"I have no time for them. If I saw one of them coming toward me, I'd cross the street."

"Ah." I gave her my most serious and concerned look. "Well, I'm sorry. Really. I a.s.sumed ..."

"What?"

Had her good. "That you knew they were dead."

I figured I was ready for about any kind of reaction, but was surprised when she simply said, "That doesn't surprise me."

"It doesn't? Why not?"

"They 'party hearty,' and they drive too fast. We've all been telling 'em that. For years."

"Wasn't a car wreck," I said. I paused for effect, for all the good it did me. "They were murdered."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Murdered? Like, by somebody else?"

"That's what it looks like." By somebody else, indeed.

"Well," she said, "well, s.h.i.t. Huh. Whadda ya know ..." She paused. "That's something. Well, you guys know who did it?"

"It's beginning to look like it might be Fred."

"Oh, no. No, no, no way. Oh, no," and she started to chuckle. "No, not Fred. No."

In about ten minutes, she explained to me just what a foolish idea it was. Fred, in her experience, was absolutely determined to avoid conflict at any cost. He would take the path of least resistance every time. She'd known Fred since high school, and he'd always been that way. The only times she'd ever seen him angry, it was at himself.

"He'd do things like let the other kids keep their beer in his locker. Really. Just so he wouldn't have to argue with them. He'd fidget all day, worried that the princ.i.p.al would find out. But he'd never say no."

"Because the princ.i.p.al was one step removed, and the kids were right there?"

"Yeah," Donna Sue thought for a second. "Like that. You know he was busted for DWI back in high school?"

"Oh," I said, "yeah ... I'm the one who got him."

"Well, you know the only reason he drove that night is that the kid who was the designated driver had gotten it for DWI before, couldn't afford to get busted again, and got drunk at the party anyway?"

"Didn't know that."

"Just like the beer in the locker. Knew he shouldn't do it, but just to avoid the ha.s.sle ..." She shrugged. "Like I say, he's always been that way."

Judy came in with the coffee. It helped.

"What if," I said, "somebody asked him to do something he just couldn't bring himself to do? Could he get violent?"

"No way. If it got that bad, I swear to G.o.d, he'd just move to California or somewhere." She sipped her coffee. "He's just not aggressive at all."

"How about his two cousins? The 'Weasels'?"

"They're mostly just liars. Were, I guess." She shook her head. "They'd get him to do s.h.i.t, you know? Like keep stuff for 'em that was hot."

"Were they violent?"

"Not really."

"I mean, like, if they got caught at a burglary ... do you think they'd get violent then?"

"I don't think so," she said. "They'd just try to lie their way out of it. They could get pretty outrageous, sometimes."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. They used to laugh about one time, in Oelwein, when they were caught behind a store one night. They were thinkin' about sneaking in through the rest room window, and the owner came out with, like, the garbage. He started to jump in their s.h.i.t in a big way. So they told him they were undercover cops. Convinced him, too." She giggled.

Bingo. Oh, Bingo indeed. "Really?"

"Oh, sure. They did that more than once, I think. It worked." She shook her head. "They could convince you the sun came out at night. Look you right in the eye and lie, lie, lie. Never blink."

When Art got back from Oelwein, I ran my interview with Donna Sue by him.

"And?" said Art, sort of impatiently.

"It explains a bunch of the stuff that's been bothering me," I said. "Why people kept a.s.suming the two victims were cops, for one thing. Why it just didn't ring true. Why there had to be somebody involved we weren't aware of."

"Why's that? I must be missing something," said Art. "I didn't think she provided any other names?"

"Impersonating cops," I said. "If the wrong person was in that house, he might have killed them because they convinced whoever it was that they were cops."

"What you're doing is this: You have a theory that says Fred didn't do it. Okay? Yet all the real evidence points to the fact that he did. Then you feel that a story told by Fred's ex-girlfriend, about two dead men who can't contradict her, that you have no proof ever even happened ... confirms your theory." Art shook his head. "This now requires the presence and the involvement of a third party based on a supposition by you, based on a tale by another party." He shrugged. "Can't buy that, Carl."

I gritted my teeth. "But I think that's what happened."

"Based solely on your instinct," he said. Just a bit too sarcastically, for my taste.

