fidgeting, then waving to the little girl, who was talking to the attendant, not even looking in the mom’s direction. The airline woman escorted the little girl through the door and into the unknown. The mom didn’t leave. It was too soon. She stood there.

I wondered why the girl was going on the flight alone. It was probably just a shared custody visit. But maybe it had been something worse, somebody sick or dead. How many times does a mother have to worry about her child? Is it measured in hundreds or thousands? How often must a mother picture her child afraid, crying, hurt, dead? Even if the child has been fine every time, will a mother ever believe, really believe, that the child will be okay this time?

Even if the mom has strapped the child into the car seat a thousand times to run some errands in the car, will the mother ever stop worrying that something—a length of drainage pipe fastened to the bed of the semi, a boulder dropped from the overpass by a teenage moron, a drunk who’s run out of liquor—will break through the glass and steel that protects her baby and stop time?

I was relieved when the fuzzy metallic voice of the woman at the counter announced boarding. Running around, working the case was the only thing kept me from thinking myself into a deeper and deeper pit. I got on the line to go though the gate, down the stairs, out onto the tarmac, and over to the plane. I grabbed a seat in an empty row, closed my eyes, and tried to tune out the flight attendant’s always-helpful refresher on how to operate a seatbelt.

Would it be so bad if, just once in a while, they let her explain something slightly more interesting, such as why the oxygen bag doesn’t inflate even though oxygen is flowing?

Landing in San Diego, I flipped open my phone and called Ryan as I walked to the car rental booths. “Hey, what’ve you got?”

“Not much,” he said. “Endriss went to Budget when he landed. He rented a Ford Focus, dark grey. I got the plate number to the San Diego PD; they’ve put it out already.”

“Okay, good. You got a hotel or anything?”

“Nothing. Either he’s using cash or he’s staying someplace. I got in touch with Allen Pfeiffer. When our guy was Warren Endriss, he was married to Patricia. I don’t have a maiden name.”

“Okay, why don’t you head home? I’m gonna get a room at a Sheraton here at the airport. I’ll check in with you tomorrow morning.”

“All right, Karen. Later.”

I got a rental car and a local map and made my way to the Sheraton. Checking in, I was glad to see that the bar in the lobby was still open. I got my room, threw my bag on the bed, and went downstairs. At 1:15, the bartender told me he needed to close up. He offered to make me another JD to take up to my room, but I had already had three, which was enough since I was cutting back.

*  *  *

I phoned Ryan first thing the next morning.

“Bad news, Karen. He cleaned out his account.”

“How much?”

“He took out thirty-four hundred. There’s twelve bucks in the account.”

“Sounds like he doesn’t plan on leaving us any more of a trail.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, “but why didn’t he clean out the account while he was here in Rawlings. That’d make it harder for us to figure out where he went.”

“True, but maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly, or he figured we could track his flight and his rental car easily enough.”

“Okay, so he’s in San Diego and he has to figure we’ll catch up with him sooner or later.”

“Way I read it,” I said, “whatever he’s gonna do, he thinks he can do it before we catch him. And after that, he doesn’t care.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Let’s start with trying to figure out where he’s staying. I’m gonna go to SDPD headquarters, see if they can help.”

“Okay, stay in touch,” Ryan said.

I took a quick shower, made a pot of coffee in the room, and headed out. I walked over to my car. It was forty eight degrees at 8:30. I was carrying my winter coat. I hadn’t even realized it would be like May in Rawlings. I tossed the winter coat in the back seat of the rental and headed out to I5, which was, as I had read, always slow. It took forty minutes to drive the seven miles downtown to 1401 Broadway.

Police headquarters was a six-story mass of glass and concrete, a good ten times the size of the building occupied by Rawlings Police Department. Inside the large atrium, I explained my situation to the receptionist and was told to see a Lieutenant Davenport on the third floor. On three, I asked an aide and was directed to Davenport’s office.

Davenport was a large black man wearing a three-piece suit and a placid expression. He listened to my problem.

