Hidden Prey

suspicion that he shouldn’t have; was he part of Grandpa’s plan? But the old man had turned away from him, said, “Try to sleep; try to empty your mind. Try not to cry, because if you do, your eyes will be red. And remember tomorrow, if I forget to tell you, you must ask the girl on the date to homecoming. That’s important: you have to go back to being a kid.”
    “Okay, Grandpa. We had to do it, didn’t we?”
    “We had to,” Grandpa said.
    Grandpa hit the lights and said good night, and then Grandma’s pills came on, pulling Carl straight down into a pit of darkness.
    As for Grandpa, for Burt Walther, for Sergey Vasilevich Botenkov, he slept quite well.

     25 
    L UCAS AND N ADYA made their statements, and signed them. No perjury was committed, although an observer from Mars might have observed that not all possible questions had been asked.
    There had been no way, the city attorney said, to completely avoid the question of a relationship between Nadya and Reasons, but the relationship had been disposed of with two questions and two short answers, which had dismissed the possibility that a personal relationship had in any way contributed to the murder.
    Reasons, the attorney concluded, had been killed on the job when a professional assassin, armed with a silenced pistol, had gone to Nadya’s room to kill her, and instead, had encountered Reasons, who’d died protecting Nadya. Several throats were cleared, briefcases were stuffed, and the lights turned out.
     
    A NDRENO CALLED from Hibbing, said there was no action at Walther’s house, and Lucas ordered him back to Duluth to stay with Nadya overnight.
    Kelly, the cop originally assigned to the murder of Mary Wheaton, stopped to chat with Lucas on the way out the door after the statements were given. Lucas mentioned that he was looking for a drunk named Roger Walther, but that Walther had never been arrested, and was no longer living at the house listed on his driver’s license.
    “I’ll ask around,” Kelly said. “Know anything else about him?”
    “Not much . . . whacked his wife a couple times, no charges. He was the local hockey hero in Hibbing, played with UMD . . .”
    “Well, shit, I know a guy named Reggie Carpenter who knows every single asshole who ever got ice time up there . . . He might be able to help you out.”
    “Where’s he live?”
    “Actually, he plays piano at T-Bone Logan’s Lakeside Lumber Emporium and Saloon. He oughta be there now.”
    “Place with a name like that, you wouldn’t see many tourists,” Lucas suggested.
    Kelly snorted: “There never was a T-Bone Logan, it’s not on the lakeside, it was built six years ago by a doctor’s group from Chicago outa fake logs, never had anything to do with lumber, and they charge nine bucks for a martini which, when they bring it to you, turns out to be purple, or maroon, or some fuckin’ thing. What do you think?”
    A gentle drizzle was falling as they drove.
    “Feel the winter coming,” Kelly said.
    “This isn’t it, though,” Lucas said. “Not yet.” Sometime in September, a bone-crunching cold front usually came through, pointing at snow, if not actually delivering any. This drizzle still contained a hint of warmth.
    “You ski?”
    “Ah, every once in a while. I’ve got a place over in Sawyer County, Hayward, I got a couple of sleds . . .”
    They talked snow and cabins and snowmobiles until they pulled into the bar.
    T-Bone Logan’s was as Kelly said, a tourist trap with log walls and, inside, axes and saws and kerosene lanterns mounted overhead, and big photos of lumberjacks in old-timey logging camps. The tabletops were made out of split pine logs with clear finishes; the place smelled of wet-sauce ribs and beans.
    Carpenter, the piano player, was a Dagwood-looking man, pale, slender, balding, with cheap false teeth that tended to clack when he talked, and a sprinkling of dandruff on his black sport coat. Lucas and Kelly got beer from the bar and carried it over to the piano and waited while Carpenter finished wending his way through an overfruited version of “Stardust,” Carpenter signaling his friendship to Kelly with his eyebrows.
    When he finished the song, he slid over to the side of the piano bench and said, “How’s it going, Officer Kelly?”
    “How many telephones you got now, Reggie?”
    “Just the one cell phone,” Carpenter said. “Don’t even have one in my house.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Absolutely,”