said. 'What are you going to do once I find him for you?"
"Let nature take its course," I said.
Felix looked over at me, the stubble on his face blue-black against the dark skin. "You mean, give him a fair trial and then kill him?”
"Sounds good to me."
Felix turned back to the open grave, slowly being filled. "No argument from me."
"Thanks," I said.
"Don't mention it," Felix said.
Chapter Three
I went home quickly after the burial and got changed into dry clothes, and then drove back over to Jon's house. Diane's unmarked cruiser was in the driveway and I felt a bit irritated, as if it didn't belong there. I pulled in on the street, got out, and walked up to the house. Every other house in this stretch of suburbia had its lawn cleared of leaves, save this one, and that bothered me as well. I would have to take care of it. I looked at the house and saw that the shades were drawn, and it struck me as appropriate. A house where someone lived and breathed and was then murdered should always hide its insides from the shame.
Diane met me at the door, held it open for me as I went in. The door frame was dirty, covered with the dark gray dust of fingerprint powder. The living room was lit up, but everything looked wrong for me, out of place, and I figured it out in just a moment. The furniture had all been moved around by Diane and her fellow officers, and the pieces had not been put back in their proper places. She sat down on a couch and I took a chair, and she said, "This has been tough for you. I'm sorry."
"Thanks," I said.
"Now, I'm going to say something, and you're not going to like it."
"Okay."
"Leave it be."
"Excuse me?"
She managed a smile. "We've known each other for a long while, my friend, and I know what drives you. You're the one who gets wound up over friends of yours who get hurt or get cheated or who are otherwise harmed. That's one of your many charms."
"If that's true, then my charm hasn't worked well with you."
"Then blame genetics," she said. "And I'm going to have to blame your genetic makeup as well. You have this drive for justice. So do 1. And you and I both have the same goals, and that's to bring the shooter in. Okay? And if the shooter is going to be appropriately punished, it's going to happen because the case I have against him is rock solid, with a long string of good evidence, none of it tainted by a vengeful magazine writer whose history and background will be so much raw meat for any half-wit defense attorney. Have I made myself clear?"
"Perfectly."
"Good," she said.
"Have you found the brother yet?"
She shook her head. "No, but we're running him down."
“Is he the lead suspect?"
Diane crossed her legs. "Look, you're getting right into it, all right? Let's say this. He's someone we want to talk to, very badly."
"You got anything besides what I've told you about their history together?"
She moved one leg back and forth. "Last answer from me. Okay?"
"Fine."
"Next-door neighbor saw the brother come to the house the day of the shooting."
"What time?"
"Just after five p.m."
I nodded. "Right after Jon called me."
"Exactly."
I looked around the living room, recalled the times I had spent here with him, talking and drinking and discussing town gossip or the latest news, but always, always, the conversation would veer back to history, the history of the town, the state, the country. And, of course, once we started talking history, we would always end up discussing his obsession, the evidence that his Norse ancestors had walked the same soil that he did. Just last month, each of us drinking a Molson Golden Ale, he clenched his fist and tapped it on the couch's armrest: "I'm close, Lewis. God, I am so close. And when I get that evidence, a lot of people are going to eat crow, and I'm going to be right there to serve it."
"The Vikings," I said.
"Yeah, the Vikings," Diane said. "You know, the few homicides I've investigated in Tyler have all revolved around the big