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Authors: Robert Dugoni
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night.” He parted his thinning hair in the middle to try to effect greater coverage. Signs of his age rolled over the waist of his pants.
“I hope you have a good reason for getting my ass out of bed, Murph.” Logan offered his hand to Murphy while acknowledging Hallock. “Hey, Deb.”
“Shit. I have to give you something to do in between rescuing cats from trees and playing with your pecker,” Murphy said.
“Firemen rescue cats. And I’ve told you, it’s the Irish, not the Scottish, who play with their peckers.” He looked at Hallock. “Sorry, Deb.”
She raised thin eyebrows on a not unattractive but unmemorable face, as if to say, “What else is new?”
“So, what the hell am I doing here?”
Murphy answered, “You had a murder in Green Lake last night—guy named James Hill?”
Logan nodded. “Yeah.”
“Come here.” Murphy led Logan back into the room with the corpse. Several pieces of evidence had already been bagged in plastic evidence bags and placed on the bed. “We found this near the body.” He handed Logan a bag with a watch. “Read the inscription on the back.”
Logan turned it over and held it up to the single bulb in the overhead light fixture.
To James Jr., Esquire
6-22-90
Congratulations
Dad
“We checked it out,” Hallock said. “Your James Hill was a junior.”
Logan considered the watch, then the corpse. “So who’s the stiff?”
“Laurence King,” Murphy said, grinning.
Not sure Murphy was serious, Logan asked, “You mean like the talk-show guy on TV?”
“That’s
Larry
King,” Hallock said.
“Career shithead,” Murphy offered. “Spent most of his formative and adult years behind bars mostly for burglaries. Held up a gas station seven years ago and did six at Walla Walla before parole. Been out about a year. Two-strike loser. His probation officer says he’s been working construction and keeping his nose clean. Guess not.”
Logan looked down at Laurence King’s feet. He wore work boots, the kind that would make a size-twelve imprint like the one in the mud outside James Hill’s back door. “Not a murderer, though?”
Hallock shook her head. “Not until last night, apparently”
“So the blood on those clothes could be James Hill’s?” Logan mused.
Murphy shrugged. “Could be, but why would they be covered in dirt?”
Logan thought about it. “Send one of the boys outside to look for a hole in the ground.”
“A hole in the ground? You think King buried them?” Murphy sounded skeptical. He shook his head. “Then why the fuck would he dig them back up?”
Logan reconsidered the watch and the cash.
Hallock directed an officer to search around the outside of the building for a hole. “You think the other guy set King up and left us this stuff so we would think King killed Hill?”
“I don’t know. Make sure we get an imprint of King’s shoes,” Logan said. “Don’t suppose we have any witnesses?”
“The guy at the front desk is doing a ‘see no, hear no, speak no’ routine at the moment, but he’s just being a tough guy,” Murphy said. “He’ll talk when I tell him he’s gonna have a patrol car parked up his ass from here to eternity and he can kiss his customers good-bye.”
“Anybody else that was here took off,” Hallock added. “The guy at the desk said King and another guy came in about midnight yesterday and rented Room Eight.”
“Did he give a description of the second guy?” Logan asked.
Hallock looked at her notes. “Nothing to rival Hemingway. Five-six to five-eight. Slight build, long hair.”
Logan reached down and picked up a pair of jeans, considering the waist. Then he looked at Laurence King. “These would never fit him,“ he said. “Could be our guy.”
“Guy at the desk said King came back in about six o’clock and asked to rent Room Seven as well.”
“Did he say why?” Logan asked.
Hallock shook her head. “This place gets a lot of business. The prostitutes hang out near the
“I hope you have a good reason for getting my ass out of bed, Murph.” Logan offered his hand to Murphy while acknowledging Hallock. “Hey, Deb.”
“Shit. I have to give you something to do in between rescuing cats from trees and playing with your pecker,” Murphy said.
“Firemen rescue cats. And I’ve told you, it’s the Irish, not the Scottish, who play with their peckers.” He looked at Hallock. “Sorry, Deb.”
She raised thin eyebrows on a not unattractive but unmemorable face, as if to say, “What else is new?”
“So, what the hell am I doing here?”
Murphy answered, “You had a murder in Green Lake last night—guy named James Hill?”
Logan nodded. “Yeah.”
“Come here.” Murphy led Logan back into the room with the corpse. Several pieces of evidence had already been bagged in plastic evidence bags and placed on the bed. “We found this near the body.” He handed Logan a bag with a watch. “Read the inscription on the back.”
Logan turned it over and held it up to the single bulb in the overhead light fixture.
To James Jr., Esquire
6-22-90
Congratulations
Dad
“We checked it out,” Hallock said. “Your James Hill was a junior.”
Logan considered the watch, then the corpse. “So who’s the stiff?”
“Laurence King,” Murphy said, grinning.
Not sure Murphy was serious, Logan asked, “You mean like the talk-show guy on TV?”
“That’s
Larry
King,” Hallock said.
“Career shithead,” Murphy offered. “Spent most of his formative and adult years behind bars mostly for burglaries. Held up a gas station seven years ago and did six at Walla Walla before parole. Been out about a year. Two-strike loser. His probation officer says he’s been working construction and keeping his nose clean. Guess not.”
Logan looked down at Laurence King’s feet. He wore work boots, the kind that would make a size-twelve imprint like the one in the mud outside James Hill’s back door. “Not a murderer, though?”
Hallock shook her head. “Not until last night, apparently”
“So the blood on those clothes could be James Hill’s?” Logan mused.
Murphy shrugged. “Could be, but why would they be covered in dirt?”
Logan thought about it. “Send one of the boys outside to look for a hole in the ground.”
“A hole in the ground? You think King buried them?” Murphy sounded skeptical. He shook his head. “Then why the fuck would he dig them back up?”
Logan reconsidered the watch and the cash.
Hallock directed an officer to search around the outside of the building for a hole. “You think the other guy set King up and left us this stuff so we would think King killed Hill?”
“I don’t know. Make sure we get an imprint of King’s shoes,” Logan said. “Don’t suppose we have any witnesses?”
“The guy at the front desk is doing a ‘see no, hear no, speak no’ routine at the moment, but he’s just being a tough guy,” Murphy said. “He’ll talk when I tell him he’s gonna have a patrol car parked up his ass from here to eternity and he can kiss his customers good-bye.”
“Anybody else that was here took off,” Hallock added. “The guy at the desk said King and another guy came in about midnight yesterday and rented Room Eight.”
“Did he give a description of the second guy?” Logan asked.
Hallock looked at her notes. “Nothing to rival Hemingway. Five-six to five-eight. Slight build, long hair.”
Logan reached down and picked up a pair of jeans, considering the waist. Then he looked at Laurence King. “These would never fit him,“ he said. “Could be our guy.”
“Guy at the desk said King came back in about six o’clock and asked to rent Room Seven as well.”
“Did he say why?” Logan asked.
Hallock shook her head. “This place gets a lot of business. The prostitutes hang out near the
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