by Nora Roberts
"I don't like your snippy attitude."
"Right back at you."
This time her mouth dropped open, her eyes flared. "Obviously your mother didn't teach you to respect your elders."
"Guess it didn't take. Then again, she doesn't like me either."
She drummed her fingers on her desk—short, practical and un-painted nails that didn't go with the red mouth or business suit. "You know what pisses me off right now?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"The fact that I'm not mad at you anymore. I like holding onto a good mad. But you had a point earlier about the people of this town being your priority. I respect that, because I know you mean it. Max was a friend, Ignatious. A good one. I'm upset about this."
"I know. I'm sorry for that, and I'll apologize again for not being more . . ."
"Sensitive, courteous, forthcoming?"
"Take your pick."
"All right, let's move on." She pulled out a tissue, blew her nose enthusiastically. "Get yourself some coffee, and tell me what's what."
"Thanks, but I've already downed about a gallon. As far as I can piece together, Max left his house sometime after ten-thirty last night. He'd had a spat with his wife—nothing too serious, but she claims he'd been off the last few days. She pinpoints it to the time the news hit about the discovery of Patrick Galloway's body."
Hopp's forehead wrinkled; the lines around her mouth deepened. "Why would that be, I wonder. I don't recall they knew each other all that well. Seems to me they hit it off well enough, but Max hadn't been here long when Patrick went missing."
"I don't have any evidence, as yet, that points to Max making any stops before going to his office at the paper. Sometime, if the doc's estimate is correct, before one a.m., he—or person or persons unknown— put a bullet in his brain through his right temple."
"Why would anybody—" She caught herself, waved him on. "Sorry. Go ahead and finish."
"From the on-scene evidence, the deceased was sitting at his desk at the time. The back door was unlocked, which I'm told was fairly habitual. His computer was on, as was the desk light. He had a partial bottle of Paddy's whiskey on the desk and a coffee mug with about a fingerful of whiskey left in it. It'll be analyzed, but I didn't detect any other substance in the mug."
"God. I just saw him yesterday morning."
"Did he seem off to you?"
"I don't know. Can't say I was paying attention." She pressed steepled hands to the bridge of her nose, held them there a moment, then dropped them. "Now that you mention it, maybe he was distracted. But I can't think of any reason he'd do this to himself. He and Carrie had a good marriage. His kids aren't in any more trouble than kids that age are. He loved running the paper. Maybe he was sick? Maybe he'd found out he had cancer or something and couldn't face it."
"Clean bill of health last checkup at the clinic. Six months ago. The weapon found on scene was his, duly registered. According to his wife it was one he most often kept in the glove compartment of his truck. For target shooting. There was no sign of struggle."
"Poor Max." She grabbed another tissue, but rather than use it, just balled it in her fist. "What could have driven him to end his own life, to do that not just to himself, but his family?"
"There was a note on his computer. It claimed he'd killed Patrick Galloway."
"What?" The coffee she'd just lifted lapped at the top of the mug as she set it down again. "Ignatious, that's crazy. Max? That's just crazy."
"He used to climb, didn't he? More fifteen, sixteen years ago than now?"
"Well, yes. Yes. But half the people in town do or did some climbing." She laid the flat of her hands on the desk. "I will not believe that Max killed anyone."
"You were prepared to believe he killed himself."
"Because he's dead. Because everything I've heard points to it. But murder? That's nonsense."
"There'll be tests run to verify the .22 in evidence was used. Fingerprints, powder residue. I'm going to tell you that I believe the tests will substantiate what appears to be a suicide, and that in all likelihood his death will be officially ruled same—just as the Galloway homicide will be closed."
"I can't believe this."
"I'm also going to tell you I'm not convinced."
"Ignatious." She pressed her hand to her temple. "You're confusing me."
"Awfully neat, isn't it? A computer note? Anybody can tap a few keys. Guilt kills him after all these years? Well, he lived with it pretty well up to now. Carrie said he left her a note on his pillow whenever he decided to go into work late or early. A man does that, but he doesn't leave a personal note for her when he decides to kill himself?" iou re saying . . .
"Easy to get a gun out of a glove compartment, if you know it's there.
Not that hard to stage a suicide if you think it through and keep your blood cool."
