He’d let Munson take the lead interrogations of the two bike robbers, claiming he was shaken up. His limp was more pronounced. The two thugs were clamming up so far, though Lupo’s collar kept blubbering about the attack dog. He had been patched up by EMTs and shipped to Froedtert Hospital under guard. Lupo had no sympathy for the thug, but the incident highlighted his problem with using his wolf form on the job. Sometimes it worked, but just as often it caused difficulties.
While the Change enhanced his abilities, it also hampered his movement in the daily world of the street. Lupo was glad the task force didn’t need him as lead interrogator—it would be too awkward to face the thug who’d looked into his wolf eyes. The story of the attack dog held up for now. The doctor’s report would reflect the animal attack, and he’d have no reason to test DNA further.
Shit, nothing like complicating my life even more.
Then there was Doc Barrett, the police psychologist. The She-Devil of the SS. Considered most qualified to take over for the Wicked Witch of the West. Lupo’d had plenty of runins with her, stretching back even further than the damn Stewart case. She despised Lupo, and now he was assigned regular sessions with her since he had lost his foot. Ostensibly taking him through post-traumatic stress, she merely used the time to needle him. The affair she’d carried on with Lieutenant Bowen had ended when Bowen unexpectedly retired, and she blamed Lupo. Of course, she was right—Bowen had been driven to his career’s end by a carefully orchestrated meeting with the Creature.
Lupo smiled as he passed slower traffic huddled around the Oshkosh outlet malls. Bowen would have loved a wolf trophy, but his nerve had left him when confronted with a snarling snout clearly more intelligent than he. Last Lupo had heard of him, he’d moved down to Florida. Probably playing canasta in a retirement community.
Doc Barrett was a different animal altogether.
He had knocked on her door and waited for her usual grunt that passed for “come in.” When it came, he let himself in, remembering to limp.
Today Barrett had been dressed in a ribbed black suit that showed off her angular, bony figure. Midfifties with gray-streaked hair, her mouth was a purple gash that might have been attractive had it not been so tight-lipped with ill-conceived disdain for him. The ghost of Bowen’s aborted relationship with her hung over them and always would.
“How are we doing today, Detective?” she asked, making sure her inflection indicated she couldn’t care less.
“Swell. We caught two of the motorcycle gang and learned there’s more of them. We’ll probably get nothing out of these dudes, though. Let’s see, what else? My partner’s face is full of glass, and I ruined my clothes. Not too bad for a shitty Friday.”
He could never help being a smart-ass, not since she’d shut him and Ben out when they could have used help with the Martin case.
She smiled. “Sounds like you’ll have your hands full. How does that make you feel?”
“Wanted.” Was she serious?
“How does your foot feel?”
“Fine, for something that’s gone.”
“Are you still angry about losing it?”
“No, I was tired of having two.”
“You are angry. You know, if you’d been a uniformed officer, you probably would have been required to retire with disability. You should feel lucky.”
“Yeah, luck is my constant companion.”
“Detective Lupo, your condescending manner doesn’t change the fact that we have to continue with this charade. Frankly, I’m not aware of any change in your attitude or selfloathing.”
Self-loathing! What a joke.
He laughed, trying to keep from snorting. “We still have fifty minutes by my watch.”
“Hm, yes. Well, let’s try this. Why don’t you tell me why you’re so full of hate?”
And it had gotten worse from there. Sparring over his smartass responses to her hackneyed probing questions. They rapidly got on each other’s nerves, the sheer joy of hating simply getting old fast, and then going through the motions of the supposedly helpful relationship. By the time the clock hands pointed to the correct hour, Lupo couldn’t wait to take his leave. Sadistic as ever, Barrett held him to the last minute, like a delinquent student kept after school. Maybe he could wash the blackboard or serve detention.
“Next week, same time,” she said, turning to a file folder on her desk and dismissing him in the same motion. “Remember, Internal Affairs checks my records of your visits.” Her tone was just the slightest bit unctuous and slippery with barely repressed disdain.
