‘‘Well, we haven’t settled the Kresge thing,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I just want to come over and chat. Get some opinions.’’
‘‘Okay. I’ll be here the rest of the day.’’
THREE NUNS, ALL IN TRADITIONAL DRESS, WERE perched on chairs in Elle’s room, watching a young nurse change a saline drip. When Lucas stepped in, easing the door closed, one of them chirped, ‘‘Hi, Lucas. She’s awake.’’
Lucas stepped around the beige curtain that masked Elle’s bed from the outside, and looked down at his oldest friend. They’d gone to Catholic grade school together, goofing along the sidewalk, her long golden hair shimmering in the autumn sunlight, her blue eyes happy, smiling at him . . . His first clear memory of a female other than his mother. Now, her head was swathed with bandages, her face bruised, showing yellow disinfectant, her eyelids drooping over blue eyes that seemed more hazy than happy. She smiled weakly and he thought she looked wonderful.
‘‘You look terrible,’’ he said. ‘‘Like somebody beat the daylights out of you.’’
‘‘That’s funny,’’ she mumbled. ‘‘I sort of feel that way too.’’
He touched her foot. ‘‘You’re gonna make it.’’
‘‘Yes, probably. Do you know what happened?’’
‘‘Pretty much. You got a phony phone call. Somebody pulled you out of the building, and ambushed you.’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said. ‘‘I can’t remember much after about six o’clock, but that’s what I’ve been told.’’
‘‘How bad is the memory thing?’’ He swallowed as he said it: he didn’t need bad news, not about Elle.
Again she smiled weakly: ‘‘Just a couple hours of amnesia nothing unusual. I’ve taken a few tests: there’s no impairment. Permanent impairment.’’
‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘All right.’’
‘‘The girl . . .’’
The girl would live. She smelled vanilla when a nurse wiped her arm with an alcohol swab; smelled fried eggs in a glass of apple juice, celery in oatmeal. When asked to read aloud from a chart, she’d read quite well—except that she’d read some words backward, pronouncing them correctly in their backward form.
‘‘She could recover,’’ Elle said. ‘‘I feel so bad that she was running after me . . .’’
‘‘Nothing you could do,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘Does anybody have any idea who might’ve done it?’’ A shadow of fear in her eyes, something he’d never seen before.
He shook his head. ‘‘Not yet.’’
They talked for ten minutes before Elle’s eyelids grew heavy; Lucas kissed her on the cheek, with much approval from the squad of nuns who perched like blackbirds on their row of red leatherette chairs. Before he left the hospital, he talked to her doctor for a minute, picked up a pack of X rays and some preoperative photos at the radiology department.
THE HENNEPIN COUNTY MEDICAL EXAMINER’S OFFICE was just down the street from police headquarters, connected by what the cops half seriously referred to as the secret tunnel. Lucas dumped his car in one of the cop slots on the street and then took the tunnel to the ME’s office. He showed the photos and films to one of the forensic pathologists.
‘‘Probably right-handed, and probably not too tall,’’ the ME said, sucking on an illegal Winston. ‘‘The blows all hit on the side and back of her head, rather than coming down on top. But if it were a man, swinging flat, like a baseball bat, he would’ve knocked her head off. This looks more like somebody coming down, but from a relatively low swinging position.’’
‘‘Possibly a woman?’’
The ME pushed his lips out and blew a capital O. ‘‘Could be. Whoever it was, wasn’t all that strong. Jumping somebody from behind, with a club—a strong guy would have killed her, hitting her like that.’’
‘‘Huh.’’
LUCAS HAD SEEN HELEN BELL AT THE ARRAIGNMENT of her sister, and had been struck by how little they resembled each other, in the sense of a total package, for two women who looked so much alike. Audrey at thirty-eight was a beetle, hunched, fussy, dressed all in earth colors, her movements small and nervous. Bell at thirty-four was not exactly a butterfly, but seemed even in the restrictive circumstances of a legal hearing to be much more outgoing, much more like a woman in her thirties. Her hair was touched with color, she wore a bit of makeup, and at the arraignment, she’d worn a pretty red silk scarf with a conservative blue business suit; and she smiled.
