by Nora Roberts
Maybe it was because they were of an age, she mused as she pulled up at the curb in front of The Lunatic. And that he'd known the man a little. They'd struck up a friendship in the few months Max had been in Lunacy before Pat. . . left. Best to leave it at left until they had all the facts.
But she didn't see why Max should take out his middle-aged blues or whatever on her.
She'd actually known Pat longer than Max had, and she wasn't going into a funk. She was sorry, of course, for Charlene and Meg—they'd have to be interviewed, too—and she intended to give them both her condolences in person as soon as she could.
But it was news. The sort she and Max should be investigating and writing about for the paper. For God's sake, they had the hometown advantage here. It could mean having their articles picked up by the wire services.
Well, she was going to make that doctor's appointment for him herself, then nag him into keeping it.
They had a hell of a lot to do, what with the Galloway story and their plans to cover the Iditarod. Lord, it was already February, and March first nearly on them. They needed to get started if they were going to get any color on the race before deadline.
She needed her man in tip-top shape—and she'd remind him of it at the top of her lungs if need be.
She climbed out of the car with the take-out bag steaming fragrance and already spotted with grease.
And shook her head when she saw the faint wash of light from the rear of their storefront operation. Max had fallen asleep at his desk again, she'd bet the bank.
"Carrie."
"Hi, Jim." She stopped on the sidewalk to talk to the bartender. "Early for you."
"Need some supplies." He nodded toward The Corner Store. "Weather's supposed to stay clear, so I thought I'd do a little fishing." He glanced in the paper's window at the light. "Somebody else is starting early."
"You know Max."
"Nose for news," he said tapping his own. "Hey, Professor. Time for school?"
John stopped to make it a trio. "Just about. Thought I'd walk it while I have the chance. Radio said we might break thirty today."
"Spring's coming," Carrie announced. "And this breakfast is getting cold. I'd better get in and give Max a shove off his desk."
"Got anything on the Galloway story?" John asked her.
She dragged out her keys. "If there's anything to get, we'll have it for the next edition. Have a good one."
After letting herself in, she flipped on the lights. "Max! Rise and shine!" She clamped the take-out bag between her teeth to free her hands. She stripped off her coat, hung it on a peg. She stuffed her gloves in one pocket, her hat in the other.
As a matter of habit, she finger-fluffed her flattened hair.
"Max!" she called again, stopping by her desk to turn on her computer. "I got breakfast, though I don't know why I'm so good to you seeing as you've been cranky as a constipated bear lately."
Setting the bag down, she moved to the coffeemaker and carried the carafe into the bathroom to fill. "Bacon-and-egg sandwiches. I just saw Skinny Jim and The Professor out on the street. Well, I saw The Professor at The Lodge first, finishing up his oatmeal before school. Looks pretty chipper for a change. I wonder if he's thinking, now that Char-lene knows her old flame's dead, she's going to settle down with him. Poor slob."
She started the coffee, then dug out paper plates, napkins, for the sandwiches. Under her breath she was humming "Tiny Dancer," the Elton John number that had been playing on her favorite classic rock station on the drive in.
"Maxwell Hawbaker, I don't know why I put up with you. If you're going to be sullen and sulky much longer, I'm going hunting for a happier, younger man. See if I don't."
With a plated sandwich in each hand, she started back to Max's little office. "But before I leave you for my wild, sexual affair with a twenty-five-year-old stud, I'm hauling your dumpy ass to the clinic for. . ."
She stopped in the doorway, and her limp hands folded out at the wrists. The sandwiches plopped, one-two, onto the floor. Through the roar in her ears, she heard the screaming.
* * *
Nate had his second cup of coffee while he discussed the Lego castle he and Jesse were building as their morning project. He'd had the first at Meg's, and most of his mind was still back there with her.
She'd be flying north today, delivering supplies, then stopping off at Fairbanks to buy items for the locals here. For her fee of five percent tacked onto the purchase price, they could save themselves the round trip to one of the cities—a choice that wasn't always possible in winter— and have her do the shopping, the transporting and the delivery.
It was, she'd told him, a small but steady portion of her business.
He'd gotten a look at her office that morning, too. It was just as bold and stylish as the rest of the place, and set up for comfort and efficiency.
A sturdy, crate-style desk, a tough-looking black computer with a wide, flat screen. Leather executive chair, he remembered, an old-fashioned freestanding clock and a lot of black-framed, arty pencil sketches on the wall.
