So Sure Of Death

by Dana Stabenow

  “You said.” He held back a grin. He remembered his own rookie days, when every interview was an adventure, every interviewee under suspicion. “Let's go talk to Larsgaard anyway.”

  Five minutes later they were at Larsgaard's house. They knocked. There was no answer. They knocked again. Another minute passed before the door opened and Walter Larsgaard's father's face peered through the crack. He didn't look pleased to see them. “What you want?” he growled.

  “We'd like to talk to your son, Mr. Larsgaard,” Liam said. “Is he here?”

  “No.”

  “Could you tell us where he is?”

  The old man said something in Yupik that sounded less than complimentary, and the door shut in their faces.

  Prince, predictably, wanted to kick it in. “No,” Liam said, “we have no probable cause. What's the name of Larsgaard's boat?”

  Tight-lipped, Prince consulted her notes. “TheBay Rover.”

  “Fine. Let's check it out.”

  They marched back down to the boat harbor, where they ran into Mike Ekwok, who pointed out theBay Roverwithout hesitation, a trim little sternpicker about thirty-two feet in length, painted white with blue trim. There was a man at the deck controls, and as they watched, a plume of smoke came from the stack. The rumble of an engine was heard a moment later. “Son of a bitch,” Liam said, and hit the gangplank at a run.

  “What's the matter?” he heard Ekwok cry over the sound of Prince's footsteps pounding behind him.

  Liam almost overshot the other side of the float at the bottom of the gangplank, caught his balance just before he went head-first into the harbor and continued on toward Larsgaard's boat. He was close enough to see Larsgaard look over his shoulder, a drawn expression on his face, just before the fisherman cast off the stern line. TheBay Roverwas twelve feet from the slip when Liam skidded to a halt, too far to jump. “Goddamn it!” Liam roared.

  “Come on!” Prince yelled, and he turned to see her pounding back to the Cessna. He followed, and by the time he got there she had already cast off and had the prop rotating. The engine caught with a roar. “Get on the float!” she yelled, pointing, and without thinking he stepped to the right float just as it moved away from the slip.

  “What the hell are we doing?” he yelled over the noise of the engine.

  “If I can beat him to the harbor mouth, we can box him in! If not, I can bring us alongside and you can jump onto the deck!”

  Liam clung to the strut with both hands, the sound of the Cessna's engine roaring in his ears, the wind from the prop tugging at his hair, his boots slipping on the wet surface of the floats. He wanted to ask Prince if she was out of her fucking mind, but he was too scared that the physical activity involved in forming the words would jar him off the float. The leading edge of the wings ripped apart the wall of wet, clammy mist, forming droplets of water on the metal surface that with the force of the air coalesced into rain against which he had to narrow his eyes. He could barely see Mike Ekwok running down the slip opposite, waving his arms up and down and shouting something Liam couldn't hear. The front of his uniform was already wet through. The derelict hulk of theMarybethiaflashed by, Mark Sandowski's astonished face framed in the hatch.

  Prince got the Cessna clear of the slip, moving at a speed that definitely violated the no-wake speed limit inside the boat harbor. Liam blinked his eyes again to clear them, and saw Larsgaard just coming out from between the two sets of floats. TheBay Roverheeled over on its right side and the wake foamed up behind the stern. Prince responded by opening up the Cessna's throttle. The rock face of the breakwater loomed dangerously close to the tip of the left wing. “Watch out!” he yelled.

  “Get ready!” she yelled back.

  TheBay Roverspeeded up. Forgetting where he was, Liam yelled, “Faster!”

  “We're almost up on the step as it is,” Prince yelled back. “We go any faster we'll take off, and there's no room!”

  Larsgaard looked over his shoulder, saw the Cessna bearing down on his port stern and pointed the bow of theBay Rovertoward the entrance of the breakwater. At that moment another boat, a Grayling bowpicker returning to its slip from the fuel dock, crossed the bow of theBay Rover.Its skipper stared at the oncoming boat with the float plane in hot pursuit, mouth open and apparently incapable of thought or action. Larsgaard heeled theBay Roverhard aport and slammed the engine into neutral and then reverse, at the same time Prince cut the throttle on the Cessna, abruptly slowing their forward motion.

