“No, no . . . Darrell’s never had a beard, as far as I know. We’re not close; he’s ten years older than I am, but I see him a couple of times a year. He’s . . . I don’t think he can grow a beard, actually. He’s one of those guys who’s never done so good with a mustache, even. It comes out kind of scrawny.”
Lucas nodded. “Probably not him, then.”
They went back outside, Sedakis talking about her father’s career and retirement. Lucas learned that he was in reasonably good physical condition, though he was still too heavy. “A friend of mine wondered whether he might have had a heart attack.”
Sedakis shook her head: “My family doesn’t have heart problems. It’s usually kidneys that get us, or cancer.”
They talked a bit longer, and when Lucas ran out of questions, she left, waving as she pulled out into the lane.
“Interesting,” Childress said. “I never worked a murder. . . . You think it could be a murder?”
“I’ll find out, sooner or later. Or his body will come bobbing up, with his fly down.”
“They mostly do that,” Childress said. “But sometimes, they don’t. They just stay down there. Too cold to rot, no bacteria, so they bob around like corks, still wearing their glasses . . . like a Stephen King story.”
“Jesus,” Lucas said. “You writing a screenplay?”
HANSON’S FISHING PALS, Cole and Kushner, lived three or four miles away, on another peninsula, and only a few hundred yards from each other. Both of them were in, and Cole volunteered to walk down to Kushner’s place and meet them there.
The two older men looked like the kind of plaid-shirted guys who’d be waved back and forth across the Canadian border without so much as a glance: white, balding, too heavy, too much sun, soft canvas shirts from Orvis, fishing-boat hats, and jeans.
Cole was the taller of the two, and said, “I understand why you’re looking into it—I already told the police that Brian was supposed to be down in the Cities. He coulda come back at the last minute, I suppose, but we play golf in the morning, and he’d usually want to make sure he had a spot.”
“A spot?”
“We play a sixteen-man scramble with a regular crew,” Cole said. “If you want to play, you have to let us know the night before. Otherwise, one of the extras will get put in your place.”
“It’s four hours from the Cities,” Lucas said. “The neighbors saw him pull in around three o’clock, which means he left there late. Maybe he didn’t want to take a chance of waking you up.”
“Maybe not,” Kushner said. “But there’s another problem. He hardly ever went out fishing early in the morning. He’d get up late, have about six cups of coffee and some oatmeal, and then head out to the golf course. We tee off at eleven, five days a week. Then, we’d have a few beers, and head home, and then two or three days a week, down toward dark, we’d head out on the lake, do some walleye fishing. But he hardly ever fished in the morning.”
Childress jumped in: “But if he got up here too late to play golf, he might’ve just decided to hop in the boat. He’d know he wasn’t playing the next day.”
The two men looked at each other, then back at Childress and simultaneously shrugged. “It’s possible,” Cole said.
“Ever see him pee off the back of the boat?” Lucas asked.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Kushner replied.
“Over the motor.”
Cole frowned. “Really can’t do that. Have to pee off a corner. You trying to figure out why he fell out . . . if he did fall out?”
“The boat doesn’t look like one where you’d want to pee over the sides, because of the slanted bottom,” Lucas said. “And the motor was running, and that doesn’t seem likely—”
“My theory is, he hooked up with something big, a big muskie or something, while he was trolling. Maybe he hooked a walleye and the muskie took it, and he stood up and was trying to land him, and the fish came off and he sorta staggered backwards and went over,” Kushner said. “If he fell over.”
“Wouldn’t he kill the motor when he got the hit?” Lucas asked.
“I guess he normally would,” Kushner admitted.
“HE wasn’t trolling,” Cole said suddenly. He looked at his friend. “The boat was going forward.”
“Oh . . . shoot. That’s right.” Kushner scratched his forehead. “Brian was a back troller. He worked it slow. If the boat was going forward . . .” He shook his head.
“Interesting,” Lucas said. “There are three red life jackets hanging by the front door. Did he usually wear one?”
