Chuck Logan - Vapor Trail

As they were pulling out of the drive, a stout woman in her fifties stood at the right side of the driveway.

“Who’s that?” Broker asked as they drove by.

“Mrs. Siple standing with her big ears right on the property line as usual,” Laurie said, obviously imitating something her parents had said.

“What’s her story?” Broker asked.

“She hates Dad,” Laurie said from her mom’s lap. “She called the cops on him.” Then Laurie dropped down low in the seat and chanted under her breath, “Hag. Witch. Prune. Daddy’s going to put her in a book.”

Janey shook her head. “She made all these ridiculous charges, but it was really about the property line.”

“It’s a small town,” Broker said. The biggest single complaint to police in the city of Stillwater concerned property line violations.

Broker made small talk with Laurie. They discussed his favorite movie when he was a kid, which was Peter Pan. And his favorite food, sloppy joes. What about pizza? Laurie asked. Broker said he’d never had pizza, maybe they could try some now? Laurie liked that idea.

They drove north on 95, past the cop car rally in A. J. Scott’s driveway, to Milt’s place. They put Ambush the cat in a plastic carry basket, drove back past all the cop cars again, picked up the pizza Janey had ordered on her cell, and returned to the house on the South Hill.

While Laurie got acquainted with Ambush, Broker took directions from Janey and went to call on Drew.

Drew Hensen kept a studio at the north end of town over a rambling antique warehouse. Broker parked and studied the layout. Access to the studio was up a flight of wooden stairs; there was a long porch overlooking Main Street.

Broker crossed the street, went up the steps, and peeked in through the screen door; there was a small kitchen, a futon in an alcove, and one big room full of shelves, books, a taboret, a computer, and a drawing table at which Drew sat, hunched over.

Broker knocked on the door. “Drew. It’s Phil Broker.”

Drew came to the door and cocked his head. “Hello, this is twice in two days. Come in.”

“It’s about your daughter,” Broker said.

Drew, who’d worked around a lot of cops, was immediately alert. “What about my daughter? Is this official ?”

“No, no; Janey called me up. .”

Drew stared. Refocusing. “Janey called you up,” he repeated.

Pipes rattled in the wall, and then a slender blonde came out of the bathroom. She was dressed for the weather in tennis-type skirt, a sleeveless top, and sandals. Her blue eyes were magnified behind granny glasses.

“This is Lisa Mertin; she writes children’s books,” Drew said.

Broker and Lisa said hello. Drew turned back to Broker and said, “Now what about Laurie?”

“She cut up her hands. She was upset and tried to dig up Samantha,” Broker said.

Drew winced at Broker’s language. “Christ. Janey and I had a fight, and there you go-the kid soaks it right up.” He turned to Lisa and gestured at the drawing board. “Look, this isn’t going to work out today.”

“No problem. Take care of home,” Lisa said. She picked up her purse, came over, and pecked Drew lightly on the cheek. “I hope everything’s all right. I’ll leave you two.” Then she walked from the studio.

Lisa impressed Broker as being sharp and businesslike, with none of the bovine qualities that Janey had attributed to the other woman.

“Lisa is one of my authors; she was in town for a book signing today, so she dropped by to discuss this new project we’re working on,” Drew said.

“Whatever. Drew, look, I think you better go see Laurie,” Broker said.

Drew blinked several times and then stared at the empty doorway where Lisa had just disappeared. “We’re trying something new. You see, Rowling’s success with Harry Potter tells us that kids don’t want all this PC coddling. We should prepare them for the real world: villains, danger, and even death. I was thinking of calling it Bullies, Bad Guys, and Things That Bite .”

Drew’s eyelids fluttered after he finished speaking. Broker’s gut read on the man hadn’t changed since they’d met years ago; Drew still kept a one-second delay between himself and reality.

Finally, Drew shook his head. “The dead fucking cat?”

“Her hands are torn up a little; she doesn’t require stitches, but. .”

“Torn up.” Drew paused a beat and then said, “I suppose you’ve been talking to Janey.”

“A little. I ran into her at the grocery store last week.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you should know, she’s been pretty twitchy lately. Since the terror attack in New York, she’s obsessed with being vulnerable. She worries about poison in the food and water; smallpox being released at the State Fair. . she watches C-SPAN coverage of the congressional hearings on terrorism.

“And then there’s the personal side. I tell her Lisa is dropping by the studio, and she accuses me of having an affair. Christ-I work with six female kids writers in Minnesota. Two of them are fat, and two of them are lesbians,” Drew said.

“What about the other two?” Broker said a little too fast.

Drew made an attempt to stare Broker down, decided against it, and looked away. “Okay, so I blew up in the kitchen. And Laurie saw it. Now this has happened. What’s next?”

Broker looked around the studio, and his eyes settled on the big duffel bag full of clothes sitting on the futon in the alcove. Obviously, Drew was leaving some stuff out. Like walking out of his house with a packed bag. Broker said in a level voice, “I think you should go see to your daughter.”

“And I want to see her,” Drew said. “I just don’t want to see. . who’s with her right now.”

Broker said nothing, but his arms were crossed tight over his chest in a body language knot. Drew pulled the studio door shut. Side by side, he and Broker went down the stairs two at a time. On the street Drew shook Broker’s hand, mumbled a fast thanks, turned, and jogged toward the line of parked cars.

Broker got in his car and drove back to the house north of town where the dogs had found the body. The voyeur rush had subsided, and now only a few county cars remained. Mouse was talking to Joe Timmer, the chief investigator for the Ramsey County medical examiner. As Broker walked up, they were indulging in copper gallows humor about how the news media would handle the incident.

“Ten ways to tell if Rover has been eating corpses,” Timmer quipped.

Mouse’s cell phone rang. He raised the phone and said in a tired voice, “Whatta ya say?” He listened a moment, gripped the toothpick in his mouth between his clenched teeth, and snapped his eyes on Broker.

“Got him,” he said after he’d hung up. “He’s at Mystic Lake.”

Angel watched Carol Lennon write a check for a bottle of Clos du Bois merlot at the MGM liquor store across from the Cub-Target strip mall in Stillwater.

Carol taught art at Timberry Consolidated High School. She was forty-two years old, had divorced in her twenties and never remarried. She had large oval brown eyes and smooth unblemished skin. Her plain angular face was absolutely clean of wrinkles or crow’s-feet. Her luxuriant black hair had not a trace of gray, and she wore it straight back in a long ponytail. If she’d been shorted some in the chest department, she made up for it with magnificent dancer’s legs, which she usually concealed under long dresses. But this sultry early evening she wore flaring tan shorts, a green sports top, and leather sandals.

The earth colors went nicely with her slightly olive skin.

Carol had a particularly fluid way of walking, and, as she left the crowded store, several men turned to look. One of them smiled and cocked his head as if he had just relived a special memory of a small-breasted woman with a great ass and knockout legs.