“If I understand where you are, Detective, your trail is about eight years old. There was a man named Warren Endriss, wife Patricia, lived on 7922 Southgate. That right?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if he grabbed the identity of Jonathan Ahern while he was still in San Diego, or whether he left and went to Atlanta and started using that name. So I’m hoping you can get me an address on Patricia, if she’s still in town.”

Davenport said, “Let me see if I’ve got anything on Warren Endriss or Patricia Endriss in our system.” He typed, hit Enter, and waited while his system churned. “Warren got a speeding ticket in 1994. That’s it. There’s nothing on Patricia. All I’ve got is that address on Southgate. You want to go over there and take a look? If Patricia isn’t there, maybe the new people know where she headed.”

“Yeah, let me try that. Do you have a driving map?”

“Sure,” Davenport said, taking out a map, unfolding it, and directing me to Southgate.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” I said, getting up and heading out of the big building. The sun was breaking free of the downtown buildings, and I guessed the temperature was in the mid fifties. The streets were full of traffic now, delivery trucks fighting it out with private cars and bike messengers snaking their way through the melee. I headed south, getting farther and farther from the noise, dirt, and crowding of the city. I was now in the residential section, with lush green lawns, stucco houses with two and three-car garages, and orange tile roofs. Some kind of palm trees, like in the movies.

I pulled into Southgate, a tidy, orderly street, with pastel houses centered neatly on their quarter-acre parcels. There was no on-street parking allowed. A little island near the end of the cul-de-sac had a tall palm tree, a park bench, and a two-car slot for guest parking. I found 7922 and pulled up to the curb.

Out of the car, walking up the brick path to the house, I noticed a portable basketball pole and hoop in the driveway. The hoop was set low—it looked like six feet. The kid here would be ten or twelve. As I climbed the three steps to the door and pressed the doorbell, the annoying whine of an edger somewhere off in the distance drifted in on the soft breeze.

A few seconds later, a thirty-something woman answered the door. She was wearing a pink sweatsuit, her blond hair tied back in a ponytail. I took out my badge.

A look of fear came over the woman’s face. “Oh, my God. What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened, ma’am. My name is Karen Seagate. I’m a detective from Montana. Could you tell me your name, please, ma’am?”

“Ellen Winston.”

“Ms. Winston, how long have you lived in this house?”

“A little over three years,” she said, still anticipating bad news.

“Do you remember the names of the people you bought the house from?”

“I think it was Patel. He was a professor at San Diego State.”

“He was Indian?”

“I’m not sure. That or Pakistani.”

“So you wouldn’t know the people who owned the house before the Patels, a family named Endriss?”

“No. Never heard of them.”

“Do you know if any of your neighbors have been here maybe ten years or more?”

“Try the Harbisons, in the yellow house over there,” she said, pointing. “They’re retired. I think they’ve been here a long time.”

“Okay, thanks a lot, Ms. Winston. Sorry I scared you.”

“It’s not your fault. Just that I’ve never had a real police officer come to my door.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, “but we’re not always bringing bad news.” I walked across the street and up to the Harbison house. I knocked. There was no reply. I looked through the frosted-glass panels on either side of the door. Nothing moving. I was walking down the path when the door opened.

“Hello?” the elderly lady’s voice called.

I came running back. “Ma’am, are you Ms. Harbison?” The lady was wearing faded jeans and a baggy blouse. She had an attractive face and close-cut grey hair.

“Yes, I am, dear. Who are you?”

“My name is Karen Seagate. I’m a detective from Montana.”

“From Montana?” she said, a sparkle in her eyes. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you took a wrong turn.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I am pretty far from home. Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure, I’m always happy to talk. Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the front stoop. She grabbed the handrail and lowered herself to the stoop. “What would you like to talk about?”

“Well, I’m trying to track down a man named Warren Endriss. Your neighbor, Ms. Winston, told me she thinks you might remember them, in that blue house, 7922.”

“Oh, yes, I do remember them. What was that, four or five years ago they left?”

