“No.”
“Did you see any other boats?”
“No.” Frank's eyes slid sideways.
Aha, Liam thought. “Was this creek open to fishing, Frank?”
Frank was indignant. “Of course! They could take my boat if I got caught fishing in a closed area!”
They certainly could, Liam thought. He could ask Charlene which areas on the Nushagak had been open to fishing on Monday, but there might be an easier way. “Who did you deliver to, Frank?”
“A fish buyer,” Frank said promptly. “He was buying off the dock.”
“Did you get a fish ticket?”
Frank shook his head. “He bought with cash.”
They left him in the interview room for a moment.
“Convenient how no one can confirm his story,” Prince said, eyes bright. She smelled a conviction.
“Yeah, but he was drunk as a skunk when he ran into you.”
“So?”
“So, how did he pay for his booze?”
“He bummed some off a friend, I don't know. Why do we care?”
We don't, Liam thought, but Charlene will.
When they went back in, they found Frank trying to squeeze through the bars on the window. His head was too big, and he'd gotten stuck. They extricated him and returned him to his cell.
Walter Larsgaard was up next, and he was in the mood to talk. He sat down, folded his arms and waited until Liam started the recorder. He declined representation and said simply, “I killed them. I killed them all.”
“You killed David Malone, Molly Malone, Jonathan Malone, Michael Malone, Kerry Malone, Jason Knudson and Wayne Cullen?”
“Yes?”
“How did you kill them?”
He'd killed them, he said in a monotone, with a rifle, a thirtyoughtsix.
“Where is that rifle now, Walter?”
“Over the side.”
“And then what?”
“And then I set the boat on fire.”
“What with?”
“Gasoline.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I keep a spare tank on my dory.”
“Where is that tank now?”
“Still on my dory. I knew you could trace the rifle, but no sense in wasting a good gas tank.”
“What did you do with the gas?”
“Splashed it around. Lit a match.”
“Where did you splash it around first?”
“The galley.”
“On the bodies?”
“Yes.”
“You'd already killed them, why burn them?”
“I was hoping to get away with it.”
“Cover up your crime?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you just sink her?”
“I tried. I pulled the plugs.”
Liam looked at the still, remote face across from him. Larsgaard had his hands linked behind his head, had leaned back so that his chair was balanced on its rear legs. “Why did you do it, Walter?”
There was a pause. “She broke it off.” He said the words slowly and carefully, as if it were an effort to get them out.
“Who? Molly?”
“Yes.”
“You were seeing her?”
“Yes.”
“Sleeping with her?”
“Yes?”
“At the Bay View Inn?”
Larsgaard met his eyes briefly. “So you already know about it, do you?” He shook his head. “There are no secrets in small towns. I told her and told her, I…”
Liam waited, but Larsgaard didn't finish. “So you shot her because she broke off your relationship.”
“Yes.”
Liam kept his tone mild and inoffensive. “Why did you shoot her husband?”
“He had her. I didn't.”
“Her brother-in-law?”
“He was there.”
“That why you killed the deckhands? They were there, too?” A shrug.
“And the kids? Michael and Kerry. Teenagers. They had to die because they were there, too?”
“That's about it.”
The muscles in Liam's shoulders were so tight he thought they might pop out of their sleeves. He saw Prince look at him, and willed himself to relax with only moderate success. “When did all this happen?”
“What, the affair?”
“When did you kill them?” Liam said coldly.
“Sunday night.”
“What time?”
For the first time, Larsgaard hesitated. “I don't know. Midnight, maybe one o'clock. It was dark, or almost, so it had to have been late. Hard to tell because of the fog.”
“How did you know where they were?”
“I saw them during the fishing period.”
“The fishing period was over.”
“They'd had some engine trouble. Dave anchored up offshore to work on it, and I figured he'd still be there after the fog rolled in. He was.”
Liam sat back in his chair. “So you fished next to them on Sunday afternoon, saw them anchor up offshore with engine trouble, marked the spot, went back into town, waited until dark, got in your dory, went back to Kulukak Bay, shot Molly Malone because she wanted to end your affair, shot the rest of them because they were there, tried to burn the boat to cover up your crime and when that didn't work tried to sink her.”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Liam looked at his watch, said the time for the tape and terminated the interview. They put Larsgaard back in his cell. Frank Petla still wanted a smoke, and Moccasin Man was still playing solitaire.
It was five o'clock, and the sun had just barely begun its descent into the west. “I want a witness that puts Larsgaard and Malone in the Bay View Inn together. I've already talked to the owner, Alta- Alta Peterson. She made the beds when Molly Malone stayed there and Alta knew Molly wasn't sleeping alone, but she never saw who she was sleeping with. Find someone who saw them together.”
“Yes, sir. What about Frank Petla's alibi?”
“I'll work on that.” He thought again about Charlene Taylor. He'd have to ask her what areas of the Nushagak had been open for fishing on Monday. “I'm going to go down to the harbor and look at his boat.”
“If it's there.”
It was there, a tiny little bowpicker barely big enough to sport a one-bunk cabin on the stern, a reel in the bow and an open deck in between. Liam poked his head in the cabin. Except for the empty bottle of Windsor Canadian rolling around on the deck and the rumpled state of the bunk, the little cabin was surprisingly neat. He opened a few cupboards, looked under the miniature sink, tested the two-burner propane stove. The dishes were clean, the clothes folded neatly, the canned goods ordered and stacked. There was a picture in a green wooden frame nailed to the wall over the bunk. It was of a young girl with thick dark hair past her waist, standing next to Frank Petla. They were both looking at the camera, both with big, bright smiles and an Alaska Federation of Natives' Sobriety Movement poster on the wall in back of them. There was another picture, this one in a blue wooden frame, of Frank standing between Charlene Taylor and her husband the D.A., a short, skinny guy with bushy red hair, freckled white skin and a wide, wry grin. All three of them looked real proud of something.
The deck had been hosed down but there was evidence that fish had been there, in the form of scales. Liam wet a forefinger and touched one. It felt dry. No telling how long it had been there. The net was dry on top. Liam managed to wedge a hand in a layer or two and thought he felt dampness, but that probably didn't mean anything, either; rolled on a reel, it would take a long time for a net to dry out. The dampness he thought he felt could have been from a period last week, or one in June, for that matter.
He canvassed a few boats. Most were already out in the Bay, hauling in as much fish as they could find. Bad summer or not, missed forecasts or not, they still had to try. They had mortgages, insurance, grocery bills, college tuition to pay.
They had Windsor Canadian to buy. Liam stood on the slip next to a big seiner and yelled, “Hello theDeirdre F!” There was a thud and a curse and someone stuck his head out the door. “What?”
“Liam Campbell, Alaska state trooper, I'm wondering if you saw theSarah Pcome into the harbor.”
“TheSarah P?” The man squinted, looking as if this were the first time he'd seen daylight in weeks. “I don't even know which boat that is.”