"You think . . . God, you think Max was murdered?" "I didn't say that, either. I said I'm not convinced this is what it looks like on the surface. So, if this is ruled a suicide and the Galloway case is closed before I am convinced, I'm going to keep looking into it. You're paying me, so you ought to know if I'm spending official time chasing a wild goose."
She stared at him, then he heard her take another of those long, audible breaths. "What can I do to help?"
* * *
Sergeant Roland Coben struck Nate as a solid cop, a twenty-year man with a lot of cases under his belt. He was about six feet, a little thick through the middle, a little tired around the eyes. He had a crisp white-blond crew cut, a regulation shine on his boots and a wad of cherry-scented gum in his mouth.
He'd brought a two-man crime scene unit with him, and both officers were busy combing Max's office while Coben studied the photo-graphs Nate had taken.
"Who's been on this scene since the body was discovered?"
"Me, the town doctor and one of my deputies. Before I let them in, I took the pictures, ran the outline, bagged evidence. Everyone gloved up. The scene's secure, sergeant."
Coben looked over at the grease stains on the rug just inside the inner door. Nate had dutifully bagged the sandwiches as well. "That as far as the wife got?"
"According to her and the two witnesses, yes. And no one but me touched anything but the body."
Coben made some sound of assent and studied the note on the computer screen. "We'll take the computer with us, along with the evidence you gathered. Let's have a look at the body."
Nate led him out the back.
"Worked Homicide Outside, didn't you?"
"I did."
Coben climbed easily into Nate's four-wheel. "That's handy. Lost your partner, I hear."
"That's right."
"Took a couple of hits yourself."
"I'm still standing."
Coben dutifully hooked his seat belt. "A lot of medical leave, on and off, your last year with Baltimore."
Nate leveled one quiet look. "I'm not on medical leave now."
"Your lieutenant says you're a good cop and maybe you lost some of your edge, some of your confidence, after your partner went down. Turned in your badge down there last fall and broke off with the department shrink."
Nate stopped in front of the clinic. "You ever lose a partner?"
"No." Coben waited a minute. "But I've lost a couple of friends, line of duty. Just trying to get a feel for you, Chief Burke. City cop from Outside, one with your experience, might get his back up when he has to pass a big case on to State authorities."
"He might. And a State cop might not have the same investment in this town, and what goes on here, as its chief of police."
"You haven't been chief very long." He stepped out of the car. "Maybe we both got a point. The department's been able to handle the press on The Ice Man—they just love to name these violent-crime victims."
"Always do."
"Well, they're holding the line on the media now, but that changes once the team brings him down. It's going to be big, fat news, Chief Bu
rke. The sort the national media loves to cover. Now you've got the body of the man claiming to be his killer, and there's more news. Quicker we wrap this up, the better it is for everybody. The neater we wrap it, the better."
Nate stayed on the opposite side of the car. "Are you worried about me going to the media, stirring up publicity for myself, for the town?"
"Just a comment, that's all. There was a lot of press out of that shooting in Baltimore. A lot of it focused on you."
Nate felt the heat rising in him, the long, slow simmer of anger that bubbled from gut to throat. "So you figure I must like seeing my name in print, seeing my face on TV, and a couple of dead men give me the opportunity to tune that up."
"You could earn yourself some points, seems to me, if you're planning on going back to Baltimore."
"Then it's pretty lucky for me that I happened to come here just in time for all this to go down."
"Doesn't hurt to be in the right place at the right time."
"Are you trying to provoke me, or are you just a natural asshole?"
Coben's lips quirked. "Could be both. Mostly I'm just trying to get a feel for things."
"Then let's clear this up. This is your investigation. That's procedure. But this is still my town; these are still my people. That's a fact. And whether or not you trust me, like me, or want to take me to dinner and a movie, I'm going to do my job."
"Then we'd better take a look at the body."
Coben headed inside, and fighting off temper, Nate followed.
There was only one person in the waiting area. Bing looked embarrassed, then irritated to have been found sitting on one of the plastic chairs.
"Bing," Nate said with a nod, and the man grunted before jerking the ancient copy of Alaska in front of his face.
"Doc's with a patient," Joanna said, giving Coben a good once-over.
"Sal Cushaw cut her hand on a hacksaw, and he's stitching her up. She needs a tetanus shot, too."
