Why do you devour him? Tell me the cause.
If we agree his sins deserve this bestial punishment,
I, knowing who you are, and knowing his crimes against you
Will speak of you on earth, if my tongue does not wither away.
   —Dante Alighieri, The Inferno

THE CITY of Coeur d’Alene seemed to end on the east side of the Tubbs peninsula. Brush and white pine crowded to the edges of the manicured green lawns in the city’s historical district. The peninsula was not big, it could be walked in under an hour. A beachhead trail followed the curve of the peninsula and joined the longest boardwalk in North America on the west side. A well-marked trail led up into the foliage. From Ace Hardware on Sherman in downtown Coeur d’Alene it was a short walk into thick woods.

In the morning, Matt and Russ confirmed how close the woods were to town. Matt had found that Ace Drugs was the only pharmacy on the south side of town that sold duct tape. Matt and Russ walked around the bend that the column of the Pillar Rocks forces into the trail. Then they left the trail, working their way from the trailhead straight up into the dry yellow cheatgrass that grew between the rocks. The trees were dense at the top, the ground in deep shadow. Matt could see clear down to the other side of the peninsula. The Coeur d’Alene Resort stood right before them, a few hundred yards away as the crow flies.

Matt’s watchband snagged on a branch, and he checked the time before he took it off and put it in his pocket. 11:00 a.m. In his pocket his fingers slid across tiny plastic envelopes that enclosed leaf and soil samples sent back from Spokane. The bits of dirt inside were cold to the touch.

Branches scraped his bare arms and knocked off his hat. He looked over at Russ moving smoothly through the trees. Then he reached the clearing. The light filtered down in shafts as though coming through stagnant water. Someone had worked this clearing: footprints and scuff marks covered the ground.

A great shattered yew deadfall lay half sunk into the forest floor. Matt sat on its crumbled pieces and watched Russ photographing something on the ground.

“Whatcha got there?”

“Footprint,” said Russ. “Looks a lot like the one we found in the restroom.” Matt looked carefully across the clearing. Leaves were scattered and broken.

The color of the ground was uneven. On top the leaves showed the rich brown of mulch recently turned over the wrong way up.

Carefully, Matt worked his foot under the layer of leaves. The flies rose in a thick, slow cloud off the bare earth. In the same moment, he could smell something rotting, a rank smell that nauseated, like rancid beef.

Under one leaf there was a flash of silver. Folded duct tape, gray and white, with an overlay of mottled rust. He pointed it out to Russ and snapped a pair of plastic gloves on his hands before carefully extracting the tape. Then Matt reached behind him and broke a dry branch off. With the point of the stick he lifted it off, a mat of trampled leaves that concealed all the darker stain beneath.

A breeze came across the lake toward the two men. Although the sky held only a few streaks of high white clouds, the air was brisk and cool. It was nearly fall. Russ looked at Matt, his gaze inscrutable. “You know, I never did thank you properly for getting me out of that jam with the girl.”

The swallows were tiny black cracks in a bright blue sky. Matt looked down at the ground, tracing bent grass blades in the breeze. “You ever tell your wife about what happened, like you said you were going to do?”

Russ laughed nervously, the sound echoing across the water. “Geez, Matt, you cut to the chase, dontcha? Look . . . it’s just never the right time. She knows, without me ever telling her. That’s why she put me on this case. I can’t keep a secret to save my life.”

“You still saying that you didn’t know she was underage? Was that the truth?”

“I do appreciate you believing me, the first time, when it mattered, and now too. That matters to me, my friend. It matters more than any amount of truth, you know?”

On the lakeside shore, ahead of them, the sedge grass was bent apart, as if someone had walked through, making their own path wherever they went. And there was a flattened, smashed place in the sedge grass and cattails, a minuscule stream ran through it.

Then Russ elbowed him and winked. “But then again, Matty, if I had known, I don’t know if I would have stopped—I mean, hell, she was quite a looker, wasn’t she?”

“Dammit, Russ,” Matt looked up from the grass and glared at him.

“Hell, I’m just kidding, Matt.” Russ put a hand on Matt’s shoulder, and looked at him seriously. “You gotta make sure they give Arlen some respect. He was a little guy—and they never gave him enough respect as a chaplain.”

A bead of sweat came trickling down Russ’s face. Matt watched it come out of his hairline and draw a path down his temple toward his cheek, disappear ing near his jawline. Russ looked away, sighing. “Jesus, Matty, I feel real bad about his death. He never gave up on anyone.”