How could he forget? It was part of the deal that kept him from retirement. He’d been as close to a physical-psychological discharge as anyone could be, and only some adroit stringpulling had kept him on the job.
Damned if he would let a witch like Barrett drive him out of his chosen profession.
It was time for Pyramid. He flicked the iPod dial and settled in for the cautionary tale of fame and legacy, and how both are fleeting. Later, Gaudi. He related to Eric Woolfson’s wistful, metaphorical lyrics.
The music calmed him, and he drove more carefully, navigating through the town of New London. He paused the iPod, gassed up within sight of a picturesque church that dominated the street, then got back on the road feeling better.
By the time he passed through Antigo, Eye in the Sky matched his mood perfectly. Inexplicably, the darkest themes always picked up his spirits.
Jessie
It didn’t occur to her until after she had almost puked up her Wheaties that the damage done to Mr. Blackthorn might have been caused by a wolf. Though she’d never seen evidence of it before, she knew wolves brought down game much larger than themselves, usually as a pack.
During her session with Sheriff Arnow—
Tom…
—she’d started to worry.
What if the DNA evidence showed it was a wolf? What if there was other evidence that muddied the waters? What if the whispers started again?
She remembered how it had been, before Nick Lupo confided in her—had been forced to, really. The people on the rez had started it, but the town had taken it up: a wolf was taking their pets or livestock, leaving only cleaned out fur and carcasses behind.
Nick had explained that there had been another wolf who challenged him for local supremacy. But Nick had battled that outsider and won. And he’d been right, there were no more suspicious attacks. Nick was careful to take only wild game, and as his control had increased, he’d been even more careful. And the loss of his foot had slowed him down.
The citizens of Eagle River and surrounding areas had been so preoccupied with the Martin Stewart “terrorism” crime wave that they’d greatly relaxed their worry about wolves once that was over.
She looked down at the severed head of Jimmy Blackthorn.
The teeth marks were obvious to her practiced eye.
She turned away. Enough.
Her stomach was still queasy, but at least she’d held her own in front of the new sheriff. Bunche had been pleasant enough, but here was Tom Arnow, a very nice man indeed. And the way he looked at her. He had a way of looking from the sides of his eyes, as if he were looking elsewhere and then, just by accident, you’d fall into his field of vision. Not quite askance, but still calculated. She’d noticed that it signaled his intent if he looked at you first from the corners of his eyes.
She shook her head. Why was she concerned with what the sheriff thought of her and how he looked at her? It wasn’t the first time a man had looked at her appraisingly. Jessie rarely made a fuss over herself. Except when Nick was coming to visit.
Nick needed to hear about Blackthorn, that was certain. Good thing he was probably on his way. He would hate finding a crime here to worry about, for surely it would steal time away from them, but at least he could keep his senses open while in the woods.
The time he spent indoors, with her—well, that was for them. She smiled in anticipation.
There was a strong gust of wind
, and the tree line across the dirt road seemed to shimmer.
David Lynch woods, she thought with a sharp little shiver. Her nerves were acting up.
Dammit, she shouldn’t have balked at doing the autopsy. Now she would be at the mercy of whatever the lab discovered. It had to be a wolf, didn’t it? She recognized the damage, the teeth marks. But this one was extremely savage. Nick was reverent of nature, of what was provided for him in this perfect habitat. Perfect except for the humans who tended to fuck it up. Even before he had learned to bring his wolf side (the Creature, as he referred to it) under control, he managed to avoid taking herd animals and pets.
So then what did Blackthorn’s murder mean? Was a mankiller wolf loose in the Nicolet? Was this a fluke? Perhaps a hurt or starving animal, desperate for food, or even cornered?
Her father could have done the autopsy, and he would have kept any secret she shared with him. The old man’s career had been partly as coroner, until he had returned to the city to consult…but now he was gone, too, killed by a stroke a year before. He’d lived long enough to meet Nick and see his daughter finally happy in a relationship. He’d been indebted to Nick for saving Jessie’s life from the Stewart gang—and hadn’t known the extent of what Nick had saved her from—but he hadn’t been able to enjoy their company for long before…
Jessie felt herself tearing up. She could cope with his death intellectually, but occasionally she missed him—missed him fiercely and with a heavy heart she felt aching exquisitely.
