‘‘Seed stores,’’ Del said.
‘‘Bullshit,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘You can’t buy opium seeds from seed stores.’’
‘‘I did,’’ Del said. He dug in his parka pocket, pulled out a half-dozen seed packets. Lucas, no gardener, recognized the brand names and the envelopes.
‘‘That’s not—’’
‘‘Yes, it is. They got fancy names, but I talked to a guy at the university, and brother . . .’’ He tossed them on Lucas’s desk. ‘‘. . . them’s opium poppies.’’
‘‘Aw, man.’’ Now Lucas was rubbing his face. Tired. Always tired now.
‘‘The hell with the old ladies,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘Let’s get out of here.’’
‘‘I’ll talk to you later,’’ Lucas said to Del. ‘‘In the meantime, find something dangerous to do, for Christ’s sake.’’
LUCAS AND SLOAN TOOK LUCAS’S NEW CHEVY TAHOE: Kresge’s body, they’d been told, was off-road.
‘‘I’m not gonna push you about being fucked up,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘Just let me know if there’s anything I can do.’’
‘‘Yeah, I will,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘And you oughta think about medication . . .’’
‘‘Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .’’
‘‘Is . . . How’s Weather?’’
‘‘Still in therapy. She’s better without me, and gets worse when I’m around. And she’s making more friends that I’m cut off from. She’s putting together a new life and I’m out of it,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘Christ.’’
‘‘When she moved out,’’ Lucas said, ‘‘she left her dress in the closet. The green one, three thousand bucks. The wedding dress.’’
‘‘Maybe it means she’s coming back.’’
‘‘I don’t think so. I think she abandoned it.’’ Much of the trip north was made in gloomy silence, through the remnants of the autumn’s glorious color change; but the end was coming, the dead season.
JACOB KRAUSE, THE GARFIELD COUNTY SHERIFF, WAS squatting next to the body, talking to an assistant medical examiner, when he saw Lucas and Sloan walking down the ridge toward them. They were accompanied by a fat man in a blaze-orange hunting coat and a uniformed deputy leading a German shepherd. The deputy pointed at Krause, and turned and went back toward the house.
‘‘Is this him?’’ Krause asked.
The AME turned his head and said, ‘‘Yeah. Davenport’s the big guy. The guy in the tan coat is Sloan, he’s one of the heavyweights in Homicide. I don’t know the fat guy.’’
‘‘He’s one of ours,’’ the sheriff said. He had the mournful face of a blue-eyed bloodhound, and had a small brown mole, a beauty mark, on the right end of his upper lip. He sighed and added, ‘‘Unfortunately.’’
A few feet away, two crime scene guys were packing up a case of lab samples; up the hill, two funeral home assistants waited with a gurney. The body would be taken to Hennepin County for autopsy. Krause looked a last time at Kresge’s paper-white face, then stood up and headed back up the path. He took it slowly, watching as Davenport and Sloan and the fat man dropped down the trail like Holmes and Watson on a Sunday stroll with Oliver Hardy. When they got closer, Krause noticed that Davenport was wearing loafers with tassels, that his socks were a black and white diamond pattern, and that the loafers matched his leather jacket. He sighed again, the quick judgment adding to his general irritation.
‘‘HELLO. I’M LUCAS DAVENPORT . . .’’ LUCAS STUCK OUT his hand and the sheriff took it, a little surprised at the heft and hardness of it; and the sadness in Davenport’s eyes. ‘‘And Detective Sloan,’’ the sheriff finished, shaking hands with Sloan. ‘‘I’m Jake Krause, the sheriff.’’ He looked past them at the fat man. ‘‘I see you’ve met Arne.’’
‘‘Back by the cars,’’ the fat man said. ‘‘What do we got, Jake?’’
‘‘Crime scene, Arne. I’d just as soon you don’t come up too close. We’re trying to minimize the damage to the immediate area.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ the fat man said. He craned his neck a little, down toward the orange-clad body, the AME hovering over it, the crime scene boys with their case.
‘‘Accident?’’ Lucas asked.
Krause shrugged. ‘‘C’mon and take a look, give me an opinion. Arne, you better wait.’’
‘‘Sure thing . . .’’
ON THE WAY DOWN TO THE BODY, LUCAS ASKED, ‘‘Arne’s a problem?’’