The midges ran wild as Matt’s feet pushed soil into the little stream. Some large animal—perhaps a person holding something—had pressed the grass flat. Other feet had stepped here, the prints of a shoe cracked and distinctive. A black thread and hairs were caught in the grass. Russ carefully took out the tool kit, removing a pair of tweezers.

“I know what Arlen did for us,” said Matt. “He visited my pop in the hospital a month or so ago—Pop really appreciated that someone listened to him. Me, I don’t know. Sometimes I found Arlen . . . hard to talk to. I told him about . . .” Matt’s voice trailed off.

Carefully, Matt pulled the grass apart, holding up a piece of hair caught in a tangle of grass. Russ trapped it in a ziplock evidence bag. Then Russ grinned and pointed at another spot in the trampled sedge grass.

The footsteps went down to the edge of the lake, and then they dragged something up toward the buildings. Matt and Russell didn’t follow the prints to the resort. They were interested in where the prints came back out again.

On the side of the peninsula that faced the river, near the overpass, Matt and Russ found the shoeprint again. Near the college, the great concrete pylons of US Route 95 reached down to the shore on either side of the river. The pylons stood twenty feet away from the water, making a shelter of sorts. Matt and Russ looked underneath.

They found the usual, broken bottles, used condoms, syringes, decaying graffiti, and a makeshift latrine. Matt checked a circle of blackened stones— the firepit—for signs of recent burning.

He looked up at Russ. “So, you’re due to retire in what—six weeks? What do they have you working on, besides this, as you go out the door?”

“Hell, Matt, it’s been a little frustrating.” Russ kicked at the grass and the logs around the firepit. “Merrill is giving me nothing to do. Traffic, potholes, paperwork—and old missing persons. Did I tell you about the one that should’ve been round-filed long ago? Some guy went missing in the Sunshine disaster, and now his family wants to find him.”

“My pop was in that mine disaster,” said Matt. “We found him.”

“I know, I know—your pop came out alive, and he was fine. But this guy— Larry Clark—he clocked out, we think. He’s on the records as having come out alive from the mine, but his family hasn’t heard from him since. Nearly twenty years. Ancient history.”

Matt moved out on the beach. Here, the trucked-in white beach sand near the water gave way to natural North Idaho grit and dirt. It was easier to follow the shoeprint. And there was something faintly silver there in the grass, something black. Things left behind.

Apparently this was where the man had parked, for the deep ruts of new tire treads moved away from the abandoned beach. The shoeprint disappeared at the tire ruts.

“That heart attack I had back in April—it woke me up, Matt,” said Russ. “I want my time here to count for something. Val and I have been talking. If I ran for office—”

“Well, let me tell you from experience,” said Matt. “It ain’t no cakewalk, running a campaign. Your life will be hell throughout. And sometimes there’s hell to pay later too.”

“That’s why I’m telling you. You’ve been there—I knew you’d understand. But I have a favor to ask—after I retire, can you keep me in the loop on the resort case?”

Matt whistled softly. “I might be able to do that. But I don’t know what I could share. It’s not that I don’t want to level the playing field—I just don’t know if you have a hope against Merrill. He has quite a machine. He’ll murder you.”

“But you’ll help me, right?”

“Basically, you want me to give up information you could use in a campaign.” Matt stared at him. “First thing you should know though is that we won’t be giving this to the FBI. Andy is pretty clear that he wants the Feds to come in on this, as soon as possible. But I want to solve it here, if I can. I thought you’d feel the same, knowing what Arlen meant to some of us.”

Russ sighed. “Well, I hear you. But that’s not what Val wants—she thinks it’s that Metaline Falls serial killer. Pretty clearly it’s—”

“It’s always about what Val wants—aren’t you the cop here?”

Russ grimaced and shook his head faintly. “Look. On this one, I’d have to concur with her. I mean, the way the body was taken apart is classic. It’s the same killer—and the sooner the FBI can track him across state lines, the sooner we can stop him killing again.”

“How do you know for sure? Hell, we haven’t even got the coroner’s report yet!”

Russ gave a chuckle. “Trust me, Matt, I’ve worked this beat for decades now.”

Matt gave him a penetrating stare, Russ’s patronizing chuckle finally getting under his skin. “You’re not just going off of what Val wants?”

