In the Bleak Midwinter

They parked in the first available space and waited. After a while, he turned on the truck’s radio and fiddled until he had the all-talk station. A gravelly-voiced man was dispensing investment and business advice to callers who identified themselves with names like “Randy from Salt Lake City” and who started each conversation with “I have an extra thirty thousand dollars in convertible debentures to invest . . .” The show broke frequently for mutual fund advertisements and the local weather, which could be summed up as deep and getting deeper.

“I can’t believe Kristen had something to do with her father’s death.” Clare’s voice broke in on a guy complaining about his wife sheltering her income in off-shore banks.

“I think you can’t imagine people you like doing bad things, that’s what I think,” Russ said. “You said the same thing about Karen and Geoff and Ethan.”

“I never said I liked Geoff Burns,” she said, grinning.

“Too bad it wasn’t McWhorter,” he said. “He made such a satisfying heavy.” She nodded. “Too bad it isn’t like ninety percent of murders,” he continued, “where the husband or the wife or the friend is standing there with the weapon in hand when the cops arrive, saying, ‘But I didn’t mean to do it!’ ”

Headlights gleamed at the entrance to the parking lot. A small car crept in, tires churning against the snow. The black Honda Civic pulled in a few spaces away from the pickup. Its interior light flashed weakly as someone opened and shut the door. Russ could barely make out the figure struggling up the sidewalk through the screen of heavy snow, something sizable clutched in her arms. He and Clare both opened their doors, the contrast between the almost too-warm cab and the bone-chilling wind taking his breath away for a moment. He could hear the noise Clare made as her stupid little indoor boots sank into five inches of fresh snow.

“Kristen?” he called.

She whirled, bringing her fist up. Her keys stuck up between her fingers like stubby claws. She held a bulky knapsack against her chest.

Russ raised his hands. “It’s me, Chief Van Alstyne. Reverend Fergusson is with me.”

“What? What’s going on? Is it Katie’s baby?”

“We need to talk to you. May we come in?”

Under her black knit cap, Kristen looked at them suspiciously. “Okay.” She waded through the snow drifting across her walkway and unlocked the town house door. She kicked her boots against the side of the door to knock off the snow. Russ and Clare followed suit. Inside, they all crammed together on a tiny patch of tile, trying to wrestle off jackets and tug off boots without spreading any more snow than necessary onto the pale green wall-to-wall carpet.

Kristen’s place was not what he’d expected from her all-black wardrobe and gothic hair. Instead of vinyl upholstery and posters of thrash groups on the walls, she had import-shop bamboo furniture in white with flowery pastel fabric. Reproductions of gauzy paintings of ballerinas hung over shelves filled with thin paperbacks and stuffed animals. The room of a young girl. One more thing Darrell McWhorter had taken away from her.

“What are you doing out here so late?” Kristen asked, dropping the knapsack on a glass-topped coffee table. “Is there news on Katie’s case?”

Clare looked at him as if to say, okay, how do you do this? Damned if he knew. Your father’s had his brains blown out tonight. And by the way, did you do it? If she didn’t have anything to do with McWhorter’s murder, he was going to start to look like her personal angel of death. First her sister, then her dad. “Where’ve you been for the last few hours, Kristen?” he asked.

She raked her hand through her ink-black hair, ruffling it upwards. “I went out for some ’za with my friends tonight after class. I’m studying for my CPA at WCCC.” At Clare’s raised eyebrows, she explained, “The community college.” Russ suspected Clare had been reacting to the idea of Kristen as an accountant rather than puzzling over the acronym. “Look,” Kristen said, “Will you please tell me what all this is about?”

The college class and the pizza joint should be easy to check out. “How long did it take you from the time you left the pizza place to the time you arrived here?” he said.

Her face shifted, from annoyed and curious to alarmed and cautious. “Maybe half an hour,” she said. “Has something happened?”

Clare stepped close to Kristen and laid a hand on the girl’s arm. “Kristen, your father was found dead tonight. He’s been murdered. If you know anything about it, please tell us.” She cut to the chase as quick as any cop he’d ever seen. Somehow, he’d thought a priest would be more . . . euphemistic.

Kristen gaped. “He’s dead?” she asked in a shrill voice. Then she burst into tears.

CHAPTER 16