“Come on, Henry,” Lucas said. “You’re saying she dove off? Like saying goodbye with a big fuckin’ swan dive? Nobody to watch? No audience?”
“No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that somehow she smacked her head on something hard, and that might have been the first damage.”
“You think suicide?”
“One of the things that weren’t too damaged were her hands. No signs of defensive wounds. No blood in her car,” Flanagan said.
“So are you carrying it as a suicide?”
“We’re carrying it as unknown. I don’t know if that’ll change. Like I said, she was pretty torn up.”
“Was she a big woman? Strong?”
“Large, but not especially strong. Pretty much a couch potato.”
“Okay . . . but look, if you decide something different, give me a call.”
“Is this about something?” Flanagan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“St. Paul has the file. We only got the body back last night, so everything is pretty intact. We notified a relative out in California . . . a sister.”
HE WAS SUPPOSED to be rolling around town, and hadn’t yet done much rolling. He looked at his watch, then called St. Paul and had the call transferred to Homicide. A detective named Allport took the call. “We don’t want no davenports,” he said. “We just got a new one, kind of a small classy-looking plaid with an ottoman.”
“I’m calling to tell you that your wife wants a divorce. We’re moving to Majorca to study oral sex.”
“I’ll tell you one thing for sure: You got the wrong goddamn wife,” Allport said. Then: “I hope to hell this is a social call. I see you’re working that graveyard case.”
“Yeah. But I came across a really obscure, probably-nothing connection. The last woman killed—Aronson?—was over at St. Pat’s just a few days before, maybe with the killer. We think the killer’s an artist.”
“I saw the drawings. And this chick who went off the bridge taught art at St. Pat’s.”
“Yeah.”
“We got nothing on it, Lucas. She went through a meat grinder under that dam. We looked through her house, we looked through her car, no blood, no signs of a struggle. No nothin’. We talked to a couple of people in her department who said she was angry and aggressive and confrontational and maybe depressed. And maybe an unfulfilled lesbo. So . . .”
“No sign that she was strangled?”
“She wasn’t that beat up. No, she wasn’t strangled.”
“Okay. Just a thought,” Lucas said.
“Where are you at?” Allport asked.
“Over by St. Pat’s.”
“You aren’t more than ten minutes from her house, then. Run across the Lake Street Bridge. She’s practically right there. We had her car towed back to her place. You could look at it there, if you want.”
Lucas looked at his watch, then said, “How do I get in?”
HE HAD TO wait in the driveway for five minutes before the squad car showed. The patrol cop gave him the keys, and Lucas let himself inside. In ten minutes, he figured out that Neumann must have had a cat; not much else occurred to him. The house was ready for somebody to come back.
Her car was in the garage. He snapped on an overhead light, opened the door, and looked inside. She had not been particularly tidy about her transportation: The backseat was littered with old newspapers, memos, and empty Diet Coke bottles, along with a few wadded-up translucent paper sacks of the kind that usually held bakery. Lucas looked through it, found nothing, looked under the visor and in the glove box. A couple of cash register slips lay on the passenger-side floor, and he picked them up and turned them over. One came from a Kinko’s: She had apparently done some copying. The other came from a supermarket. Forty dollars worth of groceries, cat litter, Tampax, and lightbulbs. At the bottom were the date and time: ten o’clock on the night she’d apparently died.
Lucas scratched his head. The house inside had been fairly empty. . . .
He carried the slip back to the house and looked in the refrigerator and cupboards. Found a box of cat litter of the same brand, almost empty. Found a box of Tampax, almost empty.
He went back to the car and popped the trunk. No groceries.
“All right,” he said. He called Allport with his cell phone.
“I just got back from lighting candles at the Cathedral. I was praying you wouldn’t call back,” Allport said.
“I found this cash register receipt,” Lucas said.
He explained, and Allport said, “With the thing about the Tampax and the cat litter, it don’t sound like she was taking food to a shut-in.”
“No. She needed the stuff on this list. She got two quarts of two-percent milk, and there was an empty two-quart carton of two-percent in her garbage under the sink. She got bite-sized shredded wheat, and she had less than half a box of the same stuff in her cupboard.”
“Goddamnit, where’d the fuckin’ groceries go? I’ll talk to the guys who found the car. Maybe they donated them or something.”
“You think?”
“No. I don’t think. Why don’t you stay there for a few minutes. I’m gonna run over and get that cash register tape.”
Allport showed up a half hour later, shaking his head. “The guys who found the car said there was nothing in it. No groceries.”
“They’re telling the truth?”
“Yup.”