  That was all it took. Liam's hands lost their grip on the strut and he was catapulted off the float and onto Larsgaard's deck, which was passing inches in front of the Cessna's still-rotating propeller. He retained just enough sense to tuck and roll, and everything would have been fine if his somersault hadn't achieved momentum and rolled him over the opposite gunnel, which caught him painfully in the small of his back but didn't stop him from going over the side.

  The cold, dark water of Kulukak's small boat harbor closed over his head, and for a moment all he could think of was what the salt water was going to do to his freshly cleaned and only other uniform. Son of a bitch.

  He swallowed water and battled his way to the surface, to find the gunnel of theBay Roversix feet away, engine idling, boxed in by the Grayliner, the Cessna and the breakwater. Two overhand strokes brought him within reach, and he heaved himself up and over the gunnel and onto the deck. He looked up to see Walter Larsgaard standing over him, boat hook raised. He met Larsgaard's eyes and from somewhere found the air to gasp, “Walter Larsgaard, you are under arrest for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution.”

  Larsgaard stood where he was for a long moment. Liam gulped in more air and continued, “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right…”

  The boat hook came down, and Larsgaard held it out, in the manner of a soldier surrendering a sword. Liam accepted it automatically.

  “… to have an attorney present during questioning. If you desire to have an attorney and cannot afford one, an attorney will be provided for you.”

  “What am I being prosecuted for?” Larsgaard said.

  Murder, Liam thought, murder times seven, or else why were you running? “I'll think of something,” he said. “Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Liam got to his feet, shoes squelching, uniform a soggy memory of its former sartorial splendor. The Newenham posting was hell on uniforms.

  “I'd like to take the boat back to the slip,” Larsgaard said.

  “Fine,” Liam said, waving a hand, an expansive gesture ruined when he had to cough water out of his lungs. “Take her on back.”

  Larsgaard gave him a curious glance, and for a moment Liam thought he might smile. “I can't believe you came after me riding the pontoon of a float plane.”

  “I can't, either,” Liam said wearily.

  Although it wasn't like anyone had given him a choice.

  It was a silent, soggy flight back to Newenham. Prince flew the plane, Larsgaard stared out the window, Sandowski made one abortive attempt to deliver his report and Liam dripped.

  In Newenham they drove straight to the local jail, a compact building consisting of the dispatcher's office and six cells. Larsgaard went into the one across from Frank Petla, who was suffering from what looked like a monumental hangover. “Frank?” Liam said, standing in front of the barred door.

  Frank opened one eye, saw Liam and groaned. “Oh man, leave me alone.”

  Liam looked at his watch and calculated. It was noon, and he was hungry, not to mention damp. Frank hadn't technically been in custody until about seven the night before. Liam, who knew a sudden and irresistible desire for a greasy cheeseburger and even greasier fries, decided to update Bill on his progress.

  He turned to go and saw that one of the opposite three cells was also full. Moccasin Man, he thought. That was his nickname for the tall man with a dark mane of hair that hung halfway down his back, who wore beade
d moccasins and a matching beaded belt. Evan Richard Gray, one of Newenham's three dealers, three prior arrests for selling marijuana, no convictions. Probably all the women on the jury were hoping he'd ask them out if they let him off.

  Prince shifted behind him and Liam turned and headed into the dispatcher's office. “Mamie, who brought Gray in?”

  Mamie, a short, plump, harassed-looking woman with flyaway brown hair, skin still suffering the aftermath of a bad case of teenage acne and eyebrows plucked to a perpetually surprised expression, said, “Roger Raymo brought him in this morning. What?” she said into the phone. “Bobbie, you have to press charges this time, and you have to testify, or pretty soon the guys won't even bother coming out there.” She listened. “All right, I'll expect you this afternoon. All right, I'll tell Roger. All right, Bobbie.” She hung up the phone. “Bobbie Freedman. Cam keeps beating up on her, and she keeps calling us, and then she won't testify against him after we arrest him.” She blew the hair out of her eyes and looked at Prince. “I don't believe we've met?”

