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“Don't want to tell me, eh? Want a cup?” At Lacey's nod, he filled another cup and handed it to her.

  Lacey took the coffee and shrugged. “Nothing to tell, Ben.” Ben rubbed one long bony finger along the side of his nose. That seemed to be his favorite gesture, and Lacey wondered if he'd broken his nose at one time, making it itch. He hadn't answered her question, so she repeated it. “You know this Paul Menns?”

  “Nope, he's nobody I've run into before. No priors. An over-the-road trucker, his landlady says. Had his own rig and was an independent. Got jobs where he could, nothing regular. Did pretty much as he pleased for a schedule, I gather. Out on the road most of the time.” Ben lounged his long frame into the chair again and sipped the hot coffee.

  “Have you identified the body any other way, yet? Fingerprints, maybe? Dental records?” The Trib had said they hadn't when it went to press. But that was probably written last night, hours ago. How could she find out without tipping off Ben to who her client claimed to be?

  “Nope. There was no ID on the body. Nobody missing who fits the description, either.”

  “So, you only have the landlady's word for who he is, so far?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so.”

  “Make sure who the dead guy really is, will you, Ben? Just to avoid any complications, okay?”

  Ben stared at her quizzically, then shrugged. “Sure, Lacey. Can't hurt to do that, I guess. Give us time. We're getting an autopsy and we've sent in his fingerprints.”

  Lacey drank the coffee, thinking. “This eye-witness who described the man for the police artist, she's reliable?”

  “She sure seems to be.”

  “I hear she's from Minneapolis?”

  “Yeah.” Ben stared stoically into his cup, then took another long swallow.

  Honestly, getting information out of him was like pulling taffy, Lacey thought. She watched Ben's face as she went on, “The gossip at the Flame was that she claims she was bird-watching on the Wisconsin side of the river around six Monday morning when she saw movement across the river, in the trees along the shore. She turned her binoculars on him long enough to get a good look at his face. The guy dropped the body, then disappeared back into the trees. That about right?”

  Ben shrugged. “Why don't you ask her?”

  “Maybe I will, Ben, just to spite you. They say she came back into town right away and reported it. You went out and found the body in the woods on this side of the river, in the upper Lion's Park, right where she said it would be.”

  “That's about it, Lacey. Satisfied?”

  Lacey's coffee was getting cold and she needed to see the man who'd called her. Maybe then she could figure this out. She eased herself off the corner of his desk. “Sure Ben. I can tell you want me to get lost. So this bird-watcher's testimony won't be much use now?”

  Ben shrugged and said, “Sounds like it. She obviously saw the victim's face before the guy dumped him. Maybe they were both there talking before the guy shot him.”

  Lacey raised an eyebrow. “You don't sound too sure.”

  Ben crushed his empty Styrofoam coffee cup and aimed it at the brown plastic wastebasket against the wall. He missed and his dark bushy brows dipped. “Well, some of it doesn't add up. She's sure she saw him carrying the guy, then drop him there. But obviously, that couldn't have been the way it happened.”

  Lacey chewed her bottom lip. It could have been if Paul Menns is still alive and really did dump that guy's body. This doesn't sound good for Paul's case. “She didn't hear any shots?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Lacey frowned. “You know sound carries pretty good over the water. Anyone close enough to identify him should have heard the shots.”

  “Sure, if the guy was shot out there.”

  Meeting the sheriff's gaze, Lacey said, “You doubt it.”

  He rubbed the crook in his nose distractedly. “Well, we didn't find any evidence of it. Not yet anyway.”

  “No blood, no shell casings, no gun?”

  Ben shook his head. “We're still looking.”

  “The river was a pretty handy place to get rid of the gun.”

  He nodded morosely. “Exactly. And the bottom's muddy. Going to be hard to find.”

  Lacey swallowed the last of her coffee, saying, “You've got that right.”

  She crushed her cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. She didn't miss.

  Smiling triumphantly, she took her leave.