Cole said, “If it wasn’t too hot, he would. Law says you gotta have one in the boat, and there are crick dicks all over the place. No offense.”
“Thing is, there wasn’t one in the boat, and if he was wearing one, you think we might’ve found him,” Lucas said.
Kushner said, “Maybe. It’s a big lake. And the way that boat was driving around by itself, we don’t really know where he went over.”
Cole added: “He wasn’t wearing one. He only had three life jackets—couldn’t hardly get more than three people in the boat, so that was what he had. Enough for me’n Kush, if we came over in the evening, to go out.”
There wasn’t much more; on the way out to the cars, Childress asked, “You got what you wanted?”
“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “Is there a good motel in town?”
“The casino’s just down the road, that might be best,” he said. “Give me a call if you need anything.”
Childress took off, and Lucas called Del: “You think of anything?”
“I went over to Hanson’s house and asked around. One of his neighbors thinks he saw Hanson leave his house around eight o’clock,” Del said. “He left his lights on, and they were still on when the news got out that he’d fallen out of the boat. One guy, named Arriss, said he was about to go over and look in the windows and make sure he hadn’t had a heart attack or something.”
“So his lights were on . . . and he wound up here.”
“That seems to be the case. You get anything?”
“Maybe,” Lucas said.
THERE WAS STILL enough light that he could go back to Hanson’s cabin, so he did that. There were close-in cabins on both sides of Hanson’s place, and he walked across the side yard and up the steps to the place on the south, and knocked on the porch door. A woman came to the door, saw him standing there. A worried look crossed her face, and he got the impression that she was alone.
“Yes?”
He held up his ID and said, “I’m with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I was just here a while ago with a Deputy Childress?”
“Oh, okay, I guess I saw you over there.” She came to the screen door. “What’s up?”
“Did you see or hear Mr. Hanson the night he disappeared?”
“I talked to my husband, and we both thought we heard a car come in, late in the night. We were both asleep. The next morning, we saw his car parked there, and then, a while later, the police came in. But that’s about it. We never saw him or anything. We were really shocked when we heard.”
The neighbors on the other side were named Jansen, she said, and she’d seen them come in a half-hour before. “They’ll probably be going out fishing, so if you want to talk to them, you should get over there.”
Mark and Debbie Jansen were eating dinner when he knocked, and Mark Jansen invited him in and offered him a cup of coffee and a chair at the kitchen table, both of which Lucas took. They hadn’t heard Hanson come in, nor had they heard the boat go out. They found out he was missing when the police came around.
“Guess they traced him from the bow number on the boat,” Mark Jansen said.
They chatted for another few minutes, Lucas finished his coffee, took their recommendation that he spend the night at the casino, and left. He was getting in the car when Mark hustled across the lawn and called to him, “Hey—Lucas.”
Lucas waited until he came up, and Jansen said, “Did you go
in his garage?”
“Yeah. Looked at the boat,” Lucas said.
“Is his dirt bike in there?”
“No, I don’t remember seeing one.”
“This might be nothing, but later that night . . . it wasn’t three o’clock, it was more like five o’clock . . . just getting light, probably . . . I heard a bike start up,” Jansen said. “Like, up on the road. And it took off. I didn’t think of it until just now, and there are a lot of trail bikes and four-wheelers around here, but I don’ t know why you’d be starting one right there. . . . If that’s something.”
Lucas said, “Huh,” and, “Thanks. Something to think about.”
THE REASON TO THINK about it, he thought to himself as he drove away, was that if somebody drove Hanson’s car up to the lake, whether or not it was Hanson faking his own death, or a killer faking an accident, he’d have to have a way to get out, once he got in. If he didn’t have an accomplice, and he couldn’t use the car . . .
“Then he’d have to know about the bike before he got here,” Lucas said aloud.
He passed the casino turnoff a few minutes later and kept going. Called Weather and said, “I’ll be home tonight, late. Don’t wait up, but don’t shoot me, either.”
