“… proud man, Charlie.… Don’t … this way. I appreciate … Nothing you can do.… The bitch killed you.… People around here … Selling the civic center to the Ojibwa, you sold your office.”

“But I didn’t tell her.”

A muffled reply.

“Goddammit, Harry, you’re not listening. I … didn’t … do … it.”

Harry’s answer was too soft and low, and the sheriff and I began edging closer. I caught part of a sentence: “… people figure you let them down.”

The voice that I assumed belonged to Charlie Otterness exploded. “How many times do I have to say it? I didn’t tell her anything!”

We moved closer.

“Goddammit, Harry!” Otterness shouted. “You’re like all the rest. You don’t listen. Lookit! If I had told Michael about the Ojibwa, she wouldn’t have bought the fucking resort. On Thursday you’ll understand.”

“What does that mean?”

The question came from Sheriff Orman. He had circled past me and was now blocking the office doorway with his frame. I came up behind him.

Charlie Otterness was taller than I was, but, then, so was just about everyone else I’ve seen in Deer Lake, including the children. Something in the water, no doubt. His hair was gray and combed to cover a bald spot, his eyes were watery and pale, and the flesh of his face was pasty and hung in loose folds. He looked like a man accustomed to drinking alone in the dark. He was also at least thirty years my senior, which made him forty years older than Alison.

The other man in his office was just as old and half Charlie’s size—but still taller than me.

When Otterness saw the sheriff, he froze like a small animal caught in the headlights of a speeding car.

“Sheriff,” he said.

Charlie Otterness reluctantly rose from behind his gray metal desk, like he was giving up cover. I didn’t blame him. The way the sheriff looked with bloodshot eyes and unshaven face, he scared me, too. Judging from Charlie’s voice and body language, I figured Orman was the last person he wanted to see. But it wasn’t out of fear; there was something else working.

“Sheriff,” Harry echoed with deference.

Orman ignored him. He only had eyes for Charlie. “Answer the question,” he insisted.

“How’s Michael?” Charlie asked instead.

“She’s in a coma,” the sheriff answered.

“Coma,” Charlie repeated as if it were a death sentence—and maybe it was.

“Talk to me, Charlie,” the sheriff demanded. “What happens on Thursday?”

I’ve been told that some primitive tribes sniff out the guilty party among a group of suspects by smelling for body odor. Others demand that suspects chew and swallow a handful of rice; if their mouths are too dry to manage it, they’re in trouble. As an investigator, I’m trained to look for several physiological symptoms of lying and guilt: sweaty palms, an unusual pallor, a dry mouth, a rapid pulse, erratic breathing. Charlie Otterness? He had them all. I didn’t know if he was feeling guilty or going into cardiac arrest.

“Tell him, Charlie,” Harry urged.

When Charlie refused to speak, I said, “On Thursday the Ojibwa tribe is going before the county commissioners to make a formal, public offer to buy the civic center.”

Apparently it was a good guess. Charlie looked as though he had just caught me peeking through his windows. “Who are you?”

“Never mind him,” said Orman. “Is what he said true?”

Charlie straightened his back. “I’m not at liberty to say. You’ll need to come to the meeting and find out.” He may have looked like a liar, but he didn’t sound like one. Chalk it up to a lifetime in politics.

The sheriff studied Charlie for a moment; I stepped back. I didn’t want to distract him. Finally, Orman asked, “How much money did you give Michael?”

Charlie’s mouth unhinged and fell open, his bottom jaw just hanging there until he cradled it with his hand.

“Money?” he asked. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what money.”

Charlie looked at Harry and then at me. Neither of us had an answer for him. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I want an exact amount,” the sheriff insisted.

Charlie’s mouth worked, but no words came out.

“How much?” the sheriff screamed.

I flinched. So did Harry. Charlie Otterness didn’t. Instead his eyes grew wide and he stepped forward, prepared to meet any attack. I realized then that despite my earlier impression, there was nothing at all soft about Charlie. He was a scrapper just like Johnny Johannson.

“No one talks to me that way,” Charlie hissed.

“I’m the sheriff,” Orman reminded him.

“What the fuck do I care?” Charlie pointed a finger at him. “You ain’t your father, Bobby. Don’t pretend that you are.”

Orman leaned forward, clenching and unclenching his fists, but somehow the older man’s words had deflated him; he reminded me of a balloon with a slow leak. I decided it was time to step in.

“You have a nice place here,” I told Charlie.

He turned his angry gaze on me, obviously still wondering who I was. “I like it,” he said.

“Profitable?”

“I make a living,” suspicious now.

“Enough to invest in The Harbor with Michael?”

Charlie laughed at the question. “I get it now.” He laughed some more. “You’re wrong.” He sat back down behind his desk and put his feet up. “You are so wrong. You’ll see.” He continued to laugh.

Suddenly Orman laid his hands on a metal folding chair and flung it across the office, nearly hitting Harry where he stood in the corner. The sheriff’s face was flushed with anger, his teeth were bared, his fists clenched. He had jumped to the final stage of aggression—assault is imminent—fuck the first stages. I have no doubt he would have attacked Otterness if I hadn’t stepped in front of him.

“What?” I asked.

“You know Chip Thilgen,” Orman accused Charlie, pointing at the older man over my shoulder.

“Where is all this coming from, Bobby?” Charlie wanted to know. “Why are you so pissed off?” Good question, I thought. But Orman refused to answer it.

“Hey?” I said.

Orman shook his head slightly, his lips a thin line, and took three steps backward. He nodded at Charlie like he wanted me to keep at him.

“Do you know Chip Thilgen?” I asked while still watching Orman.

“Of course.”

“Friends?”

Harry snorted from the corner where he stood watching the goings-on as if he couldn’t possibly imagine Thilgen having a friend.

“No, we weren’t friends,” Charlie said. “We were on the same side on some environmental issues; he actually had some good ideas if you could get past his bullshit. But that was it.”

“Was the spoiling of Lake Peterson one of the issues you agreed on?”

“No,” Charlie answered. “Lake Peterson can support a fishing resort now that it’s been restocked.”

“When was the last time you saw Thilgen?” I asked.

“I don’t remember.”

I turned to face the man, leaned on his desk. “Where were you when Michael was shot, Charlie?”

“I was fishing Storm Lake. Who are you, anyway?”

“Who were you fishing with?” I asked, ignoring his question.

“I fish alone. Everyone knows that.”

“No witnesses, eh?” I said. “That’s too bad.”

“I’ve been keeping a low profile. Since—”

“Since you sold your office?” Orman again, his voice way too loud.

Charlie had nothing to say to that.

“When did you stop seeing Michael?” I asked.

Charlie gestured toward the sheriff with his chin. “When she started seeing him.”

“Hmph,” Orman grunted.

“Did you break up because of the sheriff?” I asked. “Or The Harbor?”

Otterness looked down at his fingers splayed over his desktop, counting each one carefully. “Buying The Harbor the way she did hurt me,” Charlie admitted. “I told her people would get the wrong idea about it, but she said it was her shot, and she was taking it. But that didn’t break us up, and neither did the sheriff.”