‘‘He’s the county commission chairman. He got the job because nobody trusted him to actually supervise a department or the budget,’’ Krause said. ‘‘He’s also a reserve deputy. He’s not a bad guy, just a pain in the ass. And he likes hanging around dead people.’’
‘‘I know guys like that,’’ Lucas said. He looked up at the tree stand as they approached the body and asked, ‘‘Kresge was shot out of the stand?’’
‘‘Yup. The bullet took him square in the heart,’’ Krause said. ‘‘I doubt he lived for ten seconds.’’
‘‘Any chance of finding the slug?’’ Sloan asked.
‘‘Nah. It’s out in the swamp somewhere. It’s gone.’’
‘‘But you think he was shot out of the tree stand,’’ Sloan said.
‘‘For sure,’’ Krause said. ‘‘There’s some blood splatter on the guardrail and threads from his coveralls are hanging from the edge of the floorboards up there—no way they should be there unless they snagged when he fell over the edge.’’
Lucas stepped over next to the body, which lay faceup a foot and a half from a pad of blood-soaked oak leaves. Kresge didn’t look surprised or sad or any of the other things he might have looked. He looked dead, like a wadded-up piece of wastepaper. ‘‘Who moved him?’’
‘‘The first time, other members of the hunting party. They opened up his coat to listen to his heart, wanted to make sure he wasn’t still alive. He wasn’t. Then me and the doc here’’—Krause nodded at the AME—‘‘rolled him up to look at the exit wound.’’
Lucas nodded to the assistant medical examiner, said, ‘‘Hey, Dick, I heard you guys were coming up,’’ and the AME said, ‘‘Yup,’’ and Lucas said, ‘‘Roll him up on his side, will you?’’
‘‘Sure.’’
The AME grabbed Kresge’s coat and rolled him up. Lucas and Sloan looked at the back, where a narrow hole—a moth might have made it—was surrounded by a hand-sized bloodstain just above the shoulder blade. Lucas said, ‘‘Huh,’’ and he and Sloan moved left to look at the entry, then back at the exit. They both turned at the same time to look at the slope, then at each other, and Lucas said, ‘‘Okay,’’ and the AME let the body drop back into place.
Lucas stood and brushed his hands together and grinned at the sheriff. The grin was so cold that the sheriff revised his earlier, quick, judgment. ‘‘Good one,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘What do you think?’’ Krause asked.
‘‘The shooter got close,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘You wouldn’t get that angle through the body, upward like that, unless the shooter was below him,’’ Sloan explained. ‘‘And if the shooter’s below him’’—they all looked back up the slope—‘‘he couldn’t have been more than thirty or forty yards away. Of course, we don’t know how Kresge was sitting. He could have been looking out sideways. Or he could have been leaning back when the slug hit.’’
Krause said, ‘‘I don’t think so.’’
‘‘I don’t either,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘So it’s a murder,’’ Krause said. He shook his head and looked from the body to Lucas. ‘‘I wish you’d keep this shit down in the Cities.’’
‘‘MIND IF I CHECK THE TREE?’’ LUCAS ASKED THE CRIME scene cops.
One of them said, ‘‘We’re done, if it’s okay with the sheriff.’’
‘‘Go ahead,’’ Krause said.
Lucas began climbing the spikes, looked down just as he reached the platform, and asked, ‘‘What about motive?’’
Krause nodded. ‘‘I aske
d those people down at the cabin about that. Instead of a name, I got an estimate. Fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand people.’’
Sloan said, ‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘There’s this merger going on . . .’’
Lucas listened to Krause’s explanation of the merger as he carefully probed the backpack hung on the tree. He remembered seeing bank-merger stories in the Star-Tribune. He hadn’t paid much attention—more corporate jive, as far as he could tell.
‘‘Anyway, he was up here hunting with a bunch of big shots from the bank,’’ Krause said, unwinding his story. ‘‘Some of them, maybe all of them, are set to lose their big shot jobs.’’
‘‘Those are the people we saw down at the cabin?’’ Lucas asked. He’d finished with the backpack, left it hanging where he found it, and dropped back down the tree.
‘‘Yeah,’’ Krause said sourly. ‘‘They filled me in on the merger business.’’
‘‘Shooting him seems a little extreme,’’ Sloan said.
