by Nora Roberts
on the steaming surface of his coffee, sipped. "Never in my life had a decent cup of cop coffee."
"Me either. Are you here to ask me to resign?"
"I'm cantankerous. You get to be when you hit eighty, so I'm practicing. But I'm not stupid. Not your fault Max is dead, poor slob. Not your fault there was a note on his computer claiming he killed Pat Galloway."
His eyes were very alert behind those thick lenses as he nodded at Nate. "Yeah, she told me that one, and she's trying to talk herself into you making that up, so you can tie things up neat and tidy. She'll get past that. She's a sensible woman."
"And you're telling me this because?"
"It might take her a little while to remember how to be sensible. Meanwhile, she might try to make trouble for you. It'll help her through the grief. I'm going to smoke this cigar." He pulled a fat one out of his shirt pocket. "You can fine me for it once I have, if you've a mind to."
Nate pulled open a desk drawer, dumped out the contents of a tin of push pins. Rising, he walked over, handed it to the judge as an ashtray.
"You knew Galloway?—"
"Sure." The judge puffed the cigar to life and filled the air with its subtle stink. "Liked him well enough. People did. Not everybody, as it turns out." He glanced toward the draping blanket. "That your dead board under there?"
When Nate didn't respond, he puffed and sipped, puffed and sipped. "I tried capital cases, back in the dark ages. Presided over them when I was wearing robes. Now unless you think I climbed up No Name when I was past sixty and put an end to a man half my age, you should be able to cross me off your list of suspects."
Nate leaned back. "You had a couple of simple assault pops."
Royce pursed his lips. "Been doing your homework. A man who's lived as long as I have, lived up here as long as I have and hasn't gotten into a tangle couldn't be a very interesting man."
"That may be. A man who's lived here as long as you could probably handle the climb if he put his mind to it. And an ax against an unarmed man makes up for any age difference. Theoretically."
Royce grinned around his cigar. "You got a point. I like to hunt and spent some time with Pat out in the bush a time or two, but I don't climb. Never did. You can verify that if you ask around."
It only took once, Nate thought, but filed the statement away. "Who did? Who did climb with him?"
"Max did, as I recall, first season he was here. Ed most likely did, and Hopp—both of them once or twice, on easy, summer climbs, I'd say. Harry and Deb. They both like to climb. Bing's been up a few times. Jacob and Pat did a lot of climbing, a lot of hiking and camping together— or working as a team to guide paying customers. Hell, more than half the people in Lunacy take a whack at the mountains. More than that who've been here and gone. He was a good climber, from what I'm told. Made some of his living—such as it was—taking people up."
"A winter climb. Who around here would've been capable of a winter climb on that mountain?"
"Don't have to be capable so much as willing to challenge the elements." He puffed and sipped some more. "You going to show me the board?"
Since he could find no reason not to, Nate got up and removed the blanket. The judge sat where he was a moment, lips pursed. Then he pushed his bulk out of the chair and moved closer.
"Death robs youth, most times. You don't expect it to preserve it. He had potential. Wasted most of it, but Pat still had enough potential to make something of himself. He had that pretty, ambitious woman, a smart, charming child. Had brains, had talent. Problem was he liked to play the rebel so he pissed most of that away. A man would have to get fairly close in to dig an ax into another man's chest that way, wouldn't he?"
"Seems to me."
"Pat wasn't much of a scrapper. Peace, love, and rock and roll. You're too young to know the era, but Pat was the sort who embraced all that crap. Make love, not war, flowers in your hair and a roach clip in your pocket." The judge sniffed. "Still, I can't see him standing there quoting Dylan or whatever when somebody came at him with an ice ax."
"If he knew who it was, trusted him, didn't take it seriously. There are a lot of possibilities."
"Max being one of them." The judge shook his head as he shifted his attention to the photographs of Max Hawbaker. "I wouldn't have thought so. Get to be my age, nothing much surprises you, but I wouldn't have thought it of Max. Physically, Pat could have swatted him down like a fly. Which you've thought of," the judge said after a moment.
"Harder to swat flies armed with deadly weapons."