  She knew her hints that he might be wrong about the body's identity would spur him to do more than he normally would to double-check the identity. That was exactly what she wanted him to do, because it would be easier for him than for her. He had official channels to get the autopsy, dental records and fingerprints. If this guy claiming to be Paul was lying, the sheriff would prove it soon enough.

  In the meantime, she needed to see what the guy looked like for herself.

  Chapter 2

  The warm aroma of fried onions and French fries greeted her as she walked into the side door of the fast food place where Paul Menns had said he'd be waiting for her. It was after noon, not a busy time for this place. Besides a couple of teens, only one man sat in this section at the moment.

  She eyed him curiously. Dressed in worn jeans and red plaid shirt, he sat in the booth with his chin in his hands. He wore a blue baseball cap and dark glasses and hadn't shaved in a couple of days.

  A young male employee brought him a tray of burgers, fries and drinks, saying, “Here's your order, Sir.”

  The man looked up and took the tray, saying, “Thanks.” It had to be Paul. Even with dark glasses and the stubble on his face, she could see the resemblance to the artist's image in the Tribune.

  As the employee passed her, the man saw her. He rose, looking her over as she approached. “Miss Summers?”

  Eyeing him as well, Lacey saw that Paul was attractive, about six feet tall and well built. He was suntanned, unusual for springtime in Minnesota, with brown hair cut a bit on the long side. She pushed down a flutter of unexpected fascination with him and nodded, then smiled and held out her hand.

  He took it, saying, “Paul Menns, the ghost,” with a wry grin.

  She was surprised by the warm flow of attraction that sailed between them and quickly dropped his hand, reminding herself she knew nothing about him. “Hello, Mr. Menns.”

  “Call me Paul. Mr. Menns sounds too old.”

  “And I'm Lacey.”

  He sat back down, waving her to have a seat across from him. He removed his cap and sunglasses, and she saw that his eyes were brown, and although there were shadows of fatigue under them, his gaze was direct. “Want a burger and fries? I ordered extra.” He indicated the tray in front of him, then picked up a burger and bit into it.

  “Thanks. It smells delicious.”

  He sipped the cola and asked, “Got any aspirin, by chance? My head has a drum beating inside it.”

  His voice was attractive, too, clear and deep. She reminded herself that criminals came in all shapes and sizes. Being attractive didn't make him innocent. Lacey opened her purse, dug out a small bottle of aspirin and shook out a couple for him. “Hangover?”

  He reached out and took them from her, a little smile on his lips. “Thanks. No, just stress. I had a couple too many when I got in Sunday night, but that headache wore off yesterday. This one started when I saw the picture in the paper this morning.”

  She took a burger and bit into it. “Sunday would have been the night before they found the body?”

  He shrugged. “I guess so. All I know is what I've read in the paper. You saw the article and the picture?”

  She nodded. “Suppose you start at the beginning, Paul.”

  “What beginning?”

  “As in show me some ID. Driver's license?”

  He stared at her.

  She shrugged. “You say you're Paul Menns. Paul's landlady and the sheriff say he's dead. I don't know you from Adam.”

  He sighed and laid his burger back on
the paper napkin. “Well, when you put it that way...” He pulled a worn brown-leather billfold from the back pocket of his jeans. He flipped it open, and handed it to her so she could read the information on his license. The picture matched his face and the description fit him, too--thirty-five years old and one hundred and ninety pounds. The address listed was the one Ben had given her.

  As he reached out to take it back, she noticed the long white line of an old scar along his left wrist above his thumb. “Thanks,” she said, returning the billfold. “So start at the beginning and tell me what happened.”

  He picked up his burger and ate another bite before answering. “I got in late Sunday night and spent most of yesterday in my apartment except for a trip to the grocery store. Oh, yeah, and I washed my car, then went back to the bar for a hamburger for supper. After a week on the road and a bender besides, I don't do much except laundry. Just eat and sleep.”

  Lacey nodded. That sounded logical. “Go on.”

