Lucas looked at Sloan and said, "More guys."
"And soon—my feet are killing me," the cop said.
Rodriguez was not what Lucas expected. He was not Latino: He didn't look Latino, or sound Latino. He didn't sound like a drug dealer, either. Most drug dealers had a streak of macho in them, or if not that, then a bit of backslapper bullshit.
Rodriguez looked and sounded like a white middle-class businessman who'd crawled up out of the working class, sweating the details of whatever kind of business he was in. He was a large guy, thick-necked, thick-waisted, round-shouldered. Maybe he drank too much, and if so, it'd be beer, or if not beer, something serious—vodka martinis with a pearl onion. Lucas had seen the same guy in car salesmen, machine-shop owners, bartenders, union officials. He saw it sometimes in lawyers who came from a working-class background.
And Rodriguez was mad: "What the fuck are you doing, what the fuck do you think you're doing, bustin' my reputation and my bidness dealings? I'll tell you what: I'm getting my lawyer down here right now"—he snatched up a telephone—"and we're gonna add this little patch of harassment to the lawsuit. I don't need no goddamn apartment buildings, because I'm gonna get rich suing the city of Minneapolis for about a billion bucks, and this ain't the first time you Minneapolis cops got nailed doing this kind of harassment bullshit and—"
"You're dealing drugs, Richard," Lucas said. "We can prove that. We can prove you ran Sandy Lansing: We've got people who will stand up in court and say so. We can prove you got a bunch of bullshit loans that you supported with dope money, and the IRS is gonna come after your ass. We've got all that. The question is, can we get you for killing Alie'e? We know you did it, we just gotta fit the suit to you."
"Bullshit. I never touched that bitch." He'd been punching numbers into his phone set, and now he spoke into the phone. "Let me talk to Sam. The cops are here, hassling me. Davenport and some other guy." He listened for a moment, then thrust the phone at Lucas. "Talk to him."
"No. We're leaving," Lucas said. "I just wanted to get a look at your ass. We're coming for you, Richard."
"Fuck you," Rodriguez said, and into the phone, "He won't talk to you. They're leaving… Yeah, yeah."
As Lucas and Sloan went through the office door into the hallway, they heard the phone clattering on the desk, and a minute later Rodriguez was in the hall behind them. "Let me tell you assholes something," he said. "Let me tell you something. You and me. My goddamn mother was no better'n a whore in Detroit. I don't even know who my daddy is. Even my name is some kind of joke. My old man was probably a Polack or a Litvak or some other fuckin' Eastern European." He was building steam as the words rattled out of his face. "I got outa Detroit by my fingernails, and I busted my ass every day of my life to get where I am. Now some two-bit fuckin' cops are saying I killed somebody… I'll tell you what, I never killed anybody I never killed anybody. I never even slapped anybody in the face. I just wanted to get out of that fuckin' Detroit and be somebody, and now I am, and you assholes—"
"Enough on the assholes," Lucas snapped.
"You're an asshole," Rodriguez said. "Both of you are. So why don't you slap me around a little, or something, huh?" He inched closer to Lucas. "C'mon, hit me, I won't hit you back. It'll just give me a little more to sue you with, you motherfuckers. You're ruining my bidness…"
And suddenly his face crinkled up and he said, "My bidness. You're ruinin' my bidness." And he turned around and went back through the door into his office.
"Jesus," Sloan said, impressed. "The guy was… I mean, those were tears."
"Yeah." Lucas scratched his head, then shrugged. "Let's go."
"We're sure he's dealing drugs?" Sloan asked.
"Unless he's got an evil twin."
The Rodriguez interview put a blight on the day, and they drove, mostly in silence, back toward Minneapolis. "Drop you at the hospital?" Sloan asked.
"Nah… I'm gonna… I don't know what I'm gonna do."
"What if we're wrong about Rodriguez?"
"I've been sitting here thinking about that," Lucas said. "But we're not You know what we're doing? We've gotten to the place where we think dope dealers are automatically subhumans… but both of us could think of guys who push a little dope and aren't all that bad as guys. Love their wives."
