“Since college,” Widdler said. “She… knew Leslie before I did.”
“Knew him? Had a relationship with him?” Smith asked, eyes in the rearview mirror.
Snuffle: “Yes.”
Lucas asked, “Did, uh… were there ever any indications that a relationship continued?”
She leaned her head against the side window, staring at the back of Smith's head; the morning light through the glass was harsh on her face, making her look older and paler and tougher and German, like a fifteenth-century portrait by Hans Memling or a twentieth-century farm woman by Grant Wood. “Yes.”
“When you say yes…?”
“When he stayed out all night… that's where he was,” she said.
“With Amity Anderson,” Lucas said.
“Yes. She had some kind of hold on him. Some kind of emotional hold on him. Goddamn her.” Turning to Lucas, teeth bared: “Why are you asking about her? How is she involved in this?”
Lucas looked back at her, and saw a puzzle of Botox tics and hair spray, expensive jewelry and ruined makeup. “I don't know,” he said.
When Leslie Widdler was in the car, he looked somewhat dead. There might have been other possibilities, that he was drunk or drugged, sprawled uncomfortably in the backseat of the car, at least until you saw the hole in his temple.
At the ME's, they had peeled him out of the body bag and placed him on a steel table, ready to do a rush autopsy. There, under the harsh white lights, he looked totally dead, pale as a slab of Crisco. His expensive black alligator driving shoes pointed almost sideways, his tongue was visible at the side of his mouth, his eyes were still open. He looked surprised, in a dead way.
Jane blinked and walked away. “Yes,” she said as she went, and outside the examining room, she crumbled into a chair.
Lucas said, “We'll ask you to wait here. Detective Smith and I have to discuss the situation.”
They walked just far enough down the hall to be out of earshot, and Lucas asked, “What do you think?”
“I don't think we've got an arrest,” Smith said. “What about the warrants?”
“We got crime scene both at her house and the business. If you want to send along a couple guys…”
“I'll do that,” Smith said. He looked down the hall at Jane Widdler. “Cut her loose?”
Lucas looked at her, turned back to Smith, and nodded, but reluctantly. “I agree that we don't have an arrest. Yet. We tell her to get a lawyer, and we talk to the lawyer: keep her in town, don't start moving money, or she goes inside. We can always find something… possession of stolen property.”
“If we find any.”
Lucas grinned. “Okay. Suspected possession of stolen property. Or how about, conspiracy to commit murder? We can always apologize later.”
“Tell that to her attorney.”
They walked back down the hall, Widdler watching nervously, twisting her Kleenex.
Lucas said, “Mrs. Widdler. You need to get an attorney, somebody we can talk to.
We believe that you may be involved in the illegal activities surrounding Leslie's death…”
“You're going to arrest me?” She looked frightened; fake-frightened, but who could tell? “We're searching your home and your business right now,” Lucas said. “We're not going to arrest you at the moment, but that could change as we work through the day. You need to be represented. You can get your own attorney, or we can get one for you…”
“I'll get my own…”
Lucas was looking in her eyes when he told her that she wouldn't be arrested; she blinked once, and something cleared from her gaze, almost like a nictitating membrane on a lizard. “You can call from here, we can get you privacy if you want it,” Lucas said, “or you can wait until you get home.”
“I don't care about privacy,” she said. “I do want to make some calls, get an attorney.”
Her chin trembled, and she made a dismayed look. “This is all so incomprehensibly dreadful.”
They offered to drive her home, since they were going there anyway. This time, she sat in the backseat by herself, calling on her cell phone. She talked first to her personal attorney, took down a number, and called that: “Joe Wyzinsky, please? Jane Widdler: Mr. Wyzinsky was recommended by my personal attorney, Laymon Haycraft. I'm with police officers right now. They are threatening to arrest me. Charges? I don't know exactly. Thank you.”
When Wyzinsky's name came up, Lucas and Smith looked at each other and simultaneously grimaced.
