Everything You Want Me to Be(45)

I nodded and shuffled the emails back together in the folder, flipping it shut. He was working up a good sweat trying to put the knife in Tommy’s hands.

“Where were you on Friday night after the play, Lund?”

“I had to wait until everyone left and then lock up the school. Carl helped me. Then we went over to his place for a drink.”

“Carl Jacobs?”

He nodded.

“Okay, let’s go.” I stood up and handed the folder to Jake.

“To Carl’s? He’s still at school.”

I led him out the door, practically cuffing him on his sweaty collar. “We’re going to Mayo. I’m gonna give you a chance to clear your name, Lund. Or clean it up some, anyway.”

I put him in the front seat again, in case any of those news vans happened to be watching, and walked Jake back to the station door, talking low.

“You think he was the one that had sex with her?” Jake asked.

“Lab’ll tell us one way or the other. He wanted to, that’s for damn sure. Comes down to whether he was more horny or scared, I guess.”

“I’d go with scared. That guy reeks of chicken shit. You want me to pull Carl Jacobs in?”

“Just do a phone interview. The less people we parade into the station, the better. Corroborate the alibi. I want to know when they left the school, what they drank, what they talked about, and when Lund left Carl’s house. I’ll get the same from Lund on the way to Rochester. Call me as soon as you know.”

“You’ll pick up this time?” He was too excited to put much sarcasm behind it.

“I might at that. And Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Not one word of this to anyone outside this conversation, you understand? Not dispatch, not Nancy or any of the boys, not even your mother. The press would have a field day.” I passed a hand over my face. “And I’d have to arrest Bud for murdering this sorry excuse here.”

“What do I say if someone asks about Lund?”

“You tell them to keep their big noses out of an ongoing investigation.”

Jake seemed to like that idea and I left him to it, walking over to the cruiser. Lund was sunk into the seat, his head turned away from the window like the whole damn town didn’t already know where he was. LitGeek liked to hide. Now the question was, how much was he hiding?





HATTIE / Wednesday, November 7, 2007


“COME ON, Hattie. You know you’re going to.”

Portia took a bite of her hamburger, made a face, and set it back down. “Didn’t I say no pickles?”

Maggie leaned across the Dairy Queen booth and picked off Portia’s pickles, popping them in her mouth. “I don’t know. She’s a big, fat community theater star now. Probably too good for our spring play.”

“Shut up, both of you. I said I hadn’t decided.” I squirted some ketchup in my basket.

“It still tastes like pickle,” Portia complained.

“Then give it to me.” Maggie grabbed the burger.

“It’s only November,” I pointed out and offered Portia some of my onion rings. “I’ll decide when they post what play it’s going to be. I’m not auditioning for a musical. I can’t sing.”

“I heard Mr. Lund’s directing it this year. There’s no way he would pick a musical.”

My stomach lurched at his name and the onion rings turned to concrete in my mouth. Luckily a group of football players barged into the restaurant and started horsing around by the registers.

“Maggie, did you ask Derek to Sadie’s yet?” I changed the subject.

She shot a coy look over her shoulder at the testosterone display. “Yep. We’re going to double with Molly and Trenton.”

Derek had someone in a headlock by the Dilly Bar case, but he paused to shoot Maggie a grin with a licking motion. Charming.

“What about you, Porsche? Did you ask Matt or Tommy?”

“Matt’s going with Stephanie.”

“Well, Tommy’s right there. Go ask him.” I waved an onion ring at him, but Tommy startled like he’d been watching me and walked over to our booth, hands shoved in his letterman jacket.

“Hey, Hattie.”

“Hey, Portia had something she wanted—” I got violently kicked under the table.

“—to go do,” she finished, smiling at Tommy. “You can have my seat.”

“Mine, too. I’m going to grab a Blizzard.” They exchanged a look and suddenly they were both gone. I got the uncomfortable feeling that I’d missed a conversation.

“Er—d’you mind?” Tommy flapped his jacket at the empty booth and I shrugged. He sat down, cleared his throat, and started playing with the napkin dispenser. Gerald always said hands were a shortcut to the character. Ignore the words, he said. Pay attention to what the hands were doing. Tommy had thick hands and dirty fingernails and he clubbed the dispenser around like a hyped-up hockey player. He was nervous as hell.

“So, what’s up?” I finally asked.

“Nothing. Just got home from hunting with my dad. Bagged a twelve-pointer at two hundred feet.”

“Killer,” I deadpanned, nodding.

It seemed like most of the restaurant was watching us, with Tommy’s football buddies in the front row, elbowing each other and shoving fries in their mouths.