Spilled Blood

‘That’s right.’

‘So Johan was in the park that night. I’m impressed. Do you think he killed her?’

Chris thought about Glenn Magnus. I hope we’re both right. ‘I don’t know, but he had a motive. Ashlynn dumped him when she got pregnant. She had an abortion. He could have lost control when he found out.’

Altman sipped his coffee and used a napkin to wipe the mug and the table. ‘I’m not sure a jury will see Johan as a killer. I’m not sure I do, either.’

‘There’s as much evidence to suggest that Johan killed her as there is to suggest that Olivia killed her. Your airtight case just sprang a big leak.’

The county attorney smiled at him over the top of the coffee mug. ‘I’m used to defense attorneys blowing smoke, Mr. Hawk. You’re trolling for other suspects, which is fine, but the evidence still points squarely at your daughter.’

‘I reviewed the evidence the police gathered,’ Chris added. ‘Something else doesn’t make sense.’

Altman lifted an eyebrow. ‘What’s that?’

‘Ashlynn didn’t have a laptop. It’s not in the inventory of personal possessions, either in her car or her room.’

The county attorney frowned. ‘That’s a little odd, I’ll grant you.’

‘I can think of a few reasons why the police didn’t find it. One, Ashlynn got rid of it herself before she arrived in the ghost town. Two, it was taken from her, either before or after the murder. Three, Florian and Julia removed it from her room prior to the police search.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘Maybe because there were things about Ashlynn they didn’t want anyone to find.’

‘Or maybe Olivia took the laptop herself,’ Altman said.

‘Now who’s blowing smoke?’

Altman smiled. ‘Exactly what do you think was on Ashlynn’s laptop that makes it so important?’

‘I have no idea. E-mails? Calendar items? A history of web sites she visited?’

‘I’ll talk to Florian,’ Altman said. ‘There may be an innocent explanation. Her computer may be at school or somewhere else in the house.’

‘Maybe.’

Altman put his mug down and folded his hands together. ‘I understand your interest in conspiracy theories, Mr. Hawk, but let me explain something to you about the men and women who serve on juries in this county. They’re not fools. They’re solid, hard-working Christians with a lot of common sense. If you think you can misdirect them, you’re wasting your time. If you really want to help your daughter, tell her to come clean, and we’ll see what we can do for her.’

‘She didn’t kill Ashlynn.’

Altman sighed. ‘Mr. Hawk, I don’t like to see a seventeen-year-old girl spend the rest of her life in prison, no matter what she did, but at the end of the day, my responsibility is to Ashlynn Steele. I knew that girl well. I’m not going to let her death go unpunished.’

‘There were other things going on in Ashlynn’s life. There are other possible motives for her murder.’

‘Like what?’

‘Vernon Clay,’ Chris said.

He expected another dismissal from the county attorney. You’re chasing ghosts. Instead, Altman pursed his lips with concern and eased back into the booth. He studied Chris with a new curiosity. ‘Why bring him up?’

‘I didn’t. Ashlynn did. She was asking questions about him before she was killed.’

For the first time, Chris saw a tiny crack of doubt in the man’s eyes.

‘You’re sure about that?’ Altman asked.

‘I am.’

‘Who was she talking to?’

‘I’d rather not give you a name right now, but my source is reliable. Ashlynn talked to him directly.’

‘Is it someone at Mondamin?’

Chris said nothing.

Altman gently drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Vernon Clay left town years ago. Do you have any actual evidence that Ashlynn’s interest in him had something to do with her death?’

‘No, but I don’t have her laptop.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. The mysterious laptop. I like how you tie things together. So what do you want me to believe? You think Ashlynn was poking around in her father’s secrets because of Vernon Clay, and she learned something that put her in danger?’

‘Maybe. If she kicked the hornet’s nest, who knows what flew out?’

‘Do you have any theories?’

Chris leaned forward across the table. ‘You tell me, Mr. Altman. I get the feeling you know something you’re not sharing with me.’

Altman shrugged. ‘This is your party.’

‘Is it? A few minutes ago, I was spouting conspiracy theories. Now you’re pumping me for information. I’d like to know why.’

The county attorney fingered his coffee mug. ‘First answer another question for me, and then we’ll see. This reliable source of yours, did he mention anything about this man who calls himself Aquarius?’

‘No.’

‘Ashlynn said nothing to him about Aquarius?’

‘Not that I know of. I think he would have mentioned it.’ Chris studied Altman with suspicion. ‘Why? Did you discover evidence that Aquarius might have been involved in Ashlynn’s death?’

‘We’ve found nothing like that.’

‘Then why bring him up?’

Altman’s face was pained. ‘Aquarius is a separate investigation, Mr. Hawk. I’m afraid I can’t share any information with you.’

‘It was separate. Now I’m not so sure. If you have any reason to believe there’s a connection between Ashlynn and Aquarius, you owe me the truth about it.’ Chris frowned, and suddenly he understood. Suddenly it made sense. ‘You think Aquarius may be Vernon Clay, don’t you? You found something to tie them together. That’s what this is about.’

The county attorney gave a tiny sigh, as if he knew he couldn’t stay silent. ‘All I can tell you, Mr. Hawk, is that we’ll know soon enough if that’s true.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Aquarius,’ Altman said. ‘We’ve found him.’

34

The respite was over. The rain came again.

Chris listened to the splash of the wet streets under his tires as he drove north. The downpour sent everyone in downtown Barron inside, leaving the sidewalks deserted. It was as dark at noon as it would have been at dusk. He stopped at a red light, and sheets of water pelted his windshield like machine-gun fire. He could see gray waves blowing from west to east, pebbling the dark surface of the river.

The parking lot of the Riverside Motel was a lake. He stopped in front of his corner room, where a waterfall spilled from the overflowing gutters. Getting out, he landed his feet in a deep puddle, soaking through his socks. He unlocked the door and went inside. Rain thundered in a drumbeat on the roof. He didn’t have much to pack. In two minutes, he threw what he had inside his suitcase, returned to his Lexus and dumped the bag inside his trunk.

He kicked through standing water to the motel office and found Marco Piva in a flimsy folding chair under a large vinyl picnic umbrella, a beer bottle in his hand, as if it were a summer Sunday. He wore a white underwear shirt, and his thick black chest hair curled over the V-neck. His heavy arms bulged out of the sleeves. His corduroys