Local Knowledge

By Kristine Kathryn Rusch

When Detective Webster Coninck arrives at the murder scene outside Tups Tavern, he quickly identifies the body: Tom Johanssen. Former classmate, full of charisma, and a man with enough enemies to line up interviews into next week.

Webb finds himself off the case because of his personal history with Johanssen, but Webb believes his local knowledge holds the key to solving the case. But only if he can face his own painful history.

Chosen as one of the best American mystery stories of 2011.

"Kristine Kathryn Rusch's crime stories are exceptional, both in plot and in style."

—Mystery Scene Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Jan 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386119364

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

USA Today bestselling author Kristine Kathryn Rusch writes in almost every genre. Generally, she uses her real name (Rusch) for most of her writing. Under that name, she publishes bestselling science fiction and fantasy, award-winning mysteries, acclaimed mainstream fiction, controversial nonfiction, and the occasional romance. Her novels have made bestseller lists around the world and her short fiction has appeared in eighteen best of the year collections. She has won more than twenty-five awards for her fiction, including the Hugo, Le Prix Imaginales, the Asimov’s Readers Choice award, and the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Readers Choice Award. Publications from The Chicago Tribune to Booklist have included her Kris Nelscott mystery novels in their top-ten-best mystery novels of the year. The Nelscott books have received nominations for almost every award in the mystery field, including the best novel Edgar Award, and the Shamus Award. She writes goofy romance novels as award-winner Kristine Grayson, romantic suspense as Kristine Dexter, and futuristic sf as Kris DeLake.  She also edits. Beginning with work at the innovative publishing company, Pulphouse, followed by her award-winning tenure at The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, she took fifteen years off before returning to editing with the original anthology series Fiction River, published by WMG Publishing. She acts as series editor with her husband, writer Dean Wesley Smith, and edits at least two anthologies in the series per year on her own. To keep up with everything she does, go to kriswrites.com and sign up for her newsletter. To track her many pen names and series, see their individual websites (krisnelscott.com, kristinegrayson.com, krisdelake.com, retrievalartist.com, divingintothewreck.com). She lives and occasionally sleeps in Oregon.

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Local Knowledge

Local Knowledge

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

WMG Publishing

Contents

Local Knowledge

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About the Author

Local Knowledge

The call came in at 11:54 a.m., December 15, 1995. Body found at Tups Tavern, 35 East 35th street. Webb thought the call routine until he arrived.

Tups, frequented by sailors and longshoremen, was on the lakefront. Superior glistened, never freezing over, never covered with snow. But not pretty either, not in this part of town. In this part of town, the massive lake was dark and dirty, not sky blue like it was everywhere else.

Drug deals went down nearby and the local hookers worked dockside. Knifings were common. But this victim hadn’t been knifed.

He’d been shot.

Patrols had followed procedure. Two squads, parked at an angle on the broken concrete parking lot, colored the tavern’s gray walls red, blue, red, blue. Barflies stood near the open gunmetal doors, drinks in hand, coats draped over their shoulders to protect them against the cold.

They watched Webb as if he were one of them.

Which, in a way, he was.

He slipped between the dented bumpers, thankful he still fit in small places. Fifty crunches, one-armed push-ups, a half-hour run around the football field, all required before he allowed himself to hug a bar stool and drink until his tongue was numb. He always said the exercise let his body perform his job, and the booze kept his mind from dwelling on it.

But he wondered sometimes, especially when he saw himself reflected in those shabby tattered people whose drinks were more important to them than the life drained on the concrete.

He didn’t acknowledge them. Instead, he stopped beside the squads and memorized the scene.

Body belonged to a tall middle-aged man, lambswool coat—too rich for this part of town—exit wound a bloody mess in his back. Shoes shiny Italian leather, almost no scuff marks on the soles, dirt caking the right toe and the left heel. Right hand outstretched, slightly sun-wrinkled, white, with a gold ring, large ruby in the center. Salt-and-pepper hair, neatly trimmed, no strands out of place. Face pressed against the ice- and sand-covered concrete, features not visible from above.

Daylight was thin under a thick layer of clouds. Coroner would have to work in artificial light. Webb slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, crouched, and touched the back of the outstretched wrist.

Still warm. Webb glanced up, saw bloodstained holes in the pile of ice-covered snow plowed to the edge of parking lot.

Anyone know him? he asked, as he crouched lower, and peered at the man’s face. Then he realized he didn’t need to ask.

He knew the man. Tom Johanssen, returning home, after thirty-three years.

Tom Johanssen. The first time Webb had seen him, they’d been in high school.