‘‘Why?’’ Krause asked. The question was genuine, and Sloan glanced at Lucas and then looked back at the sheriff, who said, ‘‘Close as I can tell, he was about to mess up the lives of hundreds of people. Some of them—hell, maybe most of them—will never get as good a job again, ever in their lives. And he was doing it just so he could make more money than he already had, and he had a pile of it. Shooting him seems pretty rational to me. Long as you didn’t get caught.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t express that opinion to the press,’’ Lucas said mildly. He went back to the body, knelt on one knee, and began going through Kresge’s pockets.
‘‘I never say anything to the press that I haven’t run past my old lady,’’ Krause grunted, as he watched. ‘‘She hasn’t turned me wrong yet.’’ A second later, he added, ‘‘There is one other possibility. For the shooting. His wife. He’s right in the middle of a divorce.’’
‘‘That could be something,’’ Lucas agreed. He squeezed both of Kresge’s hands through their gloves, then stood up and rubbed his hands together.
‘‘These folks at the cabin said the divorce is signed, sealed, and delivered, that the wife really took a chunk out of his ass.’’
‘‘Makes it sound less likely,’’ Sloan said.
‘‘Yeah, unless she hates him,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Which she might.’’
Sloan opened his mouth to say something, then shut it, thinking suddenly of Weather. Krause asked, ‘‘Find anything new in the backpack?’’
‘‘Couple of Snickers, couple packs of peanut M and M’s, half-dozen hand-heater packs.’’
‘‘Same thing I found,’’ Krause said.
‘‘Do you deer hunt, Sheriff?’’ Lucas asked.
‘‘Nope. I’m a fisherman. I was gonna close out the muskie season this afternoon, beat the ice-up. I was loading my truck when they called me. Why?’’
‘‘It gets as cold on a tree stand as it does on a November day out muskie fishing,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘Colder’n hell,’’ Krause said.
‘‘That’s right. But he hadn’t eaten anything and hadn’t used any heat packs, even though he brought them along and must’ve intended to use them,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘So he was probably shot pretty soon after he got to the stand.’’
‘‘Did anyone hear any early shots?’’ Sloan asked.
‘‘I asked the other people about unusual shots, but nobody said anything was out of order. Bone said he thought either Kresge or one of the other guys, a guy named Robles, had fired a shot just after the opening. But Robles said he didn’t, and his rifle is clean, and so’s Kresge’s.’’
‘‘How long had they been sitting?’’
‘‘About forty-five minutes.’’
Lucas nodded: ‘‘Then that was probably the killing shot. He’d still have been pretty warm up to that point.’’
They talked for a few more minutes, then left the AME with the body and headed back through the woods toward the cabin. As they passed the mortuary attendants, now sitting on the gurney, Krause said, ‘‘He’s all yours, boys.’’
‘‘Been a nice month, up to now,’’ the sheriff said, rambling a bit. ‘‘No killings, no rapes, no robberies, only a half-dozen domestics, a few drunk-driving accidents, and a couple of small-time burglaries. This sort of blots the record.’’
Lucas said, ‘‘The killer had to find the place in the dark—so he had to know where it was, exactly.’’
‘‘Unless he came after daylight,’’ Krause said. ‘‘That’s possible.’’
‘‘Yeah, but when we were coming in, your deputy—the one with the dog?—pointed out where this Robles guy was sitting, and generally where the other people were. So the killer would have to take a chance on being seen, unless he really knew the layout.’’
‘‘And if he knew all that, he’d probably be recognized by the others,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘Which means he probably came in when it was dark.’’
‘‘Unless he’s one of these guys,’’ Krause said. ‘‘These guys would have all the information, plus an excuse for walking around with guns . . . and they’d know that nobody would come looking at the sound of a shot.’’
‘‘It could be one of these guys,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘But it’d take guts.’’
‘‘Or a crazy man,’’ Sloan said.
AT THE END OF THE TRACK THEY COULD SEE A HALFDOZEN people sitting and standing on the cabin porch, a man in a red plaid shirt talking animatedly to the others. A short man in a blue suit sat apart from them.
‘‘What’s the situation with these people?’’ Lucas asked as they started down the slope toward the cabin. ‘‘Who questioned them?’’
‘‘I did, and one of our investigators, Ralph—that’s Ralph in the blue suit.’’
‘‘Is he good?’’ Lucas asked.
