LUCAS GOT BENSON on the phone and asked, "Have you talked to Alyssa Austin this morning?"
"No, I haven't. You want me to?"
"I'll go. You got any ideas?"
"I'm just watching you, man—you're the guy who got shot, so there's gotta be something there. I'll take care of the lab stuff."
AUSTIN WAS ON the phone when the housekeeper let Lucas in, and her mother was still there, fussing around the kitchen, and gave Lucas a cup of coffee. She said her husband was at the funeral home, making financial arrangements, and that Austin was turning her business over to her Number Two. She still hadn't been told when Dakota County would release the body, but it could yet be several days, she said.
When Austin got off the phone, she came to him with a smile and gave him a hug, but she looked pale and thin and dry, and felt that way when she squeezed him: "Thank you for finding her," she said.
"I just . . . uh. I just talked to the Dakota County cops," Lucas said. "I don't know what they told you about what happened to Frances."
"Hardly anything."
"I can tell you some of it, if you want to hear it."
"I do. Absolutely," she said.
"Your mother said you were turning your business over to an assistant?"
"Not an assistant—she's a vice president and does our finances," Austin said. "She does the hard part of running the place. I told her I'd be away for a few weeks. No big deal. She's done it before, when I ran off to Europe or China."
They sat in the living room with coffee. Lucas knew from experience that relatives wanted to know what had happened to their loved one, not every brutal note, but the substance of it, and that plain talk was valued over euphemism. "She was stabbed to death. She died quickly. I think the Dakota cops told you that she was wrapped in a plastic sheet."
"A painter's sheet," Austin said. "A drop cloth. We last had painters here four or five years ago. I could look it up, but they were older men. Fifties, anyway. I wouldn't think that they'd fit a profile for this kind of thing."
"When we had our house painted—we built our house a few years ago—I don't think the painters used that plastic," Lucas said. "I think that's what you get when you're painting one room, one time, on your own. Our painters used regular canvas cloths."
Austin frowned, and her eyes shifted away, and then came back. "I think you're right. That's what ours did. I remember they had a lot of tape."
"So did ours. The Dakota guys didn't say anything about painter's tape. I don't know. Looking for painters might be going in the wrong direction, but we'll check—I'll have Jim Benson run them down."
"Was there any . . . I mean, you know, on TV . . . Did she have any skin or anything under her fingernails . . . ?"
"I don't know. They're going over the plastic with a microscope. Literally—with a microscope. If there's any blood there, or skin, or anything that would nail a killer, the lab will find it."
"I had another thought," Austin said. "I don't know whether you had it or not. But if they wrapped her in plastic, is it possible that they brought the plastic to wrap her with? That they came here knowing that they were going to kill her?"
Lucas scratched his jaw: "I didn't have that thought. When I did my little reenactment, I decided that it was spontaneous. The evidence is consistent with her having been stabbed with that little knife, the one that's missing. If somebody came here planning to kill her, and then to cover up, why did he do it that way? There are other ways to have done it that wouldn't have left any blood."
"She must have come here with him," Austin said. "Her car was back at her apartment. So she knew him."
"I don't know. I just don't know," Lucas said. "But I'm gonna find out."
AUSTIN HAD GONE off in a new direction. "Is the autopsy done?"
"I'm not sure; I know they at least did a preliminary."
"Did they check to see if she was pregnant?"
"Huh. I'm sure they would have . . . and they would have said something. Why?"
"I just keep wondering about it; about the whole scene, about the attack. Spontaneous, violent, had to be very emotional. What would set somebody off that way, somebody that she knew well?"
Lucas shook a finger at her: "That's something. That's what I 'll push next. She had money, maybe she'd hooked up with somebody, some thug, who had his eye on the money. Then something happened here and she blew him off."
"And you're going to find out who it was."
"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Count on it."
Austin leaned forward from her spot on the couch and touched Lucas on the knee: "You think it's the money? And not the Goth thing? The dark culture?"
