“When is the funeral?”

“On Friday.”

Amarok came to his feet. “That’s five days from now!”

“I know, but I can’t force her to talk.”

“Why wouldn’t she want to? Maybe she had something to do with it.”

“The murder of her husband?”

“And/or the kidnapping of Evelyn.”

“I’d be really surprised if she did. From what I’m getting from the neighbors, she’s a regular mom with two kids, and she has no criminal history.”

“They were having marriage problems, needed money, too. And we know Bishop withdrew the thirty-three hundred he had in savings.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He’d need money to get to Alaska, too—although, as I’ve told you, his name doesn’t show up on any of the flight manifests.”

“You’re monitoring the major carriers to see if that changes, right?”

“Of course.”

Amarok rubbed his eyes. They knew Bridget Lovett was at her children’s school when her husband was killed, so she hadn’t been the one to stab him. Could she be involved in some other way? Or was she as clueless as to why her husband was now dead as she pretended to be? “She has to take a look at the photo I gleaned from the Quick Stop video. If she doesn’t get back to you, I’ll fly there myself and make sure she does.”

“Wait a sec. Something just came in. Hang on.…”

Amarok dug some old trail mix out of his drawer and tossed a handful of nuts and raisins into his mouth while he waited for Lewis to get back on the line. Makita trotted over because he knew Amarok kept doggy treats in the same drawer, and Amarok tossed him one.

“Sergeant Murphy?”

“Yes. What was it?”

“The surveillance video from the bank.”

“Lyman’s bank?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you send it to me?”

“Already did.”

Amarok waited for Lewis’s e-mail to come in and clicked on the attachment as soon as it did. “He’s getting around pretty damn good for a vegetable,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen image of Bishop walking into the lobby and approaching a teller.

“I noticed that,” Lewis responded.

Bishop had a limp. He looked heavier than before, too, but some of that could be attributed to the thick black sweatshirt he wore with the hood pulled up to obscure his face.

“Someone had to have helped him,” Amarok said. “You need to ask Bridget Lovett if her husband bought anything like that sweatshirt recently.”

“I’ll keep trying to get her to talk to me.”

Amarok froze the playback and enlarged the picture. What little he could see of Bishop’s face became so blurry it almost defeated the purpose, but he recognized those dark, lifeless eyes. “You bastard,” he mumbled.

“I assume you’re not talking to me,” Lewis said dryly.

“How did he recover?”

“I wish I had that answer. No one saw this coming.”

“So Bishop meets a janitor at Beacon Point, talks him into getting him street clothes and maybe a cell phone and letting him out.”