"Point. Max was a decent enough climber, but I wonder if he was good enough to get down that mountain, in February, without the help of someone with Pat's skill. I wonder how he managed that and how he lived with settling down here, marrying Carrie, raising his kids, knowing Pat was up there—that he was responsible for killing him."
"The argument's going to be he couldn't live with it."
"Sure is handy, isn't it? Pat's body's found through more luck than sense, and a few days later, Max confesses and kills himself. Doesn't explain, doesn't spell it all out. Just I did it, I'm sorry. Bang."
"Handy," Nate agreed.
"But you're not buying it."
"I'll be saving my money for the time being."
* * *
When the judge left, Nate made additional notes. He'd need to talk to several more people now, including the mayor, the deputy mayor and some of the town's most prominent citizens.
He wrote PILOT on his pad. Circled it.
Galloway had gone, reportedly, to Anchorage to pick up some winter work. Had he found any?
If Galloway had been playing it straight with Charlene, had fully intended to come back after a few weeks, that would narrow the time of the murder to February.
A big if, but working with that theory, it would be possible—with time and legwork, to verify that Max had been out of Lunacy during that time frame.
If so, for what purpose?
If so, had he gone alone? How long had he been gone? Had he come back alone, or with a companion?
He was going to have to pick his way through Carrie's memories for the answers. She wasn't going to be amenable just now. Maybe she'd talk to Coben, but if the ME ruled suicide, would Coben bother to follow up?
There was a knock, and even as Nate rose to cover the board again, Peter stepped in. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yeah. Close the door. Question."
"Yes, sir, chief."
"You know any reason somebody would be out snowshoeing in the woods by Meg's place, in the dark?"
"Sorry?"
"I'm just guessing here, but I don't think most people would go out shoeing around in the woods, in the dark, for sport."
"Well, I guess you could, if you were going to visit someone or something, or couldn't sleep. I don't get it."
He gestured to the board. "I found those tracks last night, when I was out practicing, giving the dogs a last run. I followed them from the road, about fifty yards up from Meg's place, and to the edge of the woods by the back of her house."
"Sure they weren't yours?"
"I'm sure."
"How do you know they were made at night? Somebody, most anybody, might have taken a hike there any time. Wanted to do some hunting or take a walk across from the lake."
Good points, Nate conceded. "Meg and I were out there the night Max died. Took a dip in her hot tub."
Peter looked politely at the wall, cleared his throat. "Well."
"While we were out there, the dogs got antsy. Took off into the woods. They were barking like they'd scented something, carried on long enough that Meg was on the point of calling them back, but they settled down. Now before you point out they could have treed a squirrell or chased down a moose, I found a spot where it looked like they'd rolled around in the snow, and the tracks, the snowshoe tracks, indicated somebody stopped and stood there. I'm not Daniel frigging Boone, Peter, but I can follow the dots."
He tapped a finger on the photographs.
"Somebody entered the woods, far enough from Meg's as not to be seen. Then walked in a reasonably direct line—as someone would who knew the layout and had a purpose—toward the back of her house. The dogs' behavior indicates they recognized this individual and considered him or her friendly. This individual then stopped at the edge of the screen of trees."
"If, um, I was hiking around and happened to spot you and Meg . . . taking a dip in her hot tub, I'd probably be, you could say, hesitant to make myself known. I'd probably back off and leave, with the sincere hope you didn't spot me. It'd be embarrassing otherwise."
"Seems to me it'd be less embarrassing altogether not to go sneaking around by her house in the dark."
"It would." Studying the pictures, Peter pulled on his bottom lip. "Maybe it was somebody setting or checking traps. It's really Meg's property, right there by her house, I mean, but a little poaching maybe. She wouldn't like it, because of her dogs. I bet she had the music going."
"She did."
"So, somebody might've headed toward the house, just to see, especially if he was checking traps."
"Okay." It was reasonable. "How about you and Otto taking a run out there, see if you can find any traps. If you do, I'd like to know who set them. I don't want to see one of the dogs hurt."
"We'll get right on that." He glanced back toward the board. He might've been green, but he wasn't slow. "You think somebody was spying on her? Somebody who's involved in all this?"
"I think it's worth finding out."
"Rock and Bull wouldn't let anybody hurt her. Even if they considered the . . . individual friendly, anybody made any kind of threatening move on her, they'd attack."
