Part 14 (1/2)

”Let me know what they have to say.”

”How come you're not going to see them?”

”I'll have to. I can't trust Curtis to find out anything crucial.”

Julie brought our salads. Milo requested another drink for each of us. After she'd gone on her way, the sheriff s.h.i.+fted awkwardly in his chair and posed a question for me: ”Did Tom talk much about his kids?”

”Some,” I said, thinking back and remembering all sorts of things that had nothing to do with conversation. ”There were so many years that Tom and I had no contact, so I knew next to nothing about them as children.” Nor had Tom known anything about Adam's early years, I thought with too familiar regret. ”By the time I...we got back together, Kelsey and Graham were in their late teens. Then he'd talk about their off-and-on-again attempts at college and the phases they were going through with careers and interests.” I paused. ”What's odd now that I think about it is how seldom Tom mentioned any interaction between his kids and their mother, Sandra. Maybe, given all her emotional and mental problems, she didn't play any kind of traditional mother's role.”

Milo was rearranging the salt and pepper shakers, an old habit he'd never shed. ”She spent some time in nuthouses, didn't she?”

I couldn't help but smile. ”Well, Tom never called them that, but yes, she took the occasional trip to a clinic or hospital. It must've been very hard on Graham and Kelsey-and Tom, of course.”

”Right.” Milo almost sounded sympathetic. ”He had to bring home the bacon, too. At least he didn't have to fork it out in child support.”

I knew the sheriff referred to his own situation when his ex-wife, Tricia, had moved to Bellevue and taken their teenage kids with her. Between his work-related duties, which often kept him on the job during weekends, and his kids' frantic schedules, he hadn't seen them very often. I also knew that it had been a relief to him, having been spared many adolescent crises.

I had a different slant on Tom's relations.h.i.+p with his son and daughter. My conscience bothered me because I'd seldom probed too deeply into Sandra's problems-or those that she must have caused her family. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to hear about her. I suppose I preferred to pretend she didn't exist.

Our second round of drinks appeared, courtesy of Julie. I mentioned Minnie's remark about the used-up note tablet at the motel. As I expected, Milo didn't seem interested. Somehow the conversation drifted away from the homicide investigation. I a.s.sumed the sheriff wanted to forget his responsibilities for a while. I didn't blame him. He was always on duty, even in his nominal leisure time.

He picked up the bill, having offered to buy me drinks and dinner. I didn't argue. Milo often ate at my house, expecting dessert that wasn't served in the kitchen. He was almost as often disappointed. Even though we were compatible in bed, I didn't want to give him false hope about a permanent future together. I valued Milo's friends.h.i.+p. I just wished his previous efforts to find a new woman in his life hadn't all turned out badly.

We caught Sunny Rhodes just as she'd seated Scooter Hutchins and his wife in a booth near the front of the restaurant. Milo asked our hostess about the beautiful blonde and the Californian.

”I certainly remember them,” Sunny said, keeping one eye on the door. ”So good-looking. But I didn't get a chance to talk to them much. We were fairly busy that night.”

The sheriff didn't press Sunny for further information. The arrival of a party of four, none of whom I recognized, interrupted the brief interview, so we left. Outside, I suddenly remembered that I'd asked Milo to bring a photo of the victim.

”Oh, s.h.i.+t,” the sheriff said. ”I forgot. Want to come back to the office and get it?”

The short trek took less than three minutes. At almost seven o'clock, it was still broad daylight, with the sun not yet setting over the Skykomish River valley. A couple of cars and a camper bearing out-of-state license plates cruised along Front Street. In the distance, I heard a train whistle, probably Amtrak's eastbound Empire Builder running a few minutes behind schedule.

Sam Heppner was alone behind the counter. He greeted us with a wary eye. ”Checking up on me, boss?” he asked Milo.

”You're staying awake,” the sheriff responded, opening the gate in the counter and leading me to his office. ”I had copies made of the vic's phony driver's license,” he explained, moving papers and files around on his desk. ”I figured you might not want to run the postmortem photo in the paper.”

”Not unless that were the only way he might be identified,” I said.

”Here.” Milo handed me a manila envelope. ”Don't worry about prints. The originals are in the evidence file.”

I looked first at the black-and-white head shot of the victim. Eyes closed, no expression, could have been asleep. But postmortem photos aren't misleading. There is something cold and distant about the faces of people who have died. They're not there, it's just an image, and all I see is the absence of life.

The driver's license was another matter. There were two versions, one the actual size of the license, and the other an enlargement of just the head shot. I gasped when I saw the full-color, smiling face of the handsome young man.

I instantly recognized him.

TEN.

”WHAT?” MILO ASKED, SURPRISED AT MY STARTLED reaction.

”I've seen him.” I stared at the enlarged photo. ”I'm sure of it. I...” Pausing, I searched my memory. ”Stella's beauty parlor,” I finally said. ”He came in while I was there and asked for directions.”

Milo frowned. ”When?”

”Wednesday, our pub day,” I replied. ”Midafternoon.”

”You sure?”

”Yes, of course.” Suddenly I realized what Milo meant. ”This guy supposedly didn't arrive until Thursday.”

The sheriff moved from behind his desk to stand beside me and gazed at the photos. ”How close a look did you get?”

”Twenty feet,” I said. ”Maybe a little more. Stella was the one who talked to him. You'd better ask her where the guy was going and get her to ID these head shots.”

”Is she still at work or gone home?”

”That depends on how busy she is,” I replied. ”Want me to come with you?”

Milo shrugged. ”Why not?”

Stella's Styling Salon was directly across the street from the sheriff's office. We could see that the closed sign wasn't hung on the door. Jaywalking across Front, we entered and found Stella alone, toting up the day's receipts.

”Good Lord,” she exclaimed as we walked in. ”Am I under arrest for stealing my own hard-earned money?”

”You get to be a witness,” I said. ”Dodge is going to grill you.”

”Been there, done that,” Stella said bitterly, referring to a murder several years earlier that had occurred on her premises. She turned to Milo. ”That was no picnic for you, either, was it?”

”No.” The sheriff and Stella exchanged beleaguered looks. The victim had been related to one of his former girlfriends.

”So now what?” Stella asked, one fist on her hip. ”Has this something to do with your latest corpse?”

Milo showed her the enlargement of the driver's license. ”Look familiar?”

Stella studied the photo carefully. ”Yes.” She glanced at me. ”You saw him, too, last Wednesday. Oh, G.o.d, Emma, what have you done to your hair this time?”

”Skip the shoptalk,” Milo said. ”What did he want?”

”Directions,” Stella answered, apparently taking no offense. ”He asked how to get to the golf course.”

”That's it?” Milo looked disappointed.

Stella nodded. ”I told him, he thanked me and left.”

”Okay,” Milo said. ”Thanks, Stella. Sorry to trouble you.”