Orman cut him off roughly. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sheriff.” The answer came reluctantly.

Of me Orman asked, “Are you willing, Mr. Taylor?”

“Yes,” I told him without reluctance. The last time a private investigator received such an invitation was never.

“Good.” Orman rose from his chair. “I’m going to Duluth. I’ll check in later.” He brushed past us.

“Wait,” I called to him. “I have questions.”

“Ask Gary,” the sheriff said and hung a left in the corridor, disappearing.

“It makes even less sense as it goes along,” I told Deputy Loushine.

“What’s the matter, Taylor?” he asked. “Haven’t you ever heard an apology before?”

We were walking along the well-lit corridor of the Kreel County Sheriff’s Department building, my Nikes making soft squeaking sounds on the tile.

“What have you got?” I asked him, flexing my new muscle.

“The Buick was stolen,” Loushine said. “It was owned by the chief of the volunteer fire department down in Wascott. He reported it missing the day before the shooting.”

“Where’s Wascott?”

“About forty miles southwest of us,” Loushine said. “We have bulletins out on the car. Also, you were right about the gun. It was an UZI semiautomatic carbine. We dug .41 AEs out of both Michael Bettich and Gretchen Rovick. A MAC fires only .45s or nine millimeters—”

“Chip Thilgen,” I interrupted, just to prove how smart I was.

“Yes,” said Loushine. “We know he made threats toward Michael at The Height Restaurant in Deer Lake about an hour before the shooting. We have several witnesses. Including you.”

“Including me,” I agreed. “What does Thilgen have to say for himself?”

“Nothing yet,” Loushine answered. “We haven’t found him. We have a man on his house; he hasn’t been home. And we checked with his employer. Thilgen has been absent without leave since the shooting.”

“Where does he work?”

“King Boats.”

“He works for King Koehn?” I asked, surprised.

Loushine shrugged. “Why not? Everyone else does. Anyway, we’re checking his family, his friends—actually, he doesn’t have any friends—and we have bulletins out on him, too.”

“What else?”

“Hmm?”

“What else have you got?”

“That’s it.”

I stopped next to a door marked EXIT.

“What do you mean, that’s it?” I said, appalled. “You’ve had this case for almost forty-eight hours.”

Loushine didn’t answer, and I pushed my way through the door.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Taylor,” Loushine told me as he followed behind. “I’m not an experienced investigator. I’ve worked as deputy sheriff for nine years now, and I’ve handled exactly two homicides, both of them slam-dunk domestics. On this case I’ve been following Bobby Orman’s lead, and quite frankly he’s not up to it, either. Man had exactly two years of law-enforcement experience before he was made sheriff—in the Highway Patrol.”

That stopped me again. “Two years? How did he get the job?”

“Appointment. The former sheriff was caught shacking up with a prostitute. The county board wanted someone squeaky-clean and politically palatable. Orman’s father and grandfather had both been sheriff, and people loved them—”

“So they went with the son.”

“There you go.”

“Does he know the job at all?”

“Bobby knows administration; he was the factory manager over at King Boats for a half dozen years after he left the HP—it’s kind of a complicated story. I went to school with Bobby; we played ball together, so I know he didn’t want to be a cop, didn’t want to follow the family tradition. But he did, anyway; joined the Highway Patrol after junior college. His old man was still sheriff, and Bobby could have gotten a job here in Kreel, but he went away; people figured he just didn’t want to work in the old man’s shadow. Two years later the old man dies of a heart attack while pulling an ice fishing shack off the lake; Bobby quits the HP and goes to work for King.

“The county goes through three sheriff’s in the next six years, and each is worse than the one before. People are pissed; the County Board of Commissioners is up against it; half of ’em are up for re-election, right? So they tap Bobby; they want his name. He takes the job. Surprised me. But he’s been okay. Works hard. Goes to a lot of law-enforcement seminars. Takes care of his people.”

“How long has he been sheriff?” I asked.

“Couple years.”

“Turn it over to the Department of Criminal Investigation,” I suggested bluntly. The DCI was the Wisconsin equivalent of Minnesota’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, a statewide investigatory unit created to lend aid to local police departments that didn’t have the resources to handle major cases.

“That’s what I said,” Loushine told me. “But Bobby doesn’t want to give it up, and neither does the county attorney.”

“Where is the county attorney?” I asked.

“Vacation in San Francisco.”

I gave Loushine another stare.

He shrugged. “What can I say? Man likes his job; he wants to be re-elected next year.”

My stare intensified. “Unbelievable.”

“It’s a sorry situation,” Loushine admitted, and I sighed dramatically. But the truth was, I couldn’t have been more delighted. Giving a police department guidance during an active criminal investigation? A free hand to do whatever I want, all with the department’s support? That’s like a PI’s most forbidden fantasy come true.

“Okay,” I said and continued walking.

“Okay,” Loushine echoed, falling in step with me. “Where are we going?”

“What do you know about Alison Donnerbauer Emerton?” I asked in reply as we crossed the street and headed for the Saginau Medical Center.

“Never heard of her,” he said. “You mentioned the name the day of the shooting. Who is she?”

“I assume Gretchen Rovick is still in the hospital?”

“Yes,” Loushine replied, then added, “Who is Alison Donnerbauer Emerton?”

“Deputy Rovick’s best friend.”

We cornered the woman doctor at the Saginau Medical Center. I asked her if she had any updated information concerning Michael Bettich’s condition.

“Still critical, last I heard,” she said.

“What do you think her chances are?” I asked. I wanted the doctor to promise that Alison would be all right. But she was unwilling to commit herself. I changed the subject.

“How’s Deputy Rovick?” I asked.

“She’ll be fine,” the doctor responded. “She should be on crutches in a few days and walking normally in ten more. The wound was superficial.”

“Where is she?” Loushine asked.

“Second floor. Two-oh-two.”

“Can we see her?” the deputy added.

“Be my guest.”

We started toward the elevators.

“By the way,” the doctor stopped us. She looked me in the eye and said, “It was you who administered first aid to Michael, right?”

I confirmed her suspicion.

“You saved her life,” the doctor said and patted my arm. “For a while, anyway.”

I was proud of the compliment, but the way the doctor phrased it sent an uncomfortable surge of electricity through my entire body.

We found Gretchen sitting up in bed, reading the latest mystery by Nevada Barr. Her leg was elevated under the covers, which were rolled to her waist, revealing a teal nightgown trimmed with lace that I found particularly alluring. Apparently Loushine agreed.

The way his eyes kept finding Gretchen’s ample chest, you just knew this was a side of his colleague that he had never seen before.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Fine,” she answered cautiously before turning to Loushine. “What’s he doing here?”

Loushine explained.

“No way!” Gretchen protested.

Loushine shrugged. “Sheriff’s orders.”

Gretchen returned her gaze to me. “But he could be responsible.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“There are people who wanted Alison found,” she insisted. “You found her for them.”