There'd been a huge plant, something that had looked like long, green tongues—in a glossy, red pot, snow-white file cabinets and a star-shaped crystal suncatcher hanging from a chain in front of the window.
He'd found it both practical and female.
They'd made no plans for later. She shook off the notion of plans, and he thought that was just as well. He needed some time to think. About what direction they were or might be taking.
His scorecard with women was pitifully low. Maybe he had a chance to change that with her. Or maybe it was just the moment, an interim sort of thing. There was a lot waking up inside him after a long, dark sleep. How did he know what was real? Or if it was real, if he could keep it that way.
If he wanted to.
Better, for now, to drink his coffee, eat his breakfast and build a plastic castle with a kid who was just happy to have the company.
"It should have a bridge," Jesse said. "The up-and-down bridge."
"Drawbridge?" Nate pulled his attention back. "We might be able to work that. We could get some fishing wire."
The boy looked up at him and beamed. "Okay!"
"Here you go, chief."
He caught Rose's wince when she set his plate down. "Okay?"
"Back's a little stiff. Had the same thing with this one." She ruffled her son's hair.
"Maybe you ought to see the doctor."
"I've got a checkup today. Jesse, you let Chief Burke eat his breakfast while it's hot."
"We need fishing wire for the bridge."
She left her hand on his head another moment. "We'll get you some."
She looked over as Skinny Jim stumbled in the door. "Jim?"
"Chief. Chief. You gotta come. Come quick. At the paper. It's Max. Oh, my God."
"What happened?" But he held up a hand even as he said it. He could see from the ghost white pallor of Jim's face, the wide, glazed eyes that it was bad. And beside him the little boy was watching with his rosebud mouth opened in a stunned O. "Wait."
He got up fast, grabbed his coat. "Outside." And he gripped the man's trembling arm, pulling him out the door. "What is it?"
"He's dead. Sweet Jesus God. Max is dead, shot dead. Half his head—half his head's gone."
Nate yanked Jim up when the man's legs buckled. "Max Hawbaker? You found him?"
"Yes. No. I mean, yes, it's Max. Carrie. Carrie found him. We heard her screaming. She went inside, and The Professor and I were standing there talking for a minute, and she started screaming like somebody was killing her. We ran in, and . . . and . . ."
Nate continued to drag him down the street. "You touch anything?"
"What? I don't think. No. The Professor said to go get you, to go to The Lodge and get you. That's what I did." He was swallowing fast and often. "Think I'm going to be sick."
"No, you're not. You're going to go to the station house, get Otto. You're going to tell him what you just
told me and that I need a camera, some evidence bags, some plastic gloves, the crime scene tape. Just tell him I need crime scene equipment. Can you remember that?"
"I—yeah. I'll do it. I'll do it right now."
"Then stay there. You stay at the station until I come to talk to you. Don't talk to anybody else. Go."
Nate angled toward the paper and quickened his pace. His brain had gone on auto, and preserving the scene was key. Right now, as far as he knew, there were two civilians in there, which meant it was already compromised.
He yanked open the door, and saw John kneeling on the floor in front of a sobbing Carrie. John was still wearing his outdoor gear, minus his gloves, and was pressing a glass of water to Carrie's lips. He looked up at Nate, and a shadow of relief moved across his shocked face.
"Thank God. Max. Back there."
"Stay here. Keep her here."
He started toward the back office. He could smell it. You could always smell it. No, he corrected, not true. There would be no smell of death in the ice cave where Galloway waited. Nature would have covered it.
But he could smell Max Hawbaker's death even before he saw it. As he could smell, beneath it, the fried eggs and bacon from the two sandwiches on the floor just over the threshold.
His gaze scanned the room from the doorway, the placement of the body, the gun, the nature of the wound. It said suicide. But he knew the first murmur from a crime scene was often a lie.
He moved in, keeping to the edges of the room, noting the pattern of the blood spatter on the chair, the computer screen, the keyboard.
And the pool of it from the head wound that had soaked the desk and dripped onto the floor before death had turned off the pump.
Powder burns, he noted. The barrel of the .22 had probably been directly against the temple. No exit wound. And unlike Jim's babbling statement, the insult to the face was minor. The bullet had left a relatively neat hole before it entered the brain and bounced around gleefully, like a pinball hitting top score.
Dead, most likely, before his head had hit the desk.
Noting the swirling pattern of color from the screen saver, Nate drew a pen out of his pocket and moved in close enough to tap the mouse.
The document sprang on-screen.
