TJ couldn’t help but chuckle as she pictured Lisa in disguise.

“I knew you’d get a kick out of that. I drove to Chicago one weekend to pick up the props and paid cash. Too bad I didn’t know you then—I could have used some help with it. It took a lot of practice to get it right.”

TJ grinned. “It’s an art.”

Lisa continued with her narrative. “I had the advantage of knowing exactly where Lawrence hunted, because he dragged me along once so they’d have an extra license just in case they had a good bounty. Lawrence liked to slip out after he and his buddies came back in for the day and do his own thing. It was an ego thing; he thought he could do something on his own the trio couldn’t.”

TJ’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm. Your alibi?”

“That’s where a stroke of luck came in. The opening weekend of deer hunting, when he and his buddies always went, coincided with a conference in the cities I happened to be registered to attend. It’s a huge affair; no one would have been the wiser if I slipped out for a day. Not the perfect alibi, but rational.

“I found a little rent-a-heap lot in St. Paul. For a big enough cash deposit, they said I could rent a pickup with no questions asked. I planned on wearing the disguise when I picked it up.”

TJ poured more coffee, feeling her senses slowly returning to a pre-alcohol stage. Lisa hadn’t exaggerated. It had been a good plan. “Sounds like you thought of everything.”

“Well, I knew I’d be the first one the police would question if they suspected his death wasn’t a hunting-related incident. They’d take the 30.06, test it, and when it turned out not to be a match, hopefully I’d be off the hook.”

TJ ran over it in her mind. “One question. Why didn’t you dump the knock-off rifle?

“If I’d used it, it would be in the bottom of the Mississippi river gathering sand.” Lisa paused for a sip of coffee. “It felt good to tell somebody. But it’s nothing compared to what you’ve been burdened with.”

TJ snorted. “Now you sound like Orth.”

“Orth?”

She’d wanted to tell Lisa about her trip to his house and started by telling her how he’d come to her after the meeting with the police at Eric’s—how he’d practically read her mind. She watched Lisa’s face for a reaction when she got to the part about stopping Wilson herself, but Lisa’s demeanor remained impassive.

Lisa pondered. “So you trusted him with this. I suppose I would have, too.” She got up from the couch. “I think we need more coffee. And some sugar. How about dessert?”

“On top of all that tequila?”

Lisa set a plate of brownies on the table in front of the sofa. TJ picked one up but didn’t take a bite. “We have to do something—hafta’ get rid of the guy.”

Lisa said, “I was afraid that’s where we were headed. I think we have to give the police some time to put it together. Maybe they’ll work it out.”

Does that mean you’re on board with it? TJ took a deep breath. “Yeah, in a perfect world. ‘Fraid Wilson’ll take off if he knows the department is working it.”

“I’m not so sure. He’ll believe there’s nothing the police can find. But you’re right, with his skills it would be easy for him to change his name and head for places unknown. But I think he’ll revel in watching them spin their wheels for a while and do some gloating, enjoy feeling omnipotent. He doesn’t know we’re on to him, so he won’t have a sense of urgency.”

TJ had to agree with her logic. They probably did have some time. “If the cops don’t get him, you’ll help me out?”

“Help you out? I’ll pull the trigger.”

61             

The nasty tidbit of office gossip revealing Marian Bergman’s husband of three years had left her for his twenty-something, red-haired secretary couldn’t have pleased James more. The fact that Marian had been off all week on personal leave added credibility to the second part of the rumor—Bergman had fallen into a serious depression. He’d been plotting an accidental death for the woman, now this gave him a ready-made plan.

He watched her condo for a few days. If he didn’t hate her so much he might have pitied her. Bergman rarely left the house and when she did, only performed errands while wearing dark sunglasses and a wrinkled, khaki overcoat. Her normally slicked back hair hung limply on her shoulders.

The following week when Marian returned to work, she appeared gaunt, and behaved nastier than ever to everyone around her.

Via the Internet, James purchased a large quantity of sleeping pills from an overseas site not requiring a prescription. It had been a simple matter for someone with his computer talents to find out which brand she used. Ordering them in her name and arranging to receive them anonymously had been more challenging.

Obtaining an unregistered handgun hadn’t been difficult. Luckily, his uncle had trained him in the use of guns, although curiously, James had never liked hunting.

After work on Friday, Marian stopped on the way home to visit the local liquor store, and walked out carrying a brown paper bag large enough to hold a weekend’s supply of forgetfulness.

James watched.

He’d prepared well. The date he’d planned with a young woman in case he ever needed an alibi went so smoothly it bored him. Her name was Eden and she talked about herself incessantly. They had dinner at a restaurant in a woodsy setting near Oshkosh. The food was wonderful and the wine enticing. He didn’t order a second bottle; he wanted her thirsty for a nightcap when they got to his house on Lake Winnebago.

When they arrived there, she gave him a mischievous smile and hurried to the bathroom to ”slip into something sexy.” While she changed he brought out an irresistible bottle of Dom Perignon and poured two flutes, adding his special recipe to her glass. She whisked back into the room, dazzling in a skimpy, pale blue teddy. He handed her the spiked drink and raised his for a toast. “To an unforgettable night with a beautiful woman.” After she’d downed the champagne, he led her to the bedroom. She’d be out until morning.

Marian Bergman lay in bed propped on a bank of pillows, a TV remote in one hand, an empty glass in the other. Eyes closed, she snored softly, a noir, black-and-white movie playing on a flat screen TV across from the bed. A bottle of vodka, containing only an inch of the colorless liquid, sat on the nightstand.

She snorted suddenly, blinking her eyes several times as if releasing them from something sticky. She squinted, her face screwed up as if seeing a ghost.

James Wilson sat on the red, brocade chaise next to the window. The white shantung draperies behind the chair had been drawn, shielding the room from the moonlit night and any possible observers.

In a voice slimy with menace, he said, “Hello, Marian. Lovely evening isn’t it?”

Aghast, she stared at him, mouth gaping, slack from the effect of the vodka. She sat up, pulling the comforter over her, although the room was warm and she wore a heavy fleece robe.

“You son-of-a-bitch. How did you get in here?”

His mouth stretched into a flat smile. “It wasn’t difficult, Marian. You should’ve installed a security system.”

She hissed, “What do you want?”

He pulled out the prescription bottle he’d brought along and tossed it to her. She caught it reflexively, and then held it up to the light to read the label. “This isn’t mine—why is my name on the label?”

“I bought them for you, Marian, so you can put yourself out of your misery.” He sneered. “Your husband will never come back. He probably hates you just like everyone who works for you. They call you the ‘Granite Queen’ when you’re not around, did you know that?” James sat, legs crossed, ominously cool, speaking just loud enough to be heard above the murmuring sounds of the movie.