Widdler, in the backseat, said, “Mr. Wyzinsky? Jane Widdler, of Widdler Antiques and Objets d”Art. My husband was shot to death this morning, apparently suicide.
The police say that he was involved in murder and theft, and I believe they are talking about the Bucher case. They suspect me of being involved, but I'm not.”
She listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, yes, of course, I'm very capable…
With two police officers, they're driving me home. They say my home and business are being searched. No, I'm not under arrest, but they say they might arrest me later this afternoon, depending on the search.”
She sounded, Lucas thought, like she was making a deal on an overpriced antique tea table. Too cool.
“… Yes. Lucas Davenport, who is an agent of the state, and John Smith, who is on the St. Paul police force. What? Yes. Hang on.” She handed the phone to Lucas. “He wants to talk to you.”
Lucas took the phone and said, “What's happening, big guy?”
Wyzinsky asked, “You Miranda her?”
“Absolutely. John Smith did it, I witnessed. Then we insisted that she get representation, so there'd be no problem. Glad she got a pro.” Lucas wiggled his eyebrows at Smith.
“You're taking her to her house?” Wyzinsky asked.
“Yup.”
“She says you might arrest her. For what?”
“Murder, kidnapping, conspiracy to murder, attempted murder, arson, theft, possession and sale of stolen goods,” Lucas said.
“Cruelty to animals,” Smith added.
“And cruelty to animals,” Lucas said. “We believe she took part in the killing of a dog named Screw, after which Screw's body was thrown out on the streets of St.
Paul. Make that, cruelty to animals and littering.”
“Anything else?”
“Probably a few federal charges,” Lucas said. “We believe she may have been involved in murders in Chippewa Falls and Des Moines, as well as here in St. Paul, so that would be interstate flight, transportation of stolen goods, some firearms charges, et cetera.”
“Huh. Sounds like you don't have much of a case, all that bullshit and no arrest,” Wyzinsky said.
“We're nailing down the finer points,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, I got a nail for you right here,” Wyzinsky said. “How's Weather?”
“She's fine.”
“You guys going to Midsummer Ball?”
“If Weather makes me,” Lucas said. “I do look great in a tux.”
“So do I,” Wyzinsky said. “We ought to stand next to each other, and radiate on the women.”
“I could do that,” Lucas said.
“So-let me talk to her again,” Wyzinsky said. “Is it Widdler? And, Lucas-don't ask her any more questions, okay?”
Widdler took the phone, listened, said, “See you there, then.” She rang off and said to Lucas, “You two seemed pretty friendly.”
“We've known each other for a while,” Lucas said. “He's a good attorney.”
“He won't let friendship stand in the way of defending me?”
“He'd tear my ass off if he thought it'd help his case,” Lucas said. “Joe doesn't believe people should go to jail.”
“Especially when they're innocent,” she said. “By the way, he told me not to answer any more questions.”
Four cops were working through Widdler's house. Lucas suggested that she pack a suitcase, under the supervision of one of the crime-scene people, and move to a motel.
“We're
not going to leave you alone in here, until we're finished. We can't take the chance that you might destroy something, or try to.”
“Can I use the bathroom?” she asked.
“If they're done with a bathroom,” Lucas said. “And Mrs. Widdler: don't try to leave the area. We're right on the edge of arresting you. If you go outside the 494-69 loop, we probably will.”
Wyzinsky showed up while Widdler was packing. He was short, stocky, and balding, with olive skin, black eyes, and big hands, and women liked him a lot. He was bullshitting a cop at the front driveway when Lucas saw him. Lucas stepped on the porch, whistled, and waved Wyzinsky in. The lawyer came up, grinning, rubbed his hands together. “This is gonna be good. Where is she?”
“Upstairs packing,” Lucas said. He led the way into the house. “Try not to destroy any evidence.”
“I'll be careful.”
Smith came over: “We thought she'd be happier if she moved out while we tear the place apart.”
Wyzinsky nodded: “You finished with any of the rooms yet? Something private?”
“The den.” Lucas pointed. Two big chairs and a wide-screen TV with French doors.
