Dana Stabenow - So Sure Of Death

“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 beaded 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.”