it. “Um… not before the weekend. But like I said… like I said she never even saw Margaret yesterday or did I. She never came over.”
“ Sure, but we might have to talk with her anyway,” Wilkes said. “Purely routine.”
“ Yeah, routine,” Fingerman said.
Then they left, heading out to their car, muttering to each other about something. Purely routine, they said. That’s all it was.
Tara, however, didn’t believe it for a minute.
24
“ I got a funny feeling about this whole business.”
Wilkes cringed when Fingerman said that because he knew it was coming. It had to be coming because Fingerman was just a kid. Sure, he’d pulled seven years on patrol before he made detective, but Wilkes himself had been at it since he got back from Vietnam in ’71 and Fingerman would never be anything but a green kid to him. Maybe he was good at playing this cop business, maybe he was dedicated and hadn’t yet been soured by the system, but he was still just a kid. And like a kid he had to bring up that funny feeling like kids wearing badges always did sooner or later.
And things had been going so good.
A half an hour after they left the Coombes’ house, they still hadn’t brought any of that up. Wilkes was going on about how pretty the colors were this year and how the warm days and cold nights really brightened Mother Nature’s pallet. He was driving around town in the state car, pointing out what a nice little place Bitter Lake was, how it’d be a good place for a guy to hang up his hat come retirement. How he heard they had some kind of fishing in the lake and what Fingerman thought about the Packers this year and how that ringer Shupmann had stolen fifty bucks from him when he’d bet him that the Brewers would sweep the Tigers at Miller Park last week.
But the whole time, Fingerman wasn’t really listening. Just nodding and staring out his window like he was looking for something, probably thinking about how the whole business gave him a funny feeling.
“ I’m not liking this much,” he finally said. “The whole setup.”
“ Nice town, though,” Wilkes said. “Damn nice town.”
“ Sure. Nice.”
“ Yeah, good fishing, they say… smallmouth, pickerel, perch, sunnies. I could see myself retiring here, going down to the pier every morning and drowning some worms, not doing much else. I could summer here and then head down to my sister’s in El Paso before the snow flies. A guy could do a lot worse than to retire to a sleepy little place like this.”
“ Sure.”
“ I been thinking a lot about this, settling in a place like this. Wausau’s all right, but I’d like to hang up my spikes in this sort of town.”
“ Sure.”
“ I ever tell you, kid, about how we’d go fishing spring bass with wigglers down on the Black when I was young? Now, that was some kind of action. Spend all morning out there, casting wigglers, and come home with a full stringer. We’d take ‘em over to my Gramma LaRue’s house and filet ‘em in the fish shack out back that Grandpa Jack had used as a still house in the merry days of bootleg liquor. Yeah, we’d filet ‘em and Gramma LaRue would dip those filets in salt and eggs, roll ‘em in crackers. Pan fry ‘em. You put a side of fried taters on the plate and you had a meal, you know?”
“ I don’t like fish.”
“ No, you wouldn’t.”
“ Right now, I want to talk about something else.”
“ Figured that. Nothing better than fresh fish, son, pan-fried the Grammy LaRue way. Hell, makes my mouth water.”
Fingerman sighed. “Mmm-hmm, I’ll bet. But right now I don’t want to hear about your glorious upbringing fishing the Black River or tipping over outhouses on Halloween. I don’t want to hear about how Uncle Ike laughed so hard at that Fourth of July picnic that he shit his pants or how you and Jimmy McCabe got drunk on Grandpa Jack’s chokecherry wine and spent all night in the pasture puking fire and ice. Right now, I want to talk
“ Sure, but we might have to talk with her anyway,” Wilkes said. “Purely routine.”
“ Yeah, routine,” Fingerman said.
Then they left, heading out to their car, muttering to each other about something. Purely routine, they said. That’s all it was.
Tara, however, didn’t believe it for a minute.
24
“ I got a funny feeling about this whole business.”
Wilkes cringed when Fingerman said that because he knew it was coming. It had to be coming because Fingerman was just a kid. Sure, he’d pulled seven years on patrol before he made detective, but Wilkes himself had been at it since he got back from Vietnam in ’71 and Fingerman would never be anything but a green kid to him. Maybe he was good at playing this cop business, maybe he was dedicated and hadn’t yet been soured by the system, but he was still just a kid. And like a kid he had to bring up that funny feeling like kids wearing badges always did sooner or later.
And things had been going so good.
A half an hour after they left the Coombes’ house, they still hadn’t brought any of that up. Wilkes was going on about how pretty the colors were this year and how the warm days and cold nights really brightened Mother Nature’s pallet. He was driving around town in the state car, pointing out what a nice little place Bitter Lake was, how it’d be a good place for a guy to hang up his hat come retirement. How he heard they had some kind of fishing in the lake and what Fingerman thought about the Packers this year and how that ringer Shupmann had stolen fifty bucks from him when he’d bet him that the Brewers would sweep the Tigers at Miller Park last week.
But the whole time, Fingerman wasn’t really listening. Just nodding and staring out his window like he was looking for something, probably thinking about how the whole business gave him a funny feeling.
“ I’m not liking this much,” he finally said. “The whole setup.”
“ Nice town, though,” Wilkes said. “Damn nice town.”
“ Sure. Nice.”
“ Yeah, good fishing, they say… smallmouth, pickerel, perch, sunnies. I could see myself retiring here, going down to the pier every morning and drowning some worms, not doing much else. I could summer here and then head down to my sister’s in El Paso before the snow flies. A guy could do a lot worse than to retire to a sleepy little place like this.”
“ Sure.”
“ I been thinking a lot about this, settling in a place like this. Wausau’s all right, but I’d like to hang up my spikes in this sort of town.”
“ Sure.”
“ I ever tell you, kid, about how we’d go fishing spring bass with wigglers down on the Black when I was young? Now, that was some kind of action. Spend all morning out there, casting wigglers, and come home with a full stringer. We’d take ‘em over to my Gramma LaRue’s house and filet ‘em in the fish shack out back that Grandpa Jack had used as a still house in the merry days of bootleg liquor. Yeah, we’d filet ‘em and Gramma LaRue would dip those filets in salt and eggs, roll ‘em in crackers. Pan fry ‘em. You put a side of fried taters on the plate and you had a meal, you know?”
“ I don’t like fish.”
“ No, you wouldn’t.”
“ Right now, I want to talk about something else.”
“ Figured that. Nothing better than fresh fish, son, pan-fried the Grammy LaRue way. Hell, makes my mouth water.”
Fingerman sighed. “Mmm-hmm, I’ll bet. But right now I don’t want to hear about your glorious upbringing fishing the Black River or tipping over outhouses on Halloween. I don’t want to hear about how Uncle Ike laughed so hard at that Fourth of July picnic that he shit his pants or how you and Jimmy McCabe got drunk on Grandpa Jack’s chokecherry wine and spent all night in the pasture puking fire and ice. Right now, I want to talk
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