  “Diana Prince, Mamie Hagemeister. Trooper Prince has been newly assigned to the area. Mamie's the dispatcher we share with the city police.”

  Prince looked around the office, divided into two halves, one with Mamie's desk and an array of phones and radios, and the other with two more desks and filing cabinets. “Where are they?”

  “Out on patrol,” Mamie said.

  “Or asleep,” Liam added. He saw Prince's look. “There are supposed to be six of them. There are only two, Roger Raymo and Cliff Berg.”

  She nodded, and said, “I'll introduce myself to them as soon as I can.”

  Good luck, Liam thought. “I'm going to change into some dry clothes and then have lunch at Bill's.”

  Prince nodded again. “I'll go back to the post and run Petla and Larsgaard through the computer.”

  They went back to the Blazer. Sandowski was sitting in the back seat, his briefcase on his knees. “Forgot about him for a minute,” Liam murmured, and climbed into the driver's seat. He looked up to meet Sandowski's eyes in the rearview mirror. “So, Mark. Anything you can tell me yet?”

  Sandowski looked indignant. “I would have told you on the plane, if you-”

  “Your report, Mark.” Liam smiled.

  Sandowski looked down and cleared his throat. “The boat was set on fire first.”

  “How?”

  “Offhand, I'd say the arsonist induced combustion with an inflammatory substance. That is indicated by the high degree of carbonization-”

  “English,” Liam said.

  “Oh.” Mark gave a nervous smile. “Somebody poured gas all over the place and lit a match. They started in the galley. That's why the big charred patch in the middle of the floor.”

  They had to have been dead by then, or at least unconscious. There had been no sign of restraints, and nobody sits still while someone pours gas all over them. “From the fuel tank?”

  “TheMarybethia's a diesel.”

  “Oh. Did you find a gas can?”

  “No.” Mark blinked. “Could have tossed it overboard.”

  Most likely, Liam thought. There was a hell of a lot of water for it to get lost in. “And then they opened the sea cocks.”

  “Somebody did,” Mark said cautiously. “No way to know if the same person started the fire as pulled the plugs. The fire was started first, though,” he added. “You can see where the water level climbed to extinguish the flames.”

  “You find any bullets?”

  Mark stared. “How did you know?” He produced a slug in a Ziploc bag.

  Liam took it. It was too flattened for casual identification, but if he had to guess it had come from a rifle, a.30-06, maybe. Easy enough to recognize, since just about everyone in the Bush owned one. More difficult to find out which rifle had fired it.

  Mark took the bag back and pocketed it. “I'll turn it over to ballistics when I get back to town. And I'll know more about the fire once I get back to my own lab.”

  “Okay.” Liam started the engine. “There's an Alaska Airlines flight out of here at about two o'clock.”

  “Drop us both at the post, sir,” Prince said. “I'll drive him to the airport in the truck.”

  His shirt and jacket clung clammily to his skin. “Thanks.”

  Dry clothes felt good, even though he had to settle for civvies, in the form of a blue plaid shirt and jeans. He had a spare ball cap, though, with the trooper badge on the front, so he felt like he could legitimately strap his backup piece on. His ninemillimeter automatic, which had gone into Kulukak Bay with him, was disassembled and put in an oil bath in a saucepan before he headed out in search of food, by way of the post office. The same clerk was on duty. He eyed Liam's packaged uniform, addressed to the same Anchorage dry cleaner's. Liam held a hand up, palm out. “Don't ask.”

  “Hey, I just work here. Overnight? Same as this morning?”

  Liam sighed and got out his wallet. “Yes.” Maybe he should cave and get his uniforms made in some permanent press material, some fabric extruded from the molecule of a petroleum product.

  It was one o'clock by the time he got to Bill's, and his stomach was trying to crawl up his throat. Bill took one look at him and yelled, “Cheeseburger and fries, rare!” and went to pour him a Coke.

  “Diet,” he said. “With lemon.”

  “Well, lah-di-dah,” Bill said testily, dumping out what she'd already poured. “When did you get so refined in your tastes?”

  “Regular's too sweet.”

