I just drove. Back in the days when I smoked, this would have been the time.

I picked up the mike, and called for dispatch to phone Borglan's hired man, and let him know we were coming.

Art read off the sheet he'd picked up at dispatch earlier that morning. According to his information, the hired man was a fellow named Harvey Grossman. His driver's license had said he was born in '62, five feet nine inches, 180 lbs., blue, and brown. I didn't know him, but Lamar had told me that he'd moved to our county back in '93 or '94.

I was getting a little worried. Art was pretty well established as thinking that Fred had done the dirty deed. I didn't agree, and thought that Fred was telling the truth. All well and good, and an indication of a balanced investigation. The part that worried me was that I thought it was very likely that we were just about to talk with the man who had murdered the two burglars. I mean, if Fred hadn't done it, and all the snowmobile tracks at the Borglan place led to the residence of one Harvey Grossman, who was left?

Just for the sake of arguing with myself, I assumed that Grossman had been at the residence for some reason, and had caught the burglars in the act. Perhaps there had been some sort of confrontation. Turned violent. Bang. Bang. And then, bang. Put 'em in the shed. Who else would even be looking in there until the Borglans came back? If, as he said, Cletus had been called back unexpectedly for business, then how could Grossman have known he'd be coming? Right. He couldn't. All the time in the world to dispose of the bodies, as far as he could have known. The forecast was for warming for the next week or longer. Just wait a few more days for enough of a thaw to get them into a shallow pit. Move the corpses later, if necessary.

"How certain are you," I asked, "that Grossman here isn't the killer?"

"Just about positive," said Art. "Why?"

"Well," I began, and ran my theory by him. Quickly, but with some feeling.

"It's a point." He waited in silence. "Okay, it's a good point. If Fred didn't do it, this Grossman dude is the most likely suspect. Sure. So…?"

"Well," I began, again, "if he is a suspect, shouldn't we just come right out and advise him of his rights as soon as we see him? Let him know, and take it from there?"

"Jesus Christ, Houseman," said Art, "don't be so goddamned honest!"

"What?"

"No kidding," said Art, exasperated, and with uncharacteristic length. "Look. Keep the suspect business in the back of your head, but don't go getting carried away on me. Let the conversation flow. If he sends the right signals, then we hit him with Miranda and handcuffs all at once. Otherwise, lighten up."

"I know all that," I said, getting a little exasperated myself. "But, in court, if some attorney asks when I first thought this guy was a suspect, I'm gonna have to tell him it was before we talked with him for the first time."

"What did you do?" asked Art. "Watch the entire O.J. trial?" He sighed. "Don't worry about it. Fred's the shooter. Trust me."

Yeah. Right. As I drove, I reached back under my down vest, and unsnapped the restraining strap on my holster. I'd feel a lot better trusting Art if my gun was unsnapped when we walked to Grossman's door.

We pulled into the lane, and on the way to the residence, we drove through a nest of outbuildings. The house wasn't nearly the quality of the home place, but it was nice, and well maintained, nonetheless. It and the outbuildings were white frame, and looked pretty sound. The door to the wooden machine shed was opened, and there were four snowmobiles parked inside. One thing that struck me about them was that none of them had the little orange flags, and none of them appeared to have registration numbers on the cowl. Cops with a patrol officer's background notice stuff like that. I was willing to bet Art hadn't picked up on that

We got out of my car, and walked toward the kitchen door. I knocked. It was a courtesy not to go to the front door. Most farms reserved the front door for important occasions, and the back or kitchen door was used for routine entry. If we had been accepted at the front door, and none of us had removable outer footwear, we would have "tracked in" all sorts of snow and mud. Easier to clean a kitchen floor.

The inside porch door opened, and a man meeting Grossman's description came out.

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm Carl Houseman, deputy here in Nation County. The office called, and told you to expect us?"

"Somebody did. You got any identification?"

I fished out my badge, as did Art. Grossman reached for my badge case, and I pulled my hand back a couple of inches. I grinned at him. "You just get to look, Mr. Grossman. You can't have it until you're hired." He didn't seem particularly amused.

"So," he said, having scrutinized three badges he probably had no way of telling were authentic or not, "what can I do for you?"

He wasn't even inviting us onto the porch. Not a good sign.

"We're here because you're the hired man at the Borglan farm, and they had a burglary." I moved closer to the door. "We'd like to know when the last time was that you checked the place, and things like that."

"'Burglary,'" he said. "That's what you're calling it?"

"Well, it started out that way."

"I understand that a couple of cops got it?" he asked.

Christ, what was it with these people, anyway? Wishful thinking? "No, no. No cops. A couple of burglars got killed, though."

"By who?"

"Now, that's a good question. We thought maybe you could help us there."

Much to my surprise, he invited us in. "You might as well come on in, and we can get it over with."

Get what over with? I thought. I glanced at Art, and he seemed to be thinking the same thing. Damn. Could I be right?

Several cups of Linda Grossman's coffee later (I was really running on caffeine at this point), it certainly didn't appear that I was even close to being right. After we'd all gotten settled around the kitchen table, Harvey Grossman, wife Linda, and their nine-year-old daughter, Carrie, had pretty well explained things to us.

Carrie struck me as a pretty cool little kid. About four and a half feet tall and very thin, she had brown hair and brown eyes that were pretty intense. Especially when I showed Linda Grossman my badge. I showed it to Carrie next, including her in the business just like everybody else. Carrie examined it very closely, and nodded.

The Grossmans told an interesting story.

First of all, the entire household had been awakened about 2 A.M. on Sunday, by the sound of a snowmobile running through their yard at an apparently very high rate of speed.

"Just tore right through the yard," as little Carrie put it. "I hollered out, it scared me so much."

I could imagine it did. At 0200, with the temperatures hovering at minus forty or colder, no wind, over two miles from the nearest gravel road, which wouldn't have any traffic anyway, it would be just about as dead quiet as it could get. A high-speed snowmobile passing within fifty feet of the house would shatter that silence, and very likely wake the whole family.

Carrie had run to her folks' room, who had also both been awakened. Nobody could figure out who it was, since the Borglans weren't home. After settling Carrie down, Linda Grossman had come downstairs and had a cup of cocoa, because she wasn't able to get back to sleep. She thought she'd heard another snowmobile, or possibly the same one, off in the distance, but wasn't sure.

All three Grossmans were certain that the snowmobile had departed heading southwest. Carrie had apparently heard it first, and said it sounded like it was coming from the Borglan place.