"Oh, yeah?" He took a six-pack of wine coolers out of the sack, but stopped and looked at her. "Guy looks like an asshole, a big guy?"
"He was kinda good-looking but he looked like he could be mean, yeah," she said.
"Did you talk to him?"
"No. But he had some kids in the office," she said. "Lisa's friends."
"What'd they tell 'em?" He was sharp, the questions rapping out.
"Well, everybody was talking about it in the cafeteria. Nobody knew anything. But the new cop took John Mueller home with him."
"The taxidermist's kid?" His thin eyebrows went up.
"Yeah. John rode on the bus with Lisa."
"Huh." He dug into the grocery sack, a thoughtful look on his face.
"The cop was talking to the doctor," she said. "The one who takes care of Rosie."
"What?" His head came around sharply.
"Yeah. They were talking in the hall. I saw them."
"Were they talking about Rosie?" He glanced down the hall at the closed door.
"I don't know; I wasn't that close. I just saw them talking."
"Hmm." He unscrewed the top of one of the wine bottles, handed it to the yellow-haired girl. "Where's your brother?"
Jealousy scratched at her. He was fond of Mark and was helping him explore his development. "He's over at Ricky's, working on the car."
"The Pinto?"
"Yeah."
The man laughed quietly, but there was an unpleasant undertone in the sound. Was he jealous? Of Ricky, for being with Mark? She pushed the thought away.
"I wish them the best," he said. He was focusing on her, and she walked back to the couch and sat down, sipping the wine cooler. "How have you been?"
"Okay," she said, and wiggled. She tried to sound cool. Okay.
He knelt in front of her and began unbuttoning her blouse, and she felt the thickness in her chest again, as though she were breathing water. She put down the wine cooler, helped him pull the blouse off, let him reach around her and unsnap the brassiere; he'd shown her how he could do it with one hand.
She had solid breasts like cupcakes, and small stubby nipples.
"Wonderful," he whispered. He stroked one of her nipples, then stood up and his hand went to his fly. "Let's try this one."
She was aware of him watching, of his intent blue eyes following her; he pushed her hair out of her face.
Behind him the blonde woman on "Wheel of Fortune" was turning around the last of the letters.
Two Minute Warning, the sign said.
When the Iceman left, he drove out to the county road, to the first stop sign, and sat there, smoking, thinking about John Mueller and Weather Karkinnen. So many troubling paths were opening. He tried to follow them in his mind, and failed: they tangled like a rats' nest.
If the photograph turned up, and if they identified him, they'd have him on the sex charge. That's all he'd wanted to stop. When Harper called and said Frank LaCourt had the photo but didn't know who was in it, all he'd wanted was to get it back. Get it before the sheriff got it.
Then he'd killed Claudia too quickly and hadn't gotten the photo. Now the photo would mean they'd look at him for the killings. More than that: when they saw the photo, they'd figure the whole thing out.
He was in a perfect position to monitor the investigation, anyway. He'd know when they found the photo. He'd probably have a little time: until Weather saw it, anyway.
He'd been crazy to let the kid take the picture. But there was something about seeing yourself, contemplating yourself at a distance. Now: had John Mueller seen? Did he have a copy or know where it came from?
If they found the photo, they'd have a place to start. And if they showed it to enough people, they'd get him. He had to have it. Maybe it had burned in the fire. Maybe not. Maybe the Mueller kid knew.
And Weather Karkinnen. If she saw the photo, she'd know him for sure.
Dammit.
He rolled down the window a few inches, flipped the cigarette into the snow.
He'd once seen himself in a movie. A comedy, no less. Ghostbusters. Silly scene-a jerk, a nebbish, is possessed by an evil spirit, and talks to a horse. When the cabriolet driver yells at him, the nebbish growls and his eyes burn red, and the power flares out at the driver.
Good for a laugh-but the Iceman had seen himself there, just for an instant. He also had a force inside, but there was nothing funny about it. The force was powerful, unafraid, influential. Manipulating events from behind the screen of a bland, unprepossessing face.
Flaring out when it was needed.
He had a recurring dream in which a woman, a blonde, looked at him, her eyes flicking over him, unimpressed. And he let the force flare out of his eyes, just a flicker, catching her, and he could feel the erotic response from her.
He'd wondered about Weather. He'd stood there, naked under his hospital gown, she examined him. He'd let the fire out with her, trying to look her into a corner, but she'd seemed not to notice. He'd let it go.
He often thought about her after that encounter. Wondering how she saw him, standing there; she must've thought something, she was a woman.
The Iceman looked out at the frozen snowscape in his headlights.
The Mueller kid.
Weather Karkinnen.
CHAPTER 7
An hour after dark, the investigation group gathered in Carr's office. Climpt, the investigator, and two other men had worked the LaCourts' friends and found nothing of significance. No known feud, nothing criminal. The Storm Lake road had been run from one end to the other, and all but two or three people could account for themselves at the time of the killings; those two or three didn't seem to be likely prospects. Several people had seen Father Bergen loading his sled on his trailer.
"What about the casino?" Lucas asked Climpt.
"Nothing there," Climpt said, shaking his head. "Frank didn't have nothing to do with money; never touched it. There was no way he could rig anything, either. He was in charge of physical security for the place, mostly handling drunks. He just didn't have the access that could bring trouble."
"Do the tribe people think he's straight?"
"Yup. No money problems that they know of. Didn't gamble himself. Didn't use drugs. Used to drink years back, but he quit. Tell you the truth, it felt like a dead end."
"All right… Rusty, Dusty, how about that picture."
"Can't find anybody who admitted seeing it," Rusty said. "We're talking to Lisa LaCourt's friends, but there's been some flu around, and we didn't get to everybody yet."
"Keep pushing."
The next day would be more of the same, they decided. Another guy to help Rusty and Dusty check Lisa's friends. "And I'll want you to start interviewing Jim Harper's pals, if you can find any."
The sheriff's department's investigators shared a corner office. One did nothing but welfare investigations, worked seven-to-three, and was out of the murder case. A second had gotten mumps from his daughters and was on sick leave. The third was Gene Climpt. Climpt had said almost nothing during the meeting. He'd rolled an unlit cigarette in his fingers, watching Lucas, weighing him.
Lucas moved into the mumps-victim's desk and Helen Arris brought in a lockable two-drawer file cabinet for papers and personal belongings.
"I brought you the Harper boy's file," she said. She was a formidable woman with very tall hair and several layers of makeup.
"Thanks. Is there any coffee in the place? A vending machine?"
"Coffee in the squad room, I can show you."
"Great." He tagged along behind her, making small talk. He'd recognized her type as soon as Carr sent him to her for his ID. She knew everybody and tracked everything that went on in the department. She knew the forms and the legalities, the state regs and who was screwing who. She was not to be trifled with if you wanted your life to run smoothly and end with a pension.
She wouldn't be fooled by false charm either. Lucas didn't even try it: he got his coffee, thanked her, and carried it back to the office, left the door open. Deputies and a few civilian clerks wandered past, one or two at a time, looking him over. He ignored the desultory parade as he combed through the stack of paper on the county's first real homicide in six years.