“Hard to believe that somebody knocked her on the head for her groceries,” Lucas said.
“Stranger things have happened. You get some bums around that bridge—”
“Who knocked her on the head, threw her off the bridge, stole her groceries, but left her empty car in the street with the doors locked and two dollars in quarters in the parking-meter change holder.”
“Probably not,” Allport said glumly.
“Maybe the groceries depressed her and she took them with her,” Lucas suggested. “You find any dead Tampax floating down the river?”
“Goddamnit.”
WHEN LUCAS GOT back to City Hall, Marcy Sherrill told him that the task force would meet the next day to get organized. “McGrady called. They think the hill’s clean. They think they got all of them.”
“So we’re all done.”
“Not quite. The feds want to resurvey the whole hill. They’re bringing in a team from Washington.”
“Lake is pretty good, I think. If he can’t find any more, then there probably aren’t any.”
“Eight’s enough. Nine would be excessive.”
“Yeah. . . . All right, I got two things.” He told her about the wall at St. Pat’s and the professor found in the river. “What I want you to do is get a couple of guys working on St. Pat’s connections. Get the names of everybody in the St. Pat’s art department and run them. If you can’t do it personally, get Sloan to do it. Black can be a little sloppy with that kind of thing. And do a background on this professor, the one who went over the dam.”
“I’ll do that. Are you off again?”
“Nope. I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls. Something just popped into my head.”
He began by calling St. Paul Homicide and getting contact numbers for Charlotte Neumann, the art professor. She had no local relatives, so he started with the department secretary. After identifying himself, he asked, “Did Miz Neumann have any expensive jewelry?”
“Uh, a few pieces, I guess. She was a widow, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh, yes, her husband was quite a bit older, a very well-known architect in Rochester. She had a nice diamond engagement ring—beautiful rose-cut diamond, a carat and a half, I think—and her wedding ring was gold, of course.”
“Did she wear it?”
“Oh, yes. Not the diamond very often, but she wore the wedding ring, on her right hand. She also had an older woman’s gold Rolex watch, which she liked because she worked in clay as her . . . artistic expression, I suppose you’d say. She said the dust didn’t ge
t in the Rolex like it did other watches. She also had a ring with a small green stone which might have been an emerald, but I’m not sure. Oh, and sapphire-and-diamond earrings. The earrings were very modest, but the sapphires were huge. A carat each. So blue they almost looked black. And, hmm . . . I think that was about it.”
“No pearls?”
“Oh, sure, she had a string of pearls with matching earrings. I don’t know how expensive they were. She wore them for routine cocktails sessions and so on. Social gatherings at the president’s house.”
“Listen: Thank you. You’ve really helped a lot.” Lucas hung up and redialed St. Paul Homicide. “When you guys went through Neumann’s house, did you inventory the valuables?”
“Sure. Want me to shoot you the list? There’s not much on it.”
Lucas felt the tingle. “You have it? The list?”
“Yeah, just a minute.” The phone clunked on Allport’s desk, and he went away. He was back in a minute, and he said, “She didn’t accumulate a lot.”
“She wore an older gold Rolex watch, had a diamond engagement ring, with a big diamond, maybe a carat and a half, pearls, a greenstone ring that might have been an emerald, and diamond-and-sapphire earrings. Big sapphires. Very expensive.”
Long silence. Then: “You’re really busting my balls, man.”
“None of it’s on the list?”
“No. I’ll check with the guys,” Allport said.
“She also wore a gold wedding band on her right hand,” Lucas said.
“No wedding band. Nothing like that.”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m gonna wind up working overtime.”
Lucas leaned toward his door and yelled, “MARCY.”
She yelled back: “WHAT?”
“Do you have the number for Aronson’s folks?”
She dug it out and brought it in. “What’s going on?”
“Tell you in a minute,” he said. She sat down, and Lucas dialed the number. Aronson’s mother was named Dolly. She asked, quietly, “Did you catch him?”
“Not yet,” Lucas said.
“I’m praying for it.”
“Mrs. Aronson, did your daughter have anything expensive, especially jewelry, or anything small and high value like that, that might be missing?”
“Yes,” she said positively. “We talked to somebody there about it, but we never found out what happened to it. We didn’t want to seem like we were complaining.”
“We think that the man who killed her may have taken the jewelry.”
“Oh, no.”
“But if he did, and we can identify it . . .”
“Oh, yes. I’d know these two pieces anywhere. An antique pearl necklace and an antique pearl wedding ring. They were my mother’s, and her mother’s before that. I had them myself for thirty years.”
“Do you have photos or anything?”