"We need the keys to the morgue," Nate told her, and her eyes darted between him and Coben.
"Doc's got them, said nobody could go in there but you."
"This is Sergeant Coben, with the State Police. Would you go get the keys?"
"Sure. Okay."
She scurried away just as Bing began to mutter. "Don't need no storm troopers in Lunacy. Take care of our own."
Nate simply shook his head as Coben glanced over his shoulder. "Don't bother," he murmured.
"You sick, Bing?" Nate leaned back on the counter. "Or just passing the time?"
"My business is my business. Just like if a man wants to blow his head off, that's his business. Cops can't leave well enough alone."
"You're right about that. We're just pains in the ass with badges. When's the last time you talked to Max?"
"Never had much to say to him. Pip-squeak."
"I heard he bitched at you about plowing in his driveway, so you plowed it out and dumped the snow on top of his car."
Bing's grin spread in the mass of his beard. "Maybe. Don't think he blew his head off over it, though."
"You're a mean bastard, Bing."
"Damn right."
"Chief ?" Joanna came back to the counter, held out the keys. "It's the one with the yellow mark. Doc said he'd come back as soon as he's finished with Sal."
"Hey! I'm next in line here." Bing rattled his magazine. "Hawbaker's not going to get any deader."
Joanna folded her lips. "You ought to have some respect, Bing."
"What I got is hemorrhoids."
"Tell the doc to finish with all his patients," Nate said. "Where is it?"
"Oh, sorry. Straight back, then the first door on the left."
They walked back in silence, and Nate used the key to unlock the door. They stepped into a room with a wall of metal shelves and two metal tables. Nate switched on the overhead and noted both tables were the style used for autopsies or funeral parlor prep rooms.
"I'm told they use this as a part-time morgue. There's no funeral parlor in town, no undertaker. They bring one in when they need one, and he'll prep a body for burial here."
He walked to the table where Max was laid out, uncovered to preserve any possible trace evidence, as per Nate's orders. The body's hands were bagged.
"Nails are chewed down below the quick on his right hand," Nate pointed out. "Cut on his bottom lip. Looks like he bit it."
"No defensive wounds evident. Powder burns around the wound. Can we confirm he was right-handed?"
"We can. We have."
Sealing the hands meant preserving them for residue testing. There were photographs of the body, of the scene, even of the outer door from every possible angle. Witness statements had been taken and typed up while the witnesses were fresh, and the building locked tight and sealed with police tape.
Burke had run a clean scene, Coben thought, and had saved him considerable work.
"We'll go over him here to see if we can find any trace evidence. Did you go through his pockets?"
"Wallet, open roll of Turns, loose change, book of matches, notebook, pencil. He had his driver's license, credit cards, about thirty in cash, family pictures in his wallet. Cell phone, another book of matches and a pair of wool gloves in the pockets of the coat in his office."
Nate slipped his hands into his own pockets, continued to study the body. "I went through the truck parked outside the scene. Registration in the name of the vie and his spouse. Maps, operator's manual for the truck, an open pack of ammo for the .22, a roll of breath mints, several pens and pencils and another notebook in the glove compartment. A lot of hand-scribbled notes in the books—reminders, ideas for articles for the paper, observations, phone numbers. First-aid and emergency kits in the back of the cab. The truck was unlocked, keys in the ignition."
"Keys in the ignition?"
"Yeah. Statements from acquaintances indicate he had a habit of leaving the keys in there and rarely remembered or thought to lock up. All removed items are bagged, labeled, listed. I've got them locked up back at the station."
"We'll take them, and him, in. Let the ME make his determinations. But it looks like suicide. I'm going to want to talk to the wife, the two witnesses, and anyone who might be aware of his relationship with Patrick Galloway."
"He didn't leave his wife a note."
"Sorry?"
"Nothing personal. Nothing detailed in the computer note, either."
Irritation flickered in Coben's eyes. "Look, Burke, you and I both know that suicide notes aren't nearly as typical as Hollywood makes them. The ME will make the call, but from where I'm standing this is suicide. The note links him to Galloway. We'll pursue that, see if we can find a trail back to confirm.
I'm not going to cut corners on this, or on Galloway, but I'm