John Sandford - Secret Prey

Lucas said, "The killer had to find the place in the dark-so he had to know where it was, exactly."

"Unless he came after daylight," Krause said. "That’s possible."

"Yeah, but when we were coming in, your deputy-the one with the dog? — pointed out where this Robles guy was sitting, and generally where the other people were. So the killer would have to take a chance on being seen, unless he really knew the layout."

"And if he knew all that, he’d probably be recognized by the others," Sloan said. "Which means he probably came in when it was dark."

"Unless he’s one of these guys," Krause said. "These guys would have all the information, plus an excuse for walking around with guns… and they’d know that nobody would come looking at the sound of a shot."

"It could be one of these guys," Lucas said. "But it’d take guts."

"Or a crazy man," Sloan said.

At the end of the track they could see a half-dozen people sitting and standing on the cabin porch, a man in a red plaid shirt talking animatedly to the others. A short man in a blue suit sat apart from them.

"What’s the situation with these people?" Lucas asked as they started down the slope toward the cabin. "Who questioned them?"

"I did, and one of our investigators, Ralph-that’s Ralph in the blue suit."

"Is he good?" Lucas asked.

The sheriff thought for a minute and then said, "Ralphcouldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel."

Sloan asked, "So how come…?"

"I try to keep him out of the way, but he was at the office and answered the phone this morning."

"Did he collect all the guns?" Lucas asked.

"No, but I did," Krause said. "Two of them had been fired-both people had deer to show for it. The others look clean."

"I saw the deer hanging down by the cabin…" Lucas said. Then: "Get your crime scene guys to check their hands and faces for powder traces. And count shells-find out what they claim to have fired, and do a count."

"I’m doing all that, except for the shells," Krause said. He looked up at Lucas. "I’m going by the book. The whole book. My problem is more along the lines of interrogation and so on. Expertise."

Lucas tipped his head at Sloan: "Sloan is the best interrogator in the state."

Sloan grinned at the sheriff and said, "That’s true."

"Then we’d like to borrow you for a while," Krause said. "If you got the time."

"Fine with me," Sloan said. "Overtime is overtime."

"Is there any possibility that you could do some running around Minneapolis for me?" Krause asked.

Sloan looked at Lucas. "I’ve got a couple of things going

… Sherrill is doing research on that Shack thing, but she’s not getting much. Maybe she could do some running around."

Lucas nodded. "I’ll call her this afternoon, on my way back. Anything you break out of these guys, call it down to her. I’ll have her talk to Kresge’s wife, check for girlfriends…"

"Or boyfriends," Sloan said.

"Or boyfriends. And I’ll have her start talking to people in his office-secretaries and so on." Lucas looked at Krause. "I don’t want to take over your investigation…"

"No-no-no, don’t worry about that," Krause said hastily.

"The more you can do, the better. My best guys are busier’n two-dick dogs in a breeding kennel… And my other guys would have a hard time finding Minneapolis, much less anybody in it."

"Sounds like you have some problems," Sloan said. "First Arne, then Ralph…"

"We’re going through a transitional period," Krause said grimly. Then: "Look, I’m the new guy up here. I was with the highway patrol for twenty-five years, and then last fall I got myself elected sheriff. The office is about fifty years out of date, full of deadwood, and all the deadwood is related to somebody. I’m cutting it down, but it takes time. I’ll take any help I can get."

"Whatever we can do," Lucas said.

Krause nodded. "Thanks." He’d been prepared to dislike the Minneapolis guys, but it hadn’t turned out that way. Actually, he sort of liked them, for city people. Sloan especially, but even Davenport, with his shoe tassels and expensive clothes. He glanced at Davenport again, quickly. From a little bit of a distance you might think pussy . You didn’t think that when you got closer to him. Not after you’d seen his smile.

He added, "I don’t think I’m gonna get too far up here. Matter of fact, I don’t think I’m going to get anywhere- everything about this shooting was set up in the Cities."

They were coming up to the porch, and Sloan said, quietly, "So let’s go jack up these city folks. See if anybody gets nervous."

The four surviving hunters sat on the porch in the afternoon sunlight, in rustic wooden chairs with peeling bark and waterproof plastic seat cushions. They all had cups of microwaved coffee: Wilson McDonald’s was fortified with two ounces of brandy. James T. Bone sat politely downwind of the others, smoking a cheroot.

The sheriff’s investigator perched on a stool at the other end of the porch, like the class dummy, looking away from them. If one of the bankers suddenly broke for the woods, what was he supposed to do? Shoot him? But the sheriff had told him to keep an eye on them. What’d that mean?

And the bankers were annoyed, and their annoyance was not something his worn nerves could deal with. He could handle trailer-home fights and farm kids hustling toot, but people who’d gone to Harvard, who drove Lincoln and Lexus sport-utes and wore eight-hundred-dollar apre`s-hunt tweed jackets, undoubtedly woven by licensed leprechauns in the Auld Country-well, they made him nervous. Especially when one of them might be a killer.

"Davenport is the bad dog,"Bone said from downwind, as they watched Krause lead his parade down through the woods toward the cabin. He bit off a sixteenth-inch of the cheroot and spit it out into the fescue at the bottom of the porch. "He oughta be able to tell us something."

"Mean sonofabitch, by reputation," O’Dell said. She said it casually, looking through the steam of the coffee. She wasn’t impressed. She was surrounded by mean sonsofbitches. She might even be one herself.

"Just another c-cop," Robles stuttered. Robles was scared: they could smell it on him. They liked it. Robles was the macho killer, and his fear was oddly pleasing.

"I talked to him a couple of times on the transfers with his IPO-you all know he used to be Davenport Simulations?" Bone said. They all nodded; that was the kind of thing they all knew. "He sold the company to management and walked with better’n ten, AT." He meant ten million dollars, after taxes.

"So why doesn’t he quit and move to Palm Springs?" Robles asked.

" ’Cause he likes what he does," Bone said.

"I wish he’d get his bureaucratic ass down here and do what we have to do; I wanna get back to town," McDonald grumbled. Back to a nice smooth single-malt; but he’d stay here as long as the others did. Sooner or later, they’d start talking about who’d be running the bank. "No point in keeping us here. We’ve told them everything we know."

"Unless one of us killed him," Bone said lazily.

"Gotta be an accident," Robles said, nervously. " Opening day of deer season… I bet there’re twenty of them. Accidents."

"No, there aren’t," Bone said. "There are usually one or two, and most of the time, they know on the spot who did the shooting."

"Besides, it wasn’t an accident," O’Dell said positively.

"How do you know?" McDonald asked. He finished the loaded coffee and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. He could use another.

"Maybe she did it," Robles said. He tried to laugh, but instead made a small squeaking noise, a titter.