At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(63)

“Posh.”

“Tosh,” Evan said. “You mean tosh. Posh is acting upper-class. Which these gentlemen definitely are not. Tosh means nonsense. And it isn’t. Any one of them could be our killer.”

“When was the last time you got a profile wrong?”

“It will come to me. Preferably as we’re driving away.”

“What’s that guy up to?” Addie adjusted the focus on the binoculars as one of the men wandered to the side of the house.

“I shudder to think.”

At least the man who’d been staring at them had relaxed in his chair and was laughing at something one of his pals said. One of the men tossed a log onto the fire, and as the flames flared, the men’s faces became clearer. They all looked to be in their late teens or twenties and capable of deadlifting a cement truck.

The man on the side of the house unzipped his pants and peed into the weeds.

“Savages,” Addie murmured.

“Now you’re starting to see things my way.”

She passed the binoculars to him. “Look closely and see if any of them look like a serial killer.”

Evan studied each man’s face. He saw anger and stupidity and malice. And on the face of one of the men, in the shadow of the man’s hoodie, something that resembled his idea of evil incarnate. The malevolent expression flashed briefly before the man returned his attention to the fire, poking it with a stick, his folded-in posture that of a man stuck in a boring high school class.

“It’s hard to be sure in the dark.” He returned the binoculars. “But then, serial killers don’t usually wear a T-shirt advertising their proclivities.”

“Okay.” She pulled up an image on her phone and showed it to him. “This is Helskin. From his DMV photo. What do you think about him?”

A man with an expression that managed to be both malicious and bland stared into the camera. Long light-brown hair braided and trimmed shorter on the sides, a thick beard, flat brown eyes. A brow like the overhang on a cliff and lips as thin as the line between confidence and arrogance. Evan recognized the man in the DMV photo as one of the men at the fire.

“I think he looks just stupid enough to believe he can kill people and get away with it,” he said. “But I’d lay odds he had nothing to do with the deaths of Talfour and Desser. Sophisticated and ritualistic murders like that are way out of his wheelhouse.”

“Okay.” Addie lowered the binoculars halfway. “That’s okay. Elimination is part of an investigation. So on to our next question. Do Helskin or any of the others look like men who sit around thinking about rhyme and meter and composing odes to the gods?”

“Given the aforementioned stupidity, I’d say they’re more of the limerick-on-the-bathroom-wall type. Why don’t you roll down your window and shout ‘Beowulf’ and see if any of them look interested?”

She reached over and smacked his knee. “Couldn’t these guys be, I don’t know, underlings? After all, one of them wanted a ring that sounds exactly like the ring the officers found in the park. We can’t just ignore that.”

“It’s possible that they’re minions of some sort,” Evan agreed. “But we need to remember that Viking culture is hugely popular right now. Most of the people walking around Chicago could probably pick Odin and Thor out of a lineup.”

“You always tell me to trust my gut. And my gut tells me these guys are linked to our case.”

But Evan shook his head. “What you’re most likely experiencing is the human tendency to see patterns and connections, even where none exist. It’s how we simplify and manage our world. Which is perfectly understandable. But it can also obscure the truth.”

“Seeing patterns and making connections is pretty much my job description. Mix it in with an appropriate level of paranoia, and presto, you have a murder cop.” Addie lowered the binoculars to her lap and cupped her hands together, warming them with her breath. “These men are linked—violently linked—to Talfour. They’re heavy into Viking culture. They aren’t exactly upstanding citizens.”

“Then arrest them for Talfour’s assault,” Evan said. “Helskin’s obviously a neo-Nazi in love with Viking symbols. Somewhere in that house is probably a vest with the double sigel runes, which would help link him to the attack on Talfour. But he’s not a poet, and he’s not our murderer. We can go home now, and you can come back tomorrow to arrest Talfour’s muggers with a phalanx of officers and some dog rescuers. Or at least Patrick. And speaking of Patrick, why isn’t he here? Shouldn’t he be part of this?”

“Patrick goes to bed at nine. Like any man from solid farmer stock.”

“A wise man.”

“Let’s give it one more hour.”

“I need my beauty rest.”

“One hour.” In the faint amber glow from the dash, she handed him a thermos. “Here’s something to keep you awake.”

“Tea?” he asked hopefully.

“We’re in America.”

“Coffee, then.” Disappointed, he unscrewed the cap. The aroma of strong, fresh tea rose into the air.

Addie grinned at him. “Would I force my best friend into going on a stakeout with me and then serve him anything but tea? I’ll admit the tea is from McDonald’s—they filled the thermos for me. But there’s milk in the bag on the floor behind you.”