“I think it was closer to eight or nine, Ms. Harbison.”

“Isn’t that funny, the way that happens?”

“It sure is. Can you tell me what you remember about them?”

“They were a nice family. His name was Warren. She was Patty. And they had a little girl. I think I was Alison. No, I remember, it was Amber, because one day—she was only three or four—I explained to her what her name meant.”

“Do you know why they left this neighborhood?”

“It was very sad. I don’t know exactly what happened, but the couple split up. Warren left, and soon after Patty and Amber left, too.”

“Do you know where Patty and Amber went? Was it someplace here in the area or far away?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it was here in town somewhere. It was tough for Patty and Amber, I remember that. She was such a brave little girl.”

“You mean about the divorce?”

“No, the disease. She had diabetes. She had to take those shots, five times a day, I think it was. You could see it in her parents’ faces. It was like torture for them.”

And at that moment I knew why Warren Endriss killed Arlen Hagerty.

*  *  *

I got back in the car. The sun was climbing in the east, shining straight into my eyes. The car was already warm. I turned the ignition halfway so I could lower the windows. I got my cell out and hit the speed dial for Ryan.

“Hey, Karen.”

“Ryan, I need you locate Endriss’ ex-wife, Patricia. They got married in the early nineties, either in the Sacramento area or San Diego. Get her maiden name off of that. Then check for an address in the San Diego area. There’s a Lieutenant Davenport at SDPD who’s human. See if he can run it down. If you don’t get a hit, see if she’s remarried, using her maiden name on the marriage certificate.

“Anything else?” Ryan said.

“Yeah, do it fast, Ryan, then call me back immediately, okay?”

“I’m on it,” he said and hung up.

I sat in the car, letting the sun warm my face, trying hard not to think about the case. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Had Endriss been acting the whole time, going out to drink with Hagerty like they were friends, laughing with him, standing there patiently during the debates when Hagerty gave his slippery-slope arguments? Maybe Endriss was the one slipping down the slope, trying as hard as he could to understand what Hagerty was saying. And maybe Endriss succeeded, at least some of the time. Until that last night, at least, when he got the call.

Ten minutes later, I got the call from Ryan.

“Got some paper?” he said.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Her name is Patricia Kesler. K-E-S-L-E-R. She’s married to Captain Robert Kesler, U.S. Navy, retired. They live on Coronado Island. Get on I5 heading south, past downtown. Take the San Diego-Coronado Bay Bridge. It’s marked as California 75. The bridge spills you onto 3rd Street, heading west. Take your first left, that’s south, on Orange Avenue. The house is number 111 Orange. Got that?”

“Thanks, Ryan. I’ll check in with you when I can.” I made it back to I5 in ten minutes, then I hit traffic. Another ten minutes to go two miles. I got up on the big bridge, traveling a brisk thirty miles per hour, taking in the battleships and destroyers off to the right.

Just as I got to the middle of the bridge, I felt a rumble beneath me. It was a carrier headed out of the harbor. I was able to pick out the men, tiny against the massive grey steel boulevard of the deck. I had to force myself to concentrate on my driving, get myself squarely in my lane. I snuck a glimpse of the enormous ship sliding away, its hull taller than any building in Rawlings.

I made it through the tiny commercial center of Coronado Island, left on Orange to the older homes. I pulled over to the curb near number 111. It was as I had feared. I looked through the forsythia to see the brick circular drive leading past the front door and up to the garage. It was a beautiful old house, a white clapboard colonial. It looked like it had three or four bedrooms, which would have been considered showy when it was built. Now, it would probably have to be sold hard by a realtor if it had only two baths.

There were two dormer windows on the second floor. One had pink curtains, one had blue. The windows were open a half foot, the breeze pulling the curtains in and out on what was turning out to be a fine day. It would hit fifty-eight degrees or sixty in a few hours.

