All Mortal Flesh (9 page)

“AllBanc says no activity on the checking account or the credit cards.”

Russ waved the information away. “Take a look at these e-mails.” He stood, gesturing for Lyle to take his place. “Linda and her sister, writing to each other.”

Lyle brought out his reading glasses and leaned toward the monitor.

“Try this on. There’s an evening or an afternoon out. This guy brings Linda home. Maybe he was tight, or stoned, or maybe he was just the type who liked hurting women.”

Lyle, engrossed in the screen, made a
go ahead
noise.

“He pushed himself onto her. Linda said no. Probably—and I can just imagine her doing this—she handed him his head on a platter. And then the bastard pulled out his knife and—”

Where did he get a knife? If they had been on a date? Not that it was a date, of course. Just that the guy, Mr. S, had thought so. But Russ knew Linda, and she wouldn’t have stepped out the door with Mel Gibson himself if he wasn’t dressed right.

“We don’t have the knife, do we?” he asked Lyle, who had finished with the e-mails Russ had highlighted and was scrolling down the other entries in the mailbox.

Lyle shook his head.

Oh, Christ
, Russ thought.
Oh, Christ, let it not be
—“Kevin,” he yelled.

The kid appeared in the doorway too fast not to have been listening to every word.

“I’ve got a gun locker in the barn. It’s where I keep my hunting stuff, in the old tack room—”

Flynn nodded, his red soul patch bobbing up and down hypnotically. “I looked at it, Chief. There are two rifles and a shotgun. All locked down. I thought that was the right count.”

“It is. What about my knife?”

“Your knife?”

“It’s an old military issue K-Bar.” Russ gestured, approximating the size. “I use it for field dressing. It should be wrapped in a flannel cloth, lying on the little shelf next to where I keep my recycled shell casings.”

Kevin paused. Russ was so used to the young man blurting out whatever was on his mind that it took him a moment to realize Kevin was weighing his words.

“I saw the shell bucket,” he said carefully. “You can go take a look yourself, but Chief, there’s no knife there.”

Mark hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. They felt dry, gritty, despite the four hours of sleep he had grabbed at home. Before leaving for her shift at the hospital, Rachel had pointed out very clearly that if he was in the state police, he wouldn’t have to work twenty hours out of twenty-four.

Harlene poked her head into the squad room. “Anything?”

He grunted. “Plenty.” He tapped his pen against the pad he had been filling up with names, dates, and addresses. “The trick is going to be following up. Most of these guys were released from Fort Leavenworth. Where they’ve wound up is anyone’s guess.”

The chief, before leaving for the crime scene this morning, had tried to come up with a few likely names. Guys he had put away over the years who might come gunning for him. He had failed miserably. Of course, the shape he was in, it was a miracle he could remember his own name, let alone some long-gone bad guy. Harlene had come to the rescue, dragging out an ancient paper copy of the chief’s service record, listing posting after posting after posting. A bunch of commendations and medals, too, which the chief had never mentioned. Typical.

Now Mark was on the trail, convincing records clerks to track down old cases, making notes of their dispositions. “Y’know, Eric McCrea really ought to be doing this,” he told Harlene. “He’s in the National Guard. He knows how to talk to these people.”

Harlene snorted. “Yeah, like you’re some sort of long-haired hippie who can’t relate. You’re more spit-’n’-polished than anyone in this force, Eric McCrea included.”

Mark ran his hand over his high-and-tight self-consciously. “Ya think?” He took pride in his appearance. In the discipline of small things.

Harlene nudged him. “Don’t worry on it. You’re doing good.” She tapped the bone-dry mug sitting next to his pad of paper. “I don’t usually offer, but you look like you could use some coffee.”

“Thanks, yeah.”

There was a small noise in the doorway. Mark and Harlene both turned. “Is… do you know where Chief Van Alstyne is?”

Over the past two years, Mark had seen Reverend Clare Fergusson a lot of times, and in a lot of situations you wouldn’t expect to find a priest. He’d seen her late nights at the hospital, soaking wet from the river, splattered with mud and blood and grimy with smoke. But he’d never seen her looking… lost. Her dark blond hair was drawn back in a raggedy twist and her skin was taut over her bones, giving her a more pointed expression than usual.

