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THIRTEEN
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Postmortem lividity left bruiselike marks on corpses. Blood, no longer circulating, pooled at the lowest point on the body. In De
What was troubling A
At the northern end of Five Finger Bay, the sheer beauty of the day drove the blood and gore from her thoughts. The shores were snowy with thimbleberry blossoms, a lacy skirting between the blue of the water and the green of the trees. The sky had cried itself out the night before and smiled down clear and warm. A
And of being on the lake’s surface, not its floor.
Rock Harbor was bustling. Compared to the great ports of the world, it was a mere hole in the island, but after a week on the north shore it felt like New York Harbor on the Fourth of July.
Heading for the slips reserved for NPS vessels on Mott, A
It was Frederick the Fed.
Government-issue punk; his superiors must be eternally off balance, unsure whether Stanton merely had bad taste or really was poking fun at them.
“Officer Stanton,” she called out the open window. He scrambled ungracefully to his feet and proceeded to louse up her docking efforts with his good intentions. She barely managed to shove her fenders out before he dragged the Bertram into the pilings.
“Yo, A
“Morning,” she replied neutrally as she tied off to a cleat.
The clatter of leather soles brought him up next to her. His features were overly large but finely shaped, giving him the appearance of a badly carved heroic figure. The goofy hat, the fifties shirt, the hard shoes-everything about him was a study in incongruity. It struck A
“I’ve been hoping to get a word with you,” he said.
“It’s my day off.”
“Good. Mine too. We’ll have oodles of time.”
Yo. Oodles. A
Frederick started to fold himself down again onto the dock but A
Together they walked inland, following a well-trodden path lined with bluebead lilies and red eastern columbine. Above them, trees whispered across a narrow ribbon of sky.
Under a white pine, on ground kept bare by fallen needles, A
“Are there snakes?” Frederick asked suspiciously.
“Yup.”
“Ish.” He curled his muscular legs up close, knees under his chin as he squatted beside her. His slightly bumbling fastidious act put A
“Do you read Dorothy L. Sayers?” she asked abruptly.
“Never heard of her.” There might or might not have been a gleam in his eye. “That was your question,” he said. “Now mine. Say somebody is trafficking in drugs between Canada and the U.S. Buying it here, selling it there. Your customs checks here are only a formality. Say maybe Isle Royale is the exchange place.”
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Stanton looked surprised, as if it had been obvious. “Who would it be?” he demanded.
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“Say somebody with a boat. Say somebody who’s here regularly. Somebody who’s got a reason for repeated trips. Maybe a commercial fishing guide boat, a sightseeing concession, a dive concession.” He opened his eyes wide and treated A
She looked away, let her gaze rest on the perfect mosaic of leaves and bark beyond the rusty circle of needles. Sun dappled through the foliage, catching and reflecting the living green. Even on dry land on Isle Royale there was a sense of being in a watery world.
“Why do you think it’s drug-related? Why a concession boat? Have you corroborating reports?”
“That’s three questions, A
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All law enforcement people worked with profiles whether they consciously chose to or not-like gamblers working the odds. So did businessmen and shopkeepers and receptionists and streetwalkers. A poorly dressed man, eyes watering, nose ru
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Free of Stanton, she found she didn’t know what to do with herself. The Kamloops dive was behind her. De
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