“I'll take her in there,” Wyzinsky said. To Smith, he said, “Jesus, John, you ought to eat the occasional pizza. What do you weigh, one-twenty?”
“Glad to know you care,” Smith said.
“Of course I care, you're nearly human,” the lawyer said. He looked around, doing an appraisal on the house; its value, not the architecture. He made no effort to hide his glee. “Man, this is gonna be good. A dog named Screw? Can you say, 'Hello, Fox News,' 'Hello, Court TV? Who's that blond chick on CNN who does the court stuff? The one with the glitter lipstick? Hel-lo, blondie.”
“In your dreams,” Smith said, but he was laughing, and he went to get Widdler.
Wyzinsky and Widdler were talking in the den when a cop came out of the home office: “You guys should come and look at this,” he said.
Smith: “What?”
“Looks like we have a suicide note. Or two. Or three.”
Eventually, they decided that there were either three or four suicide notes, depending on how you counted them. One was simply a note to Jane, telling her the status of investment accounts at U.S. Bank, Wells Fargo, and Vanguard, and noting that the second-quarter income-tax payments had all been made. Whether that was a suicide note, or not, depended on context.
The other three notes were more clearly about suicide: about depression, about growing trouble, about the unfairness of the world, about the sense of being hunted, about trying to find a solution that would work. One said, to Jane, “If I don't get back to you, I really loved you.”
Wyzinsky and Widdler talked for more than an hour, then Wyzinsky emerged from the den and said, “Mrs. Widdler has some information that she wants to volunteer. She says that she has to do it now, or it might not be useful. If any of this ever comes to a trial, I want it noted that she cooperated on this. That she was helping the investigation. I would like to make the point that she is not opening herself to a general interrogation, but is making a limited statement.”
“That's fine with me. We'll record it, if that's okay,” Lucas said.
“That's okay, though we don't really need it,” Wyzinsky said. “This isn't definitive evidentiary testimony, it's simply a point that she wishes to make, a suggestion.”
“Better to record,” Lucas said. “Just take a minute.”
They got a recorder from one of the crime-scene guys, and a fresh cassette, and set up in the den. Lucas turned it on, checked that it worked, started over, said his name, the date, time, and place of the recording, the names of the witnesses, and turned the show over to Widdler.
Jane Widdler said, “I understand that I'm suspected of being an accomplice to my husband in illegal activities. I deny all of that. However, to help the investigation, I believe that the police must watch Amity Anderson, who has had a romantic attachment to my husband since we were in college, and which I thought was finished. However, I was told by Agent Davenport today that Amity Anderson figures in this investigation.
I know Amity and I believe now that she is involved, and now that Leslie is… gone… she will try to run away. That is her response to crisis, and always has been.
She wouldn't even fight with me over Leslie's affections. Once she is gone, she will be very hard to find, because she is quite familiar with Europe, both eastern and western. If she has money, from these supposed illegal activities, it could take years to find her. That's all I have to say.”
Lucas said, “You think she was involved?”
Wyzinsky made a face, tilted his head, thought it over, then nodded at Widdler.
“I don't know,” Widdler said. “I can't believe my husband was involved in anything illegal. Why should he be? Everything is going wonderfully in the business. We are the top antique and objets d”Art destination in the Twin Cities. But I can't explain how he was found this morning, where he was found, and I can't explain the rifle.
Agent Davenport said that he must have had an accomplice, and accused me of being the accomplice.
I am not and never have been an accomplice. I'm a storekeeper. But Amity Anderson… I don't know if she did anything wrong, but I think she must be watched, or she will run away.”
“That's pretty much it,” Wyzinsky said.
Lucas peered at Jane Widdler for a moment, then reached out and turned off the recorder.
“All right. Do not leave the Twin Cities, Mrs. Widdler.”
“Are you going to watch Amity?”
“We're working on all aspects of the case. I don't want to compromise the case by talking about it with a suspect,” Lucas said.