  “That's generally why people like it,” Bill said, setting a napkin on the bar and the glass on the napkin.

  Liam squeezed the wedge of lemon into the liquid. “It's why I don't. Even the diet stuff is too sweet. That's why the lemon.” He took a swallow, a long one, that resulted in a refill and another wedge of lemon. “Everything's too sweet anymore: pop, Jell-O, canned frosting, sukiyaki, even wine. It's the Pepsi-ization of America. You used to be able to get a decent dry white wine, fullbodied, buttery, you took a swallow, it bit back, you know? Then they sweetened everything up, made it taste like Kool-Aid. That's when I switched to red wine.” He drank again. It didn't taste like much, but it was better than Kulukak harbor, which had had the faintest hint of diesel spill for an aftertaste. “Probably only a matter of time before they ruin that, too.”

  “I thought you only drank Glenmorangie.”

  “One does not drink Glenmorangie, one worships at its feet.”

  “My mistake.”

  Liam's burger and fries arrived and he was not heard from again, or at least not for the next ten minutes. Bill pulled a stool opposite his and sat down with a glass of mineral water and a twist of lime. She had a map of New Orleans spread out on the bar, and was tracing the trolley route to the Garden District. “I've seen pictures of the fence around Anne Rice's house,” she said. “Wrought-iron roses. I plan to see that up close and personal when I go. And I hear tell that Jefferson Davis died just down the street, and that there's a memorial. I'd like to see that, too, if only just to spit on it. That old boy did not get half the kicking around he deserved.” She turned the map over to look at the advertisements. “The Jazz Festival, when is that, May, June? Jimmy Buffett plays at the festival sometimes. I wonder how hot it is in New Orleans in June.”

  She wasn't expecting any answers, which was a good thing because Liam's mouth was full. The bar wasn't, maybe a dozen customers all told. One couple was dancing unsteadily cheek to cheek to the strains of “Son of a Son of a Sailor.” Four men in a booth loitered over the remains of their beer, paperwork exchanging hands and paragraphs disputed in muted voices. One of them was Jim Earl, Newenham's mayor. The other three were members of the town council. Two booths over four women slapped cards down in a game of Snerts. One man sat at a table, moodily nursing a beer, thinking unpleasant thoughts, if his expression was anything to go by. A table away another man was asleep, head on the tabletop between outstretched arms.

  Liam surfaced even
tually, his stomach straining pleasantly at his belt. “It occurs to me that I've been eating your cheeseburgers twice a day for three months.”

  Bill raised her head and gave him a considering stare. “I fail to see the problem here, Liam.”

  “Come to think of it, so do I,” he said, pushing his plate away and finishing his Coke. “I need a couple of arrest warrants, Bill.”

  She put down the street map she'd been looking at and got up to refill his glass. “I heard,” she said, climbing back up on her stool. “You've been busy.”

  His smile was smug. “Yup.”

  The door opened behind him and momentarily flooded the dim room with light. A raven cawed raucously, the sound cut off abruptly when the door shut again. “Noisy bastard,” Moses muttered, and climbed up to sit beside Liam.

  Bill smiled at him, the tender smile she reserved only for him. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. Gimme a beer.”

  The smile didn't waver. She got him a beer, a squat brown bottle full, and poured it in his lap.

  “Hey!” Moses leapt to his feet. “Goddamn it, woman, what the hell are you doing? Jesus!”

  “Teaching you some manners,” she replied sweetly. She climbed back up on her stool and said to Liam, “Warrants for whom?”

  Liam, struggling to repress a grin and not succeeding very well, said, “One for Frank Petla. I need that one right away, his twenty-four hours are about up.”

  “What for?”

  Moses, still cursing, climbed off his stool and headed for the john.

  “Two counts of felony assault, for starters.”

  She raised a brow. “Not murder?”

  “No.” The face of Charlene Taylor flashed before his eyes. “Not yet,” he said. Not until he'd dotted that lastiand crossed that lastt.

  Bill grunted. “There's time, I guess. Long as we keep him locked up. Who's the second one for?”

  “Walter Larsgaard.”

  “Old or Young?”