The sheriff thought for a minute and then said, ‘‘Ralph couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel.’’
Sloan asked, ‘‘So how come . . . ?’’
‘‘I try to keep him out of the way, but he was at the office and answered the phone this morning.’’
‘‘Did he collect all the guns?’’ Lucas asked.
‘‘No, but I did,’’ Krause said. ‘‘Two of them had been fired—both people had deer to show for it. The others look clean.’’
‘‘I saw the deer hanging down by the cabin . . .’’ Lucas said. Then: ‘‘Get your crime scene guys to check their hands and faces for powder traces. And count shells—find out what they claim to have fired, and do a count.’’
‘‘I’m doing all that, except for the shells,’’ Krause said. He looked up at Lucas. ‘‘I’m going by the book. The whole book. My problem is more along the lines of interrogation and so on. Expertise.’’
Lucas tipped his head at Sloan: ‘‘Sloan is the best interrogator in the state.’’
Sloan grinned at the sheriff and said, ‘‘That’s true.’’
‘‘Then we’d like to borrow you for a while,’’ Krause said. ‘‘If you got the time.’’
‘‘Fine with me,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘Overtime is overtime.’’
‘‘Is there any possibility that you could do some running around Minneapolis for me?’’ Krause asked.
Sloan looked at Lucas. ‘‘I’ve got a couple of things going
. . . Sherrill is doing research on that Shack thing, but she’s not getting much. Maybe she could do some running around.’’
Lucas nodded. ‘‘I’ll call her this afternoon, on my way back. Anything you break out of these guys, call it down to her. I’ll have her talk to Kresge’s wife, check for girlfriends . . .’’
‘‘Or boyfriends,’’ Sloan said.
‘‘Or boyfriends. And I’ll have her start talking to people in his office—secretaries and so on.’’ Lucas looked at Krause. ‘‘I don’t want to take over your investigation . . .’’
‘‘No-no-no, don’t worry about that,’’ Krause said hastily.
> ‘‘The more you can do, the better. My best guys are busier’n two-dick dogs in a breeding kennel . . . And my other guys would have a hard time finding Minneapolis, much less anybody in it.’’
‘‘Sounds like you have some problems,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘First Arne, then Ralph . . .’’
‘‘We’re going through a transitional period,’’ Krause said grimly. Then: ‘‘Look, I’m the new guy up here. I was with the highway patrol for twenty-five years, and then last fall I got myself elected sheriff. The office is about fifty years out of date, full of deadwood, and all the deadwood is related to somebody. I’m cutting it down, but it takes time. I’ll take any help I can get.’’
‘‘Whatever we can do,’’ Lucas said.
Krause nodded. ‘‘Thanks.’’ He’d been prepared to dislike the Minneapolis guys, but it hadn’t turned out that way. Actually, he sort of liked them, for city people. Sloan especially, but even Davenport, with his shoe tassels and expensive clothes. He glanced at Davenport again, quickly. From a little bit of a distance you might think pussy . You didn’t think that when you got closer to him. Not after you’d seen his smile.
He added, ‘‘I don’t think I’m gonna get too far up here. Matter of fact, I don’t think I’m going to get anywhere— everything about this shooting was set up in the Cities.’’
They were coming up to the porch, and Sloan said, quietly, ‘‘So let’s go jack up these city folks. See if anybody gets nervous.’’
THREE
THE FOUR SURVIVING HUNTERS SAT ON THE PORCH in the afternoon sunlight, in rustic wooden chairs with peeling bark and waterproof plastic seat cushions. They all had cups of microwaved coffee: Wilson McDonald’s was fortified with two ounces of brandy. James T. Bone sat politely downwind of the others, smoking a cheroot.
The sheriff’s investigator perched on a stool at the other end of the porch, like the class dummy, looking away from them. If one of the bankers suddenly broke for the woods, what was he supposed to do? Shoot him? But the sheriff had told him to keep an eye on them. What’d that mean?
And the bankers were annoyed, and their annoyance was not something his worn nerves could deal with. He could handle trailer-home fights and farm kids hustling toot, but people who’d gone to Harvard, who drove Lincoln and Lexus sport-utes and wore eight-hundred-dollar apre`s-hunt tweed jackets, undoubtedly woven by licensed leprechauns in the Auld Country—well, they made him nervous. Especially when one of them might be a killer.
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