  “So about seven this morning, I head to the truck stop to wash my truck. About ten or so I go in for breakfast and see the paper. I nearly filled my pants, I'll tell you, like I'd just lost my brakes coming down the Taylors Falls hill or something.” He seemed to realize what he'd said, and a dull red crept up his stubbled face. “Sorry.”

  She smiled, chewing on a French fry. “I've heard worse. So what have you been doing since then?”

  “After I called the sheriff's office and found out they'd identified the dead guy as me, I've been hiding out here, afraid they'd be looking for my truck.”

  “A little hard to hide a semi, isn't it? Where is it?”

  He laughed at her over the cup of cola. “Parked out back at the truck stop in between all the others. Nobody notices one more in a row of them.”

  “Anybody see you there in your apartment building in Canton?”

  “I don't know. I never pay attention to who is in the hall. I don't suppose the others do either.”

  Paul certainly sounded like he was telling the truth. “You weren't anywhere near the Lion's Park where that body was found?”

  He shook his head, then winced at the movement. “No!”

  She dug out the clipping and showed it to him, asking, “Is this the article you saw?”

  “Yeah.” He ran his fingers through his curly hair, then sighed. “I don't believe this! This woman says I dumped a body out by the river. Now I ask you, if I'd done something like that, would I stick around here for two days just sleeping?”

  True. Especially this guy. He had his own rig and a job that was a good excuse to be three states away without anyone being suspicious about his reason for being there. He could have driven hundreds of miles, then stopped at a truck stop to sleep and no one would have been the wiser. Since he set his own schedule, no one would question his leaving. Unless he'd done the deed, and was pretty confident he hadn't been seen.

  “So how do you think this woman managed to describe you?”

  “How would I know? I'm not so unusual. Maybe I just look like a lot of other guys. Maybe she saw the dead guy, and maybe he does look a little like me.” He thrust the clipping back at her.

  She took it and stuffed it back in her purse. Yeah, right. And maybe your mother raises green geese. Sighing, she said, “Let's start over. Where were you Sunday night?”

  “I was coming back from a week's run to New York. I stopped at a bar along Highway Eight a few miles east of the Wisconsin border, just down the road from here. You know the little place next to a big truck stop? I was tired and didn't want to cook after I got home.”

  She dipped a French fry in catsup. “What time was that?”

  “About eight or so, I guess. I just stopped for a hamburger and then I met some people I knew and started talking and drinking with them. You know how it is. I left about midnight and went to sleep in my rig parked behind the truck stop.”

  “That's it? Just went to bed in your truck?”

  He glowered at her, his brown eyes flashing under dark bushy brows. “Yes. And stayed there until about five in the morning. I was beat and smashed.”

  Lacey frowned. “You slept in your rig because you didn't want to drive home drunk?”

  “Yeah. I know it was only a few miles from home, but I'm a cautious man. Everything I've got is tied up in that rig. I'm not about to wreck it.”

  She tossed off the last of the fries, and washed them down with the soda. “Did anyone see you leave the bar? Go out to your truck?”

  He shrugged. “I didn't really pay attention. I didn't notice anyone. Someone could have seen me, I suppose.”

  “You drove on home about five in the morning?”

  He nodded. “A few minutes after.”

  “Can anyone verify any of this?”

  Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he said, “My buddies and the bartender can tell you when I left there Sunday night. They all know me.”

  Lacey dug her notebook out of her purse. “Names?” She wrote them down as he gave them and the time he'd left.

  “Anyone see you come back to your apartment?”

  Again he shrugged. “Hard to say. Somebody might have heard me pull in the parking lot. Semi's aren't exactly quiet, you know. There're a couple of old ladies up on third floor who always complain about the noise waking them up when I come in at night. And a young gal, Mary, on first, who bitches that I wake up her baby.”

  “Names?”

  “Miss Johnson and Mrs. Arbeck, for starters. Third floor on the back side. Anderson Apartments on the south end of Canton.”

