The judge looked over at the prosecutor. "One prior, same deal?"
"Same deal, Your Honor. Eight months ago. She's been home since then, but her mother threw her out again. The caseworker says her mom's deep into the coke."
"What are you going to do if I let you out, Miss Brown?" the judge asked.
"Well, I've made up with my mom and I think I'm going to earn some money so I can go to college next quarter. I want to major in physical therapy."
The judge looked down at his papers and the maddog thought he might be trying to hide a smile. Eventually he lifted his head, sighed again, and looked at the public defender, who shrugged.
"Child protection?" the judge asked the prosecutor.
"They sent her to a foster home the last time, but the foster mother wouldn't have her after a couple of days," he said.
The judge shook his head and went back to reading the papers.
She was quite a sensual thing in her own way, the maddog decided, watching her nervously lick her lips. A natural victim, the kind who would trigger an attack by a wolf.
The judge at last decided that nothing could be done. He fined her one hundred and fifty dollars on a guilty plea to soliciting for prostitution.
Barin, the twit, showed up just as the case was being disposed. An hour later, when the maddog walked back to the clerk's office, the Heather Brown file was in the return basket. He slipped it out and read through it, noted that she was picked up on South Hennepin. Heather Brown's real name was Gloria Ammundsen. She had been on the street for a year or more. The maddog noted with interest in a narrative section that she had offered the arresting officer a variety of entertainments, including bondage and water sports.
***
The maddog took his extra work home, but couldn't get anything done. He made a quick supper-sliced ham, fruit, a half-squash. Still agitated, he went out to his car and drove downtown, parked, and walked. Through Loring Park, where the gays cruised and broke and rebroke in their small groups. Over to Hennepin Avenue, and south, away from town. Punks on the street, watching him pass. One kid with a mohawk and dirty black jacket, unconscious on a pile of discarded carpet outside a drugstore. Skinheads with swastikas tattooed on their scalps. Suburban kids hanging out, trying to look tough with cigarettes and black makeup.
A few hookers. Not too obvious, not flagging down cars, but there along the streets for anyone who needed their services.
He looked at them carefully, walking by. All young. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, he thought. Fewer sixteen, even fewer eighteen. Very few older. The older ones were the quick-blow-job-in-the-doorway sort, dregs so battered by the street, so unable to get inside, to a sauna, a back room, that they were little more than wet, mindless warm spots in the night, open to any sort of abuse that happened along.
He spotted Heather Brown outside a fast-food restaurant. Most of the hookers were blonde, either natural or bottle. Heather, with her dark hair, reminded him of... Who? He didn't know, though it seemed a shadow was back there in his memory. In the night, away from the fluorescent lights of the courtroom, she was prettier.
Except for her eyes. Her eyes had been alive in the courtroom. Out here they had the thousand-yard stare found in battle-fatigue cases. She wore a black blouse, a thigh-length black leather skirt, open-toed high heels, and carried an oversize black bag. Her body, her face, said something to him. Her look called to him.
"Whoa," she said as he approached and slowed down. "What's happening?"
"Just out for a stroll," he said pleasantly.
"Nice night for it, officer." Her green eye shadow had been applied with a trowel.
The maddog smiled. "I'm not a cop. In fact, I won't even try to pick you up. Who knows, you might be. A cop, I mean."
"Oh, sure," she said, cocking a hip so her short skirt rode up.
"Have a good one," he said.
"Ships passing in the night," she said, already looking down the street past him.
"But if I were to come back some night, do you usually go out for your walks around here?"
She turned and looked at him again, the spark of interest rekindled. "Sure," she said. "This is kind of my territory."
"You got a place where we could go?"
"What for?" she asked cautiously.
"Probably a half-'n'-half, if it doesn't cost more than fifty. Or maybe you'd know something more exciting."
She brightened up. He'd made the offer, mentioned a specific act and money, so he wasn't a cop.
"No problem, honey. I know all kinds of ways to turn a boy on. I'm here most every night but Thursday, when my man takes me out. And Sunday, 'cause there's no action."
"Fine. Maybe in a night or two, huh? And you got a place we can go?"
"You got the cash, I got the crash," she said.
"What's your name?"
She had to think about it for a minute. "Heather," she said finally.
***
"You are making a mistake," the maddog said. He paced the living room. "It's got to be a mistake."
But it was tantalizing. He looked at the personnel directory on the table. Davenport, Lucas. The number. It would be a mistake, but how? Get him at home, late at night, he'd be off guard. No automatic tape to record the voice.
He thought about it and finally wrote the number on a piece of paper, went back out to the car, drove a mile to a phone booth, and dialed. The phone at the other end rang once. It was answered by a baritone voice, absolutely clear. No sleep in it.
