“Know what’s even funnier? A busted taillight.” Wright had a laugh, moved out of the office with the other agents, stuck his head back in and said, “We’ll keep in touch.”
Trooper Farrington looked confused by the joke. “Taillight?”
Lena looked at Mike when the door closed. “Friends of yours? He’s right about the taillight – pretty lucky.”
“I actually went to school with him. I don’t know any of the other guys.”
Farrington said, “Mike? What’s he mean about the taillight?”
“So,” Mike said, ignoring Lena’s sharp look, “I’m going to have a talk with Dmitri Petrov; we’ve seen him with this Chapman crew, he’s in the bowling league with Caruthers, and he was in an altercation with Steve Pritchard. I’ll ask him what he thinks about someone from this crew killing Harriet when she kept her brother from using the family farm for drug manufacturing. Farrington, roll with me. I’ll explain the joke.”
* * *
Petrov was home, came to the door looking like Mike had woken him up. Mike showed his ID, but Petrov already seemed to recognize him.
“Mind if I come in?”
There was a baseball game on his big TV, and Petrov muted the sound. The living room was a mess, empty snack bags and pizza boxes, clothes on the floor, a dusty fan spinning in the corner. He lived in an apartment on the top floor, with a deck; there was a bunch of crap on it, including a rusted barbeque pit.
“Anyone else here?” Mike asked.
“No.” Petrov, wearing sweat-shorts for the Buffalo Bills, no shirt, sat on the couch and scratched at his stomach. Hair was matted on one side, eyes bloodshot.
Mike stayed standing, blocking the TV. “I’d like to just follow up on your little run-in with Steven Pritchard.”
“I not press charges,” Petrov said, his accent thick.
“No – I understand that. And Pritchard never hit you, is my understanding, so there’s that. I’m here because I’m curious what the argument was about. What set it off?”
“What set it off? I already talk to police.”
“Well, tell me again. What got you guys all torqued up?”
“Pritchard does not like me. He is American nationalist. Hates immigrants.” Petrov bit down on the consonants.
“Yeah? So he just started harassing you?”
“This is what I told police.”
“Mind if I take my coat off?”
Petrov didn’t object. Mike found a chair and laid his suit coat over the back of it. He was wearing his gun and holster tucked in front today, and Petrov eyed the Glock. It wasn’t a threat, just hot as hell.
“You’re a bowler, yeah?”
“Yes, I bowl.”
“You’re part of the league.”
“Yes.”
“Dodd Caruthers is on your team…”
“Yes, yes.” He waved a hand in the air, sniffed, looked out the sliding glass doors over the deck. “Detective, ah, Overton. She ask me about Caruthers. Was he at league night two Thursdays ago. I say yes. He was there.”
“And you know about Steve Pritchard’s sister, Harriet, who was murdered.”
Petrov’s eyes slid back. “Of course. Whole village knows about it.”
“It’s a terrible tragedy.” Mike turned the chair around and sat down, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “First homicide in Lake Haven for a long time. I work death investigations, handle just about everything in the north part of the state. But this was particularly brutal, and has got me going crazy.”
Petrov looked away, watched the silent game on the TV a moment.
Mike asked, “Had you ever met Pritchard before last Friday night?”
Petrov didn’t answer. His statement said no, he hadn’t, but now it looked like he was deciding whether or not to lie again. Then Petrov searched around on the messy couch, moved a newspaper aside, found a pack of cigarettes. “I going to smoke.” He stuck one in his mouth, found a book of matches, and lit up. Got up from the couch, moved to the glass door, slid it open. “Fresh air,” he said. He took a long drag but still didn’t answer. Mike saw the sweat running down the sides of his face.
“Mr. Petrov? Had you ever met Steve Pritchard before last Friday night, when you got in the argument? Yes or no.”
Finally: “Yes. Knew him.”
“Okay.” Mike nodded, glanced at the TV a second. “From just around town? Or for some other reason?”
“Some other reason.” Petrov flicked ash out the door. He’d gone pale as a cloud, his eyes sharp with anxiety.
Mike slowly rose from the chair to move a little closer, reel him in, and Petrov bolted. Just dropped the cigarette, turned on his heel, and ran.
“Shit.”
Mike banged his shoulder in the narrow space of the partway opened door then charged across the deck. He took the stairs down to the driveway fast, almost lost his footing, saw Petrov turn at the end of the driveway and start running up the street.
Farrington was parked in the cruiser down the road. Mike shouted and clapped. “Hey! Hey!” Farrington saw him, then saw Petrov, gunned the engine, and Mike got running again.
A ramshackle little neighborhood, more of those big cure-cottage homes – these converted into apartments, quiet on a workday. Then a dog started barking. Mike sprinted after Petrov. The pudgy bastard was naked but for his shorts, bare feet slapping the asphalt.
Petrov hooked left and darted out of sight. The street was actually a court, dead-ended at a line of trees. Petrov had turned just before it terminated, run into someone else’s driveway.
Mike got his bearings – down through those woods was the Saranac River.
Farrington came roaring up, stopped just short of the dead end, barking the tires, and hopped out of the car. He’d seen Petrov too, and took off running. Mike caught up to the driveway, turned in. In back of the driveway was a wooden fence, door swung open. Mike stepped through and was in another yard, sloping down to more trees. He could hear the river beyond.
Farrington crashed into the trees first, throwing his arms up in front of him to ward off the grasping branches, Mike following right in behind him.
The woods were thick, and he slapped aside the pine boughs, ragged underbrush clawing at his legs. He picked his way through, unable to hear much over the crunch of movement, just saw a flash of Farrington’s dark uniform.
Mike stopped and stood in the sepia gloom, breathing hard, listening. Farrington continued to tromp and snap his way through the vegetation. He hadn’t seen Petrov come in this way, just Farrington, but Petrov must have – there was nowhere else to go.
Mike got moving again, now seeing bits of the river through the trees, splashes of white water as it rushed over the rocks. He veered away from Farrington and came out at the riverbank further down from the trooper. The water was lively after two days of rain, loud; he had to shout upstream to Farrington. “See him?”
“He was right there!” Farrington sounded frustrated. The trooper looked around then waded in.
“Let’s get some more people! Let’s get this on the air!”
Mike saw movement on the other side of the river. There were more woods there, but a ways down was the Water Department, a big gray building, and further up was the dam, and then the lake on the far side. He saw a pale blur of flesh amid the trees on that side, started across. It got deep quick, up to his waist; the water sucked at him, tried to tip him off balance.
He finally reached the far bank, came out with his pants heavy and water-logged, his socks squishing in his shoes, the smell of dead fish in his nose, and started bushwhacking through the woods again.
Petrov was fast, the fat son of a gun. He was probably going to head deeper into the woods, not come out at the Water Department or move toward the dam, because then he’d be back in town. Straight in was another street, then deeper woods on the far side. Mike thought Petrov would cross and keep moving that way, or he’d hook around, head further upstream; there was another residential area up there, plenty of places to hide.