His eyes narrowed as he read it, stayed narrowed as he looked down at the body of the man who claimed to have killed Patrick Galloway.
He moved back to the doorway, then signaled for Otto to wait when the deputy rushed in the front.
Nate walked to Carrie, and like John, crouched down.
"Carrie."
"Max. Max." She raised red, horrified eyes to his. "Max is dead. Somebody—"
"I know. I'm so sorry." He clasped his hands over hers. "I'm going to help him now. I need you to go over to the station and wait for me."
"But Max. I can't leave Max."
"You can leave him with me. I'm going to take care of him. John's going to help you get into your coat. And in a minute, he and Otto will take you over. I'm going to be there as soon as I can. So you go over there, and you wait for me."
She stared dully, shock still glazing her eyes. "Wait for you."
"That's right." She'd do what he said. The shock and the horror would make her obedient. For a while. "Otto?"
He rose, moved toward the back again.
"Merciful God," Otto said under his breath.
"I need you to take both of them over. Jim's still there?"
"Yeah." He swallowed audibly. "Jesus, chief."
"Keep them there, and keep them separated. Let Peach take care of Carrie for now. I want you to call Peter in, tell him to come straight here."
"I'm here now. Peter can ride herd over at the station while—"
"I need you to start taking statements. You'll handle that better than Peter. Start with Jim. I want the doctor here, too. You get in touch with Ken and tell him to come straight here. I want him standing in.
I don't want any mistakes on this, and I want it kept quiet until we have this scene secured and the statements on file. Use a tape recorder. Get the time and the date on it and take notes as a backup. Keep everyone there, everyone in separate places until I get back. You got that?"
"Yeah." He swiped a hand over his mouth. "Why the hell would Max kill himself? That's what it is, isn't it? Suicide?"
"Let's work the scene and the witnesses, Otto. Let's take it a step at a time."
When he was alone, he picked up the camera Otto had brought in to record the scene. He went through one pack of film, reloaded, and shot a second.
Then taking out a notebook, he wrote down details. The fact that the rear door was unlocked, the make and caliber of the gun, the exact wording of the note on-screen. He did a rough sketch of the room, adding in the position of the body, the gun, the lamp, the bottle of whiskey and the single mug.
He had on his gloves and was sniffing at both bottle and mug when Peter came in.
"Take the crime scene tape, Peter. I want you to use it on the front and back doors."
"I got here as soon as I could—" Otto broke off when he reached the doorway.
When his skin tinged with green, Nate snapped at him. "You don't get sick in here. You have to puke, you do it outside and take that tape with you."
Peter angled his body away, looked hard at the wall and breathed through his mouth. "Otto said Max killed himself, but I didn't think—"
"We haven't determined that. What we have determined is Max is dead. Right now, this is a crime scene, and I want it secured. Nobody gets in here but the doctor. Clear?"
"Yes, sir." Peter fumbled the yellow tape out of the box Otto had thrown together and staggered back outside.
"State boys are going to want you, Max," he murmured. "It looks like you're going to tie things up for them, with a fucking bow on top. Maybe that's just what you did. But I'm not a big believer in bows."
He walked out and, with his hands still gloved, called Sergeant Coben in Anchorage.
"I'm not leaving this body sitting here until you can fly in from An-chorage," he said after he'd given Coben the essentials. "You've run me by now. You know I'm qualified. I've secured and recorded the scene, and I've got a doctor on the way in. I'm gathering the evidence and having the body moved to the clinic. Everything I've got's at your disposal once you get here."
He waved Ken inside when the doctor came to the door. "And I expect the same cooperation regarding the Galloway investigation. This is my town, sergeant. We both want to nail this down, but we're going to have to share the hammer. I'll be expecting you."
He hung up. "I need you to look at the body. Can you give me an approximate time of death?"
"So it's true. Max is dead." Ken slipped his fingers under his glasses, pressed them to his eyes. "I've never had to do this sort of thing before, but I should be able to give you a ballpark."
"Good enough. Put these on." Nate handed him a pair of gloves. "It's not pretty," he added.
Ken stepped in, then took a moment to visibly steady himself. "I've dealt with gunshot wounds. But nothing quite like this, not when I knew the victim. Why the hell'd he do this to himself? The winters can prey on people, but he's been through them before. Worse than this. He wasn't suffering from depression. Carrie would've told me, or I'd've seen it myself." He flicked a quick glance at Nate.
"I never thought about killing myself. Too much effort. If I