Hell. Better.

“Sheriff Dahl here.”

A somber voice on the other end of the line said, “Sheriff, this’s Andrew Sheridan…” He said this as if Dahl ought to know.

Uncertainly the sheriff said, “Yessir?”

“I worked with Emma Feldman. I just heard.”

Oh. That was it. After discovering the bodies, Dahl had called the law firm assistant and gotten the name of several partners Emma Feldman regularly worked with. He’d taken a deep breath and delivered the news. Word would travel fast, of course, in those circles.

“I’m sorry, sir. Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

They talked for a moment or two, Dahl giving away what he could, which wasn’t much. Sheridan finally got down to business. “Sheriff, this is a hard time for everybody. But I have to ask you something. About Emma’s files. She had some with her, didn’t she?”

“Yessir, she did.”

“Are you going to want them for evidence?”

“Yes, they’ll have to be processed. It looks like somebody went through them.”

“What? Who?”

Dahl lifted eyebrows apologetically to Arlen Tanner. “Just be a minute,” he whispered. Then into the phone: “We aren’t sure, sir.”

“So we can’t have them back?”

“Not yet. No.”

“Do you know when we can?”

“I can’t say at this time.”

“Then can I ask that you secure them somehow?”

“As evidence, they’ll be locked up, sir.”

A hesitation. “It’s nothing critical, but we worry about trade secrets and issues like that. You understand.”

No, he didn’t. But he said, “We’ll make sure they’ll be safe.”

“Well, thank you, Sheriff. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, just let me know.”

Yep, let me do my job.

They disconnected. Dahl was irritated but couldn’t really blame the man. The practicality of his call didn’t mean he wasn’t mourning. Like Dahl, Sheridan had a job to do.

The sheriff’s radio crackled again. Then he heard: “More company’s coming, Sheriff.”

“Rescue team, tow truck?”

“No, private car.”

“Get the tag?”

“Wisconsin. All I saw.”

“Okay.”

The sedan slowed and turned toward 3 Lake View, the house lit up like the Titanic in her last hours, Dahl decided, having just seen the movie with his wife. He waved the car to a stop with his flashlight and asked the driver to get out. The businessman, in his midthirties or so, stared at the tableau, his face etched with concern. He climbed out. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Tanner deferred to Dahl, who said, “Could I see some ID, sir? What’s your name?”

“Ari Paskell.” He offered his driver’s license to the State Police commander, who handed it to one of his troopers to check out.

“Please, what’s going on?”

“What’s your business here?”

“Business? I was coming to spend the weekend with Emma and Steve! What’s going on? I’ve been calling them all night and can’t get through.”

“How do you know them?”

“Steve and I are friends. We used to work together. He invited me to spend the weekend. Are they all right?”

Dahl glanced at Graham, who was staring into the woods. How I hate this, the sheriff thought. He then noticed the trooper in the front seat of his squad car. He nodded, meaning that the man’s license and tag checked out. Dahl lowered his voice, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, sir. But there’s been a crime. The Feldmans were, well, they were the victims of a homicide tonight.”

“My God, no! But, no, you can’t be right… I just talked to Steve this afternoon.”

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt.”

“No,” he gasped. “But…no. You’re wrong!” His face went even paler than it had been.

Dahl wondered if he was going to slip into hysteria. It happened pretty frequently at times like this, even with the toughest folks, which this fellow didn’t seem to be.

“I’m sorry.”

“But it can’t be.” The man’s eyes were wide, hands shaking. “I brought them their favorite beer. And I got fresh bratwurst. I mean, the kind we always have.” His voice cracked. “I got them a few hours ago. I stopped in…” He lowered his head. In a defeated voice he said, “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Paskell leaned against his car, saying nothing, just staring at the house. He’d be reliving memories, pleasant ones, of events that there’d be no repeat of.

Munce joined them.

“What happened?” Paskell whispered. “Who did it?”

“We don’t know. Now, Mr. Paskell-”

“But they’re not rich. Who’d rob them?”

“Mr. Paskell, do you know who the other houseguest is? All we know is she’s a woman from Chicago used to work with Emma.”

He shook his head. “No, they said somebody else’d be visiting. I don’t know who.”

“I think you should head back home, sir. Or get a motel if you’re too tired or upset to drive. There’re some past Clausen on Six Eighty-two. There’s nothing you can do here now.”

He didn’t seem to hear. He was frowning.

Dahl paid a bit more attention and, like he always did with witnesses, gave him time to play the thought to the surface.

“This is probably crazy…” He cocked his head. “Just a thought.”

Usually civilians’ suggestions were crazy. But sometimes they led to the killer’s front door. Dahl said, “Go on.”

“Steven was talking to me, this was last fall?”

“Yessir?”

“And he said he’d had a run-in with a man up here. At one of the stores. A big guy. A local, Steve said. Some stupid thing, about nearly bumping cars in the lot. The guy went crazy. Followed him home, threatened him.”

“He give you any details?”

“No. Just he lived around here and he was pretty big. Three hundred pounds.”

Munce looked at Dahl, shaking his head. “Doesn’t seem like the perp. It was two of them, and nobody was that big, to judge from the footprints. Did he give you a name or description?”

“No, it was just one of those stories: this scary thing happened to me, you know. But he was shook up. No question. I mean, the man came right to the house. If there were more than one maybe the big man brought his friends and they…well, they hurt Steve and Emma. While he waited in the car.”

If Dahl had a dollar for every conflict in a parking lot that could have turned violent but didn’t, he’d be rich. He asked, “Could you give me your number, Mr. Paskell? We may want to ask you a few questions.”

Paskell was looking at the car, where the groceries bought specially for his friends sat, soon to be discarded. Would he throw them out in anger or despair? Despite his benign appearance, the man was, Dahl figured, a rager. “Mr. Paskell?”

He still wasn’t listening. Then the sheriff asked again and the friend blinked. “My number. Yeah, sure.” He recited it for Dahl.

Brawny Tanner stroked his mustache and looked at the sheriff, his expression saying, It never gets any easier, does it?

“Are you all right to drive?” Dahl asked.

“A few minutes.” He was gazing at the house. “Just a few minutes.”

“Sure. You take your time.”

The businessman, his face a mask, pulled out his phone. He rubbed it between thumb and finger, delaying making calls to friends. Dahl left him to the agonizing task.

Prescott and Gibbs were putting up crime scene tape. Munce reported that the three deputies had gotten a “ways” into the woods and had lost all trace of the women’s trail.

“Whatta you think about that big local?” Tanner asked Dahl.

“Doesn’t set off fireworks for me. But we’ll keep it in mind. Get me a map. Anybody got a map? And spotlights?”

Maps yes, spots no, so they walked up the steps to the front porch, whose overhead light was blazing and attracting the first few bugs of the season. One deputy produced the large map of the area and set it on a wooden café table on the porch, moved the chairs back. The houses here weren’t depicted but Lake View Drive was, a narrow yellow line. Lake Mondac was on one side and on the other was a vast mass of green, Marquette State Park. Elevations and trails were shown, ranger stations, parking lots and a few of the scenic highlights: Natural Bridge, Devil’s Deep, the Snake River Gorge.