we'll find him when one of the lumber companies moves in someplace new with chain saws.”
Sid Sokolowski was a few years older than Alberg, a ponderous, suspicious man, but thoughtful. He was comfortable only with other police officers and with his family, which was large. He and his wife had five children, all girls. The gender of his progeny was a source of hurt and bewilderment to Sokolowski, who understood perfectly well that it was his sperm or chromosomes or something which were responsible for his situation. It gave him, he thought, something in common with Alberg. He and his wife had decided not to have any more children, but Sokolowski waffled about this confidentially to Alberg every now and then, saying he'd like to try once more. Surely the odds would be much more in his favor, he argued. But Alberg on these occasions would reply that they had been more in his favor the last time, too, and even the time before that. "You were a man meant to have daughters, Sid," he would tell him. "Stop trying to argue with fate.”
Alberg had a great fondness for the sergeant, but he wasn't someone Alberg could confide in about personal things. Not that he'd ever done much confiding anyway, he thought now, looking at Sid bent over the Burke file; not even with his wife. And maybe that was a more serious problem than he'd realized. He had wanted to have things all figured out before talking about them with Maura. As a result, he was always presenting her with faits accomplis . He had thought he was saving her worry. But maybe he'd been wrong.
"Did the neighbors see anybody on the road that day," he asked the sergeant, "besides the fish guy and George Wilcox?”
Sokolowski shook his head. "Nobody we haven't accounted for. The fish seller we haven't found yet—he was there at just about the right time, between eleven thirty and twelve thirty.
And Wilcox . . . well, actually we've got some disagreement there.”
"What kind of disagreement?"
"Two witnesses, including the woman who lives across the street from the victim, say they saw Wilcox go through the hedge into Burke's front yard at about two fifteen, two thirty, somewhere in there. And this checks with his call to us at two thirty-seven. But one old fellow—Frank Erlandson, his name is—he says he saw the same thing, only two hours earlier, at about twelve thirty." He shrugged. "He seemed kind of confused. He's probably just misremembering.” He tossed the file folder onto Alberg's desk.
"What about the seaward side of things?”
"Nothing. Nobody seen prowling the beaches, nobody out on the water at the right time except for a couple of kids nine and ten in a dinghy, and a guy fishing from a rowboat. We checked them out.”
"The old fellow who says he saw Wilcox at twelve thirty," said Alberg. "Let's talk to him again. Try to get that straightened out.”
The sergeant was nodding. "Yeah, I think so too. Problem is he's been in the hospital since Wednesday afternoon for some kind of tests. He's supposed to be home Saturday. Tomorrow.”
"Okay. I'll do it myself, since I'll be seeing Wilcox later on today." He got up and stretched. "Sid. I just talked to Burke's sister, Mrs. Morris. She tells me Burke was once married to George Wilcox's sister. She's dead now. Do you find that interesting?"
"Kind of a remote connection, Staff," said Sokolowski reluctantly. "Can't see anything in it, myself. Despite the will.” He retrieved the file. "I looked into him," he said, shuffling through the pages in the folder. "Here he is. Wilcox. Not rich, but he's got money in the bank. House paid for. And he gets a pretty good pension. Well spoken of by neighbors and friends. According to them, he wasn't a special friend of the victim.”
He closed the file. "It's a toughie. My money's on the salmon seller." He looked up at Alberg. "Christ, it's been three days. It's gotta be the salmon seller."
"Yeah, Sid, but why? He didn't take anything from the house. What was the
Sid Sokolowski was a few years older than Alberg, a ponderous, suspicious man, but thoughtful. He was comfortable only with other police officers and with his family, which was large. He and his wife had five children, all girls. The gender of his progeny was a source of hurt and bewilderment to Sokolowski, who understood perfectly well that it was his sperm or chromosomes or something which were responsible for his situation. It gave him, he thought, something in common with Alberg. He and his wife had decided not to have any more children, but Sokolowski waffled about this confidentially to Alberg every now and then, saying he'd like to try once more. Surely the odds would be much more in his favor, he argued. But Alberg on these occasions would reply that they had been more in his favor the last time, too, and even the time before that. "You were a man meant to have daughters, Sid," he would tell him. "Stop trying to argue with fate.”
Alberg had a great fondness for the sergeant, but he wasn't someone Alberg could confide in about personal things. Not that he'd ever done much confiding anyway, he thought now, looking at Sid bent over the Burke file; not even with his wife. And maybe that was a more serious problem than he'd realized. He had wanted to have things all figured out before talking about them with Maura. As a result, he was always presenting her with faits accomplis . He had thought he was saving her worry. But maybe he'd been wrong.
"Did the neighbors see anybody on the road that day," he asked the sergeant, "besides the fish guy and George Wilcox?”
Sokolowski shook his head. "Nobody we haven't accounted for. The fish seller we haven't found yet—he was there at just about the right time, between eleven thirty and twelve thirty.
And Wilcox . . . well, actually we've got some disagreement there.”
"What kind of disagreement?"
"Two witnesses, including the woman who lives across the street from the victim, say they saw Wilcox go through the hedge into Burke's front yard at about two fifteen, two thirty, somewhere in there. And this checks with his call to us at two thirty-seven. But one old fellow—Frank Erlandson, his name is—he says he saw the same thing, only two hours earlier, at about twelve thirty." He shrugged. "He seemed kind of confused. He's probably just misremembering.” He tossed the file folder onto Alberg's desk.
"What about the seaward side of things?”
"Nothing. Nobody seen prowling the beaches, nobody out on the water at the right time except for a couple of kids nine and ten in a dinghy, and a guy fishing from a rowboat. We checked them out.”
"The old fellow who says he saw Wilcox at twelve thirty," said Alberg. "Let's talk to him again. Try to get that straightened out.”
The sergeant was nodding. "Yeah, I think so too. Problem is he's been in the hospital since Wednesday afternoon for some kind of tests. He's supposed to be home Saturday. Tomorrow.”
"Okay. I'll do it myself, since I'll be seeing Wilcox later on today." He got up and stretched. "Sid. I just talked to Burke's sister, Mrs. Morris. She tells me Burke was once married to George Wilcox's sister. She's dead now. Do you find that interesting?"
"Kind of a remote connection, Staff," said Sokolowski reluctantly. "Can't see anything in it, myself. Despite the will.” He retrieved the file. "I looked into him," he said, shuffling through the pages in the folder. "Here he is. Wilcox. Not rich, but he's got money in the bank. House paid for. And he gets a pretty good pension. Well spoken of by neighbors and friends. According to them, he wasn't a special friend of the victim.”
He closed the file. "It's a toughie. My money's on the salmon seller." He looked up at Alberg. "Christ, it's been three days. It's gotta be the salmon seller."
"Yeah, Sid, but why? He didn't take anything from the house. What was the
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