“No, I’m not.” Russ looked levelly back at him. “Something in my gut tells me. It’s a cop instinct, let me tell you. I know it’s the same guy.”

Matt looked down and saw a piece of tape, almost invisible against the ground. A swarm of tiny ants covered it, eating at a brown residue. The water was spotted with white flecks of rotted grass that drifted over its dark swell like an infection.

“Guess Andy hasn’t trusted me to work the field for a while,” said Matt. “Have to get myself tuned up again—get on the same wavelength.”

Matt bent down and looked at the ground. Then Russ spoke again. “I think I can win for sheriff. Richard Stanford is advising me. He thinks I have a chance.”

“Stanford, that ex-congressman? Isn’t a consultant a bit beyond your pay scale?”

“Val’s paying for the consultants, for the election.”

Matt stood and rubbed his neck. He’d been looking down too long. “Figures.”

“Hell, Matty, at least I got good advice. I think you could use some on this case.”

“Advice on this case? Just because Andy put me in charge of this thing doesn’t mean I can’t handle it, and furthermore—”

“Jesus, Matty, hasn’t it occurred to you that Andy might just want to have you keep the case so he has a solid scapegoat to blame the mess on?”

Matt held out a hand, stopping Russ from walking ahead. He put on a new pair of plastic gloves. He bent his legs and squatted, lifting the black shape of a sodden sleeping bag out of the rotted grass. It was dripping and ragged. A hair was caught in a fold of the bag. He lifted it out carefully with the tweezers. Brown, with a blond tip.

“You know, I wonder if you’re right.” Matt spit out over the lake and pivoted on his bent legs to see Russ more clearly. “You think Andy might actually be setting me up here?”

“Yeah, I do,” said Russ seriously.

Matt looked at him silhouetted by the light off the lake. “I’ve always trusted you, Russ. I’ll consider it. Thanks for the advice.”

At their feet dead specks of sedge swirled into the sump where Matt had made a hole by removing the sleeping bag. In minutes, the rottenness covered it.

Walking back along the verge of the bank, Matt and Russ came finally to the stream again. Looking at the bed in the sedge grass now, Matt saw something he’d missed before. There was a slip of paper in the bushes they hadn’t seen the first time. He pointed.

“Grab that,” he said. “Can you put it in a baggie?”

Carefully, Russ took hold of the crumpled paper with a pair of tweezers. As he lifted it off the weeds, Matt could make out a faint tracing of a dog.

“It’s a Greyhound ticket,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Russ softly. “Nearly falling apart now, but looks like it hasn’t been used. A few days old.” Carefully, he slipped the bit of disintegrating paper inside a piece of plastic. Afterward, he turned to face Matt.

“You said you trust me,” he said. “So I’ll trust you with something. Truth be told, I really don’t want to run for office at all.”

“So why are you doing it?”

“Why do you think?”

They walked up the beach in silence, the toolbox jostling back and forth,

the sleeping bag slopping out dank water, a dribbled pattern along the stone pathway. Finally, Matt spoke again. “You’ve never been able to say no to her, have you?”

Russ did not answer.

“I told you not to marry her.”

Russ moved his head, as if to shake off the truth of it.

Out on the water, Matt could see a rowboat. The blades of the oars in the boat rose from the water with their flat sides up, emerging out of the lake with a great splash. Except for the splash of the rower and the buzz of a distant motorboat, it was quiet.

Russ opened the toolbox and slipped rubber gloves on his hands. Carefully, he opened one end of the sleeping bag. There was enough water left in the bag to keep the blood inside moistly rotting. A viscous residue oozed out onto the garbage can. Matt felt nausea clawing its way from his stomach to his throat as he turned his face away.

The wind carried sounds across the water. From a distance, the voices of people came to him. Laughter, distant and removed, a crowd’s blind cheer. Some child crying, lost. And as fast as that, Matt saw her again, the small girl with hair like corn silk, staring up at him in Arlen’s driveway.

Late that afternoon, Matt spent an hour in Sheriff Andrew Merrill’s office. He was supposed to be briefing the sheriff on their progress, such as it was. But as always, Merrill did most of the talking. He was reminiscing about what he’d been doing the evening Arlen Bowman was found at the resort.

