Known Dead by Donald Harstad Page A

dope, for instance.’’
    ‘‘Hey, I don’t cook anything!’’
    ‘‘Marijuana. Patch.’’
    ‘‘Oh, well, I don’t know nothin’ about no patch, man.’’
    ‘‘Conspiracy to manufacture.’’
    ‘‘Nope. Not me.’’
    ‘‘Murder.’’
    Stunned silence.
    ‘‘Conspiracy to commit murder.’’
    ‘‘Whaaa?’’
    ‘‘Murder of a police officer in conjunction with manufacturing a controlled substance.’’
    ‘‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’’
    Well, we had his complete attention now.
    ‘‘You’ll be taken to the Nation County Sheriff’s Department,’’ said Hester, ‘‘where we will ask you for a statement. You may call your attorney as soon as you arrive at the station.’’ She smiled sweetly at him, and it was the first time I’d ever seen her smile and not mean it. At least not mean it in a friendly way. ‘‘You really should, you know.’’
    ‘‘Should what?’’
    ‘‘Call your attorney. I sure would if I were you,’’ she said.

Six
    AS THE FREIBERG police officer closed the back door of his patrol car, thereby preventing Marks from hearing us, Hester turned to me.
    ‘‘That go the way you planned?’’
    I grinned. ‘‘Well, no, now that you ask.’’
    ‘‘Material witness?’’
    ‘‘Hey, he’s leaving . . . or was going to.’’
    She sighed. ‘‘Carl, sometimes . . .’’
    I grinned again. ‘‘What?’’
    She shook her head. It was, after all, a valid arrest. ‘‘Never mind.’’
    ‘‘All right. Now, then, as long as he’s not going to be worth a shit to us until he talks to his attorney . . .’’
    ‘‘What?’’
    ‘‘Well, I was thinking we’d better pay this Howler dude a visit.’’
    Since Howler had a ‘‘machine gun,’’ prudence sort of dictated that we have some assistance. Hester used her cell phone to talk to Al, avoiding all the monitors of police radio frequencies. Given what we suspected was going on with Howler, we pretty well had to assume he’d have a scanner. We had to go back down through Freiberg, and out the other end to get to Howler’s place. We stopped and got a couple of cans of pop, and by the time we got to Howler’s farm, at 1643, there were six or seven patrol cars pulled up around the place. I was impressed. A crowd of cops in our county is normally three officers. In two cars.
    There were troopers and deputies on all four sides of the house. No sign of activity. Hester had called information and gotten Howler’s telephone number. She called the house while we walked toward the porch. He answered after about ten rings.
    ‘‘Yeah . . .’’
    ‘‘This Howler?’’ she asked, in a normal tone of voice.
    ‘‘Yeah, honey, this is the old Howler.’’ His interest increased as soon as he heard a female voice. ‘‘You want some?’’
    ‘‘No, I’d like to talk to you, though.’’
    ‘‘Hey, phone sex is good, sweetie. Not as good as what old Howler’s got here, but if that’s what you want?’’
    ‘‘What I really want, Howler, is for you to step out on the front porch.’’
    ‘‘What?’’
    ‘‘Just come on out, where I can see you.’’
    Old Howler was no fool. ‘‘Who the fuck is this?’’
    ‘‘Agent Gorse, Iowa DCI.’’
    He laughed. Maybe he wasn’t a fool, but he wasn’t convinced either. ‘‘Yeah, right.’’
    ‘‘Look out the window, Howler. You’ll see me out by the swing set.’’
    He actually looked. I don’t think he ever did see Hester then, but he sure saw the cop cars.
    ‘‘Holy fuck!’’
    He hung up.
    Hester held the cell phone above her head, and said, in a very loud voice. ‘‘He’s broken contact. Look alive.’’
    Howler, ‘‘old Howler,’’ heard that too. Of course.
    There was a shadow at the front screen door, and then it opened a crack.
    ‘‘Don’t shoot!’’
    ‘‘Just come on out, Howler.’’
    ‘‘What the fuck you want?’’
    ‘‘Gotta talk, Howler,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Gotta talk now.