"Detective Davenport?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"An informant. I saw the story on television last night, your dissent from the actions of your superiors, and I want you to know this: you're absolutely right about the maddog killer. The gay man is not him. The gay is not him. Do you get that?"
"Who is this?"
"I'm not going to tell you that, obviously, but I know that you have arrested the wrong man. If you ask him about leaving the notes, he won't know about them, will he? He won't know that you should never kill anyone you know. Never have a motive. Never follow a discernible pattern. You should do something to remedy this miscarriage or I'm afraid that you will be severely embarrassed. The maddog will demonstrate this man's innocence sometime in the near future. Did you get all that, lieutenant? I hope so, because it's all I have to say. Good-bye."
"Wait-"
The maddog hung up, hurried to his car, and drove away. In a block he started to giggle with the excitement of it. He hadn't anticipated the surge of joy, but it was there, as though he'd survived a personal combat. And he had, in a way. He had touched the face of the enemy.
CHAPTER
12
Lucas was sitting at the drafting table, a printout of the rules for Everwhen on the tabletop. He rubbed his late-night beard, thinking. The notes. The guy knew the notes. And the accent was there, and it was right. Barely perceptible, but it was there. Texas. New Mexico.
He picked up the phone and dialed Daniel.
"It's Davenport."
The chief was unconscious. "Davenport? You know what time it is?"
Lucas glanced at his watch. "Yeah. It's twelve minutes after two in the morning."
"What the fuck?"
"The maddog just called me."
"What?" Daniel's voice suddenly cleared.
"He quoted the notes to me. He had the accent. He sounded real."
"Shit." There was a five-second pause. "What'd he say?"
Lucas repeated the conversation.
"And he sounded real?"
"He sounded real. More than that. He sounded pissed off. He'd seen Jennifer's piece, about how I didn't think Smithe did it. He wants me to set things straight. Man, he wants the credit."
There was a long silence. "Chief?"
Daniel moaned. "So now we got Smithe in jail and the maddog is about to rip another one."
"We've got to start backing away from Smithe. Go butter up the public defender tomorrow. McCarthy is sucked on Smithe's neck like a l
amprey. If we can get him off, maybe we can talk some sense to the guy about giving us an alibi. If he does-if he gives us anything-we can turn him loose."
"If he doesn't?"
"I don't know. Keep trying to work something out. But if the guy who called me is real, and I'd bet my left nut on it, then I suspect Smithe will come up with something. He's had some time in Hennepin County now, and you know that place."
"Okay. Let's do it that way. God, the first appearance was fourteen hours ago, and we're already doing a two-step. I'll talk to the PD tomorrow and see if there's a deal somewhere. You stop at homicide in the morning and make a statement on the phone call. The preliminary hearing is Monday? If we're going to move, we ought to do it before then. Or the maddog may do it for us. That'd be a real turd in the punch bowl, wouldn't it?"
"The guy usually hits at midweek," Lucas said. "This is Thursday morning. If he follows the pattern, he'll do it tonight or wait until next week."
"He said 'the near future' on the phone?"
"Yeah. It doesn't sound like he was ready to go. But then, he could be... dissembling."
"Good word."
"He started it. I'm sitting here trying to remember the exact words he used, and he used some good ones. 'Dissent' and 'miscarriage.' Maybe some more. He's a smart guy. He's had some education."
"Glad to hear it," Daniel said wearily. "Fuck it. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
***
When he got off the phone, Lucas couldn't focus on the game and finally left it. He wandered out to the kitchen, got a beer from the refrigerator, and turned out the light. As the light went out, a yellow-and-white rectangle caught his eye and it meant something. He took a step down the hallway, frowned, stepped back, and turned on the light. It was the cover on the phone book.
"Where'd he get my number?" Lucas asked aloud.
Lucas was unlisted.
"The goddamn office directory. It has to be."
He picked up the phone and dialed Daniel again, but the line was busy. He put the phone back on the hook, paced for one minute by his watch, and dialed again.
"What, what?" The chief was snarling now.
"It's Davenport again. Just had an ugly thought."
"Might as well tell me," Daniel said in vexation. "It'll add color to my nightmares."
"Remember back when you had me under surveillance? Thought it might be a cop, and you had a couple of reasons?"
"Yeah."
"This just occurred to me. The guy called me at home. The only place my number is listed is in the office directory. And that Carla identified one of the pictures she had seen as a cop..."
"Uh-oh." There was another long silence; then, "Lucas, go to bed. I got Anderson out of the sack to tell him about the call. I'll call him again and tell him about this. We can figure something out tomorrow."
"We'd look like idiots if Carla fingered the guy in our lineup and we ignored it."