“He'll watch her,” Wyzinsky grunted. “Not much gets past Agent Davenport.”
Widdler left with Wyzinsky, and the crime-scene people continued to pull the house apart. Lucas got bored, went over to the Widdler shop, talked to the crime-scene guy in charge, who said, “More shit than you can believe, but none of it says 'Bucher' on the bottom. Haven't found any relevant names in the files…” “Keep looking,” Lucas said.
The ME, done with the autopsy late in the day, said that it could be suicide, or it could be murder. “Given the circumstances, we just can't tell,” he said. “The gun was pointed slightly upward and straight into the temple, two inches above the cheekbone, and judging from the burns and powder content inside the wound, the end of the barrel was probably touching the skin. There was almost no dispersion of powder outside the wound, very little tattooing on the skin, so the barrel was close. I could see a murder being done that way… but it'd be rare, especially since the victim doesn't appear to have been restrained in any way.”
As the sun was going down, Lucas stood in his office, calling the members of his crew; and he called Rose Marie, and borrowed an investigator named Jerrold from the Highway Patrol.
“We're taking Widdler's word for it,” he told them all. “We're gonna stake out Anderson.”
They got together in Lucas's family room: Del, Jenkins, Flowers, Jerrold, Smith, and Lucas, Letty sitting in, the four state agents gently bullshitting her, Letty giving it back. Shrake was already on Anderson, picking her up in St. Paul, tagging her back home.
Smith was uneasy with state cops he didn't know well, although he and Del went way back. Lucas passed around bottles of Leinie's, except for Letty, who wanted a Leinie's but took a Coke. Smith and Lucas, who'd be talking to Amity Anderson, also took Cokes.
“I think it would be perfectly all right for me to drink one beer in the house,” Letty said.
“If I gave it to you, I'd have to arrest myself,” Lucas said.
“And probably beat the shit out of himself, too,” Del said, winking at Letty.
Lucas briefed them on Amity Anderson. Jenkins, who'd worked the casual surveillance, suggested good spots to sit, “as long as we don't get rousted by St. Paul.”
“I talked to the watch commander, he'll pass it along to patro
l, so you're okay on that,” Smith said.
With six people, they could track her in four-hour shifts, four on and eight off.
That would wear them down after a while, but Lucas planned to put pressure on Amity, to see if he could make her run, see what she took with her.
Lucas and Flowers would take the first shift, from eight to midnight. Shrake and Jenkins would take midnight to four, Del and Jerrold from four to eight, and then Lucas and Flowers would be back.
Tonight, after the meeting, Flowers would be set up, on the street and watching, and then Lucas and Smith would call on Anderson and rattle her cage.
Lucas and Smith drove to Anderson's house separately, and Lucas left his truck at the end of an alley that looked at the back of the house. Then he got into Smith's Ford, and they drove around the corner and pulled into Anderson's driveway. Smith said, “I oughta take a shift.”
“No need to,” Lucas said. “The rest of us have all worked together… no problem.”
“Yeah, but you know,” Smith said. He didn't want to, but it was only polite to offer.
“I know-but no problem.”
They went up the walk, saw the curtains move and a shape behind them, and then Lucas knocked on the door and a second later, Anderson opened it, looking at Lucas over a chain. She was holding a stick of wet celery smeared with orange cheese. “Lucas Davenport, I spoke to you once before,” Lucas said. “This is Detective John Smith from the St. Paul police. We need to speak to you.”
“What about?” Didn't move the chain.
Lucas got formal, putting some asshole in his voice: “A friend of yours, Leslie Widdler, was found dead in a car a few blocks from here this morning. Shot to death. We have questioned his wife, Jane, and she has hired an attorney. But our investigation, along with statements made by Jane Widdler, suggests that you could help us in the investigation. Please open the door.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“No, but we could get one in a couple of minutes,” Lucas said, talking tougher, his voice dropping into a growl. “You can either talk to us here, or we'll get a warrant, come in and get you and take you downtown. It's your call.”
“Do I get an attorney?” Anderson asked.
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