"You might have trouble getting a warrant if you've got nothing more than an urge to look around," the sheriff said. He was a square-shouldered, square-faced man with a brush mustache. He wore jeans and cowboy boots, even with the snow. "Our judges aren't all that cooperative."
"We've narrowed down the number of people outside the police department who knew about the man who was shot tonight," Lucas said. "There were exactly five. That includes Mr. Olson hereand we know where he was tonightand two Burnt River couples, who are here, at home. But if Friar isn't hereand he couldn't be, if he's involved in the shooting tonight, not unless he's got his own chopperthen we think he's worth looking at. He once had a sexual involvement with Alie'e."
"Okay, I know the guy now," one of the deputies said. "If he's the guy who nailed Alie'e. They call him the Reverend."
"What do you think?" the sheriff asked the deputy. "You think he could do it?"
"Far as I know, he's just a good ol' boy," the deputy said. "He might've had a couple of DWIs over the years. Nothing serious."
"How about if his parents tell us they told him about Spooner?" Lucas asked.
"Might get you a warrant on that," the sheriff said. "Especially since it's Alie'e."
"So let's go," Lucas said.
Del and Lucas got in the back of the sheriff's truck, while Olson got in with the other two deputies. Once inside, Del told the sheriff, "I told your guys to kinda keep an eye on Olson," he said. "He's not entirely out of the woods yet."
"They can do that," the sheriff said. He pulled a cell phone from His pocket, turned it on, ran through a call list, and pushed a button. A minute later, he said, "Hey, Carl, this is me, you get anything on Friar? Yeah? When? At McLeod's? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, we're going out that way, then."
He rang off and looked at Lucas. "You may have wasted a trip. The Burnt River town cop says a guy he ran into at the Yer-In-And-Out Store saw Friar shooting pool with some friends at McLeod's Tavern out on the lake. They were there a half hour ago."
"Goddamnit," Lucas said.
"So what do you want to do?" the sheriff asked.
"We're here, let's talk to him," Lucas said. "Then we can go wake up the Bentons and Packards and find out what they have to say. It had to come out of heresomeplace along the line, it had to come from Olson, the Bentons, or the Packards." But he was no longer sure of it; what if it was a departmental leak? Or what if Olson was lying, and he was running another guy, one of his disciples? Maybe somebody who thought Olson was Jesus?
"Whatever you say," the sheriff said. He called the other car, and they swung toward McLeod's.
McLeod's looked exactly like five hundred other lakeside taverns: snow-covered parking lot with mounds of plowed snow on the side; fake dark-brown log-cabin styling; small windows under the eaves at the front; a Christmas wreath on the door; snowmobile parking at the lakeside. "We don't have any snow in the Cities yet," Lucas said as they pulled in.
"That's because you're practically living in Miami," the sheriff said.
"I guess that accounts for the palm trees outside the office," Del said to Lucas.
Talk in the bar stopped when they all walked in; Lucas could feel the heads turning. They clumped down toward the game room, through a haze of barbecue smoke. The deputy who knew the Reverend said, "That's him in the red shirt."
Louis Friar was focusing on the five-ball when he saw them all coming. He stood up and grounded his cue and said, "Evening, Sheriff." He looked puzzled, then saw Olson and said, "Hi, Tom. Sorry about Alie'e, jeez"
The sheriff said, "Could you come back over here and talk with us for a bit?"
"Sure what'd I do?" Friar handed his cue to a friend.
"Nothing, apparently. But we need to talk," the sheriff said.
They got in a corner, away from the bar, and Lucas quickly told Friar the problem. "Well, yeah, my folks told me," he said. "I mean, I couldn't have told you the guy's name tonight, but I could've told you Friday night and all day yesterday. Spooner, right? Banker."
"Did you tell anybody?" Lucas asked.
"Well, sure those guys over there."
They all turned and looked at the three men Friar had been shooting pool with. "When did you tell them?"
"Friday night, I guess. My folks got home about ten o'clock, and we just had that snow come through. I was over there blowing out their drive, and they told me. I came down here afterwards for a couple brewskies, you know I told a couple people."
"Do you think they might have told anybody?" Lucas asked.
"Look," Friar said. "I doubt there's anybody in Burnt River who hasn't heard this guy's name by now. The Bentons told my folks, and my folks probably told a couple more friends, and I imagine the Bentons told more. Everybody's interested in what happened to Alie'e, she's the most famous person ever come from hereor ever will. She's the only person in the whole county or maybe all the counties around whoever had her face on a magazine."
"Goddamnit," Lucas said.
The sheriff waved at the three guys around the pool table. "You guys, could you step over here for a minute?" When they did, clustering around, he said, "We want to know, did any of you hear about this banker fellow, the suspect in the Alie'e case, from anybody besides Louie? Nobody's gonna get in trouble, we just need to know how much the name's gotten around."
Two of them admitted passing the name along; two of the three had heard the name in conversation on Saturday or Sunday.
"So everybody knows," Lucas said.
"Everybody," said a guy in a green shirt. "What happened, anyway? Somebody shoot that asshole?"
Lucas looked at him. "Exactly. Somebody shot that asshole."
"Really?" They wanted details. Lucas shook his head and said, "Man, the question is, is there anybody in town who might pull something like this?"
A guy in a gold flannel shirt said, "What was he shot with?"
"A rifle, we think. The shooter was fifty yards out or so and hit him in the chest."
"That ain't much of a shot with a rifle," a blue flannel shirt said. "I woulda gone for a neck shot."
"You always go for a fuckin' neck shot, and the next time you come back with a deer, I expect to be a grandpa," Friar said.
"Wasn't a. 44 Mag, was it?" gold shirt asked.
Lucas and Del both focused on him. "What?"
"A. 44 Mag?"
"Yeah. It was," Lucas said. They all looked at gold shirt. "Who's got a. 44 Mag?"
Gold shirt swallowed, looked at his friends. "You know who it is? It's that jack-off Martin Scott."
Friar slapped his forehead. "Goddamn, Steve." He looked at Lucas. "It was Martin Scott."
"Who's that?"
"He's the jack-off Coca-Cola truck driver for Howell County," gold shirt said. "He shoots a. 44 Mag, a Ruger, and he's always had this thing about Alie'e. I mean, bad. He works free for her parents, mowing their yard and shoveling snow and shit, because he thinks that when she comes back, they'll let him hang out with her."
"He says he saw her tits once, when she was out in their pool," green shirt said. "I called him a lyin' SOB, I said nobody in Howell County ever saw her tits but the Reverend here, and he never saw them but once. But Martin said he's seen them."
"Only about sixty-six billion people seen them by now," gold shirt said, then he remembered Olson and swallowed and said, "Jeez, sorry, Tom."
"He's nuts. He thinks he's in the Coca-Cola army, walks around twenty-four hours a day in his Coke uniform," said blue shirt.
"Yeah, but you know what?" green shirt said. "Couldn't be him."
"You're full a shit. Gotta be him," Friar said.
"Nope. Because, guess what?" Green shirt crossed his arms.
Lucas bit. "What?"
"Because a whole bunch of those people got shot on Monday. Wasn't it a Monday?"
Lucas had to think; it seemed like a thousand years ago. But Marcy was shot on Monday afternoon, and all theothers. "Yeah," he said. "Monday."
Green shirt looked at his friends. "Martin works on Mondays."