"Not a lot of them," Sloan said. "Most of them are dirt."
"Not a lot, but some. Some of them are human beings. You know what it reminds me of? Remember when you were interviewing Sandy Lansing's father, and he started off on 'niggers' and all that?"
"Yeah."
"He's the flip side of Rodriguez. Here was a guy who coulda played the nice old candy-shop owner on a TV show, but then he opens his mouth, and this bullshit comes out. Rodriguez is a dope dealer, and his story is this pathetic struggle to get out of the slums. Fuck, I don't know." He thought about it for a minute, then said, "What I do know is, Rodriguez is a drug dealer, he was running Sandy Lansing, he was at the party where Sandy Lansing was killed, he denies all of it, and that's the only tie we've got."
Del called. Sloan handed Lucas his cell phone and asked, irritably, "Why don't you turn on your fuckin' phone?"
"What's going on?" Lucas asked.
"I'm at Boo McDonald's, and I got some seriously bad fuckin' news," Del said. McDonald was the paraplegic radio and computer monitor.
"All right."
"You know that little rat who publishes Spittle? He's got a new story out, and it names Rodriguez."
"What?"
"Yeah, the little jerk. I'm going over to scream at him, scream at his parents. But Rodriguez's name is out."
Rose Marie was livid. "You gotta tell me the truth, Lucas—this isn't the little push you were talking about?"
"No. Nobody got the name from me or any of my people."
"Not from me, or anybody I know," Lester said. "There's gotta be fifty or sixty people in the department who know the names."
"I've had about nine calls in the last half hour, and what do I say?" Rose Marie asked. "I can't say no, it's not Rodriguez, because it is. So I say, I can't comment on an ongoing investigation. And you know what that means? That means, yes. And everybody knows it."
"The Spittle kid's got a leak," Lucas said. "We know this goddamn place leaks."
"If I find the fuckin' leak, that guy will find himself out on his ass, and I'll spend the rest of my term trying to fuck his pension," Rose Marie snarled. "I want you to put that word out—that I'm looking for the guy, and his job and his pension are on the line."
"That's a little strong," Lester said. "I'm not sure they'll believe it."
"It'll give them something to think about," she said. "By God, I'm gonna have IA look into this. Brace a few people. I'm not gonna have this shit. I'm not going to have it!"
Lucas said, "I can tell you one thing. This morning I asked you guys to send a couple more people over to watch Rodriguez. We better put a serious net around the guy now. I mean, forget about Jael Corbeau and Catherine Kinsley—he's gotta be number one on this other fruitcake's hit list."
Lucas went back to his office, found two notes. One said, "Call Jael." The other, "Call Catrin."
He called Jael, who said, "The dozen long-stemmed roses you sent to my house haven't arrived yet."
"I'm sorry, I thought… uh… well, I mean, I thought you were supposed to send them to me. I've been waiting," Lucas said.
"God, he's such a wit," Jael said. "I need a man with wit… maybe. So… anything going on? Can I get out of here?"
"Not yet." He told her quickly about the leak in the department. "It'll be on the news."
"What're you doing tonight?" she asked. "I mean, this isn't another proposition. I'd like to rejoice in the blood of the lamb."
"What?" He was confused.
"This guy who's trying to kill me—he's preaching at some church tonight," Jael said. "I'd like to see him. One of your guys here did, and its supposed to be something else."
"Man, I don't know," Lucas said.
"That might not be such a good idea."
"C'mon, don't be a stick-in-the-mud," she said. "Besides, you can bring a gun. And I'm going nuts. Lets get the sports car, lets go see him."
"I'll call you. Things are going on over here. If I can get away… maybe."
He called Catrin; she was on a cell phone, and answered in her car. "Let me pull over to the side," she said. Her voice was showing stress; he thought she might have been crying.
"What happened?" But she'd put the phone down.
A moment later, she came back. "Well I told him that I thought we had some problems, and that I was thinking of going away, that I thought I might want to be by myself for a while. You know what he said?"
