Chuck Logan - Vapor Trail

Patti said, “You mean the guy in the thousand-dollar blue suit.”

The Stillwater cop said, “Yeah. So that’s him, Davenport?”

Patti said, “That’s him. He bailed from Minneapolis, now he’s with the state.”

The Stillwater cop said, “I hear he cuts notches in his gun.”

Patti’s face was deadpan, her timing perfect. “The way I heard it, he cuts notches in his dick.”

The Stillwater cop said, “BCA ain’t gonna be the same.”

Patti said, “No shit, looks like the Sears catalog is out and GQ is in.”

Broker rolled his eyes and turned to Mouse. “This is a circus. You know what you’re doing?”

“Orders. I been on the horn to John E. He said throw it wide-open. I got guys keeping an eye out so the press doesn’t disturb anything. But how can you contaminate a scene like this? There’s pieces of this poor pilgrim spread out for a hundred yards in every direction,” Mouse said. “The point is, it takes the heat off our dead priest for a news cycle.”

“Gotcha. Who was this guy anyway?” Broker said.

Mouse scratched his flattop. “His name was Scott. Some kind of photographer.”

“Our boy called again last night. It sounded like he was in a casino,” Broker said.

“Don’t worry, they’ll spot him,” Mouse said. “In the meantime, prepare yourself to hear, see, and read a lot about the dogs of Washington County this weekend.”

Then Broker spotted Lymon Greene walking uncertainly up from taking a look at the body.

“Lymon,” he called out, “you got a minute?”

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Lymon said.

“About time you got wet,” Broker said.

“Is that some kind of joke?” Lymon said. He was clearly upset; sweat dotted his skin like BBs of mercury.

Broker shook his head. “No joke. Part of the job is protecting the public from seeing stuff like that. The civilians live up on top the water. We get to see what swims under it.” Broker paused a beat. “Like the Saint.”

Lymon nodded and motioned Broker to follow him up the driveway. They counted three TV vans. Cops from other jurisdictions were coming down the drive three abreast.

“It’s like a circus sideshow,” Lymon said.

“You got the sideshow part right,” Broker said.

When they reached Lymon’s car, he reached in the open window, took out a manila folder, and handed it to Broker. “Benish said you were out here, so I thought I’d bring these,” Lymon said.

The folder contained several glossy black-and-white photographs of Victor Moros lying in a small pool of blood on the carpet of his confessional. He was a stocky, strong-featured man, more Indian than Spanish, with longish black hair. His eyes were closed in death, but his mouth was open in a grimace of even, white teeth.

Lymon tapped a sheaf of faxes that were in the folder along with the photos.

“Cause of death, a.22 long fired point-blank into his temple. The two other wounds, one in the neck and in the cheek, would not have killed him if he’d received medical attention promptly. So they speculate the killer lured Moros close to the screen, shot twice, then came around and put one in his head. They found plastic residue in the wounds, like from a commercial container. A pop bottle. They think the killer might have used a homemade silencer.

“No cartridges found on the scene. No latent prints, no blood or body fluids. They’re still running tests on fibers and residue on the carpet.

“I talked to Albuquerque, and they say Moros was a solid, old-fashioned plodder. Nothing remotely in his past that suggests he’s anything other than what he was. They put the whole incident down to media-induced hysteria.

“The father and mother who accused Moros out there have been in town all summer. No vacations to Minnesota.”

Broker reached in and put the folder back on the front seat of Lymon’s car. “This is your kind of stuff, not my kind of stuff,” he said.

Lymon’s face was unusually candid. “Your kind of thing is Harry, right? Fast and loose, high risk, and no rules. Benish just told me about what happened between you two back in St. Paul. About Harry’s wife.”

“Let’s get out of here, walk a little,” Broker said. He pointed toward the highway. They walked the rest of the way up the drive, crossed Highway 95, and followed an asphalt bike trail that meandered under the shade of the trees.

“So how do you handle what happened with Harry’s wife?” Lymon said.

“You don’t handle it. It’s always there, walking beside you, like we are now,” Broker said.

“I hope I never get put in that situation.”

“Chances are you won’t. A big part of living is believing that bad stuff happens to other people. Usually it works that way.”

“Up on top of the water.”

“There it is. But you’re right. Harry is my kind of thing.”

Lymon studied Broker carefully. “Explain your kind of thing.”

“Sure. Start with fundamentals. What was the world’s first recorded murder?”

“You’re patronizing me,” Lymon said, guarded.

“Uh-uh. C’mon. Answer the question.”

“Cain kills Abel. God asks Cain where his brother is, and Cain says, ‘I know not. Am I my brother’s keeper?’” Lymon quoted.

“God interrogates his suspect.” Broker nodded. “The suspect denies the crime. But Cain gets busted. That’s a fairy tale. What’s missing that would make it real?”

Lymon stared at him.

Broker continued. “What’s missing is the tip that put God onto Cain. Once you add the snitch, you have the world’s first solved crime.”

“And you think Harry’s the snitch on the Saint.”

“There it is. My job is getting Harry to talk.”

They walked in silence for thirty seconds. Then Broker said, “The gossip says you’re sleeping with Gloria. Are you?”

Lymon avoided Broker’s eyes and looked into the trees. “I might have strayed a little. .” He held up his left hand, palm inward, and stared at the gold band.

“Bad question. Nobody tells the truth about sex. Or the Saint,” Broker said.

Lymon made a face.

“So what’d she do, take you like an antidote to Harry? She’s still in love with him, isn’t she? Must be hard on her, being stuck on a guy who shouldn’t have his ticket punched into the twenty-first century,” Broker said.

“The human heart is. .” Lymon said.

“Dog food, remember?” Broker nodded back toward the house. “Was Harry protecting her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me put it a different way. Where was Gloria the night Moros got killed?”

“Down in the gym, working out.”

“Anybody see her who can vouch for the time?”

“Me.”

“Anybody see the two of you?”

“No, we were alone.”

“So you could have been somewhere else.”

“Prove it.”

Broker squinted at the younger man. “That’s what Harry used to say when people suggested he killed Dolman.” Broker turned and walked back toward all the cop cars lining the driveway. He was about ten feet from his car when his cell phone rang.

It was Janey Hensen, and she was crying.

“Broker, I need some help. Drew and I had this fight, and he totally lost it, says he’s moving out, and the thing is, Laurie is-she took it kind of hard and she hurt herself. . ”

Hurt herself? “Did you call nine-one-one?” Broker said.

“It’s not like that exactly. I need some help talking to her,” Janey said.

“Okay. I’ll be right over.”

You will regret this.

Broker did not play games with women. And one of his basic rules was not to meddle in other people’s marriages, especially when an old girlfriend was involved.