  “Yeah, Ben told me that. So, if you'd left again, someone might have heard you?”

  “Well, sure, if I'd taken the truck.”

  “If you'd taken the truck? Do you own a car?”

  “Sure. I can't drive a semi to the grocery store.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A blue Chevy Cavalier.”

  Great. One of the most popular models and colors on the road. He could easily have dumped a body and gotten away in that car without being noticed. By his own account, he'd been up at that time of the morning and only a few miles from where they'd found the body.

  He looked at her face and raised his chin. “I can't go back there. The sheriff is probably already searching my apartment for clues to 'my' murder. Maybe he even took my car to look for evidence in case it was used to haul away my dead body. Though he isn't going to find any, 'cause it wasn't used to haul my dead body or any other one.”

  Lacey grinned at him. He'd practically read her mind. “Of course, if you say so. But you can't blame the sheriff for trying to cover all possible angles.”

  “No. So, can you help me?”

  Her grin faded. “I'll do my best. But you gotta admit, you're not being much help.” She explained her retainer and daily fees, and he nodded as though they were irrelevant.

  “Whatever it takes.” Pulling out his billfold, he counted out bills and handed them to her.

  “Thanks. Can you give me your Social Security number?”

  He raised an eyebrow quizzically. “What do you need that for?”

  Her lips twisted. “Makes it easier to check out things.”

  Nodding, he told her and she wrote it down.

  “How about your dentist?”

  “My dentist?” he exploded. “I'm not the guy who's dead!”

  Quietly, she admonished, “That's exactly what we need to prove, Paul.”

  The angry flush on his face receded and he smiled. “Oh. I see. Dr. Jill Harrison, in White Bear Lake.”

  “Thanks. Do you have her address or phone number?”

  “Sure.” He produced a card from his billfold and handed it to her.

  “I'll see what I can find out for you.”

  He nodded, crushed his cup, and cleared the table of their refuse, dumping it in the waste container. Returning to the booth, he asked, “So, what do I do now?”

  She sighed. “For now, I think you'd better lie low. If the sheriff arrest
s you, you'll need a good lawyer. I'm not qualified to help with the legal stuff.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I don't trust the sheriff to look for anyone else. With that woman describing me, he'll be sure he's already got his man. That's why I need you.” He looked at her doubtfully, then away, a flush creeping up his neck.

  She watched his Adam's apple bounce as he swallowed, and wondered if that flush meant he found her attractive or if it meant he was embarrassed that he still wished she were a man. Just her luck to get a good-looking male chauvinist. And one that she'd rather go dancing with than go to bat for. Yikes, where did that thought come from? She hadn't been dancing with anyone for ages, let alone a hunk like him.

  At least if he owned his own rig and business, he should be able to afford her fee. If he didn't get arrested, so that he could keep working, that is. “I'll do my best.”

  “I'd better get a room somewhere. I can't go back to my apartment. I'm supposed to be dead.”

  Lacey frowned. “Is that going to be a problem? I mean, do you have a family, or girlfriend, or anybody who'll be really upset when they're told you're dead?”

  He shook his head. “No, nobody.”

  “Nobody?” she asked, incredulously.

  “No girlfriend. No family. My parents are dead.”

  “I see.” She couldn't imagine not having a large family of caring people around, at least on holidays. On impulse, she said, “There's a cabin a couple doors down from my place that is empty now. The owner rents it by the week. Why don't you stay there? I'm three miles out of Landers, on Long Lake. There are a few other year-round homes, but most people just have summer cabins and haven't started coming up this early in the spring. It's pretty secluded. Nobody ever notices when people out there come or go.”

  “You sure you wouldn't mind my being that close?”

  “No,” she said, and named the weekly rate and he nodded agreement. But her stomach knotted at the thought of him being almost next door. What was she thinking? What if he really was the murderer? She was asking for trouble.

  “Would there be room for my truck?”

  Lacey frowned. “No, I don't think so. That would be a problem. But you'll be heading back to work, out on another run, won't you?”