"I don't—"
"He said, 'Well, whatever you think you have to do. Let me know.' It was like I wasn't sure I could make it to lunch."
"Catrin, I really can't advise you, I just don't know—"
"He just walked away from me," Catrin said. "Now I wonder if he isn't having an affair or something. It was like he was waiting for me to say something."
"If the guy has any sensitivity at all, if he knows you at all, then he knew something was coming," Lucas said. "It's like waiting for the ax to fall. When it does, there isn't much to say. You know about everything that anybody might say…"
"Lucas, what are you talking about? We were married for more than twenty years."
"When we were talking at lunch… when you asked if you were just screwed… I mean, look at your old man. If he argues with you, he's being domineering and he's not letting you lead your own life. If he doesn't argue with you, but is absolutely supportive, tells you to do whatever you want, then he's being patronizing and you feel like your life is a hobby, because he's got all the money and you're going to London for plays, and all that. And if he lets you go, he doesn't care. So—I mean, when you talk about being screwed, he's about as screwed as you can get. Whatever he does is wrong."
"It sounds like you're on his side," she said. There was an undertone of disbelief.
"Absolutely not. Look, half of my friends have been divorced, and most of the other half are fucked up. I'm fucked up. I've been through this… Jesus. I'm on your side, Catrin, because we're old friends. If I was your husbands friend, I'd be on his side, because nobody's right or wrong. And in that case, you've just got to go with your friends."
"Well, I talked to one of my girlfriends down here—actually, I had lunch with three of them, my best friend and a couple that I've always been friends with—and I knew by the way one of them was acting she's on Jack's side."
"That's gonna happen," Lucas said. "And some old friends of Jack's will be on your side. That'll surprise you, too. You said you belong to a golf club?"
"Yes."
"What's gonna amaze you is, a couple of his male friends are going to put the moves on you."
"The loose woman…"
"Not just trying to get laid—I mean, some of them will—but some of them will have been looking at you for a long time, and liking you."
"Lucas—"
"Hey, it's gonna happen. If you walk—"
"I don't think I've got any choice now," she said.
"Listen, what you're telling me… have you thought about telling Jack? Scream at him a little bit? Throw a little crockery? I mean, do you still love him?"
After a long silence, she said, "I don't think so."
"Aw, jeez."
"What happened was, his reaction made me angry," she said. "So angry. But I feel like… I don't know. I'm a little excited in a dirty way. Like I just broke out of jail."
"Aw, man."
"You keep saying 'aw, jeez.' What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're hurting a lot worse than you know, but you're going to find out," he said. "So's Jack. I can't hardly stand to think about it."
"Well. Maybe. But I'm getting out."
He couldn't think of anything to say. Thinking about her, sitting on the side of a road, talking about the end of her marriage on a cell phone to somebody she hadn't seen in twenty-five years.
"So congratulate me," she said. Now she did start crying.
"Awww… jeez."
Rose Marie came down. "The media's got Rodriguez surrounded. His lawyer just called the county… What happened to you?"
"I was talking to an old friend. Her marriage is breaking up," Lucas said.
"Did you have anything to do with it?"
"No. Not directly. I mean, I'm not fooling around with her. Maybe I could have said something that would have changed things… I don't know. She's just an old friend."
"Huh." Rose Marie might have been skeptical. "You can't take care of everybody, Lucas. They don't even want you to."
"She needs a little help," Lucas said.
"I've got no advice," Rose Marie said. "Now: Rodriguez is gonna sue us, of course. And Tom Olson has called twice in the past half hour, asking about Rodriguez, but I'm not in. I've got to come up with a story."
"When's he coming in? You've got a briefing?"
"Yes. In a half hour. I'd like you to be there," she said.
"Sure. I don't know what I can say."
"If he tries to throttle me, you could hit him over the head."
They were still talking when the phone-tap monitor called: "We got some stuff on Rodriguez's blind phone. Three calls in a hurry."
"Where?"
"The first one, to Miami, to an unlisted number. I mean, we've got the number, but when we tried to check on it, the directory supervisor said she needed to see some paper before she can give us a name."