“See, I was finishing up a late evening with Will Herrick—over at the lake place on Orouke Bay. In fact, Will and I got in kinda late for dinner. When the call came in, we’d had a few drinks and we’d just got the Copper River salmon on the grill—have you had this year’s Copper River yet, Matty, it tastes like a lobster fucked a pâté goose, it’s that damn good—and we had the grill going when the call came in. I had to think about Valerie Herrick—she’s my friend too, Matty—so I had to think about her interests, of course . . .”

Matt listened as Merrill explained that Val Herrick’s worry about the reputation of the resort caused him to take more of an interest. Both of them knew that explanations were in order, because Merrill did not usually do the footwork surrounding a crime scene. He was five feet ten inches tall and he weighed over three hundred pounds. Merrill did as little as possible. His sec retary, Phyllis, did most of the heavy lifting: she served as day dispatcher, warrant manager, and often as official and unofficial acting sheriff.

Of course, every two years Merrill conducted well-publicized crackdowns on the strip joints and massage parlors at the Idaho-Washington border, and his deputies kept Fourth of July Pass clear in winter. It was a priority for him to make sure that the Sheriff’s Department, and not the city police, got all the high-profile cases.

Sheriff Merrill also cooperated with the FBI when they did investigations on the neo-Nazis, and he assisted the Forest Service in matters regarding the St. Joe National Forest. And as Matt well knew, Merrill spent time going to public events with one or more of the Herricks. He played them off one another as they continued to spar over their father’s legacy, launching million-dollar litigation suits at each other every other year. Through the Herrick Trust or individually, Valerie and William S. Herrick Jr. owned the Lakeview Hotel, Restaurant & Gaming Facilities; the Coeur d’Alene Courier; the Coeur d’Alene Resort; a fleet of leased tourist yachts; and all large-scale mining property in the Silver Valley. There was little else worth owning in the Coeur d’Alene region.

In the office that afternoon, Merrill seemed to enjoy reliving his rare moment of law enforcement activity. First he reviewed every syllable of the phone calls he’d received and made that evening.

As usual, Merrill had had to appease both Herricks before he could make a decision. Valerie Herrick insisted her husband, Russell, work the case to protect her interests. On the other hand—and mainly because Merrill happened to be at his house when the call came in from the resort—William Herrick recommended an experienced senior officer to offset the conflict of interest. In fact, he had almost demanded that Merrill choose Matt as lieutenant in charge, an oddity Matt did not have time to consider as Merrill kept talking.

Matt yawned. But Merrill wasn’t done yet. He seemed to be practicing the story for the next Kiwanis luncheon. “Just between you and me and the doorpost,” said Merrill. “I’d been keeping up with ol’ William on the Jack Daniel’s, but what I heard from Val at the resort turned me sober as a . . .” Merrill’s voice faltered. He wrinkled his brow, perplexed for a moment. Then his face bright ened as he caught the thread of his story again.

“Sober as a Baptist! That’s God’s honest truth. Sobered me right up. That’s when I called you in, Matty. If you can work with the Feds and get this perp nailed, it will be just what I need going into the election.”

Matt thought of a way to make Merrill own it, to keep the case close. “Andy, sure, I understand about the election—I know you want me to solve it. But this might be a serial killer, a real one. So now I’m thinking we should just wash our hands—call the press, tell them we’re washing our hands of it. Tell them we’re going to ask the FBI to do the grown-up work.”

Merrill bristled. “C’mon, Matty, you pussy. You want me to tell the papers we don’t have any cojones? You really want me to call that fucking agent in Spokane?”

“Yeah.” Matt nodded. “Agent Clay. That’s the name FBI headquarters gave me.”

Merrill shook his head. “Dammit, Matty. It’ll all go to hell if we call in the Feds. Don’t you know that every case we give those damn Feebies goes to hell?” Matt nodded soberly. “Sure, but it might be the better option. I’m telling you, Andy—”

But Merrill wasn’t listening. “You know, it felt real good that evening to be actually doing the job that night—putting the elbow grease in to keep the people safe around here. So I think it’s a good thing that you’re holding on to the case. We solve it ourselves, looks much better for the media. That’s a good decision you made—and I’m making it official. We solve this damn thing ourselves, you hear me?”

Matt gave it one last push, swallowing his grin. “Now wait a minute, Andy, this damn thing might be out of my depth. We’ve got the FBI right there in Spokane—”

“Like I said, Matty, it’s no problem for a man of your capabilities—I’m con fident you can handle it. No Feds, no interference. You just keep me informed, as things progress, all right?”

