The pictures featured the two children, alone or with one or the other of their parents. The eldest was the girl, Kerry, redheaded and freckle-faced and gap-toothed childhood growing into an auburn-haired adolescent with a thrust-out lower lip she obviously thought gave her mouth a sultry curl, but which only made her look like a ten-year-old who'd been told to go turn off the television and do her homework. Her cheeks were round and full, her chin soft, her nose a snub, her eyes a wide, innocent blue. Although there was no real physical similarity, she reminded Liam of early pictures of Marilyn Monroe, without the jaded knowledge that being Marilyn Monroe brought with it. If she'd survived, the young Malone girl might have lived into the promise of that pout.
The youngest, Michael, had dark hair and eyes and an almost grave expression. He looked straight at the camera, a questioning lift to one dark brow. It seemed to Liam that he should be wearing glasses, or at the very least have Albert Einstein's afro, some outward, manifest indication of the intelligence contained behind that broad brow, some hint of the determination indicated by that strong chin.
How could those two tiny scraps of humanity, brother and sister, both sprung from the same seed, nurtured in the same womb, have grown into two such different creatures? And then of course he thought of Wy, Wy with her Yupik grandparent and her blond hair. No matter what Mr. Kaufman had taught him in sixth-grade science, Mendel's beans made even less sense to him now than they had then.
There was a flushed and excited Kerry in a cheerleader outfit (the Kulukak Kings, green and silver); Michael with a basketball; Kerry with one eye heavily mascaraed and the other eye not, trying to force the bathroom door closed; Michael, a grin splitting his face, standing in front of a blue Super Cub and displaying a hacked-off shirttail, the mark of a successful solo. There was one picture of both children on the deck of theMarybethiain jeans and sweatshirts and hip boots and monkey gloves, up to their knees in salmon, looking sweaty and tired and jubilant all at once.
He came to the last picture on the second ledge, which included both parents and both children in the stern of a sailboat surrounded by blue, blue water. He picked it up and moved to a window, holding it up to the light. An island was in the background, and the tanned leg of someone he presumed was the skipper in the foreground. Molly, Kerry, Michael and David sat in a row against the starboard rail. All their feet were tangled together in the middle of the picture, the mystery ankle on top of Molly Malone's, Molly's on top of her daughter's, her daughter's on top of David's, David's on top of his son's. David was smiling at the camera, a quiet smile from a contained face of regular features, nothing too excessive or exuberant, a face that gave very little away. Liam could see his daughter in his eyes, his son in his chin.
Molly, on the other hand, nearly sizzled with life: vital, vibrant, glowing with energy and enthusiasm. Blond curls exploded in ringlets past her shoulders, just begging for a man's hands to get tangled up in them. Bright blue eyes laughed straight at the camera, her daughter's pout made provocative reality on her full, redlipped mouth, and she was so lush in flesh that she seemed about to spill out of her fire-engine-red halter top and shorts. She radiated sexuality, a delicious, visceral sexuality that demanded recognition, adulation and especially satisfaction.
Every male instinct in Liam sat up to attention. “Christ,” he said involuntarily.
“She was a looker, all right,” a voice agreed, and Liam jumped and looked around to see Carl Andrew standing next to him, regarding the picture with appreciation. “A man'd have to hustle to keep up with that.” He grinned. “But it'd sure be fun trying.”
“And how,” Liam said, the trooper momentarily subverted by the man, and forgetting for the moment the necessity of establishing his air of authority. He pulled himself together and broke open the frame. On the back of the picture sprawling handwriting said, “Me, Kerry, Michael, David on board theScotch Misten route between Lanai and Maui. That's Skipper Chris Novak's knee. March, 1998.”
From fishing boat to sailboat. A busman's holiday. The Malones, it would seem, never liked to get very far from the water. Liam looked at the reverse side again for a moment before slipping it between the pages of his notebook.
“What, you need a pinup or something?” Andrew said, offended.
“I'll need pictures of all the deceased,” Liam said, setting the pieces of the frame down on the nightstand. “Sometimes a picture is all it takes to trigger someone's memory of events.” He paused. “What was the brother's name? Jonathan, that's it. He worked as a deckhand on theMarybethia,and he lived here, right? Wonder why he didn't go to Hawaii with them.”
Andrew snorted. “He probably went to Vegas instead.”
Liam went downstairs. The rest of the council was standing around the living room, unwilling to make themselves too comfortable in a house where there was no host to ask them to sit down. “If the kids dead, who get the house?” Halstensen was saying. He had his back to Liam, and continued, “Damn fine house, this. Good house for big family. When you get married up, Walter,gatcha,you should buy this house.”
Something in Larsgaard Junior's expression must have warned him, because he turned and saw Liam standing in the doorway. He didn't look embarrassed at being caught in a premature division of the spoils, he merely shut up in the presence of agussuk,and a stategussukat that. Liam didn't hold it against him, either the silence in the presence of the enemy or his practical disposition of the belongings of the dead. Housing, as he knew only too well, was a commodity in short supply, and this house, once the formalities were out of the way, wouldn't be on the market for longer than it took to accept an offer. Liam wished he could make one, and for a moment actually toyed with the idea.
But that would have meant a twice-daily flying commute. He shuddered. No. It was bad enough that his job entailed responding by air to villages as far away as New Stoy and Togiak. He didn't need to add to his air time.
He directed his attention from that ghastly prospect to the matter at hand. “What time was the fishing period in Kulukak yesterday?”
“Six to six,” Ekwok said. “The tide was low at four-thirty, so everybody dropped their nets right at six.”
“Were you all out there?”
“Yes. We all fish this period.”
“You each have your own boat?” Nods all around. “So, you were all in the Kulukak at six a.m. on yesterday, Monday morning. Did you see theMarybethia? You did. Had her nets in the water, did she? Did she fish the whole period?”
Ekwok scratched his chin and looked at the other men. “Well, it's not like we were keeping track, but yeah, I guess she was there the whole time.”
“I saw her at three o'clock,” Kashatok said. “She was pulling away from the tender just before I pulled alongside. Molly, Jonathan and the kids were on deck, working on the gear along with those two deckhands. David was on the bridge, at the wheel.”
“They set out next to me,” Andrew volunteered. “A little bit before four.”
“Anybody see them after that?” They exchanged glances, shrugged. “Okay. Can you give me some idea of who else was fishing in the bay yesterday?”
Halstensen spoke up for the second time. “Ask the tender. They'll have fish tickets, a tender summary. They'll have the names of all the boats that delivered to them.”
“What's the name of the tender?”
“TheArctic Wind.”
“Where do they take their fish?”
“Seafood North. In Newenham.”
At least he wouldn't have to fly to Togiak, which was even farther west down the coast than Kulukak. “Great, thanks. Now, did anyone see theMarybethiaafter the period was over?”