"Another blind phone, I bet."
"I think so. Anyway, he told whoever answered not to send Jerry up, that he had a problem. We think it might have been a delivery. Hell, I know it was a delivery. I've heard the same thing two hundred times, in almost the same words," the cop said. "Nothing specific mentioned, like it would be if it was legitimate. Just 'You know that delivery we talked about, with Jerry? Better hold off, I've got some problems up here.'"
"Good. Give me the Miami phone number," Lucas said. He scribbled the number on a pad. "I've got a guy with the FBI who might be able to help."
"Great. Then there was another call, this one to a real estate guy. He asked the guy to look into selling the apartments, and suggest that a Reet might want to buy them. I don't know the name."
"It's R-E-I-T, real estate investment trust," Lucas said. "It could be a way to get out in a hurry."
"Well, the guy he talked to… he was hot to handle it. You want the name?"
"Yeah." Lucas wrote down the name.
"And the third thing is he called another dope guy. He said, 'I've got to shut down my business for a while. Tell everybody I'm sorry.'
"The other guy said, 'What's the problem?'
"Rodriguez said, 'Just a problem. The cops think I had something to do with that Alie'e thing. They're messing with me.'
"And the guy said, 'Where're you calling from?'
"And Rodriguez said, 'I got a good phone.'
"And the other guy said, 'I'd throw it in the river, if I was you. If they think you were involved with Alie'e, they're gonna tap you three ways from Sunday.'
"And Rodriguez said, 'Well, tell everybody. I'll call you back when it's over.'
"And that was it."
"We need that number, and times and transcripts," Lucas said. He jotted down the number, and when he got off, he looked at Rose Marie and said, "It's piling up."
When Rose Marie was gone, he called Mallard and gave him the Miami number, and called Del and gave him the local number. Del called back fifteen minutes later and said, "That number is out to another blind phone, but Narcotics knows it. They picked it up on a pen register a couple of months ago, a guy named Herb Scott. That's all they know, a number and a name in the computer. Want them to look a little closer?"
"Absolutely. Put him on the list. If nothing happens by tomorrow night, we're gonna sweep them all, and see if we can shake anything loose."
 
; Mallard called back a few minutes after Del. "That number goes with a guy who lists his address in a place called Gables-By-The-Sea. I guess it's a ritzy neighborhood. I've got a guy checking with the locals."
"Thanks."
Piling it up.
For a moment, he thought about running down the new real estate dealer, but decided against it: That might make the phone tap obvious, and the phone might still be valuable.
Sloan called. "Come on down to Homicide. There's something you got to see."
Lucas walked down, and found a half-dozen cops laughing around a small-screen TV. "What?"
"That's Rodriguez's apartment," Sloan said.
"Penthouse," somebody said.
A wavering picture was focused on a window surrounded by reddish concrete. Then, moving in slow motion, Rodriguez appeared in the window and pulled the curtain across it. When he was out of sight, the loop started again: the window, Rodriguez, the curtain.
"Guilty, guilty, guilty," a cop said.
And somebody else, with a little edge of sarcasm: "If he wasn't guilty, why would he pull the curtain?"
And a third guy: "If it was me, I'd be pointing a rifle out the window."
"They'd love that."
"Yeah, until a little bullet hole appeared on the forehead of one of them blonde c—"
A woman with a gun said, "Watch it."
"—cameramen."
Olson came by, trailing the Bentons, the Packards, and Lester Moore, the newspaper editor. "Who is this Rodriguez?" Olson demanded. "Everybody's saying he did it."
Rose Marie said, "He's a suspect. Lucas…"
Lucas said, "We think he's a drug dealer—actually, we're sure he is. And we have at least two sources who say that he was running Sandy Lansing. That is, Sandy Lansing was the street dealer for drugs brought in by Rodriguez."
"Rodriguez was the wholesaler?"
"More like the local franchise owner, and Lansing was one of his employees."
"Amazing," Olson said. "Franchises and employees. Did he pay her Social Security?"