Helen Bell lived in a small white house with green shutters, backed onto an alley, a shaky-looking garage standing behind the house. Lucas left his car in the street and walked up the narrow seventy-year-old sidewalk to the front door and knocked. Bell was there in a minute, smiling nervously when she opened her door and said, ‘‘Chief Davenport? Come in.’’
The living room had a just vacuumed look, and magazines, mostly about homemaking, were stacked carefully on a coffee table. ‘‘Coffee?’’ she asked. ‘‘It’s only microwave instant.’’
‘‘Yes, that’d be nice.’’ The voice again: this was the tipster, all right. Lucas mentally kicked himself: he’d known that Audrey McDonald had a sister.
‘‘Decaf or regular?’’ She was bustling around, making sure he was comfortable; he felt as though he were on a first date.
‘‘Whatever you have . . . Regular is fine.’’ She went to get it, and he looked around the small living room, checked a shelf of paperbacks: self-help, mostly. How to succeed in business. ‘‘Where do you work?’’ he called.
He heard the door slam on the microwave: ‘‘Fisher Specialties down in Bloomington. You know—truck accessories. I’m in charge of the orders department.’’ She came out of the kitchen carrying two mugs of coffee. ‘‘Sit on the couch—I’ll take the easy chair.’’
‘‘Any children?’’
‘‘A daughter. Connie. She should be home from school any minute.’’
‘‘I wanted to talk to you about some background involving the death of Dan Kresge and then later, of Wilson McDonald . . .’’
‘‘Are they going to drop the charges against Audrey?’’
‘‘I don’t know, I don’t work in that area,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Mrs. Bell . . . did you write to us about your brother-inlaw? Call me on the phone?’’
She looked too surprised by the question; she wasn’t surprised, but she acted as though she were, her eyebrows going up, her head cocking to one side. ‘‘Why . . .’’
‘‘I can get phone records, if I want to,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘And there’s nothing at all illegal about what you did. You were simply recommending an investigation.’’
She took a sip of coffee, then ran the index finger of her free hand around the rim of the cup. After a second, she said, ‘‘Yes, that was me. You’d already figured it out, I guess. But it couldn’t be from the phone—I called from Rainbow.’’
Rainbow was a supermarket. Lucas shook his head: ‘‘It’s just your voice. You sound a little, I don’t know— Canadian.’’
‘‘Aboot,’’ she said.
He nodded. ‘‘The first time I talked to your sister, I thought she was the one who called. So: How long ago did you decide Wilson McDonald was killing people?’’
‘‘I . . . thought there’d been a lot of deaths, to get him where he’d gotten. But it was only when Mr. Kresge was shot that I was really sure. You know that Mr. Kresge was going to merge the bank . . .’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘And Wilson’s job was gone. I mean, gone . Then Mr. Kresge gets killed, and Wilson’s job was saved. And maybe he’s even in line for Mr. Kresge’s job. That was too much. There’d been too many of these things.’’
‘‘How long had he been beating your sister?’’
‘‘He beat her up before they got married,’’ Helen said. ‘‘She told me that later.’’
‘‘Then why’d she marry him?’’
‘‘Because she loved him,’’ Bell said simply. ‘‘She still loves him.’
’
‘‘That’s a very odd relationship.’’
‘‘A kind of codependency,’’ Bell said. ‘‘You know . . . Never mind.’’
‘‘No. Say it.’’
‘‘My father, before he died, used to beat up my mother. And Audrey. And he would’ve started on me, if I’d been old enough. And somehow, I think that did something to Audrey’s brain—she thinks women deserve to get beaten. I mean, she’d never say that, but way deep down, I think she might feel it. I used to plead with her to leave the man.’’
‘‘Where do you come from? You and Audrey?’’ He knew, but if he could get her rolling, anything might come out.
‘‘Oxford. It’s up in the Red River Valley,’’ she said.‘‘The closest big town is Grand Forks.’’
‘‘Sugar beets?’’
‘‘No, we never really farmed. We lived just outside Oxford—we could walk to school—and my dad was a mail carrier. Both of my grandfathers were farmers, though. Dad grew up on a farm, and so did Mom, but he just wasn’t interested.’’
‘‘Your folks still live up there?’’
