Northern Lights

weeping.
    He slipped out, saw her enveloped in Peach's arms. "See that she and her kids get home," he said quietly, then eased back into his office.
    For a time he just stood, studying the torn shreds of paper on the floor.

 
     
     
     
    FOURTEEN
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    HOPP KEPT AN OFFICE at Town Hall. It wasn't much bigger than a broom closet and was furnished in that same haphazard style, but since Nate wanted to keep the meeting formal, he arranged to meet her there.
    As she was wearing full makeup and a dark suit, he figured they were on the same page.
    "Chief Burke." The words were two quick bites, the gesture of her hand toward a chair a short jab.
    He could smell the coffee from the mug on her desk, and the pot behind her on the short counter was nearly full. He wasn't asked to help himself.
    "I'm going to apologize for being abrupt with you this morning," he began, "but you got in my way at the wrong time."
    "I'll remind you that you work for me."
    "I work for the people of this town. And one of them's stretched out on a table in our part-time morgue. That means he's my priority, mayor. You're not."
    The mouth she'd painted a bold crimson tightened. He heard her long, hissing inhale, and the slow expulsion of air. "Be that as it may, I am mayor of this town, which makes its residents my chief concern as well. I was hardly sniffing around for gossip and resent being treated as if I were."
    "And be that as it may, I had a job to do. Part of that was the full intention of giving you a report once I'd completed my preliminary. Which I'm prepared to do now."
    "I don't like your snippy attitude."
    "Right back at you."
    This time her mouth dropped open, her eyes flared. "Obviously your mother didn't teach you to respect your elders."
    "Guess it didn't take. Then again, she doesn't like me either."
    She drummed her fingers on her desk—short, practical and unpainted nails that didn't go with the red mouth or business suit. "You know what pisses me off right now?"
    "I'm sure you're going to tell me."
    "The fact that I'm not mad at you anymore. I like holding onto a good mad. But you had a point earlier about the people of this town being your priority. I respect that, because I know you mean it. Max was a friend, Ignatious. A good one. I'm upset about this."
    "I know. I'm sorry for that, and I'll apologize again for not being more . . ."
    "Sensitive, courteous, forthcoming?"
    "Take your pick."
    "All right, let's move on." She pulled out a tissue, blew her nose enthusiastically. "Get yourself some coffee, and tell me what's what."
    "Thanks, but I've already downed about a gallon. As far as I can piece together, Max left his house sometime after ten-thirty last night. He'd had a spat with his wife—nothing too serious, but she claims he'd been off the last few days. She pinpoints it to the time the news hit about the discovery of Patrick Galloway's body."
    Hopp's forehead wrinkled; the lines around her mouth deepened. "Why would that be, I wonder. I don't recall they knew each other all that well. Seems to me they hit it off well enough, but Max hadn't been here long when Patrick went missing."
    "I don't have any evidence, as yet, that points to Max making any stops before going to his office at the paper. Sometime, if the doc's estimate is correct, before one A.M., he—or person or persons unknown— put a bullet in his brain through his right temple."
    "Why would anybody—" She caught herself, waved him on. "Sorry. Go ahead and finish."
    "From the on-scene evidence, the deceased was sitting at his desk at the time. The back door was unlocked, which I'm told was fairly habitual. His computer was on, as was the desk light. He had a partial bottle of Paddy's whiskey on the desk and a coffee mug with about a fingerful of whiskey left in it. It'll be analyzed, but I didn't detect any other substance in the mug."
    "God. I just saw him yesterday morning."
    "Did he seem off to you?"
    "I don't know. Can't say I was paying attention." She pressed steepled hands to the bridge of her nose, held them there a moment, then dropped them. "Now that you mention it, maybe he was distracted. But I can't think of any reason he'd do this to himself. He and Carrie had a good marriage. His kids aren't in any more trouble than kids that age are. He loved running the paper. Maybe he was sick? Maybe he'd found out he had cancer or something and couldn't face it."
    "Clean bill of health last checkup at the clinic. Six months ago.