Then Phyllis called down the hallway that Merrill had a call from someone named Butler. Merrill guffawed, and said, “I’ll take it. Matty’s here—so we’ll have some fun!”

He motioned across the desk. “Why don’t you shut that door there—just between you and me and the doorpost, this’ll be worth a laugh. The reverend is always a hoot, let me tell you. Here, I’ll put it on speakerphone for you.” Merrill pushed a button on his desk phone.

“Hello, Andy?” The voice was loud, as if the person thought that you had to shout to be heard. “Hello—did you put me through?”

“Hey, Reverend, this is Sheriff Andy Merrill, what can I do for you?”

Matt didn’t recognize the voice. He had the sinking feeling this was one of

Merrill’s crackpot constituents. Silently, Matt cursed Phyllis for putting the call through.

“Oh. Andy,” said the voice. It sank in tone and volume, until it was almost at a normal level. It was a rich baritone—a preacher’s voice. “Andy, I never thought I’d want to call you again, but after our last little talk, I thought that one good turn deserved another.”

Now Matt recognized the voice. Inwardly, his curses became more colorful. He knew who it was on the phone. Even thinking about the man put a foul taste in his mouth.

“Well, damn me to hell and back,” said Merrill. “If it isn’t the Reverend Richard Butler. How is your flock in Hayden Lake?”

“Doing well, doing well. God does bless his One True White Flock,” said the reverend. “We pray you’ll repent and join us in worship one of these Sundays.” “Not likely,” said Merrill. He winked at Matt. “Too many Jew folks vote, especially your mother-in-law.”

“Now that’s blasphemy, Andy. I called in the spirit of helpfulness. I might as well hang up right now, bring this Jew talk to a close.”

“No, no, I’m so sorry.” Merrill mocked a pout at Matt. “I do apologize, Reverend. Now I’m all ears—what’s on your mind, Dick?”

“You remember that little talk we had, Andy?”

“Sure I remember. As I recall, I told you that in felony cases, I would charge the Nations with aiding and abetting, unless you started to help us out here.” Merrill nodded at Matt, as if to tell him that he could, under duress, take the law seriously. Then he put a middle finger out at the phone, and laughed silently.

Reverend Butler paused. “Well now, Andy, I remember it different. You said you wanted to support the uplifting activities of the Nations. Didn’t want us taking in degenerates unawares. And I appreciate that. So I guess I have one to report—see, this one young man I need some advice about, he grew up in Coeur d’Alene, and was recruited to the Aryan cause a few months ago. Things seemed to go fine for a while.”

“Let me guess.” Merrill cackled silently at Matt. “He was doing just fine until you discovered he was a Jew and a Negro.”

There was a snort from the phone. “Now, I can just hang up, Andy. My time is valuable too. I figured you all would be interested in this tip.”

“Okay, okay, so you got a name and serial number for me?” Carefully, Merrill wrote down a name.

“I’m sorry about this, Sheriff. We do try to get the best and the bright—but we take whoever the Good Lord brings us. We can’t reject one of his sheep, you know.”

Merrill glanced at Matt and raised his eyebrows. He mocked a yawn. “Now, Reverend, are you turning in this guy because you owe him back pay for working security? That’s what happened last year, you know. I don’t need the grief now. I got an election coming up.”

The reverend made a sound again, somewhere between a sigh and a huff. “That was just a misunderstanding, that was. I’m calling you just to make sure you don’t think I have any responsibility for this boy. He’s been antisocial here, despite the Christian Identity training. And I don’t want the Nations to be charged for any crime he’ll commit.”

“Sure, sure, sure, I’ll make sure Matty here can put the kid’s description in some ongoing case—we can pick him up for you on some charge, get him back in the fold.” Hurriedly, Merrill motioned at Matt, handing him a piece of paper. Matt shook his head, disgusted, and pushed it back. Merrill tried again, and the paper moved back and forth.

Finally, Matt stood, the paper stuck in his hand. He motioned that he’d be down the hall. He didn’t have time to waste like this on Merrill’s games.

As he went down the hallway he heard the reverend make another demand. “Now, the boy is still a member of this church. He’s an Aryan. So I need you to swear before Yahweh that you won’t give this information to any non-Aryan, to any mongrel . . .”

As Matt walked to his office, he could hear Merrill snort loudly at the request.

