Part 13 (1/2)

”Milo,” I said in a loud voice, ”you'd better be on your way. I've got some perps for you to bust.”

”Burglars?” the sheriff said in surprise.

”Trespa.s.sers, litterers, underage drinkers, use of an illegal substance. You'd better hurry. I haven't had time to start the grill.”

”Jesus,” Milo muttered. ”You're serious?”

”More or less.” I eyed Roger as he turned to listen.

”I'm coming,” Milo said. ”You'd better have the Scotch ready.”

I rang off. ”Now,” I said pointedly, ”do you think I'm kidding?”

Roger again avoided my gaze. He made a flapping motion with his hand. ”C'mon, guys, let's book.”

Only Davin Rhodes remained as the burly boy and the blond girl hurried after Roger, who was trotting off down the driveway.

”Are you going to report us to the sheriff?” Davin asked anxiously.

”Go pick up those beer cans,” I said.

Davin ran back up the slope. I began to cope with the briquettes and the lighter fluid. A moment later, Davin returned with six cans of very cheap beer, all apparently empty.

”Where shall I put them?” he asked, still looking worried.

”The recycling bin's by the back door.” I paused. ”Thanks, Davin.”

”My folks'll kill me if I get busted,” Davin said in a miserable voice.

In his five years as an Advocate carrier, Davin had been generally reliable. The few times that he had missed work or otherwise screwed up had been because of Roger's shenanigans. Davin was a born follower. Unfortunately, he'd chosen Roger as his leader.

”Let's cut a deal,” I said. ”You tell me what you kids did today, and I'll keep my mouth shut.”

”What we did?” Gavin's cheeks, which had grown pale, now reddened. ”Well . . . see, it was like this . . . Roger decided we should be like the command post. We started up Alpine Way, but that was when we ran into Tats.”

”Tats?”

Davin nodded. ”He's a guy we know from high school. We call him Tats 'cause he's got all these tattoos. His real name is Walter. Anyways, he's older than we are, like twenty-one, 'cause he flunked sixth grade. Twice. We-well, Roger-had Tats get us some beer. So after that, we sort of hung out around town, waiting for reports from the troops in the field. That's what Roger calls them, see. We were starting back to the park when we stopped here. To . . . rest.”

I believed most of what Davin told me. I could fill in the gaps for myself. ”So has anyone reported good information?”

Davin brightened a bit. ”Yeah. We got a bunch of calls. The troops found lots of stuff, like empty chips bags and grocery sacks and pop cans and even a paintbrush.”

That sounded like the ordinary leftovers from careless campers and hikers. Except for the paintbrush. Maybe someone had been marking a trail. ”But no sightings of Old Nick?”

Davin shook his head. ”Not yet.”

”Okay.” I smiled. ”Get going. The sheriff really is on his way.”

Davin's expression was still anxious. ”You won't rat us out?”

”Don't worry about it. Go.”

Davin ran, apparently trying to catch up with the others, who had disappeared down Fir Street.

Five minutes later, Milo arrived just as I was defrosting the hamburger. ”Where'd you put the perps?” he inquired before getting ice out of the fridge. ”In the closet?”

”I let them off with a stern warning,” I said. ”That is, I let Davin Rhodes off. The other three fled on foot.”

Milo sighed. ”Roger.”

I nodded. ”Along with a busty blonde and some other kid I don't know.” Briefly, I recounted my discovery in the backyard.

Milo yawned. ”Sounds like Roger. I suppose the whole goofy crew'll meet up in Old Mill Park at six. Bill and Doe are standing by.”

I was slicing potatoes in thick strips, the way the sheriff liked them. ”No emergency reports from the field? No drink for Emma?”

”Oh. Sorry.” Milo put ice into the gla.s.s I'd set out and poured a generous measure of Canadian whiskey into it. ”Water?”

”Fine.”

”No reports,” Milo said after he set my drink down on the counter next to the cutting board. ”Beth Rafferty says 911 has been pretty quiet today except for some calls from stalled motorists going up the pa.s.s. This heat is killing engines and radiators are boiling over.”

”It's killing me,” I grumbled. The kitchen, which faces west, felt like a steam room. ”Let's go outdoors. I think I got the grill started.”

I'd failed. Milo shot me a look that indicated I was inept when it came to practical matters. I didn't mind. Not only was it true, it made him feel good to be superior once in a while. A big part of our problem as a couple had been that we shared so few interests except for sports. My affection-or maybe he considered it an affectation-for the fine arts had always bored or frustrated him. I understood that he felt he wasn't as well educated or as sophisticated as I was. That was partly a matter of background: I'd been raised in the city, he'd grown up in a small town. As Seattle came of age during my younger years, I'd had more exposure to culture. I could do nothing about our differences.

”We'll be lucky if we eat by seven,” he muttered, toiling away with the charcoal.

”If you didn't want your burgers done to a crisp, it wouldn't matter,” I pointed out. ”Have you heard from Toni?”

”No. Why would I? She's sick.”

”Lovesick, maybe,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.

Milo stood back from the blaze he'd created. ”What?”

”I hear she's been involved in a bad relations.h.i.+p.”

”Who hasn't?” Milo watched the fire with steady eyes. The flames began to die down. ”Or have you forgotten my divorce?”

”I wasn't here when you got divorced.”

”You didn't miss much,” Milo muttered. ”How are you going to cook the fries on this thing?”

”I don't. I put them in a deep fryer. That way, I don't have to turn on the stove and heat the kitchen up to a hundred and twenty degrees.”