Free Where Echoes Live by Marcia Muller Page A

too.”
    I nodded, watching the man whisper in Nickles’s ear. She giggled some more, and he began to dance her toward a side door. When they stepped off the floor, she lurched and he had to steady her. The two went outside, leaving the door open behind them.
    â€œWhere does that go?” I asked Hy.
    â€œBalcony, and then down to the dock.” He was frowning now. “Normally I wouldn’t butt in, but I know that guy. Tank-truck driver who delivers to the filling station that Earl Hopwood used to run. Mean son of a bitch, for a little guy. And I’ve never seen Lily so drunk she could barely stand up.”
    â€œWhy don’t we get some air ourselves? You go ahead. I’ll grab my jacket and join you.”
    When I caught up with him on the balcony, there was no sign of Nickles and her friend. We walked along the plank flooring to the stairway that descended to the dock. At first I could make out nothing but the swath of moonlight on the lake; then I spotted Nickles’s light-colored sweater and the man’s hat. They were at the end of the dock.
    I touched Hy’s arm and pointed to them.
    He nodded and quickened his pace.
    And then the man with Nickles yelled. It wasn’t a drunken whoop, mere noisemaking; the sound held an element of horrified surprise.
    Ripinsky and I began to run. Down on the dock, Nickles sank into a crouch. The man yelled again.
    On the steps I bumped into Ripinsky and stumbled, missed two before I righted myself. I could see Nickles’s partner standing behind her, frozen now. They were staring over the dock’s edge into the water.
    I raced down the dock, Ripinsky behind me. It bucked and swayed under our weight. I pushed past the still-frozen man, grabbed Nickles by her hunched shoulders.
    â€œLily, what’s wrong?”
    She twisted around, her face shocked and bewildered. I dropped down and put my arms around her.
    Ripinsky moved past us. I heard him grunt in surprise.
    Nickles remained very still. She smelled of beer and smoke. I held her and looked over her shoulder at Hy.
    He stepped back from the dock’s edge and motioned down. I leaned out, peering into the blackness.
    A body floated in the water. Bumped against the dock on the waves its bucking had set in motion. A man’s body, from the size of it, clad in light-colored clothing. Face down, shoulders humped. Bumping and bumping …
    I looked away, said to Nickles’s dancing partner, “Take her back to the restaurant. Get somebody to call the sheriff’s department.”
    He snapped out of his frozen state and stepped forward, pulling Nickles to her feet. Shock had sobered him up; it seemed to have turned her to jelly. He had to support her as they moved slowly along the dock.
    Ripinsky was squatting down, trying to get a grip on the body. Reluctantly I went to help him. At first it floundered out of reach, then drifted back. Together we grasped it, hauled it onto the dock. I recoiled as it hit the planks.
    My eyes met Ripinsky’s. His were as black and glittering as the water. He hesitated, then took hold of the corpse’s shoulder and heaved it onto its back.
    The man’s face stared up at us, blank with death. It was round, handsome in a pug-nosed way, and much too youthful for the abundance of white hair that was slicked to the skull and forehead. He couldn’t have been in the water long; there was no odor or bloating. Two dark holes marred his pale shirtfront—the entry holes of small-caliber bullets.
    I asked, “Do you know him?”
    â€œI’ve never seen him before.”
    Ripinsky squatted again and began going through the corpse’s pockets. When he reached inside the tan jacket, he came up with a wallet. He stood, took matches from his own pocket, and handed them to me. I lit one and held it so he could examine the wallet’s contents.
    â€œDriver’s license,” he said after a few seconds, “issued to Michael M.