“I wouldn’t shoot you anyway,” she said. “But I’ll warn Letty.”
21
Del walked up the sidewalk to Lucas’s house, saw Shrake’s Cadillac pull to the curb. He waited, hands thrust in the pockets of his jean jacket, until Shrake and Jenkins had caught up with him.
“What’s going on?” Shrake asked, as he came up.
“I don’t know,” Del said. “Weather called, but I just talked to Lucas, and he’s still three hours out.”
“Let’s find out,” Jenkins said, leading the way to the door.
Weather let them in and said, “We need to talk in a hurry, before Letty gets back. I don’t want her to see you.”
“What’s up?” Del asked.
“You want a beer? We’ve got Leinie’s and Negra Modelo.”
They took two Leinie’s and a Negra Modelo, and she went and got them, and brought them back to the living room, where the three cops were still standing, looking uneasy. Weather wasn’t exactly a friend, except that she was married to Lucas: she was a little too smart, a little too commanding, a little too tight.
In other words, a surgeon. She said, “Sit down, everyone. You look like you’re getting ready to stampede.”
When they were sitting, she said, “The thing is, Lucas is going to kill whoever it was that killed Marcy. About five minutes later, people will start talking about how he and Marcy had a relationship back when they were both working for Minneapolis. Some people will say that Lucas murdered this man, whoever he is—”
“I already sorta mentioned it to him,” Del said. “He didn’t want to talk about it.”
“And you might be a little early on getting concerned,” Jenkins said. “Nobody has any idea of who the killer is.”
“You have any doubt that Lucas will find him?” Weather asked.
Shrake, Jenkins, and Del exchanged quick glances, and then Del said, “I wouldn’t bet against him. And when I talked to him, I got the feeling he’s got a sniff of the guy. Something’s going on, I could hear it in his voice.”
“I could, too,” Weather said.
They all looked around, and took nervous hits on their beers, and Shrake finally said, “So what?”
“He’s going to find the guy, and then he’s going to kill him. Even if what he does is legitimate, he’ll be in a lot of trouble,” Weather said. “Somebody will come up with the fact that they had this relationship, and it’ll get in the papers and on television, and then the politicians will get involved, and the prosecutors will be talking . . . And Lucas is so angry, I don’t think he’ll be careful enough. I’m afraid he’s so angry that he’ll simply walk up and plug him. That’s what I’m saying.”
Jenkins shook his head. “He’s too smart to do that out in public.”
Weather interrupted: “But you see, it’d almost be better if he did it in public. But he can’t. But if he does it where there are no witnesses but you cops, that’s when all the speculation will begin. People will imagine what he did. . . .”
Shrake said, “Ah, shit . . . sorry.”
Weather: “He feels terrible about the Jones girls, like he could have done more back then. And he thinks that letting this man go then probably got more girls killed. And now Marcy, and he sees it all going back to the beginning: he thinks it’s his fault.”
“That’s nuts,” Del said. “I worked with him on that case, and he was the only guy who did anything. Quentin Daniel was running the show, and Lucas freaked him out. He couldn’t get Lucas into plainclothes fast enough. Lucas was the only guy who did anything.”
“That’s not the way Lucas thinks, though,” Weather said. “And you know it. He blames himself when things go bad and he’s involved—he thinks he should be able to control everything.”
Del said, “Okay.”
“What I wanted to talk about,” Weather said, “is the possibility that you guys could kind of push him around. Make sure he’s not there when this man is caught. Get him out of the way, somehow, so he never has a chance to kill the guy.”
“So the guy can while away his old age playing checkers in Stillwater?” Jenkins asked.
“Oh, no. I don’t particularly care if somebody kills him,” Weather said. “I’ve got no problem with that at all. As long as it’s not Lucas who does it. If somebody has to shoot the guy, I think one of you should do it. Or some other cop. If one of you shot him, especially Jenkins or Shrake, because you never worked with Marcy . . . I don’t think anybody would question it, especially if the guy was carrying a gun.”