“Actually, my insurance agent does, I believe. Shall I send them?”
“Yes . . . uh, no. What I would prefer is if you could take them to your local police department and have them make color copies and send the copies. Hang on to the originals in case we need them.”
“I will do that. I will get them and make the copies and I will send them to you by Express Mail. Or if you need them immediately, I will have Dick drive them down.”
“Express Mail would be fine,” Lucas said.
When he got off the phone, he told Marcy, “We need a list of fences.”
“I’ll talk to the guys in property crime,” she said. “If the guy is taking this stuff, you think he would be stupid enough to sell it here?”
“How many Minneapolis artists know fences in New York?”
“All right. I’ll talk to them right now,” Marcy said.
“How are the lists going?”
“We’ve got a couple more matches, but nothing hot.”
“How about IDs from the graveyard?” Lucas asked.
“Just the ones we knew going in. The state guys are rounding up dental records for women reported missing, who are still missing, that more or less match the ones that we know—more or less blond, more or less interested in art, seventeen to thirty-five at the time of their disappearance.”
“Bet we get a few,” Lucas said.
“Ought to start getting some results by tomorrow.”
“We want to get on top of them: Start making the lists as soon as we get a name.”
She had a stack of papers in her hands, and she shuffled through them. “There was one girl from Lino Lakes, a Brenda . . . I think. Hmmm . . .” She was so intent that Lucas smiled and asked, “You like this? Running things?”
“Yes,” she said, looking up. “Not only that, I’m pretty good at it.”
“I thought you might be,” he said. “I just hope you don’t wind up spending too much time with this task force. Get your name known, but hang around here, not with them. It’s always better to be with the winner.”
“The winner?”
“Yeah,” Lucas said. “The task force won’t catch this guy. We will.”
THAT NIGHT, LUCAS made pasta with his special meat sauce—ground moose tenderloin with off-the-shelf vegetarian spaghetti sauce—with apple-onion salad and Chianti, and had it ready when Weather arrived. She came dragging in, her briefcase a half-inch off the kitchen tile. She sniffed the air and asked, “Moose?”
“Different this time. I’ve perfected it,” he said.
“I suppose you’ve used the whole jar of spaghetti sauce.”
“Nope. I knew you’d be chicken, so I saved some. You can sample the moose, and if you don’t like it, we’ll whip some of the straight stuff into the microwave.” He picked up her attitude. “What happened to you?”
“I had a really bad day,” she said. “Really bad.”
“I thought you had the day off,” Lucas said. “Paperwork.”
“And a couple of office patients. Have I told you about Harvey Simson? The guy who runs the snowmobile and ATV shop?”
“No.”
“He was cleaning out a carburetor a month or so ago with some kind of spray solvent, and it exploded. He got third-degree burns on his forearms, and after it was cleaned up, he needed a graft to cover the wound. I was up, so I took some skin off his leg and put it on his arm. No sweat. I saw him a couple of times, met his wife, she’s this nice fat girl, one of the happy ones, and they’ve got a little daughter and another kid on the way. He’s about thirty and he’s finally got the shop going, and they’re starting to make some money, but they didn’t have a whole lot of insurance. So the question comes up, how are they gonna pay for the burn work? They’re not poor enough to get aid, but they’re not rich enough to write a check. So Harvey said not to worry, he’d cover it. He went to the bank, and the bank knew him well enough to give him another loan on his shop, and he’s right up to date.”
She put her head down and snuffled a couple of times, something Lucas hadn’t often seen with her patients. “Well, Jesus, what . . .”
“So he came in today so I could take a last look, and I’m asking him how everything is, and everything’s fine, and he’s hoping we get an early spring so he can start moving the ATVs, and so on, and then he mentions he’s got some kind of skin fungus going that he can’t seem to shake, right in the middle of his back, and it itches. So I say, let me take a look. . . .”
“Ah, shit,” Lucas said.
She bobbed her head. “Yup. A big fat melanoma. He’s known he’s had it for weeks, or maybe three or four months. God knows how long he had it before that. I sent him right over to Sharp, but . . . I think he’s history. Just been too much time.”
“Jeez.” Lucas patted her on the back.
“Yeah. I can handle the ones where I know what’s going on. But when it just jumps up like this, a guy younger than you are yourself, and he looks perfectly healthy and he’s gonna be dead in a year . . . Man. I don’t know. I’m wondering if I ought to have a kid at all.”
“Hey. If
everybody worried about what would happen to their kid if they died, nobody would have kids. You just do it.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Tell you what’s worse: If you have the kid, and the kid dies. That’s worse.”