"We'd look worse than that. We'd look like criminal conspirators."
***
The phone rang again and Lucas cracked his eyelids. Light. Must be morning. He looked at the clock. Eight-thirty.
"Hello, Linda," he said as he picked up the phone.
"How'd you know it was me, Lucas?"
"Because I have a feeling the shit hit the fan."
"The chief wants to see you now. He says to dress dignified but get down here quick."
***
Daniel and Anderson were huddled over the chief's desk when Lucas arrived. Lester was sitting in a corner, reading a file.
"What's happened?"
"We don't know," Daniel said. "But the minute I walked in the door, the phone rang. It was the public defender. Smithe wants to talk to you."
"Great. Did you say anything about the call last night?"
"Not a thing. But if he's ready to alibi, maybe we can find a way to dump the whole thing on McCarthy... something along the lines of Smithe decided to cooperate and with his cooperation we were able to eliminate him as a suspect. We could come out smelling like a rose."
"If we can eliminate him," Anderson said.
"What about this cop?" Lucas asked "The one Carla picked out?"
"I came down last night after the chief called," Anderson said. "I pulled the rosters. He was on duty when Ruiz was attacked, with a partner, up in the northwest. I talked to his partner and he confirms they were up there. They took a half-dozen calls around the time of the attack. We went back and checked the tapes, and he's on them."
"So he's clear," said Lucas.
"Thank Christ for small favors," Daniel said. "You better haul ass over to the detention center and talk to Smithe. They're waiting for you."
***
McCarthy and Smithe waited in a small interrogation room. The decor was simple, being designed to repel bodily fluids. McCarthy was smoking and Smithe sat nervously on a padded waiting-room chair, rubbing his hands, staring at his feet.
"I don't like this and I'm writing a memorandum to the effect," McCarthy spat as Lucas walked in.
"Yeah, yeah." He looked at Smithe. "Could I ask you to stand up for a minute?"
"Wait a minute. We wanted to talk-" McCarthy started, but Smithe waved him down and stood up.
"I hate this place," he said. "This place is worse than I could have imagined."
"Actually, it's a pretty good jail," Lucas said mildly.
"That's what they tell me," Smithe said despondently. "Why am I standing up?"
"Flex your pecs and stomach for me."
"What?"
"Flex your pecs and stomach. And brace yourself."
Smithe looked puzzled, but dropped his shoulders and flexed. Lucas reached out with his fingers spread and pushed hard on Smithe's chest, then dropped his hand and pushed on his stomach. The underlying muscles felt like boards.
"You work out?"
"Yeah, quite a bit."
"What's this about?" McCarthy asked.
"The woman who survived. The killer grabbed her from behind, wrapped her up. She said he felt kind of thick and soft."
"That's not me," Smithe said, suddenly more confident. "Here, you turn around."
Lucas turned and Smithe stepped behind him and wrapped him up. "Get loose," Smithe said.
Lucas started to struggle and twist. He had enough weight to move Smithe around the floor in a tight, controlled dance, but the encircling arms felt almost machinelike. Try as he might, he couldn't break loose.
"Okay," Lucas said, breathing hard.
Smithe released him. "If I had her, she wouldn't get loose," Smithe said confidently. "Does that prove anything?"
"To me it does," Lucas said. "It wouldn't convince a lot of other people."
"I saw that thing on television, about you believing me," Smithe said. "And I can't handle this jail. I decided to take a chance on you. I have an alibi. In fact, I've got two of them."
"We could do all of this at the preliminary," McCarthy said.
"That's four days away," Smithe said sharply. He turned to Lucas. "If my alibis are good, how soon do I get out?"
Lucas shrugged. "If they're good and we can check them, we could have you out of here this afternoon."
"All right," Smithe said suddenly. "Mr. McCarthy brought my calendar in. On the day Lewis was attacked, that afternoon, I was doing in-service training. Started at nine o'clock in the morning and went straight through to five. There were ten people in the class. We all ate lunch together. That wasn't long ago, so they'll remember.
"And on the day Shirley Morris was killed, the housewife? I got on a plane for New York at seven o'clock that morning. I have the plane tickets and a friend took me out to the airport, saw me get on the plane. I've got hotel bills from New York, they have the check-in time on them. Morris was killed in the afternoon, and I checked in during the afternoon. I bet they'll remember me, too, because when I went up to my room with the bellhop, he pulled back my sheet and there was a rat under it and the guy freaked out. I freaked out. This is supposed to be a nic
e hotel. I went down to the desk and they gave me a new room, but I bet they remember that rat. You can check it with phone calls. And Mr. McCarthy has the bills and plane tickets at his office."