I waited, looking at the black limousine parked in the driveway. All along the width of the house was a beautiful flower garden, set off with large ornamental rocks embedded with some sort of crystals that reflected the sun like mirrorballs. I don’t know much about flowers, but I recognized marigolds, bluebells, carnations, and lavender. It was a dizzying palette of blues, yellows, reds, and whites.

I wondered if it would be enough. Would Captain Kesler, retired, and his new wife, Patricia, and their young son be all right? What would they do? Would they sit on the wrought-iron patio set on the front porch and look at the garden? What would they say to each other? What was there to say?

The front door opened. The first one out was Captain Kesler, wearing his dress uniform, the brass and the silver catching and reflecting the sun. He was tall, a good-looking man, forty-five years old, I guessed, square jawed, dark hair turning to salt and pepper. He held his young son in his arms. The boy, about three years old, was wearing a dark blue suit, with short pants. He wriggled in his father’s arms, but the father restrained him and moved deliberately.

Next came Patricia, wearing a plain black dress, low-heeled black shoes, a black purse. She clutched a white handkerchief in her hand. I couldn’t see her face behind the black veil attached to a simple hat. She moved unsteadily. Her husband took her hand. The uniformed chauffeur was holding the door open.

The family slowly made its way to the limousine. Patricia got in first. As Captain Kesler tried to hand his son to Patricia, the little boy grabbed at the roof of the limousine. The father disengaged the son’s tiny fingers from the roof, one by one, and guided the boy inside. Then Captain Kesler disappeared inside the limousine, and the chauffeur closed the door.

I watched the limo start up. I stayed back. There was no need to follow the slow-moving Cadillac up close. We traveled only a few minutes on the small island. We entered Hillside Cemetery, a gorgeous shaded sanctuary. I followed the limo down the sun-dappled lane, the tall pines standing like sentries, until it came to a gentle halt. Some thirty cars were parked along the lane. The hearse was already there. I parked away from the others.

From where I stood, under one of the pines, in the shade, I could see the Pacific in the distance, unnaturally blue, the waves bright white lines that appeared, then disappeared as they approached the shore. Suddenly I felt a chill and went back to the car and grabbed my coat. I put it over my shoulders.

The minister was standing by the graveside, his Bible open. At his side was Captain Kesler, with his son cradled in one arm. Next was Patricia, her face downturned. Even from thirty yards, I thought I could see her shaking. She was holding on to her husband’s arm for support. On her other side stood Warren Endriss, his hands at his side.

Endriss looked older, his face ashen, his shoulders dragged down by an enormous invisible weight. The ceremony proceeded, the mourners sobbing as the coffin was lowered into the grave. In a few minutes, the minister closed the Bible, walked over to Patricia, and hugged her. He shook Captain Kesler’s hand after the Navy man transferred his squirming son into his other arm. The minister then shook Endriss’ hand. Captain Kesler started to escort his wife back to the limousine. Endriss was still gazing at the coffin, unwilling or unable to move.

Endriss’ gaze lifted. He saw me standing beneath the pine, across the narrow, unpaved road. He nodded to me. We both stood still as the mourners filtered away from the graveside. Captain Kesler and his family got in the limousine. It started and slowly drove away, leaving the other mourners’ cars to follow for the reception at the Kesler house.

A pickup with a king cab drove up to the graveside. Three men wearing overalls got out. They stood by the side of the truck awkwardly, waiting for Endriss to leave. He nodded to them and walked slowly over to me.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Endriss,” I said.

“Thank you, Detective.” I saw that Endriss was weeping. I could not stop my own tears. Endriss said, “Do you need to put handcuffs on me?”

Regs called for cuffs, behind his back. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said, taking his elbow and escorting him to my rental car. He got in the passenger seat.

“Put on your seatbelt,” I said to him.

“I’m sorry to have put you to this trouble, Detective. I couldn’t ask for permission to come. If I did, you would have had to arrest me and prevent me from coming.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“May I ask for a favor, Detective?” I turned to him. “Before you take me in, I’d like to show you where Amber and I used to come.”

“Where’s that?”

