Dana Stabenow - So Sure Of Death

Liam waited, but Larsgaard didn't finish. “So you shot her because she broke off your relationship.”

“Yes.”

Liam kept his tone mild and inoffensive. “Why did you shoot her husband?”

“He had her. I didn't.”

“Her brother-in-law?”

“He was there.”

“That why you killed the deckhands? They were there, too?” A shrug.

“And the kids? Michael and Kerry. Teenagers. They had to die because they were there, too?”

“That's about it.”

The muscles in Liam's shoulders were so tight he thought they might pop out of their sleeves. He saw Prince look at him, and willed himself to relax with only moderate success. “When did all this happen?”

“What, the affair?”

“When did you kill them?” Liam said coldly.

“Sunday night.”

“What time?”

For the first time, Larsgaard hesitated. “I don't know. Midnight, maybe one o'clock. It was dark, or almost, so it had to have been late. Hard to tell because of the fog.”

“How did you know where they were?”

“I saw them during the fishing period.”

“The fishing period was over.”

“They'd had some engine trouble. Dave anchored up offshore to work on it, and I figured he'd still be there after the fog rolled in. He was.”

Liam sat back in his chair. “So you fished next to them on Sunday afternoon, saw them anchor up offshore with engine trouble, marked the spot, went back into town, waited until dark, got in your dory, went back to Kulukak Bay, shot Molly Malone because she wanted to end your affair, shot the rest of them because they were there, tried to burn the boat to cover up your crime and when that didn't work tried to sink her.”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Liam looked at his watch, said the time for the tape and terminated the interview. They put Larsgaard back in his cell. Frank Petla still wanted a smoke, and Moccasin Man was still playing solitaire.

It was five o'clock, and the sun had just barely begun its descent into the west. “I want a witness that puts Larsgaard and Malone in the Bay View Inn together. I've already talked to the owner, Alta- Alta Peterson. She made the beds when Molly Malone stayed there and Alta knew Molly wasn't sleeping alone, but she never saw who she was sleeping with. Find someone who saw them together.”

“Yes, sir. What about Frank Petla's alibi?”

“I'll work on that.” He thought again about Charlene Taylor. He'd have to ask her what areas of the Nushagak had been open for fishing on Monday. “I'm going to go down to the harbor and look at his boat.”

“If it's there.”

It was there, a tiny little bowpicker barely big enough to sport a one-bunk cabin on the stern, a reel in the bow and an open deck in between. Liam poked his head in the cabin. Except for the empty bottle of Windsor Canadian rolling around on the deck and the rumpled state of the bunk, the little cabin was surprisingly neat. He opened a few cupboards, looked under the miniature sink, tested the two-burner propane stove. The dishes were clean, the clothes folded neatly, the canned goods ordered and stacked. There was a picture in a green wooden frame nailed to the wall over the bunk. It was of a young girl with thick dark hair past her waist, standing next to Frank Petla. They were both looking at the camera, both with big, bright smiles and an Alaska Federation of Natives' Sobriety Movement poster on the wall in back of them. There was another picture, this one in a blue wooden frame, of Frank standing between Charlene Taylor and her husband the D.A., a short, skinny guy with bushy red hair, freckled white skin and a wide, wry grin. All three of them looked real proud of something.

The deck had been hosed down but there was evidence that fish had been there, in the form of scales. Liam wet a forefinger and touched one. It felt dry. No telling how long it had been there. The net was dry on top. Liam managed to wedge a hand in a layer or two and thought he felt dampness, but that probably didn't mean anything, either; rolled on a reel, it would take a long time for a net to dry out. The dampness he thought he felt could have been from a period last week, or one in June, for that matter.

He canvassed a few boats. Most were already out in the Bay, hauling in as much fish as they could find. Bad summer or not, missed forecasts or not, they still had to try. They had mortgages, insurance, grocery bills, college tuition to pay.

They had Windsor Canadian to buy. Liam stood on the slip next to a big seiner and yelled, “Hello theDeirdre F!” There was a thud and a curse and someone stuck his head out the door. “What?”

“Liam Campbell, Alaska state trooper, I'm wondering if you saw theSarah Pcome into the harbor.”

“TheSarah P?” The man squinted, looking as if this were the first time he'd seen daylight in weeks. “I don't even know which boat that is.”

“The little one, right over there.” Liam pointed.

“I don't know, I-wait, what day?”

“Anytime this weekend.”

“I didn't get in until yesterday afternoon. Blew the goddamn drive shaft. And I'd like to get back to it, okay?” he added pointedly.

“Okay.”

Further inquiries proved equally fruitless. Liam plodded on up the gangplank. It was getting close to six o'clock. Time for dinner with Dad. Oh joy.

Force of habit made him check his uniform before he went inside, except he wasn't wearing his, which had him at an automatic disadvantage. No help for it. He squared his shoulders and pulled open the door.

Charles was already there. Seated across from him was Diana Prince, who had changed into civilian clothes herself. She looked very nice in a dark red sweater and a string of pearls. Her hair had been ruffled up from its neat, restrained daytime style in that way women do that indicates they are off duty and on the hunt.

“Yeah, well, being found not guilty of driving an oil tanker onto Bligh Reef while drunk is not necessarily the same thing as being innocent of doing the same thing,” Charles was saying as Liam came up.

Liam winced. The investigation of the grounding of theExxon Valdez,like the deaths in Denali the previous winter, was one of those cases troopers didn't like to brag about.

It apparently wasn't bothering Prince, who laughed. Before her time.

“Liam,” Charles said, looking up. “I've invited Diana to join us. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” Liam lied courteously, and, choosing the lesser of two evils, sat down next to Prince.

“You've had a busy day,” Charles said genially, signaling Bill, who sent Maria, the server who had taken Laura Nanalook's place, over to take orders. Maria was in her mid-twenties and looked like she practiced bulimia as a religion. Her clavicles held up her T-shirt like a hanger, and her blond hair was so fine you could see her pink scalp between strands. Her lips didn't have enough flesh to stretch over her teeth in a smile, but she took Liam's order, whirled to the bar and was back in two minutes flat.

Liam, who had the feeling he was going to require backup, had ordered a Glenmorangie, a double. Charles raised his eyebrows. Liam had always hated those eyebrows. “Bill keeps it in stock for me.”

Prince was nursing a glass of white wine, Charles a beer. “What did you find out?” Prince said.

“Not now,” Liam said, more curtly than he'd intended. He opened his mouth to apologize, and felt someone standing next to him. He looked up. It was Wy.

For the first time since he'd seen her again in May, her hair was loose, the same tumbled mass of bronzed blond curls he remembered from those days in Anchorage. She was wearing a teal-blue T-shirt tucked into her jeans and wide gold nugget hoops in her ears. His eyes lingered on the hoops for a moment.