Vapor Trail by Chuck Logan Read Free Book Online Page B

Broker’s eyes met, looked away. For a new guy, Lymon didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. They went into John’s office and sat down. Broker noticed that John still had the same two Norman Rockwell pictures on the wall. The same chemically treated plastic card on his desk with a thumbprint and the invitation: Test your stress level.
    Without preliminaries, John shot a question to Mouse. “As of this minute, who knows we got a saint’s medallion on the crime scene?”
    “The four of us; Joey Campbell, the Stillwater mayor; his police chief, Arnie Bangert; and Tim Radke, one of Arnie’s patrol cops. He was the first copper on the scene,” Mouse said.
    “And that’s how it stays until I get back in town. I’m bringing Broker in as Special Projects to do a little poking around. He reports only to me. So he wants anything, you guys give it him,” John said.
    “That’s clear enough,” Lymon said.
    John pointed his finger at Lymon. “Watch it.”
    The phone rang; John took the call, then rolled his eyes. “Sally Erbeck,” he said, “you must be psychic; I was just thinking of you. What’s up?”
    Mouse leaned over and whispered to Broker, “Sally Erbeck, St. Paul Pioneer Press reporter. Now it begins.”
    “Nothing much, Sally,” John said. “It’s pretty quiet out here in Sleepy Hollow. A couple cows got out of the barn, but I saddled up the boys and we rounded them up. Sure. See ya.” John hung up the phone. “Just routine checks; she hasn’t caught wind of the dead priest yet, so the troops are staying mum.”
    “I don’t know,” Lymon said, narrowing his eyes.
    “What?” John protested. “I don’t have an official cause of death yet. Sure, he had a bullet in his head, but he could have died of a heart attack. Get with the program, Lymon. Now, Mouse, what’s our fallback position?”
    Mouse shifted in his chair and spoke in a monotone. “The Church is in crisis; priests are being targeted; some guy shot one in Philadelphia a little while ago. We got a climate of scandal that could attract nutcases. This Moros wasn’t around long enough to put down roots here. So maybe it’s somebody striking from his past, or somebody with lots of grievances just lashing out at the Church in general. They throw in the saint’s medal as misdirection, to twist our crank.”
    “We don’t want to go anywhere near that yet,” John said. “Try again.”
    Lymon took a turn. “Moros was alone; it’s a fairly remote location. And there’s been a rash of church break-ins the last month in town. Satanist graffiti, stuff like that.”
    Mouse shook his head. “Aw, shit, that’s those little high school creeps with the green hair who wear black. I don’t buy this vandalism-goes-wrong theory.”
    “It’s not bad for a start,” John said. “Okay, we need a minimum press release to cover our ass. The stress is on minimum.”
    Mouse shrugged, looked at Lymon. “How old was Moros?”
    “Forty-three.”
    “’A forty-three-year-old male was found dead in Stillwater last night,’” Mouse said.
    “Sounds great,” John said as he checked his watch. “It is now nine-thirty. I board a plane to Seattle at twelve twenty-five. Have the Comm Center ship that out at eleven-thirty.”
    “So when the media calls and asks about the dead priest, what do we say?” Lymon asked.
    “ We say jackshit,” John said. He pointed to Mouse.
    Mouse shifted in his chair. “You say we’re investigating, and we’ll keep them abreast of events as they develop. They need anything more detailed, they should get ahold of me.”
    “But you’re in federal court all week in St. Paul,” Lymon said.
    “Exactly,” Mouse said.
    “Okay, c’mon, guys.” John made a hurry-up gesture with his hands. “You know why we’re here. Broker is going to get us a read on Moros’s background, but mainly he’s going to take Harry off the table, so ah—well, Mouse, where is he?”
    Mouse folded his arms across his chest. “Got me. He