"That's good to know. Let me know about those traps, one way or the other, as soon as you can."
"Ah, chief? I think you should know Carrie Hawbaker's been making a lot of calls, talking to a lot of people. She's saying you're trying to smear Max's character so you can puff yourself up. Mostly people know she's just upset and a little crazy right now, but, well, some of them, maybe some who didn't much like the idea of bringing in someone from Outside, are stewing about it."
"I'll handle it, but I appreciate the heads-up."
There was concern in his dark eyes and a hint of anger on his face. "If people knew you were working so hard to try to find out the whole truth, they might settle."
"Let's just do the job for now, Peter. Cops never win popularity contests."
* * *
He wasn't going to win one with Charlene either, Nate decided, when she stormed into his office an hour later.
"I'm up to my ears over at The Lodge," she began. "Rose isn't in any shape to wait tables or anything else. And I don't appreciate you calling me over here like I'm some criminal. I'm in mourning, goddamn it, and you should have some respect."
"I've got nothing but respect, Charlene. If it'll help any, you can cross my room off the housekeeping schedule until things get back to routine. I can deal with it myself."
"That's hardly going to make a difference, with every other person in town coming in to gossip and sniff around about my Pat and about poor Carrie. You think because Max went and killed himself she's got more grief than I do?"
"'I don't think it's a contest."
She tossed her head, jutted up her chin. Nate figured she'd stomp her foot next, but she folded her arms instead.
"If you talk to me that way, I don't have a thing to say to you. Don't think I'm going to tolerate you taking that attitude with me just because you're banging Meg."
"You're going to want to sit down and shut up."
Her mouth dropped open, her cheeks flamed. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"I think I'm the chief of police, and if you don't stop being a pain in my ass and cooperate, I'm going to put yours in a cell until you do."
Her mouth, painted Caribbean coral, opened and closed like a guppy's. "You can't do that."
Probably not, Nate thought, but he was past playing with her. "You want to sit around sulking and playing the injured party? I know that tune, and it gets old and boring for everybody who has to hear it. Or do you want to do something about it? Do you want to help me find out who killed the man you say you loved?"
"I did love him! The stupid, selfish bastard." She dropped into a chair, burst into tears.
He debated for five seconds on how to handle her. He walked out, grabbed the box of tissues Peach kept on her desk and ignored his dispatcher's wide eyes. Back in the office, he dropped the box on Charlene's lap.
"Go ahead, have a jag. Then mop yourself up, pull it together and answer some questions."
"I don't know why you have to be mean to me. If you treated Carrie like this, no wonder she's saying terrible things about you. I wish you'd never come to Lunacy."
"You won't be the only one to wish it, once I find the man who killed Patrick Galloway."
She lifted her swimming eyes at that. "You're not even in charge."
"I'm in charge of this office. I'm in charge of this town." The anger that was stirring inside him felt good; it felt just. Cop juice, he realized. He'd missed it.
"And right now, I'm in charge of you. Did Pat Galloway leave town alone?"
"You're nothing but a bully. You're—"
"Answer the damn question."
"Yes! He packed a bag, tossed it in the truck and left. And I never, ever saw him again. I raised our child alone, and she's never once been grateful for—"
"Did he have plans to meet up with anyone?"
"I don't know. He didn't say. He was supposed to get some work. We were about tapped. I was tired of living hand to mouth. His family had money, but he wouldn't even consider—"
"Charlene. How long did he plan to be gone?"
She sighed, began to shred the damp tissue. Winding down, Nate thought.
"Couple of weeks, maybe a month."
"He never called, never got in touch."
"No, and I was mad about that, too. He should've called after a week or two, to let me know what was going on."
"You try to get in touch with him?"
"How?" she demanded, but the tears were dried up now. "I badgered Jacob. Pat always talked to him more than me, but he said he didn't know where he was. He could've been covering for him for all I know."
"Jacob was still flying regularly then?"
"So?"
"Making regular runs, the way Meg does now." Her answer was a shrug, so Nate kept probing.
"Was he, or anyone else you can think of, out of town for, let's say, a week or ten days during February of that year?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know that? I don't keep tabs on people, and it was sixteen years ago. This month," she added, and he could see that the fact it was a kind of anniversary had just