She’d edged away from the crime scene and now sat in her Pathfinder, parked near the sheriff’s squad car, letting her thoughts run their course. She glanced in the mirror and saw the tear tracks—dammit, she’d have to wash off the mascara.
Tom Arnow approached his car, talking with Deer and Rogers. As least he didn’t seem as contemptuous as whites usually were. He was making an effort to give the rez officers the benefit of his experience, while seeming to accept that they might also have experience to share with him. So far, he seemed pretty good.
Who was Tom Arnow? She didn’t know much about him but what they’d printed in the paper when he was hired, but her few meetings had been pleasant. Pleasant and…something else. Fact was, she hadn’t been so involved in police work since the end of the Stewart gang, mostly because she only dealt with occasional fights on the rez and those resulting from continued tension between white sport fishermen and the spearfishing Indians, the perennial source of strife in the county.
Jessie turned the key and started the Pathfinder, but before she could maneuver out of the slick mud, a shiny silver SUV—a Lexus maybe?—nosed past her and headed for the sheriff’s car.
Now, what was this? She didn’t recognize the vehicle.
Then she saw a large decal on the rear window.
Crap.
Somehow, the press had got wind of this. The decal was the colorful logo of Wausau’s WASU-TV, the powerful Fox network affiliate.
This is out of their jurisdiction. What are they doing here?
A brightly colored news van followed the SUV and pulled in next to the Lexus.
Jessie weighed her options. She was an occasional acting coroner but had opted out here. On the other hand, she was at the scene with the sheriff and the rez cops. The casino and convention-center project was big news in the area—protests were still rumored by the project’s considerable opponents. A murder at the site was sensational enough, and these details would be explosive.
She made her decision. Sheriff Arnow was experienced enough, but new to the area and its weird dynamics. County, city, and reservation—a volatile mix at best.
She turned the key again, climbed out, and headed for the knot of vehicles. A news team was assembling near the van. From the Lexus, a statuesque blonde woman was approaching the sheriff and the cops.
Jessie angled in and reached them just in time to hear her introduction.
“Heather Wilson, WASU News 9,” the woman said as she extended her hand.
Arnow seemed blindsided by the approach—or the woman’s camera-perfect beauty. Tall, lithe in a black leather blazer, blonde hair spilling over the jacket’s collar. Shapely but somewhat angular, large limpid eyes, a wide glossy pink television mouth full of too-perfect teeth, slightly pointed chin…she made quite an impression—certainly on the sheriff. Jessie remembered her not only from newscasts in which she read the news (while looking great!), but also some aggressive, middle-of-the-road investigative journalism for a small town television station. Clearly, she was aiming for a network job.
And now here she was.
Jessie felt a sudden jab of fear.
Somehow she sensed things slowly spinning out of their normal orbits.
“Nice to meet you,” Arnow said. “Er, how did you hear about…this?” He still sounded caught off guard by the news anchor. Maybe it was her looks.
Heather Wilson smiled her TV smile. “I monitor police radio, of course. Reservation, too. This casino has been in the news for months. It’s definitely one of my viewers’ interest areas. Robbie, Tim, get the camera rolling.”
Bearded and long-haired Robbie or buzz-cut Tim maneuvered a hand-held camera on the exchange. Arnow winced, as if he’d realized too late that he had let them get the upper hand.
“Look, this is a crime scene I don’t want contaminated. I’ll make a statement for the media later today, but right now I’m asking you to put the camera down or I’ll have to have you removed.” He nodded at the rez cops, and they moved up, ready to enforce his threat.
“Robbie, keep shooting. Sheriff, I must insist you don’t put a blackout on this crime. This county’s residents deserve to know what’s happening. A lot of jobs and a lot of money are on the line. My viewers won’t take very kindly to your attitude. Robbie, let’s go.”