Matt was on the phone, talking to Sall, when someone entered the doorway of his office. The door closed with a bang. Matt looked up. First Reverend Richard Butler, and now her.

Valerie Herrick was tall and slim and wore a blue suit. The suit sheathed her body in a new and shiny material, tight as a car’s metallic skin. Her mane of curling hair was faintly copper colored. It was set off by the armor-like cloth, jewelry in a shadow box. A pair of glasses in thin gold frames rested on perfect cheekbones.

Matt cupped a hand over the receiver to ask Valerie what she wanted, but she ignored him entirely. Instead, she sat down and took out a small canister that could have held expensive makeup or perfume. As he talked on the phone, Valerie opened the canister. Inside were what looked like small foil-wrapped vials. She peeled one and put it in her mouth. Almond Roca.

She gnashed each piece apart, a certain calculated violence in her movements. As she ate, individual pieces of gold foil drifted down to his floor.

“Yes,” he said to Sall. “I hear you. I know I should call him, and I haven’t called him . . . but okay, I’ll take care of that dang shed in Pop’s backyard. I know he’s worried about rats in there. I’ll knock it down, get it out of there, as soon as I can.”

Valerie put another piece into her mouth and broke it violently apart with her perfect white teeth. As he talked on the phone, Matt watched her chew and swallow.

When she was done eating, she put the canister firmly on the corner of his desk and stood from his chair. She left him with a glare and stalked down the hall, her heels clicking on the ancient floor.

Matt could hear her immediately in Merrill’s office. The voice was grating, it came through the walls like a saw. “Dammit, Andy—listen to me!”

Merrill’s voice was more muted. “Hey, all I said, Val, was that you got one sweetheart of an ass there. Is that harassment, ’cause I just want to—”

“Listen, Andy, you’re going to call the union guys on the highway, make ’em pay up. Anything goes south on that deal with the new highway, there’s going to be a state audit! You gotta make sure those union bastards finish it. Otherwise, my brother will just . . . dammit, I don’t want Will to get away with . . .”

Matt put the phone down and went to the door, intended to shut it against the sound of Valerie’s voice. “Hold on a sec, Sall. Got some screamer here in the office.” Then he paused for a moment, listening to an unnatural whine in Merrill’s response.

Matt went back to his desk, stepping over the pile of gold foil near the door. He could still hear Valerie’s voice, all the way down the hallway.

“Why won’t your boy just cry wolf? Hell, I’ll just go talk to him myself!”

Matt was not surprised when his office door banged open again. But he turned his chair away from Valerie as he spoke to his wife on the phone. “Sall, I really want to hear this—I want to hear what Doug said. But I really gotta go. Can you tell me about what Doug said at dinner? He’s okay, right?”

Valerie sat down, clearing her throat harshly, as if Matt were interrupting her, instead of the other way around. Matt’s shoulders grew taut against the material of his uniform. “Good, good. Yeah, I want to hear all about what he’s doing at dinnertime. Yeah, I’ll be home by four o’clock. I love you too.”

Then Matt put the phone down. He turned the chair back around and rubbed his large hands across his face before he spoke again. “What the hell is so important?” he said to Valerie. “What do you want of me?”

Valerie Herrick moved her head, the wave of hair shifting in the sunlight, changing color as she moved. He couldn’t tell what shade it really was anymore. It crossed Matt’s mind that Valerie was like her hair—you could never get a fix on what she was thinking. Somehow, between Merrill’s office and Matt’s, she’d become calm again. It made Matt wary, as if some unknown color was about to swamp him.

Valerie breathed carefully before speaking. “The sheriff says you are the one responsible for keeping it closed, for making my entire main floor a crime scene. That you don’t feel this is a serial killer thing, and that the scene won’t open until you approve it.”

A tremor ran through Matt, he was tense all over. “Is that what he’s telling you?”

Valerie lifted a file folder from her lap and tapped it against her thigh slowly, as if it were a weapon. “Look at the file, Matt. It’s so clear that a damn child could—”

“How did you get a copy of the file? From Russ? I’ll have his ass.”

Valerie grimaced, as if Matt’s comment had a bad smell. “No, not from my errant husband. He doesn’t show me anything, if you must know. It’s from Andy Merrill—he saw fit to let me have a copy of the file, even if you did not.” She put the papers down on his desk with a slap.