Harlene, who had—as the chief liked to say—a heart as big as her mouth, crossed the room, opened her arms, and enfolded the taller woman, parka and all. “You heard, did you?”

The reverend nodded. “I just got back from a week’s retreat this morning. I was in a meeting when my friend Dr. Anne told me.”

Harlene stepped back but still kept her hands tight over Clare’s arms. “I expect it’s all over the Washington County and Glens Falls hospitals by now. If doctors and nurses could work as fast as they can gossip, there wouldn’t be anybody left sick in this world.”

“What… what happened?”

Harlene sucked in a breath to tell the priest everything when Mark interrupted. “She was killed sometime this weekend. Maybe Monday. That’s all we really know right now.”

The reverend’s eyes were huge in her narrow face. “It couldn’t have been an accident?”

Mark shook his head. She looked down at the floor. “I didn’t think so,” she said. “I just hoped…” She raised her head, focusing on Harlene. “I don’t even know if it’s a good idea for me to contact Russ or not. But I had to do something. How is he?”

Mark leaped in before Harlene could speak again. “I guess you’d have to compare him to how he was. When did you see him last?”

“Um.” She hesitated. “This is Tuesday. About two weeks ago, then.”

Harlene was looking at Mark curiously. He ignored her. “Didn’t you two usually have lunch together Wednesdays? At the Kreemy Kakes Diner?”

“Not since…” She blinked at Harlene, then at him. Her cheeks were warming to a bright rose color. “I’m not sure if you know, but he was having some… difficulties at home…”

“His wife kicked him out, and he went to stay with Margy Van Alstyne. Ayeah. We know all about it,” Harlene said.

“Oh. Well, we haven’t—the last time I had lunch with him was right before that.”

“And of course, you were away for this retreat all last week,” Mark said. “Where was that? Does St. Alban’s have some sort of place where you guys can escape to?”

Her greenish-brown eyes sharpened. “Officer Durkee, if you want to know something, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t hide behind the veneer of conversation.”

He held up his hands. “Not meaning any disrespect, Reverend. But you are friends with the chief. And you knew Mrs. Van Alstyne.”

“We had met. I wouldn’t say that I knew her.”

He chose his next words carefully. “Ma’am, one of the theories we’re working off of is that whoever killed Mrs. Van Alstyne was trying to hurt the chief. Either they were going after him and didn’t find him there, or they went after Mrs. Van Alstyne deliberately, to, you know, punish the chief. So I’d like to know where you were and if you noticed anything odd while you were there.”

She paled, throwing her high cheekbones and sharp nose into stark relief. “I stayed at a cabin up by Abenaki Lake. It’s owned by one of my parishioners, Leland Fitzgerald. It’s remote—three roads off of Route 77. I certainly didn’t see anything unusual while I was there.”

“No visitors?”

She looked at him, her eyes clear and steady. “Deacon Willard Aberforth came up to see me the day before I left. To let me know the diocese was assigning St. Alban’s a new deacon to help out.”

He wasn’t going to get anything else out of her. Her back was up. “Thanks, Reverend,” he said. “Every piece of information, even if it’s in the negative, helps us get a little bit closer.”

She twitched in acknowledgment. “Harlene,” she said, “do you think I could leave a note for… for the chief?”

Harlene nodded. “Of course. You come right into his office.” Mark could hear the dispatcher as she led Reverend Fergusson across the way. “And you know who could probably use a visit? The chief’s mother…” Her voice faded to a muffled sound behind the office door.

In a moment she was back, hands on her formidable hips, springy gray curls quivering with indignation. “What was the meaning of
that
?” she hissed at him.

“What?”

“Sssh. Keep your voice down. You know what. Cross-examining Reverend Clare like that.”

He shrugged. “Just keeping track of the players, that’s all.”

“In a pig’s eye. I’ve been working dispatch since your mama had you in Pampers. Don’t think I don’t know when someone’s being considered a suspect.”

“Harlene.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Think about it. She’s the reason the chief and his wife separated.”

“What are you, their marriage counselor? You don’t know that.”

“They’ve got something going on. Half the town knows it. She’s an army vet, she’s got training in survival skills, hell, she probably knows how to kill somebody with a rock and a pointed stick.”