"Could be both; could be the killer is wiping out the people who he knows talked with Frances. Maybe he's afraid she told them something that would identify him."
She shook her head: "The Goths. It has to be in that circle, somewhere. I mean, look what happened to you. You talk to Goths and you get shot."
"Yeah, yeah." He shifted around in his seat and looked out toward the lake, trying to piece it together. He said, "I spoke to some people at your husband's company, about Martina Trenoff. She works at General Mills now."
Austin nodded: "They got rid of her."
"They did. What if she had a key to this house? She goes psycho, she comes here to confront you, she's angry, she's lost her job. She's waiting in the kitchen, Frances comes in . . ."
"Martina has a flinty soul," Austin said. "But she's very controlled— I can't see her murdering somebody."
But Lucas was building it: "She could be a sociopath. They're typically intelligent and well-controlled. She uses your husband to promote herself in the company, has a plan that nobody is allowed to interfere with. Then it all goes to hell and she winds up on the outside. She feels like Hunter owes her something, or the Austins, and convinces herself that she should come here to collect it."
"Criminals think like that?"
"Exactly like that."
"Huh. A sociopath. I think . . . she is a sociopath, of course, but, you know, I suspect that she'd find herself in this situation, and she'd run the numbers, and she'd see that the risk of murdering somebody wouldn't pay off. So she wouldn't do it. That's what I think."
Lucas's eyebrows went up. "Of course? She's a sociopath, of course?"
Austin nodded. "I have a personal theory that 'mental illness' is just an extreme version of a common tendency. I'm a little bipolar. Not too much, but a little. Everybody knows people who are a little paranoid— not enough to be crazy, but that way. A lot of creative people are a little schizophrenic, with other worlds that are very clear to them. Most successful businesspeople are sociopathic—they don't let a lot get in their way. Anyone who's built a business has hurt people. You should know that. You were Davenport Simulations."
"I didn't build it," Lucas said. "I couldn't. I didn't know how. So I got a guy to do it for me, and when I started getting in his way, I took the money and got out."
"Not sociopathic enough," she said.
"Maybe not," Lucas said.
"When you left, did you feel the other guy's hands in your back, pushing?"
"A little."
"See? He's a sociopath," Austin said. "Cutting you off from your baby. And probably felt good about it."
"Okay," Lucas said. It was all true.
"So if you're not a sociopath, what are you?" Austin asked. "Obsessive-compulsive?"
"Or like you, bipolar, maybe," Lucas said. "Maybe a little obsessive."
"And you'll use it to get this guy."
"I am going to get him," Lucas said.
"And maybe a little egomaniacal? Lucas?"
He'd drifted away for a split second. He came back and said, "I bet Martina's small and dark and athletic."
Austin shrugged: "Not athletic by my standards. I'd say, trim. She'll have a satchel butt by the time she's forty-five, if she doesn't watch out. Dark brown hair, taller than me, but . . . I'm short. She's on the short side of medium height."
 
; Lucas said, "I gotta go see her. Like right now."
"An epiphany?"
"A stupidity. Why haven't I talked to her? Why is that?"
THE MEETING TOOK an hour to organize—forty-five minutes to batter through the General Mills bureaucracy, fourteen minutes of phone calls to pin down her actual working location, one minute to set up the meeting: she was cool, efficient, and had been expecting the call.
They met at a Caribou Coffee shop in the Minneapolis Skyway: she'd told him on the phone that she didn't want him coming to her office at General Mills. "We could shut the door," Lucas said.
"My office doesn't have a door," she said. She sounded, Lucas thought, like a wounded animal.
He picked her out as she walked along the skyway. Moving quickly, swerving through the crowd, carrying an expensive-looking black-leather woman's briefcase; a bit nerdy for a woman, in a slightly masculine navy blue suit, low practical shoes, and steel-rimmed glasses. She could be the fairy, Lucas thought, though nobody who'd seen the fairy mentioned glasses.
