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SIX
Diana Prince was waiting for them when they taxied up to Wy’s tie-down. “Did you find it?”
“Yeah, we found it.”
“Damn,” she said. “I figured it was just another one of Teddy and John’s big stories. A pretty good one, I admit, but still.”
“Me, too,” Liam said. “But it’s there, all right.”
“What is it?” She looked at Wy.
“A C-47,” Wy said. “World War Two vintage, if I had to guess.”
Prince whistled. “Wow. On its way to the Aleutians, maybe?”
“Maybe. That’s how Elmendorf got built, because of the traffic between Anchorage and the Aleutians after the Japanese invaded.”
“What kind of shape is it in?”
“We couldn’t get close to it. It’s sort of stuck in the face of the glacier.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Although I’d say, from the looks of it, and from the most recent evidence of calving, that a big chunk is due off any time now.” Wy remembered the sheer terror of those few moments when she had thought they were both about to be crushed in the fall of ice, and looked at Liam to see him reliving it, too. “All we can do is wait. We got the tail numbers, though.”
“Great, we’ll be able to trace it.”
“What are you doing here, Prince?” Liam said. “I thought you were going to check on that shooting out in the road last night. The one old Abe called in.”
“Yeah, I was.” Prince looked uncomfortable.
“Something else come up?”
Only one answer to that. For a state trooper, something else always came up. “Yeah.”
Suddenly Liam didn’t like the look on her face. “I’m not going to like this, am I.”
“No.”
Prince looked at Wy, who could take a hint of official police business when her nose was rubbed in it. Curiosity was not a trait that was encouraged to flourish in the significant other of a state trooper. She finished tying down the Cub. “I’ve got to pick up the mail for Kagati Lake. See you later.” She included them both in a vague salute and climbed into her truck. Liam saw her watching them in the rearview as she drove off.
He shook his head once, firmly, and turned to Prince. “What’s up?”
She took a deep breath. “You’re really not going to like it.”
She was right.
Death was careless of dignity. Sometimes Liam thought that that was what he hated most about murder scenes, and this one was no exception. Her flowered housedress was above her knees, revealing the legs he had admired the night before all the way up to the thighs. Her right foot was twisted so that one perfectly polished brown loafer had fallen off. The neat, shining cap of black hair was matted with blood. Her bowels had emptied themselves and the stink of urine and excrement fouled the air.
Her big brown eyes were open, looking at the ceiling with an expression of vague astonishment, as if she had tried and failed to understand how she came to be there and in that position.
She never would, now.
“You got pictures?”
Prince nodded.
Liam stepped forward, avoiding the blood, and closed the staring eyes, and then pulled the skirt down to a more decorous level. He turned to Joe Gould, a thin, intense man in his early thirties with a face by Giotto and hair as long and as black as the deceased’s. Gould, Newenham’s sole physician’s assistant, operator of the local ambulance and the nearest thing the town had to a medical examiner, stripped the plastic gloves from his hands. “My guess is death was caused by a blow to the head incurred during a fight. Bruising on the face, knuckles, defensive marks on both arms.”
“Anything under her fingernails?”
Gould picked up the corpse’s left hand and displayed it. “She kept her fingernails short and filed smooth. I did scrapings, but I doubt there will be much there.”
The house was silent, except for the sound of soft weeping and muted whispers coming from the living room. The three of them stared down at the body.
Mrs. Lydia Tompkins, a seventy-four-year-old housewife, mother of four, grandmother of two, would never again come to the defense of private property with a jar of sun-dried tomatoes.
“God damn it to hell,” Liam said.
Prince tried not to flinch away from the rage in his voice and on his face. Gould, impassive as ever, picked up the chair that had been lying on its side and set it at the table. He nodded at the counter and, following his gaze, Liam saw two mugs, both bearing the KAKM Anchorage public television logo, sitting next to the stove. The kettle was full, and cold to the touch. The mugs were empty. A canister of tea bags stood next to them, along with a sugar bowl and a spoon.
Gould nodded when Liam looked back. “I’d say she was making tea for two and never got the chance.”
“So she knew him.”
Gould shrugged. “Doesn’t narrow it down by much. Who doesn’t know everyone else in this town?”
The kitchen, a large room with windows overlooking the river and a table big enough to seat eight, had last been remodeled before Alaska was a state. The refrigerator was small, round-shouldered and noisy, a sea of white enamel surrounded the propane-fired stove burners, there was no microwave, and the coffeepot was a silver percolator with a black plastic lid. The overhead light was fluorescent behind a translucent, rectangular plastic lens. Yellow flowers bloomed on the wallpaper, matching the yellow and white squares of the shabby linoleum. The narrow cabinets were metal painted white, with chrome handles that looked like they’d come off a ’57 Chevy. The phone was an old black rotary dial, mounted on the wall with a bulletin board beside it. Among the usual kids’ pictures, grocery lists and plumbers’ phone numbers was a tattered Peanuts cartoon, a color one out of the Sunday paper, with Snoopy on his doghouse thinking about the time he’d tried to go over the fence of the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm. “No matter where you are, you’re still in the world,” was his conclusion.
Liam lowered his eyes and saw the jar of sun-dried tomatoes sitting on the counter, shreds of dark red packed into golden olive oil.
Snoopy was right.
The room shone with elbow grease, not a coffee ground or a speck of egg yolk or a Cheerio dried hard anywhere. If it hadn’t been for the blood, it would have been spotless, but there was blood, a lot of it, splattered over the small, square porcelain sink, the dish drainer and the dishes in it, the face of the cupboard beneath, and the floor. Most of it had dried to a hard brown.
“Did you take prints?” Liam said to Prince.
She nodded, taking refuge in the minutiae of the job. “There were a lot of them.”
“And you got pictures?”
“Three rolls.”
“All right, then.”
Prince brought out the body bag she had carried into the house. Liam didn’t move.
After a moment, Prince said tentatively, “Sir?”
“God damn son of abitch, ” Liam said, and bent to the task.
Liam and Prince saw the ambulance off and went back inside, through the kitchen and into the large living room made much smaller by all the furniture in it. There were two couches, a recliner and a couple of easy chairs upholstered in three different fabrics in four different patterns, with end tables spaced between. A wicker basket held copies of theLadies’ Home Journal, Reader’s Digest, Jo-A
The weeping sound was coming from two women who sat close together on one couch, and the whispers from two men on the opposite couch. They looked nothing alike, and yet it was evident at first glance that all four were the children of Lydia Tompkins.