“As I was saying, look at the file. It’s open and shut. It’s just a serial killer’s body dumped on our property, and I want you to call in the professionals. Call the Feds. That’s all I’m asking. Every day, I’m losing thousands of dollars in potential revenue. All I’m asking for is—”

“I’ve got something to ask you for too.” Matt spoke in a measured tone. “Why won’t the resort give me a list of every employee or contractor? I’ve asked, but—”

“You aren’t listening!” Valerie reached in her briefcase and tossed a stapled stack of paper next to the folder on his desk. “That damn roster is not going to help—my people didn’t do it! But I’m paying through the nose for your damn games.” She grabbed a plastic pen from Matt’s desk and held it tightly between her clenched fists.

Matt sat back. “I don’t think you care about who died there. You just don’t care.”

“Really?” The pen snapped in her fingers with a sudden explosion. She did not seem to notice.

“Yeah, really.” Somewhere in his neck there was a throbbing thing, a fluttering frantic and worrisome. “Yeah, really. Just like your father didn’t give a shit.”

Valerie looked across the desk at him. “Look, Lieutenant, I’m not my father. I know you’ve still got a chip on your shoulder because of how my father treated the mining union. And I’m sorry your pop lost his lawsuit against Herrick Industries.”

“He didn’t lose—it was dismissed. On a damn technicality. Men died, you know.”

Valerie sighed and leaned forward. “You realize I was in my twenties then, right? What did I know about what the mine was doing? All I can tell you now is—”

“That you’re sorry, right?” Matt breathed out, his breath hissing. “Is that all?”

Valerie pulled her fingers through her hair and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Finally, she looked down again. “No. I don’t think there’s anything I have to apologize for. Look, Russ and I already saved your ass when you were drunk in that accident—the least you could do is act a little grateful now and then.”

“Yeah, I am grateful, still.” Matt sighed. “There, I said it. That enough for you?”

At that, she stood and threw the broken pieces of the pen across the papers on his desk. “You seem to hate me so much, but there must be something. I mean, all the damn years I’ve been married to Russ, you’ve been the only one who’s tried to keep him from cheating on me. For a decade now, you’ve kept him on the straight and narrow.”

Matt opened his mouth, the truth about the pandering charges about to come spilling out. Then, slowly, he closed it again. She did not need to know.

“You must have some liking for me, some kind of a—”

“Point of principle,” said Matt. “Nothing more. I just don’t think that a guy should be screwing around on his wife, even if she’s a . . .”

Valerie stared at him, daring him to continue. Matt glimpsed a world of pain underneath the strident glare. Then, she whirled away from him, picking up her file folder and briefcase in one swift motion.

“Look,” she said sharply. “We all have to move on sometime. I’ve moved on, maybe it’s time you did. I’ll just ask Andy to pull Russ off the case—you don’t need his help, obviously, and I don’t think we’re getting any damn movement on this. Fuck it.”

Matt stood as she did, feeling himself suddenly awkward behind his own desk. A tremble came over him, the sense that something had slipped sideways.

“Okay,” said Matt. “So you want me to move on. I got that part, I’ll consider it. So what else did you have to ask me about?”

“Never mind.” Her eyes seemed to settle into him, sharp as talons.

Valerie’s hand-tailored coat swung to the side as she went out the door. Matt looked up at the clock, it was an hour yet until four o’clock. He picked up a piece of the broken pen in his hand. The plastic tube in the middle was cracked. He looked down at it. Ink was still welling through his clenched fingers when the phone rang.

Matt took the box of tissue from the shelf beside his desk and wiped his hands clean. They were still trembling, the ink dripping down, when the ringing stopped.

He sighed and rolled his shoulders. Then he glanced at the clock again and pulled a heap of papers toward him. There was a faint note. “Leo / Lenny (?). Urgent. Call him back.”

“Don’t think I know a Leo or Lenny,” muttered Matt, peering at the note.

Then he flipped back to the top of the stack. “Shift discrepancies at resort,” read a strident note from Phyllis. “Please see attached time sheets, reconcile officers under your command.”

Reconciling Time Sheets was right up there with Latrine Duty and ancient Missing Persons. Matt stuffed the time sheets under some folders and picked up the list Valerie Herrick had finally provided for him.

The Bitterroot County terminal for the National Crime Information Center— the NCIC—was at the end of the hallway, in Phyllis’s office.