She walked into the shop, looked around, spotted him, came over and said, "Mr. Davenport." Not a question.
He stood as she came up, and she put out her hand and he shook it, and she said, "Sit down while I get a coffee. Watch my case, please."
He watched her in line, three back, then two, rocking on her feet, impatient, looking at her watch: a Rolex or a good copy. No; it wouldn't be a copy.
The woman in front of her wanted to know about available flavors and Lucas could see Trenoff's jaw working impatiently; high stress, a pusher. She got a large cup of coffee, spilled in some cream, got several napkins, and carried it quickly to the table and sat down.
"You said you were expecting the call," Lucas said, and he took a hit on his diet Coke.
"I couldn't imagine why you hadn't called sooner—or somebody," she said. "Everybody knew about my relationship with Hunter, and that I'd been fired, and sooner or later, it had to occur to somebody that I might have cracked and decided to take my revenge on Alyssa." She took a tentative sip of coffee and her eyes came up to Lucas, over the rim of the cup. "Mistaken identity . . . says something for the state's lack of efficiency that it took this long."
"What can I tell you?" Lucas asked. "We should have talked to you sooner."
"Of course, limping around like you've been, I'm surprised it's you at all," she said.
"You knew I was shot?" Lucas asked.
"Saw it on TV" she said. "I'm very interested in the Austin case. Very interested. Another year, I would have been Frances's stepmother."
"Did you have a key to the house?" Lucas asked.
She shook her head. "No. Hunter had a key to mine. People knew about us, but it's not like we were down in the next bedroom."
"Had Hunter asked you to marry him?" Lucas asked.
"No. But he would have," she said. "We'd talked, and I think he went up to Canada to think about it. He would have decided that it was the thing to do. A matter of time."
"You're sure," Lucas said.
"I'm sure. I don't think Alyssa would believe that—but the fact is, Hunter really did need an emotional relationship with somebody, some warmth," she said. "He didn't get it from her. They'd signed off on that. They slept in separate bedrooms, led separate lives."
"Excuse the expression," Lucas said. "But uh, why should he buy the calf if he's already getting the milk?"
The question made her laugh, sputtering in her coffee. "God, if that weren't so offensive, it'd really be offensive."
"Sorry."
"No, you're not. You're trying to provoke me. Give me a moment." She stared down at her coffee cup for a moment, as if saying grace over it, then looked up again. "See, many men and women need more than sex. They like to sit at dinner and talk about what happened that day— all the inane moments in daily life, who said what to whom, why so-and-so always wears blue suits, what happened to the Beaver's aileron. It's called 'having a life.' Hunter and Alyssa didn't have one. We did."
Lucas said, "Huh." They looked at each other for a moment, over their drinks, and then Lucas asked, "I don't want to sound too much like a TV show, but where were you the night Frances was killed?"
"Working," she said. "I'd been one week at General Mills and I needed to get up to speed."
"Witnesses?"
She cocked her head: "People came in and out . . . I work in a big bay, with cubicles. If you pressed, you might find people who saw me that night, but couldn't vouch for the fact that I'd been there the whole time. If anybody remembered at all. The story didn't get out until the next day, so it was just another working night. Or, come to think of it, there are cameras around, so there might be videotapes, if you asked GM security."
"So the short answer would be, 'No—probably no witnesses,'" Lucas said.
"Something like that, but not that short," she said. "Maybe, no witnesses, but videotapes."
"How often were you at the Austin house?"
She had to think, her lips moving, her eyes up toward the ceiling: "Three times. Or, let me see. I've got a feeling there might have been another time, a fourth, but I can't remember what for. All business-social."
"Did you help with the food?" Lucas asked.
"I don't help with food," she said. "I don't know where they kept the knives."
"In a drawer in the kitchen."
"There's a surprise," she said.
"What kind of name is Trenoff?"
Her forehead wrinkled: "What kind do you think?"
"Russian?"
She exhaled and said, "Your mind is a steel trap."