Harlene frowned furiously at him but let him continue.

“Now she’s out of town, all alone, no alibi for a week. During which time Mrs. Van Alstyne, her rival”—he held up one hand to forestall Harlene’s explosion—“is knifed to death. And right afterward, she conveniently returns home to find out what’s happened.”

Harlene’s eyes bulged. “She’s a priest, for God’s sake!”

“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “I forgot. Priests never do anything wrong. Hello? Catholic choirboys?”

“You can’t seriously think she did it.”

He shrugged. “She’s always seemed nice enough, sure. But hell, Harlene, even nice people can do some pretty bad things when push comes to shove. I’ll tell you this”—he nodded toward where the squad room door stood ajar—“I don’t think she’s telling us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

You shouldn’t be doing this.” Lyle glanced away from the road for a second. “You’re not in any condition to ask coherent questions.”

Sunk in the passenger seat, Russ didn’t respond.

“I mean it, man. You need to be at home, working this through. Getting support from your family.”

The Dixie Chicks were in the CD player, clean bright music from a whole different planet than the one he was living on.

“Let me run you on over to your mom’s house. Isn’t your sister-in-law getting here soon?”

“Goddammit, I don’t need to run back to my mother! I need to find out who the hell Linda was making a date with. I’ll tell you how I’m going to ‘work this through.’ By finding her killer and putting him in the fucking ground.”

Lyle looked at him sidelong again. “Make sure you mention that to Meg Tracey. I’m sure that will put her at ease and help us get a whole load of information out of her.”

“I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to scare her.”

“Chief, you’re scaring
me
.”

Russ closed his eyes and leaned against the headrest. He wasn’t going to get into it with his second-in-command. This wasn’t some
Star Trek
episode where Lyle got to throw him in the brig because he was acting crazy. The Chicks were singing
If I fall, you’re going down with me
, a song that irresistibly reminded him of Clare, and his throat closed up again with self-loathing; his wife was dead and he still thought of, grieved for, wanted another woman. His weakness hardened his resolve. If he couldn’t give Linda the undivided mourning she deserved, he could do the next best thing. He could lay her murderer out at her feet.

“This it?”

Russ opened his eyes. Lyle had pulled the pickup over to the side of the road. He gestured toward the house across the way.

“Yeah,” Russ said. “This is it.”

The Traceys’ house was maybe a hundred years old, originally built for a grown son or daughter from the larger farmhouse next door. The farmlands had been sold off in sections years ago, and the road was strung with suburban-style tract homes, double-wides, and do-it-yourself log cabins—whatever the individual lot buyers had been able to afford.

Russ and Lyle mounted the porch steps and rang the bell. A terrific barking ensued. After a moment, the curtain at the window twitched. The door cracked open. Meg Tracey, eyes red-rimmed, thin body wrapped in an oversized sweater-jacket, blocked the narrow entrance. She stared at Russ. “What are you doing here?”

Lyle reached into his coat pocket and produced his badge. “We’re here on official business, Mrs. Tracey. Can we come in?” He had to pitch his voice over the dogs barking.

She noticed the badge, but her gaze went immediately back to Russ. She looked, he realized, afraid. Of him. Suddenly, Lyle’s offer to take him home took on a whole different cast. MacAuley hadn’t just been trying to protect Russ’s feelings. He had realized, where Russ had not, that there were going to be people they spoke to in the course of the investigation who believed Russ was responsible.

For Linda’s murder.

“I already gave a statement last night. To Officer McCrea.”

“I know.” Lyle’s voice was warm and grateful. “Thank you. But you didn’t just find Mrs. Van Alstyne’s body. You were her best friend. We’re hoping that, as her friend, you’ll be able to fill in some of the missing pieces. To give us a clearer picture of her last few days.”

Her eyes flickered warily, but she stood back from the door. Immediately, two knee-high white Eskies exploded onto the porch, their thick fur giving them the appearance of hairy, short-legged marshmallows. They danced around Russ and Lyle, barking furiously. “Don’t mind them,” Meg said over the racket. “Snowball! Fluff! Down!” The dogs ignored her, bumping and winding through Russ’s and Lyle’s legs as they crossed the threshold into a well-used family room.