‘‘No, they both died. My father died when I was little, when I was ten, that was . . . twenty-four years ago, now. Just about this time of year. Mom died four years later. In the spring. After Mom died, I went to live with my aunt Judy in Lakeville and Audrey went to college. She went to St. Anne’s.’’
‘‘I know . . . Listen, I assume that you didn’t talk to us directly because you didn’t want to offend your sister. Or alienate her. Is that right?’’
Bell nodded. ‘‘You know, she kept talking about how she loved him and what a great provider he was, but I really thought he was an animal and that sooner or later, he’d kill her. He was a killer. You said on the phone that the Kresge thing wasn’t finished yet, but you know, it really is. Wilson killed him. Maybe I should have come forward earlier, but . . . I wasn’t sure. And he was my sister’s husband.’’
‘‘The good provider.’’
‘‘Easy to laugh off if you’re a police officer, down here in Minneapolis,’’ Bell said. ‘‘But if you were poor in Oxford, Minnesota, and we pretty much were, then ‘good provider’ isn’t something you laugh at.’’
Lucas glanced around: ‘‘Are you married? Or . . .’’
‘‘Divorced,’’ she said. ‘‘Four years now.’’ She shook her head at the unstated question. ‘‘Larry never laid a hand on me. We just found out that we weren’t very much interested in each other. We were dating when I got pregnant, and we got married because we were supposed to.’’
‘‘All right,’’ he said.
They talked for a few more minutes, then Lucas stood up. ‘‘Thanks.’’
‘‘What about Dan Kresge? Are you all done now?’’
Lucas shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know. There doesn’t seem much more to look at. We’ll keep picking at little corners, but there’s not much left.’’
‘‘I’m glad that man’s gone—Wilson, not Mr. Kresge. I know it’s a sin, but I’m glad he’s gone.’’
LUCAS HAD JUST TAKEN A STEP TOWARD THE FRONT door when the door opened and a slender teenager stepped in, dressed head to foot in black, carrying a black bookbag. Her hair was blond, no more than an inch long, and a tiny gold ring pierced one eyebrow. She looked quickly at her mother, then to Lucas, gave him an assessing smile and said, ‘‘My. This is a studly one.’’
‘‘Connie!’’
‘‘He is . . .’’ Slightly seductive, intended to tease her mother.
‘‘Please! This is Chief Davenport from the Minneapolis Police Department.’’
‘‘A cop? You can’t be asking if Aunt Audrey really killed him—she admits it,’’ the teenager said. She dropped her bookbag in the entry. ‘‘I don’t think she killed anyone else.’’
‘‘We’re just making routine calls,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘The chief of police makes routine calls?’’
‘‘I’m not the chief, I’m a deputy chief,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘And sometimes I make routine calls, if the case is important enough.’’
‘‘We were just finishing here,’’ Bell said.
‘‘Well, good luck with Aunt Audrey,’’ the girl said. ‘‘The meanest woman alive.’’
‘‘Connie!’’ And Bell looked quickly at Lucas: ‘‘Connie and Audrey don’t get along as well as they should.’’
‘‘She is such a tiresome little bourgeois,’’ Connie said, rolling her eyes. ‘‘The only interesting thing she ever did was kill Wilson.’’
‘‘Which was, when you think about it, pretty interesting,’’ Lucas said.
Connie nodded: ‘‘Yup. I gotta admit it.’’
Lucas smiled at her, deciding he liked her. The girl picked it up, and smiled back, a touch of shyness this time. Lucas said to Bell, ‘‘If anything else comes up, I’d like to give you a call.’’
As Lucas passed Connie, he picked up just the slightest whiff of weed; he glanced at her, and she picked that up too. Smart kid, he thought, as he walked down the sidewalk.
Thinking: More dead people. Audrey’s parents, dead and buried.
From his car phone, he called Sherrill: ‘‘I’m gonna run up to the Red River Valley tomorrow, up by Grand Forks. Can you go?’’
‘‘Yup: this is my weekend. Can we stay overnight in one of those sleazy little hotels with the thin walls and fuck all night so the people can hear us on the other sides of the walls?’’
‘‘I don’t know about all night . . . maybe, you know, once .’’
‘‘I’ll start practicing my moaning. Call me tonight.’’