"You have to start somewhere," I replied, evenly. "Your so-called instinct tells you where to dig. You dig, you get the evidence, you may solve the case. I don't guess a case. I never guess. You should know that by now."

"I didn't say 'guess,'" he said.

"Do you realize the ramifications here? If I'm right, that would mean that Cletus had prior knowledge of the murders before he got to the house. He said something about the dead being cops." I paused, to let that sink in. "And that would mean, in turn, that he had contact with the killer or killers, who was the only person who would have heard them say they were cops. Of course, you would then have to characterize the killer as someone who would kill cops, as opposed to someone who would be relieved if they said they were fuzz."

"All based on a conversation that we can't prove ever occurred," said Art.

"You gotta admit, though, it does cover the territory," I said.

"So did the theory," said Art, "that had the sun revolving around the earth."

Well, he had me there.

"Tell you what," said Art, finally. "Make you a deal. You do this lead, your lead, and we'll do the straight-up case. If you score, fine. Okay?"

No way. If I did that, I'd take myself out of the mainstream investigation. Let him proceed, without me, the local yokel, getting in the way.

"Naw," I said, in my best aw shucks voice. "The officer with primary jurisdiction makes the deals." I said it very pleasantly. I couldn't afford to be offended. "I'll follow that lead, but not exclusively. I'll still work on the main case. But I'll go into my theory, at the same time."

He thought a second. Legally, it was my case all the way, and he was a.s.sisting. He knew that. But he also knew that without DCI, we were going to be left high and dry. He had to know that. G.o.d knows, I did.

"d.a.m.n it, Carl. The last thing we need is for the defense to get hold of something like this. As far as I can see, it's only going to be enough to confuse a jury. Which means that a killer walks."

The bit about a killer walking sort of p.i.s.sed me off. I hate that sort of melodramatic c.r.a.p.

"Look at it like this: If it occurred to me, it can occur to the defense," I said. "Even if my lead goes nowhere, we can at least be ready for the other side when they bring it up. Show 'em just why it doesn't work." I shrugged. "I don't mind the extra work." Top that.

"Okay. Fine. Fine with me." He held up his hands. "But don't come up with another theory. This is plenty."

A peace offering. Tentatively accepted. "Promise," I said. "What did you find out in Oelwein?"

Not a lot, as it turned out. Nora, the mother of the two victims, was distraught, but had no idea who might have done it. A female cousin of the victims thought it might have been "some farmer." Oelwein PD had nothing on file indicating that there was a feud or any other sort of problem that had anybody mad enough at the brothers to kill them. One of the more remarkable things, apparently, was the tacit acknowledgment by just about everybody that the brothers were, in fact, thieves.

"Fred's involvement in the burglaries or thefts never came up," said Art. "They may be grief-stricken, but they aren't stupid. Which means that we still have only his word that he drove for them." He stood. "I have to be getting back to Cedar Falls. We're going to be doing a polygraph on a suspect in a murder from Mason City. I have to be there."

Understood.

"When will you be back up?"

"Tomorrow, I hope. Why don't I just touch base with Davies, while I'm there?"

"Did you talk to Sergeant Thurman in Oelwein?" I asked, as Art was going out the door. He hadn't. I put in a call to him. Phil Thurman was an excellent officer, and had originally worked for our department before transferring to Oelwein PD. More money, better hours. His first cop job had been with us, I'd been sort of his training officer, and he'd been a real breath of fresh air. We'd hated to see him go.

"Sergeant Thurman."

"Phil, it's Houseman. How are ya?"

"Dad! Hey, understand you had a cool double murder up there! You got all the luck ..."

"Sorry you left?"

"Just about! What can I do for you guys?"

I asked him about the dead Colson brothers. He certainly knew them. "Yeah, those two been a pain in the a.s.s for five years or more."

I asked him about Fred. He knew him, too. "The quiet one. He was with those two a lot. Not a bad kid, you know? Just not too smart about who he hung with."

I asked him about the impersonation of an officer story. He hadn't exactly heard about that one. "Sounds just like 'em, though. h.e.l.l, it sounds just like half our store owners, for that matter." He did think that, since the store was open after dark, at least in the account I had, he might be able to track it down. Most stores in Oelwein, as in Maitland, closed at five o'clock.

"Good enough," I said.