As she started to step past him, Arnow put his hand on the cameraman’s chest and held him back. “Okay, you can come forward but the camera stops rolling. Understood?”
Jessie wondered about his strategy. Seeming to give in a little was risky, but might work.
The Wilson woman stared at Arnow for half a minute, her large eyes grabbing his as if she were trying to hypnotize him. Then she turned and nodded. “Okay, Robbie, wait here with the camera off.” The long-haired kid nodded. “Tim, call in.”
Arnow walked her back to one of the taped-off areas. Jessie wondered if he was trying to make her sick. She figured the Wilson woman was too driven to be affected by mere body parts, and she was right. Arnow pointed, Heather Wilson crouched a bit, looked carefully, and by the time they returned she was still pale, but her color was already returning.
That’s one strong career woman, Jessie thought.
“So I will appreciate if you keep some of what I told you to yourself,” Arnow was saying as he led her to the van. “I’m going to need your word on that. You can release the vic-tim’s name, since we’ve ascertained there are no living relatives or spouse. But we have to keep back details regarding the nature of the attack to make sure serial confessors don’t muddy up the waters with meaningless statements. Got that?”
Wilson was a pro. Jessie had to hand it to her.
“Sheriff, I’ll do everything within my power to help with the investigation. Now, you won’t mind if I do a remote from here, with the scene in the background but far enough away so you can’t see much?”
Jessie swore the reporter was batting her thick eyelashes.
Arnow sighed and caved just a bit. “Fine, do a remote. Make sure she doesn’t stray,” he told the rez cops. “And keep the details to a minimum, or your access is revoked,” he said, making sure she understood his threat. “Now I have to see to having my evidence bagged and removed.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
In less than two minutes, she was set up and the camera rolled as she stood with her back to where the sheriff and his men had begun the tedious removal.
“I’m Heather Wilson, reporting from Eagle River, where a horrific murder that occurred
last night is being investigated by Sheriff Thomas Arnow. Sheriff Arnow, who was recently hired here in Vilas County, claims it may be the worst he has ever seen in his long career, and I can attest to how brutal the crime seems to have been. From what has been released so far, the victim is Jimmy Blackthorn, a major force behind the Great Northern Casino and convention-center project, which broke ground here just a few weeks ago. Authorities are requesting the help of anyone who might have information as to what may have occurred here in the late hours last night, during the storm that knocked out power temporarily to nearly a thousand homes in the region.”
She broke the videotaping with a gesture, then directed Robbie to pan the area, which Jessie was certain Tom had asked her to avoid doing.
Then Wilson was back with more comments, some background on the project and its controversial nature, and an obvious voice-over to be used later in a follow-up. Heather Wilson covered her bases. So much so, that she finally seemed to notice Jessie and approached her—ran her down was more accurate, Jessie thought. She’d tried to sidle away from the news van, but Wilson caught her before she could make her escape.
Jessie looked for help, but Arnow was off with his cops and the coroner’s attendants, probably collecting some of Blackthorn’s remains by now.
She was half inside the Pathfinder when Heather Wilson thrust the microphone into her face.
“Dr. Jessie Hawkins, would you care to comment on this brutal crime? Would you care to make a statement?”
Jessie stared into Wilson’s eyes, seeing the ambition lying in wait behind the sharp intelligence and the camera-ready smile.
“No comment,” she said.
She started the Pathfinder and left the anchorwoman standing in the mud. In the mirror, Jessie saw that Wilson had already turned away to bark orders that her male slaves seemed to be following.
Jessie didn’t envy Tom Arnow one bit.
Sam Waters
The council meeting had started.
His mind wandered for a few minutes. He couldn’t help it. The details to be discussed were important, sure, but the major, big-picture decision had been made months ago, over his vehement objections, and now he was nothing more than a hood ornament on a fast-moving race car about to collide with a wall.
Wolf's Gambit Page 6