Torrey Pines State Reserve. It’s about a half hour from here. A little north of La Jolla. It would mean a lot for me to see it one more time.”

“All right,” I said.

He directed me back to I5, then north to La Jolla and out to the coast. We were silent on the trip. Torrey Pines State Reserve hugged the Pacific Ocean, a series of dunes, trails, and sandstone canyons rising up from the ocean.

“This parking lot would be great.” I shut off the car and we got out. “This was our favorite trail.” He led me out on the Guy Fleming Trail, winding deeper and deeper into a stand of Torrey pines. Soon the trees thinned and the sun pierced the needle canopy. We came to a lookout point.

Three hundred feet above the ocean, we leaned against the wooden guardrail. I looked out at the waves rolling in, the gulls drifting above the surfers in their wetsuits, tiny black figures on their red and yellow and white boards. “This is so beautiful,” I said. Warren smiled and closed his eyes. We stood there silently for a long time.

Finally, I said, “Tell me what happened.”

“Amber was getting worse. She was ten when she had to have her left leg amputated. She used to run track. She got it fitted with one of those metal feet for track, and she kept running. Eventually she had to stop. She tried to put on a brave face, but she was really scared. I could see it in her eyes. Patty and I were so torn up about it, Amber told us we had to be braver. The marriage ended. I wasn’t brave enough, I guess.”

“Why did you change your name?”

“I was in debt, about a hundred and fifty thousand, from the medical bills. My insurance had maxed out years before. I put all the bills in my name, so Patty’s credit wouldn’t be ruined.”

“What happened that night, in Rawlings?”

“After we got back from that bar with you and Detective Miner, I got the call from Robert Kesler on my cell. He said Patty couldn’t talk. The doctor had sedated her. Amber had had a heart attack. She was gone. She had just turned fifteen.”

“What did you do then?”

“I’m not sure. I left my room. There was a maintenance guy working on the elevator. His tool kit was in the hall. I picked up a screwdriver. It was big, a really long handle. I knocked on Arlen’s door. He opened it. After that, it’s a blank. I think I killed him. I woke up in my room, covered in blood. I showered and lay on my bed. I can’t account for the time.”

“It wasn’t about Connie.”

He was looking out at the ocean. “No, it wasn’t about Connie. I loved her, and in a way I think she loved me. I’m not sure she had ever been in love in her life. She didn’t really know how to love anyone. She had never ever seen it in her life. There was no possibility for us, of course. I tried to talk with her about getting away from Arlen. She told me it was not that big a deal for her. Eventually, she asked me not to talk about it. So I didn’t. No, it wasn’t about Connie.

“I don’t remember ever losing my temper with Arlen. What he did to the girls was cruel and selfish, and I hated that about him. But I don’t know. Maybe I talked myself into being very mature about it. Connie seemed content, at least as content as someone in her situation could be. And I tried to be an adult about the stem cells, too. It wasn’t his fault Amber was so sick. I never mentioned her to him. And he never asked about my family, about kids, about anything.

“He looked at stem cells like it was some sort of exercise in logic. He thought his point of view was valid, and I couldn’t really say he was wrong. Until I looked at Amber. Then I knew it was very wrong. But I went out on that stage, night after night, and we did the debates. Then we had a drink or two. We made a good team. Maybe I was a coward, unable to confront him. I told myself it was a way to practice keeping my composure when I visited Amber. I think I was a coward.”

We stood there, the call of an occasional gull breaking through the distant rumble of the surf below us, each lost in our own thoughts.

“Do you have any children, Karen? Do you mind if I call you Karen?”

I shook my head. “No, Warren, I don’t mind. You can call me Karen.” I looked at him. “Yes,” I said. “I do. I have … I have one son. His name is Tommy.”

“How old is he?”

“He’s fourteen, almost fifteen.”

“You’re very lucky.”

“I know it,” I said. And I was telling the truth. “Warren, this sounds to me like manslaughter at most, maybe even temporary insanity. You’ll do time, but it won’t be life.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about the law. You’re probably right. But I’m not going back with you.”

