LITMIR.BIZ

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was to be no action for the rest of the night, as it turned out, because nobody wanted to talk, on either side of the thin blue line. So Scott Rourke and Frank Law were thawed out, fed, and given the usual one-size-fits-all coveralls and scratchy blankets for their night in the New Hazelton holding cells, which was full house by now. Leith went to his room at the Super 8 for a few hours’ sleep, and the few hours went by too fast; his alarm went off at six thirty, and he was up and at it again.

      There was a lot to sort out today, and as he ate breakfast in the motel’s diner he tried to compartmentalize the problems in his mind. First problem, he now had three confessors to the killing of Kiera Rilkoff. Ironic, as he’ d mentioned to Giroux last night, that three low-life bastards all wanted to claim responsibility for taking the life of one kind and talented young woman with a golden future. And they all claimed she was dear to them.

      Giroux said it was plain that all three men knew what had happened to some extent or another, and each was trying to protect the others, and sooner or later the truth would emerge, whether they liked it or not. Just gotta keep hitting them till something breaks.

      “Nothing like good ol’ grassroots police tactics,” Leith had told her, and added his own grassroots opinion that he hadn’t seen such a schmozzle of false confessions in his life, and if he had his way they’d all do maximum time.

      But in the end only one would face the most serious charge, and that man, at least, would get the royal treatment, twenty-five years eating over-boiled peas for dinner, staring at cement, and having a good long ponder on where he’d gone wrong.

      His second current problem, taken as a thing in itself, was yesterday’s incident on the East Band lookout, which had whipped itself up out of nowhere like a prairie twister, ending in two arrests and one officer down. How had Dion got himself up there alone? Wasn’t he supposed to be grid-searching the new subdivision by the 7-Eleven? How was a wallflower like him always getting in the middle of the polka?

      No, he revised. Not a wallflower. A thistle.

      The third problem, taken as another thing in itself, was the timing of Jayne Spacey’s call to him last night — ten thirty, as he’d logged it — mustering backup to charge up the East Band. He had nothing but a suspicion and a quick glance at the roster to go on, but something just didn’t jive there, and would need looking into.

      But first things first. It was seven thirty, bright and early, a great time to talk to three killers. He decided to start with his least favourite person in the world, Scottie Rourke. Rourke had twice declined the offer of counsel, but Leith wouldn’t go forward with this until the prisoner had spoken to somebody, so it had happened. Rourke had been duly warned to shut the hell up and happily was apparently going to ignore that advice and spill all.

      Leith popped a caffeine pill and went to the interrogation room, where he found Rourke wound up, twitchy, fierce-eyed. The two men sat face to face, and Rourke agreed he’d spoken to counsel and knew his rights. Leith gave him free rein to speak, which worked well with madmen, and Rourke told of encountering Kiera on the Saturday of her disappearance. She hadn’t driven by but stopped to say hello. He’d made a grab for her, all in fun, and she’d slapped him, and he’d seen red, and next thing you know he had his hands around her neck.

      “Where’s her body?” Leith said.

      “I buried her where you’ll never find her,” Rourke said.

      Leith wondered if it was the same place Rob Law had buried her, where they’d never find her too. He wondered where Frank Law would claim to have buried her next. He wondered if the Rilkoff family would ever get their murdered daughter back. He said, “Without her body, I’m finding it hard to believe you actually killed her, Scott. And I’ve got a long day ahead of me, so —”

      “You got piles of evidence against me,” Rourke said. “You don’t need her body. I want her to stay where I left her, out of respect for her, believe it or not. ’Cause I buried her right. She wasn’t dumped like garbage. You can tell her folks that.”

      Oh, they will be immeasurably comforted, Leith almost said. Instead he asked, “And what evidence is that, that we have piled against you?” Already his pen was beating a fast tattoo on the desktop. He stopped it by crossing his arms and stopped his foot tapping by stretching out his legs and crossing the ankles.

      “I choose to withhold that for now,” Rourke said. “That’s your job, to find it, I’d say.”

      “All right. So why are you telling me this?”

      “Because it’s fantastic. It’s a comedy of errors. Rob and Frank each think the other did it, so they’re trying to save each other’s necks, which is insane because neither one should be going through this hell, when I’m the one who did it. Me.” Rourke thumped himself on the chest. “That’s why I’m telling you this. I have that much decency left in me to admit what I done, if it means saving those two bozos from themselves.”

      “Why did you and Frank go up to the lookout last night?”

      “To talk.”

      “Your good friend Morris Fernholdt says you came by yesterday evening, you and Frank, and wanted to hide out there for a few days. He sent you packing. Why would Frank need to hide out if he hadn’t done anything wrong?”

      “Frank was just trying to help me out. He’s a good man. Loyal.”

      “Sure. That’s a nice .22 you got, by the way. Diamond­back. Kind of rare specimen, isn’t it?”

      “They’re still common as Ford F-150s, actually.”

      “Maybe. But far and few between up here in the sticks. How’d you come upon it?”

      “Friend of a friend. An estate acquisition. Fifteen years ago, at least.”

      “Interesting. We’ll have to do some tracking, find out when it went off the radar.”

      “I got hold of it before the radar was invented, sir, and before I got my firearms ban, by the way. It was an oversight. I guess I just stashed it away and forgot about it. Just doing some spring cleaning the other day and came upon it.”

      “And took it with you to talk with Frank on the lookout?”

      “That was for cougars.”

      “You shot a cop, Mr. Rourke.”

      “Huh?”

      “And since you’re sitting here readily confessing to one homicide, is there anything else you should get off your chest? We got the gun, we’ll get the riflings. We’ll rummage the archives, and any place that gun shows up, every little gas station holdup, we’ll have to assume you were there too. So save yourself the trouble of a bunch of long boring interrogations and give me the list now.”

      Rourke was looking appalled, and like all his emotions, it came across with exquisite exaggeration, Daffy Duck accused of murder. “What d’you mean, I shot a cop? I never shot a cop.”

      Leith’s arms and ankles uncrossed themselves, and he sat forward. “Something wrong with your short-term memory? You shot him last night, right in the gut. He bled all over my car, and he’s dying in the hospital as we speak. And you know what? Killing a cop is even worse than your regular civilian homicide.”

      Rourke jerked back in his chair. “You talking about Constable Dion here? I never shot him. Never.”

      Leith saw outrage, and it puzzled him. He didn’t want to sound puzzled, so he said savagely, “Isn’t that weird, because Frank’s telling us the exact opposite.” This was an on-the-spot invention, because he hadn’t talked to Frank Law yet, but he’d never felt bad about lying to catch a shithead. He raised his voice as Rourke clambered to his feet in indignation and barked, “Sit the hell down.”

      “I shot over his head,” Rourke said, back in his chair, still appalled and somehow hurt. “I never aimed anywhere near the jerk. I wouldn’t do that.”

      There

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