“Thank God,” said Phyllis. To her, it seemed that every use of the machine was an opportunity for conversation. “I’ve been waiting for someone who can operate that thing.”

“I’ve got work to do. Checking for felonies,” Matt said briskly. Then he entered a password and pecked at the keyboard, entering names from the resort list.

Phyllis smoothed the wrinkles in her jeans. “Okay,” she said. “But when you got a chance, check my manicurist for me. I swear I’ve seen his face on a Wanted poster.”

“Sure,” said Matt. “Whatever.” According to the screen he was on, the employees had a few misdemeanors among them, and three unpaid speeding tickets. Dead end.

“I’ve got something here you might want to look at,” said Phyllis. She tapped a piece of paper on her desk. “You aren’t really listening to me, are you, Worthless?”

Matt tapped through the menu, looking for a way to search by similar names, aliases, and family members. He put his hands on the sides of the keyboard and took a deep breath, remembering how the program worked. “Sure I am,” he answered.

Matt entered the terms of the search. Now there was a result. Brewmer, May. Five years for manslaughter. A cocaine charge had been dropped. Probably a plea. She’d been paroled after a year. In fact, she’d just walked out of Leavenworth three months ago.

Matt did not like the common wisdom about repeat offenders. He liked to believe that people made their own choices.

Brewmer—this time listed as Mary—was a past resort employee. He checked the phone book. There were only three Brewmers listed in Bitterroot County. The name jogged in Matt’s memory, the security guard had mentioned someone with a similar name. He checked the transcript from his interview with the guard. May Brue. He searched for the address of record.

Phyllis was still talking. “You know Arlen’s green car you were looking for? Your friend and mine, Mister Can’t-Keep-It-In-His-Pants, he found it last night.”

In September, the case officer’s notes said, May Brewmer had ditched out of parole. No sign of her since September. Twelve weeks out, and already in parole violation.

Not for the first time, he thought of how prison stripped the good out of a person. It infected you with something, watching people hang themselves or stab each other with sharpened spoons. An infection—a disease of the soul. Every now and then he tried to change that, to make a difference in one person who might be headed to prison.

His most recent attempt had been only a few months before, a girl named Angie. She was young—so petite he knew on first sight that she wasn’t really legal. They found her turning tricks at the Washington-Idaho border. The annual sheriff’s raid on the Post Falls massage parlors—only this time conducted without advance notice. She was the one Russ got caught with.

Lieutenant White, of course, claimed to be working undercover. It was a first offense, and Angie was a girl fresh from Scobey, Montana. Matt thought she could change her ways. Tearfully, Angie agreed. So he managed to convince her to own up to her real age, making her file confidential, and getting her therapy and probation instead of prison.

Now he wasn’t so sure he’d done the right thing by the girl. Her number had changed and he hadn’t been able to reach her since, to tell her that her proba tion hearing had been rescheduled. Matt had heard that a girl who fit Angie’s description might be working in Wallace, in the old Oasis cathouse.

Phyllis bit her nails. A tiny crunching, rats in the walls. “Car crashed into a tree. Looked like someone had been living in it too,” said Phyllis.

“Since he’s dead, I got an insurance hassle to deal with now.”

Matt took the piece of paper, the department log for the car. “Who discovered the car?”

“I told you already. The Ladies’ Man. Russell White.”

“So, at least someone’s still earning their paycheck,” said Matt under his breath. “He might have testosterone poisoning, but Russ is still a goddamn good cop.”

“Uh-huh.” Phyllis gave him a look. “You saw him today, he didn’t tell you?” “He must have forgotten. We had a few other things on our minds.”

Phyllis ripped a tiny shard off her finger. “Now you seen the paperwork, it goes back in the file.”

Phyllis took the paper back, replacing it in a folder. She used her teeth to tear at a hangnail before she smoothed the wrinkles in her jeans again.

Matt glanced down at his notes. Mary (aka May) Brewmer had been hired three weeks ago by the resort. Night janitor, swing shift. But for some reason, she wasn’t on Russ’s list of employees to interview. Maybe she’d already been cleared.

He’d left his watch in his jacket pocket. “What time is it?” he said to Phyllis. “Four fifteen.”

“Damn, I’m late already.” He leaned over Phyllis’s desk. “Look, can you get me some printouts, copies of this search? Make me a copy, and I’ll find every manicurist in the book for you.”