“I have to take you in.” I knew I had my revolver in my big leather shoulder bag. I eased back from him and slowly reached into the bag. He was looking out at the ocean.

Sensing I was pulling away, he turned to me. “Don’t worry, Karen,” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. But I have to go now. I’m just so tired.”

“Listen to me, Warren. I know you’re going through a terrible thing here, but you can—”

“Karen, please. I need to go now. It’s right that I go. Thank you for letting me see the ocean one last time. But I need to sleep now.” He boosted himself onto the wooden guard rail. I grabbed at his leg, but he shook me loose, knocking me onto my hands and knees. I lunged at the guard rail, pulling myself onto my feet as he soared out over the sandstone cliff, his body blocking the sun for a moment.

He floated, his arms spread wide, graceful as a young cliff diver, until he landed, silently, on the sandstone wall. I saw the body convulse for an instant, just for an instant. His life had already left him as he rolled down the sandstone canyon toward the blue Pacific, his arms and legs like the broken stick limbs of a discarded marionette, tumbling over and over until he came to rest where the cliff touched the beach.

I reached into my bag, pulled out my cell, and called it in to Lieutenant Davenport at San Diego Police Department. Then I called Ryan and told him Endriss was a suicide. I asked him to tell Margaret Hagerty and Connie de Marco they could go home and tell Harold Breen he could release Arlen Hagerty’s remains.


Chapter 11

The staff in the Pediatric ICU knew who I was because I had kept calling.

“Can you tell me how Annie is doing?”

“Annie’s not here anymore,” the nurse said. I felt my knees buckle. I reached for the handrail on the wall.

“No, no, Detective,” the nurse said, grabbing me by the arm. “I’m sorry. We transferred her out of ICU yesterday.”

I tried to catch my breath. “Oh, thank God,” I said, starting to cry. “So she’s gonna be okay?”

“No guarantees with this kind of trauma, but all the signs are good.”

“Can I see her? Please. It would mean so much to me.”

“It’s not up to me, Detective,” the nurse said. “Give me a minute. Let me see what I can do.” The nurse walked down the hall, out of ICU and into Pediatrics. I sat on a chair, trying to pull myself together. I saw the nurse head into a room some thirty yards away.

I got up and walked down the hall to the room. I snuck a glance through the window. The nurse was talking with Annie’s mother. The nurse was gesturing toward the ICU section. The mother was wearing a grim expression, shaking her head no.

I turned and started walking toward the elevator. I took a deep breath, a sense of relief flowing through me as I realized the little girl was getting better. As for the mother not letting me see the girl? I understood that. Why should the mother want to let me anywhere near her daughter? If I was in the same position, I wouldn’t, either. All in all, though, my best visit yet. And one of these days I would learn that Annie had gone home.

The light on top of the elevator read 2, then 3. The indicator bell rang. “Detective!” a voice called. I turned and saw the nurse hurrying toward me, then waving her hand, telling me to come. As I got closer, I saw the smile on her face. “Room 432,” the nurse said.

Aubrey Pritchard stood in the door. She stepped back, inviting me in. Annie looked good. Her color was back. She still had a bandage on her head, but the drainage tube from her skull was gone. Her hair, the color of wheat, was starting to grow back. She was sitting up in the bed, a crayon in her hand, working on a coloring book.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” I said.

“I’m okay,” the girl said. “Who are you?”

I took a deep breath. “My name is Karen,” I said. “I was the person who got in the car accident with you.”

Annie said, “Did you get hurt?”

“No, honey, I didn’t get hurt,” I said. “I’m so glad to see you’re doing better.” I paused. “Annie, I want to explain to you how the accident happened. Can I talk to you about that for a second?”

“Okay,” Annie said, “if you want.” She kept coloring.

“Yes, I think I should,” I said. “You and your mom were driving down Route 113. I was coming down Chalmers, which intersects with 113. There was a stop sign … but—”

The mother interrupted. “What happened was, Karen wasn’t paying attention when she was driving.” I turned toward Aubrey. “She didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident.”