That made Lucas smile: "Not first generation."
"About fifth. What difference would it make?"
"Just making conversation, to prove that I'm human and to loosen you up for the killer questions," Lucas said.
"Well, here I am, all loose," she said. "Wheel those bitches out."
He laughed again and confessed, "I don't have any, I'm afraid. Do you like your new job?"
"I hate it," she said. "I'm at the bottom of the heap again. I took it because I needed to bring my marketing skills up to par. I went from a junior position at AUS to the top of the company, and now I need to sharpen up and get back into it. I've got a job interview, I won't say who with, but a company bigger than General Mills, in two weeks. I will get the job. And my office will have a door on it."
"So you're a little bitter," Lucas suggested.
"Oh, no. I couldn't stay at AUS. I knew that—I couldn't have stayed if Hunter and I had married. I was on my way out one way or another." Now her chin trembled and a tear popped out; she took off her glasses to wipe it away. "We were going to have kids. He wanted a son. Alyssa didn't like stretch marks, she didn't like being pregnant, I don't think she liked Frances that much. Maybe I'm not being fair."
"I think she loved Frances," Lucas said. "Maybe in a WASP way. As opposed to the Russian."
"That's about right," she agreed.
They chatted about smaller matters, but she was getting impatient. She had nice teeth, and a nice smile, and if he dropped his eyelids a bit, blurred her out, he could see her as the fairy. Some lipstick, some makeup, some clothes . . .
"What do you know about Goth?" he asked. "Goth? What do you mean, Goth?" she asked. "Gothic? Like the cathedral at Chartres?"
"Where?" Now he was confused. "Cathedral?" "Chartres. France," she said. "Like, the country." He shook his head. "No—I mean, like the people who walk around in black clothes."
The forehead wrinkle again: "Oh. Well. Nothing."
"I GOT NOTHING else," he said, at the end of it. "Hmm," she said. "I'd expected one more thing." "About what?"
"About Alyssa's affairs," she said. "She had affairs?"
"Several. Maybe not several, but two or three. Dancer kind of guys. Hunter was really straight—you know, navy flier, hard work, even church, sometimes. He carried a little too much weight. He looked like a man. Alyssa was one of those women who . . . she thought she was Madonna. She a
lways had the taste for the well-turned male butt."
"Dancer kind of guys," Lucas said. "Yes."
"So what are you telling me?" Lucas asked.
"I don't think she had anything to do with Frances," Trenoff said. "But what if there was a mistaken identity, but it was one of these guys?"
"Do you know any of them?"
"Frank Willett. W-i-l-l-e-t-t. Write it down," she said.
Lucas wrote it down. "Who is he?"
"He worked as a trainer at one of her clubs. Karate guy, you know. Model. Bicycle racer, rock climber, surfer, ski-racer. One of those guys you can't figure out how they make a living."
"When was this? The affair?"
"Well, they were going at it a year ago," she said. "Hunter told me about it."
"So he knew."
"She didn't tell him, but he knew. And they did do it at her house."
They sat in silence for a moment, and then she said, "Awful, isn't it? People selling each other out?"
"Trying to catch a killer," Lucas said.
"Well, if your online biography is right, you're pretty good at it."
"Not bad," he said. He stood up, and she stood up, and they shook hands again.
"Good luck with the new job."
She clutched the briefcase to her breast, looked out over it and said, "Luck is not a factor. I'll get the job and then I'll work harder than anyone they've ever hired."
He watched her going off down the skyway, weaving through the crowd, looking at her Rolex.
She would always be in a hurry, he thought, right up until she dropped dead.
Could be the fairy. Physically, anyway.
But if she was the fairy, what was she doing with the guy who shot at Lucas? She seemed to have nothing but disdain for Austin's lover. And, if Lucas could judge by a one-second look, and he thought he could, the guy who shot at him would be one much like Frank Willett.
One of those guys who you can't figure out how they make a living.
He looked at his notebook: Maybe get a look at Willett, huh?