I told Lamar what Phil had said and asked Lamar if he'd like to have lunch at the buffet in the pavilion of the General Beauregard General Beauregard, moored at Frieberg. He declined, but I decided to drive up anyway. Hester Gorse was working the gaming boat up there, and I really wanted to discuss the case with her. I needed an unbiased opinion. I also needed a really good meal, out of the reach and notice of the local media. It was only twenty miles or so.

I called Hester at her office at the boat.

"Houseman, by G.o.d! You been busy?"

Just hearing her voice cheered me up. "'Busy' ain't the word for it. Like to do lunch? I can bring you up to date, and see if I can get Art a.s.signed to Minnesota."

"Yeah," she said, "I heard. Things okay other than that?"

"Things are interesting. Two corpses, no real suspects. How 'bout it?"

"Oh, you do know how to convince a girl. Sure. Love to." I could hear the grin in her voice.

The General Beauregard General Beauregard was moored in the Mississippi River, separated from its a.s.sociated pavilion by a railroad track and a highway, both of which paralleled the river. The bluffs that formed the prehistoric banks of the river rose to over 100 feet, within a block or two of the boat. It was really a pretty setting. Even with the river frozen over, and the stark black trees outlined against the white snow. was moored in the Mississippi River, separated from its a.s.sociated pavilion by a railroad track and a highway, both of which paralleled the river. The bluffs that formed the prehistoric banks of the river rose to over 100 feet, within a block or two of the boat. It was really a pretty setting. Even with the river frozen over, and the stark black trees outlined against the white snow.

The pavilion was a combination theater, office, and restaurant complex, containing everything to make the boat into a casino, as opposed to a simple floating slot machine. Iowa law forbade gambling on the land, so the boat was more or less a dedicated gambling platform. The pavilion provided the rest of a mini-Las Vegas aspect to the operation. Nice, in a way. Families could use the pavilion facilities without being near gaming, which some seemed to prefer.

Iowa also required that the Division of Criminal Investigation maintain a presence at each and every casino. The legislature neglected to provide any additional agents for that purpose, so General Crim. had to spread itself even thinner than usual to accommodate the mandate. They accomplished that by three-month a.s.signed tours. No exceptions. This was Hester's turn in an eighteen-month rotation.

I hadn't seen her for several months, and hadn't actually worked a case with her for over a year. She was one of the best agents I'd ever worked with, and totally reliable. And very, very smart.

She was also a few years younger, and very fit. Something I tried never to bring into a conversation, and something she brought up every chance she got. She was waiting near the buffet entrance.

"Hi." She grinned broadly. "Looks like life agrees with you."

"Everything but work," I said. "It's a tough one this time. Great case, though. Fascinating."

We spent about half an hour in her office, and I ran through the basic details of the double murder. She was into it instantly.

"I don't think it was Fred, either," she said, "based on what you've given me. Does Art think it was him?"

"Yeah."

"You've got to understand, he thinks he's under pressure to produce a conclusion." She held up her hand, forestalling my protest. "I know, but it's true. You know him as well as anybody does. He's always wanted to be the best, and in his mind, the best is also the fastest to get the bad guy."

I finished up by telling her about everybody a.s.suming that it was a pair of cops who'd been killed.

"That's what we call a clue, Houseman," she said, seriously.

We found a table in the main dining room, off in a corner. A couple of people spoke to me as we walked through the place, and a couple more eyed me closely. People I knew. I was with an attractive woman, not my wife. They were checking Hester out, and could be relied upon to keep an eye on us throughout lunch. I loved it.

I was in a fine mood. Hester noticed. "The case really tripped your trigger, didn't it?"

"Oh, yeah." I smiled. It really was good to see her. "I'll buy."

"Wow, Houseman. This must be the case dreams are made of. It's affected your mind."

We put our coats on the chair backs, and hit the buffet line.

I gave in to my conscience, and had the grilled chicken plate, with whipped potatoes, peas, carrots, and a roll. $4.50. Hester just picked up a taco salad. $2.98. Less than $10.00. I was encouraged. Easily affordable. Not that I'm cheap ...

Just as the food arrived, so did our favorite reporter, Nancy Mitch.e.l.l. She'd been through a particular kind of h.e.l.l on our last murder case. She'd not only witnessed a murder, she'd also been threatened and generally put through the wringer. Helping us out, at out request. We owed Nancy, and we owed her big-time.