The phone rang a minute later, and he thought it was Sherrill calling back. It was Lucas’s secretary. Rose Marie wanted to see him.
ROSE MARIE ROUX WAS WORKING ON THE BUDGET when Lucas stepped in. ‘‘Sit down,’’ she said, without looking up. She worked for another moment, humming to herself without apparently realizing it: she was happy doing budgets.
‘‘So,’’ she said eventually, dropping her yellow pencil and linking her fingers. ‘‘Are you sleeping with Marcy Sherrill?’’
Lucas got frosty: ‘‘We’re seeing each other. I don’t think it’s much of anyone’s business what happens—’’
‘‘Lucas, for Christ’s sake—are you living in a goddamn cave?’’ she asked in exasperation. ‘‘A deputy chief of police can get away with sleeping with one of his detectives only if—’’
‘‘She’s not one of my detectives,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I don’t have any regular supervisory control . . .’’
‘‘Oh, bullshit—she works for you when you need her. And besides, the media won’t give a shit about technicalities. You’re a deputy chief, she’s a sergeant. I don’t care— I really don’t. What I was about to say is, a deputy chief can get away with sleeping with one of his detectives only if he’s very, very careful. Not secretive, but careful. Now:
You left a message that you were going off to this place . . .’’ She looked at a notepad. ‘‘Oxford. Tomorrow. Up in the Red River Valley? Were you planning to take Sherrill?’’
‘‘I thought—’’
‘‘If you take her, she’s gonna have to take vacation time. Or she puts in her regular hours, and you go up on her days off and she doesn’t get paid at all.’’
‘‘Look . . .’’
‘‘No, you look: I’m not trying to save her ass. I’m not trying to save my ass. I’m trying to save your ass. I can guarantee you that if you go up there with her, and she’s paid for it, and the press finds out, you’ll wind up being fired. I’d back you up, but it wouldn’t do any good—you’d get it in the neck anyway.’’
‘‘Maybe we just oughta forget the whole thing,’’ he said. ‘‘Me ’n’ Marcy.’’
She softened a quarter-inch: ‘‘I didn’t say you gotta do that. But you’ve got to be discreet, and you’ve got to be politically careful. She can’t be on the payroll when you’re off together.’’
‘‘All right,’’
he said. ‘‘That’s it?’’
‘‘Elle Kruger seems to be doing okay.’’
‘‘I was just talking to her, and her doctor. She’s gonna have a lot of pain for a long time,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘But her brain wasn’t affected. At least, not as far as they can tell. Motor is all right, memory, language.’’
‘‘Nothing on it?’’
‘‘Nothing yet. But that’s why I’m going up to the Red River. There’s a question about whether Audrey McDonald might be involved.’’
Roux’s genetically enabled left eyebrow went up: ‘‘ Seriously?’’
‘‘Seriously. We might have the edge of something pretty interesting,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘Okay. But remember what I said about Sherrill.’’
‘‘She’s off the next couple of days. We should be all right.’’
‘‘No expense accounts, no meals, no nothin’ . . .’’ ‘‘Nothing,’’ he said. ‘‘Not a nickel. For either of us.’’
‘‘All right,’’ she said. ‘‘Good luck.’’
‘‘With Marcy? Or the case?’’
‘‘Whatever,’’ she said.
LUCAS, BACK IN HIS OFFICE, CALLED THE COUNTY ATTORNEY’S office and asked for Richard Kirk, the head of the criminal division. He waited for a moment, and Kirk came on: ‘‘What’s up?’’
‘‘How long can you hold off on a decision about Audrey McDonald?’’
‘‘Why?’’ Just like a lawyer.
‘‘ ’Cause.’’
‘‘Just like a fuckin’ cop: ’Cause,’’ Kirk said. ‘‘Anyway— we’re gonna take McDonald’s story to the grand jury and let them decide. That’s the democratic way, and also lets our beloved county attorney off the hook if something goes wrong.’’
‘‘So when do you go to the jury?’’
‘‘Next Wednesday, but it’d be no problem to hold off for a while. We could present the basic case Wednesday and hold the decision for the meeting one after that.’’
‘‘That’d be good,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Some odd stuff has come up.’’
‘‘So we’ll do that—and don’t surprise us at the last minute.’’