The Bitter Season (Kovac and Liska, #5)(77)

“If it’s any comfort, he doesn’t like heterosexual couples with families, either,” Nikki said.

Larson shook his head. “He hates everyone. He’s the most miserable man on the planet.

“We had a big Labrador when we first moved here. Duck was his name. Nilsen constantly complained about Duck. The dog barked too much, the dog jumped over the fence and shit on his lawn. Nilsen actually threatened to shoot him! And he meant it! He was raving like a lunatic one day, waving a rifle around! It was crazy! I took pictures of him on my phone because I was afraid no one would believe us. David called the police. They talked Nilsen down and told us to keep the dog away from him, and put up a better fence. We should have pressed charges is what we should have done.

“We put up the privacy fence, and Nilsen complained about that. I wanted to go over there and shit on his lawn myself.”

“What happened with the dog?”

“He died. I would bet money the old man poisoned him, but we couldn’t prove it. What kind of person does that? Sick bastard.”

“You could move.”

“The hell with that,” Larson said. “We’ve put heart and soul into this house. We like it here. The neighborhood is in an upward transition. He’s an overweight old man with rage issues. He’ll stroke out one of these days, and a gay couple will buy his house, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”

“In the meantime, stay on your side of the fence,” Nikki said, moving toward the door.

“You don’t think he’s the killer, do you?” Larson asked, following her down the stairs. “Oh my God!”

“I really can’t comment on the case,” Nikki said, stepping back into her shoes. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Larson.”

“No problem. Come back if you need to.”

He handed her a business card on her way out. “Just in case.”

“Wishful thinking.” Nikki took the card and slipped it in her coat pocket. “The only way I’m getting a personal chef is if I marry one.”

“Sorry, I’m taken,” he said with a smile. “I bat for the wrong team anyway.”

“My luck,” Nikki said. She started for the door, then stopped and turned back to him. “Do you by any chance still have the photo of Donald Nilsen with the rifle the day he threatened to shoot your dog?”

“Sure, of course. I never delete photos unless I look fat in them. Everything else gets put in a folder on the computer.”

“Could you show me?”

“Sure.”

He led the way to a slightly messy home office and sat down at his computer. With a couple of clicks of the mouse, he opened his photo app and went directly to a file labeled REMODEL. There had to have been a hundred or more thumbnail snapshots, but he found the one he wanted quickly, and enlarged it to fill the screen. He had a series of five photographs of Donald Nilsen, red-faced, his expression contorted in anger, a small rifle in his hands.

A chill of excitement ran down Nikki’s back. Goosebumps raced down her arms. Her heart had picked up a beat, but she kept her expression calm.

“Look at that lunatic,” Bruce Larson said with disgust. “There are little kids in this neighborhood, and he’s in his yard waving that thing around!”

He looked up at Nikki. “That’s not the murder weapon, is it? I mean, if he did it, he would have been arrested back then, right?”

“Mr. Nilsen had an alibi,” Nikki said. “I’m just covering all the bases. Would you mind e-mailing those five photos to me?”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll do it right now.”

“Thank you.”


*



NIKKI WENT BACK OUT into the miserable drizzle, jamming her hands into her coat pockets and hunching her shoulders against the raw cold. What gray daylight they had had was fading. The streetlights had already come on. Lights had come on inside Donald Nilsen’s house, but not on his porch. He wasn’t inviting anyone to come knocking on his door. Nikki knocked on it anyway.

The old man came and peered out at her through the sidelight, his face sour.

“I don’t have anything more to say to you,” he announced, cracking the door open. He glanced toward the house next door. “Was that faggot complaining about me?”

He had seen her coming from Larson’s house. He probably kept tabs on everyone in the neighborhood.

“I have some additional questions for you, Mr. Nilsen.”

“I don’t have to talk to you,” he snapped. “I know my rights.”

“Fine,” Nikki said. “Then you know you have the right to remain silent and you have to right to an attorney—”

“You’re arresting me?” Nilsen’s face went bright red beneath his white crew cut. “You can’t do that!”

“I’ve got a badge here that tells me I can if I feel the need,” Nikki said, pulling her ID out of her coat pocket and holding it up, selling the bluff. Mascherino wouldn’t approve, but Mascherino wasn’t here.

“I’ve had a long day, Mr. Nilsen,” she said. “And I’m tired and I’m bitchy, and I’m not messing around here. I have reason to believe you’re in possession of a hunting rifle that happens to match my murder weapon. So, if you’re not going to cooperate, I’ll make your life inconvenient just because I can. From what I’ve heard from your neighbors, past and present, you’re more than familiar with that tactic. So let’s get on with it.”