“What if he isn’t?” Jenkins asked.
“Let’s not go there,” Weather said. “But it would be convenient if he were.”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds, taking it in, and then Shrake said, “We shouldn’t talk about this anymore. The word ‘conspiracy’ comes to mind.”
“Had to come out,” Weather said. “We don’t have to talk about what happens to this guy, because I’m just not worried about what happens to him. Thirty years in Stillwater would be okay with me. I’m concerned about Lucas.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Del said.
“You think I’m right, don’t you?” Weather asked.
Del nodded, looked at Shrake and Jenkins, and they both nodded. Shrake said, “I figured that Lucas would waste the guy. The rest of it never occurred to me—the way it would look. You’re right, there’s gonna be a hell of a stink . . . if we don’t do something.”
JENKINS, SHRAKE, AND DEL were long gone by the time Lucas pulled into the driveway, their beer bottles trashed with the recycling. The house was quiet when he came in through the garage—he turned on the kitchen light, looked in the refrigerator, found a chicken salad sandwich left by the housekeeper, and a bottle of Leinie’s. He sat down to eat in the breakfast nook, and heard bare feet coming down the stairs. A moment later, Letty stuck her head in the kitchen. “Hey.”
“You’re up late,” he said.
“Yeah. Mom’s cutting in the morning, so she went to bed at ten. Gotta be quiet when you go up.”
“Okay. You know what she’s doing?”
“Rhino, and then she’s covering some burns,” Letty said.
She watched him chew until he asked, “What?”
“Mom thinks you’re onto something. You know who killed her?”
Lucas shook his head: “You might blab to Jennifer.” Jennifer Carey worked for Channel Three, where Letty was an unofficial intern.
“Would not,” Letty said. “Not unless you told me I could.”
Lucas said, “All right. I’ve got a couple of ideas.” He told her about Hanson’s mysterious disappearance. “I’m thinking he knew the person who did it, and that person got worried and killed him.”
“When are you going to find out?”
>
“Pretty soon,” he said.
“So this is the time you gotta be really careful,” Letty said. “If you’re gonna take him out.”
“You worry too much.”
“You’re right. And you’re not worried enough.”
HE SNUCK INTO BED, quiet and silent as a cat burglar, and then Weather said in the dark, “I hope your daughter gave you a good talking-to.”
“Ah, yeah . . . she did.”
“Good. I’m going to sleep now, so I don’t cut off poor Mrs. Johnson’s nose.”
Rhino, Lucas thought, as he drifted away, for rhinoplasty. From the Greek rhino for nose, plus plassein, to shape. A nose job, in other words.
But he didn’t dream of rhinos; he dreamed of the mysterious Fell.
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell . . .
WEATHER GOT UP at five-thirty, and Lucas at eight, early for him. He hadn’t felt her go; he usually didn’t. He stretched, yawned, did some push-ups and crunches, got cleaned up, got his gun, sat down in his den, and made a call.
Quentin Daniel picked up and in an old man’s voice said, “What?”
“This is Davenport. I need to talk.”
“That was a bad day,” Daniel said. “That was about as bad a day as I’ve had since Carol died. On top of the Jones kids coming up—”
“That’s what I need to talk about.”
“When?”
“How about now?” Lucas suggested.
“You know where that Starbucks is, down the street from me?” Daniel asked.
“Sure.”
“Meet you there in thirty minutes,” Daniel said.
QUENTIN DANIEL HAD BEEN a ranking detective when Lucas first met him, and later, for eight years, the chief of police. He’d done some bad things in his time, and he knew it, as did Lucas, and they’d never been quite square since.
But Daniel was smart and had been a good investigator, and knew the Jones case and also knew his cops. That, in fact, had been his most serious strength: he knew his investigators so well that he’d match them to cases that he knew would catch their imaginations, and they’d work all the harder for it. He’d also had complete confidence in his own intelligence, and other smart cops didn’t intimidate him. He saw the intelligence of others as simply another weapon in his arsenal.
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