Northern Lights

where Max was laid out, uncovered to preserve any possible trace evidence, as per Nate's orders. The body's hands were bagged.
    "Nails are chewed down below the quick on his right hand," Nate pointed out. "Cut on his bottom lip. Looks like he bit it."
    "No defensive wounds evident. Powder burns around the wound. Can we confirm he was right-handed?"
    "We can. We have."
    Sealing the hands meant preserving them for residue testing. There were photographs of the body, of the scene, even of the outer door from every possible angle. Witness statements had been taken and typed up while the witnesses were fresh, and the building locked tight and sealed with police tape.
    Burke had run a clean scene, Coben thought, and had saved him considerable work.
    "We'll go over him here to see if we can find any trace evidence. Did you go through his pockets?"
    "Wallet, open roll of Tums, loose change, book of matches, notebook, pencil. He had his driver's license, credit cards, about thirty in cash, family pictures in his wallet. Cell phone, another book of matches and a pair of wool gloves in the pockets of the coat in his office."
    Nate slipped his hands into his own pockets, continued to study the body. "I went through the truck parked outside the scene. Registration in the name of the vic and his spouse. Maps, operator's manual for the truck, an open pack of ammo for the .22, a roll of breath mints, several pens and pencils and another notebook in the glove compartment. A lot of hand-scribbled notes in the books—reminders, ideas for articles for the paper, observations, phone numbers. First-aid and emergency kits in the back of the cab. The truck was unlocked, keys in the ignition."
    "Keys in the ignition?"
    "Yeah. Statements from acquaintances indicate he had a habit of leaving the keys in there and rarely remembered or thought to lock up. All removed items are bagged, labeled, listed. I've got them locked up back at the station."
    "We'll take them, and him, in. Let the ME make his determinations. But it looks like suicide. I'm going to want to talk to the wife, the two witnesses, and anyone who might be aware of his relationship with Patrick Galloway."
    "He didn't leave his wife a note."
    "Sorry?"
    "Nothing personal. Nothing detailed in the computer note, either."
    Irritation flickered in Coben's eyes. "Look, Burke, you and I both know that suicide notes aren't nearly as typical as Hollywood makes them. The ME will make the call, but from where I'm standing this is suicide. The note links him to Galloway. We'll pursue that, see if we can find a trail back to confirm. I'm not going to cut corners on this, or on Galloway, but I'm not going to kick, either, if it turns out both cases fall closed in my lap."
    "It doesn't add up for me."
    "Check your math."
    "Do you have a problem with me pursuing this, quietly," he added with emphasis, "from a different angle?"
    "It's your time to waste. But don't step on my toes."
    "I still remember how to dance, Coben."
     
     
    IT WAS HARD TO KNOCK on Carrie's front door. The intrusion on her grief seemed impossibly callous. He remembered, too well, how Beth had crumbled when he'd first seen her after Jack's death.
    And he'd been helpless, bound to a hospital bed, dopey from surgery, drowning in grief and guilt and rage.
    There was no grief now, he reminded himself. A little guilt for the way he'd had to handle her earlier. But no rage. Now he was just a cop.
    "She's going to resent me," Nate told Coben. "If you play on that, you might get more out of her."
    He knocked on the front door of the two-story cabin. When the redhead opened it, he had to flip through his mental files.
    "Ginny Mann," she said quickly. "I'm a friend of the family. A neighbor. Carrie's upstairs, resting."
    "Sergeant Coben, ma'am." Coben took out his identification. "I'd really like to speak with Mrs. Hawbaker."
    "We'll try not to take long." Artist, Nate remembered now. Painted landscapes and wildlife studies that were sold in galleries here, and in the Lower 48. Taught art at the school, three days a week.
    "Arlene Woolcott and I have the kids back in the kitchen. We're trying to keep them busy. I guess I could go upstairs and see if Carrie's up to it."
    "We'd appreciate it." Coben stepped in. "We'll just wait here."
    "Nice place," Coben said when Ginny went upstairs. "Homey."
    Comfortable sofa, Nate noted, a couple of roomy chairs, colorful throws. A painting of a spring meadow, backed by the white mountains and blue