I turned back toward Annie. “I am so sorry it happened,” I said, touching Annie’s hand, right next to the IV tent taped to the slender wrist.

“Can you come visit me again?” Annie said.

I turned to the mother, who nodded slightly. “Of course, Annie. I’d like that very much,” I said, smiling.

*  *  *

The Chief said, “What the hell happened?”

“He jumped.”

“I know he jumped. How was he able to jump? Wasn’t he cuffed? Didn’t you restrain him?”

“No, I didn’t cuff him or restrain him. We were just talking.”

“What was it, like a date? What the hell were you thinking?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t sure I could explain it to myself. I was certain I couldn’t explain it to the Chief.

“I’m trying to add up how many procedures you’ve violated.”

“It’s three or four, Chief, depending on how you interpret them.”

The Chief smiled. “Thank you, Detective,” he said. “Pistol and shield,” he said, tapping the desk in front of me.

I removed the pistol from my belt holster and the shield on the leather case hanging from the chain around my neck. Placing the items on his desk, I said, “I’ll be gone in a half hour.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll stay and do the 120’s on the case. Finish them, then go.”

I turned and left, catching a smirk from Helen Glenning, the Chief’s assistant, as I swept past.

I was at my desk. Ryan said, “Did he fire you?”

“I’m not sure. Either that or I quit. He told me to do the 120’s, then go.”

“That what you’re going to do?”

“Yep.”

I sat at my desk and pulled up the forms on my computer. I worked on them steadily. It took two hours.

“Okay, Ryan,” I said. “I’ll be heading out.”

“Can I ask you a question, Karen?”

“Sure, Ryan. What?”

“Why didn’t you restrain him, bring him in?”

I gazed out the window. The trees were waving silently in the frigid December breeze. “I don’t really know. When he asked if he could see where he used to go with his daughter, that seemed the right thing to do at that time. So I did it. I could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t gonna take off, and he wasn’t gonna overpower me. He had just lost his daughter. He needed to talk to me. Maybe I needed to listen to him. I don’t know.”

“You knew he was going to take a flyer?”

“Maybe I did, on some level. I guess I wanted him to have a little control of things. It had been a long time. He chose the right thing for him. What would be the point of him going to jail for a decade or two? He was just … just too busted up inside to want to keep going.”

“What are your plans, Karen?

I smiled. “If I knew how to make plans, Ryan, I wouldn’t be an unemployed drunk.”

I knew I would have to give Ryan’s question some real thought over the next … well, over the next however long it took. What Warren Endriss had said to me, right before he jumped, was true: I am lucky to have a son. I owe Tommy something more than just to disappear, no matter how busted up I am right now, and how sorry I feel for myself. Walking out on him would be easy enough, and the smart money says he’d be better off if I just disappeared. But what if, someday, he needed me? No matter where I was, no matter what I had become, I would know it, and I would know I was a coward.

I saw Ryan’s eyes shining with tears. They were the same tears I saw on Tommy’s face when I told him I had to leave his father. I rushed over to Ryan’s desk and put my arms around him. “Oh, no, Ryan, it’s okay,” I said, kissing him on the top of his head. “It’s fine,” I said, stroking his back. “It’ll be fine.”

I knelt down beside his chair, touching his cheek with my fingertips. “You’re a beautiful young man, Ryan, and a fine detective. The department is very lucky to have you here. I wish you a terrific life, Ryan, full of love and purpose. May God bless you.” I stood and kissed him on the forehead.

“You, too, partner,” he said, his voice choking. “You, too.”

I walked around to my desk and picked up the small framed photo of my son. There was nothing else to take. I went over to the coat rack. It was a cold and windy day, with some mean-looking clouds barreling in from the northwest. Winter was settling in, and it would stay for a long time. But there would be a Spring. I knew there would be. I got into my coat and walked toward the red Exit sign.


Books in the Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery Series

 

Big Sick Heart

The Broken Saint

Deviations