“Sure. So what’s going on?” Lucas asked uncertainly. “You sound a little stressed.”
“A little stressed,” she echoed. She pushed herself onto her feet, drifted to her window, and looked out at the street. “I just talked to His Honor.”
“Yeah, they said he was here.” Lucas tipped his head toward the outer office.
“He’s not going to run this fall. He’s decided.” She turned away from the window to look at Lucas. “Which means I’m history. My term ends in September. He can’t reappoint me, not with a new mayor coming in a month later. The council would never approve it. He thinks Figueroa is probably the leading candidate to replace him, but Carlson or Rankin could jump up and get it. None of those people would reappoint me.”
“Huh,” Lucas said. Then: “Why don’t you run?”
She shook her head. “You make too many party enemies in this job. If I could get through the party primary, I could probably win the general election, but I’d never get through the primary. Not in Minneapolis.”
“You could switch and become a Republican,” Lucas said.
“Life isn’t long enough.” She shook her head. “I tried to get him to go for one more term, but he says he’s gotta earn some money before he’s too old.”
“So what are you going to do?” Lucas asked.
“What are you going to do?”
“I . . .” Lucas shrugged.
Rose Marie sighed. “You’re a political appointee, Lucas, and I’ll tell you what: The only likely internal candidate is Randy Thorn, and he won’t reappoint you. He’s a control freak, and he doesn’t like the way we let you operate.”
“You think he’ll get it?” Lucas asked.
“He could. He’s a damn good uniform chief. All that rah-rah shit and community contacts and brother-cop backslapping. He put on some combat gear last week and went on a raid with the Emergency Response Team. There’re a couple of macho assholes on the council who like that stuff.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure he’s smart enough.”
“I’m not, either. It’s more likely that the new mayor’ll bring somebody in from the outside. Somebody with no other local loyalties. Somebody who’s big with the New York no-tolerance style. I doubt that any outsider would reappoint the current deputy chiefs. He’d want to put his own people in. Lester and Thorn are still civil service, and captains. If they don’t keep their deputy-chief spots, they’ll still have a top slot somewhere. But you’re not civil service.”
“So we’re both history,” Lucas said. He leaned back, interlaced his fingers behind his head, and exhaled.
“Maybe. I’m gonna start working on something,” Rose Marie said.
“What?”
She waved him off. “I can’t even start talking about it yet. I’m gonna have to stab a couple of people in the back. Maybe give a couple blow jobs.”
“Not at the same time. You could pull a muscle.”
She smiled. “You’re taking this pretty well. Which is good, because I’m not. Goddamnit. I wanted one more term. . . . Anyway, I wanted you to know that we’re probably on the way out.”
“I was starting to have fun again,” Lucas said.
“What about you and Weather?” Rose Marie asked. “Is she pregnant yet?”
“I don’t know, but it could happen.”
Rose Marie laughed, a genuine, head-back, chest-shaking laugh, and then said, “Excellent. That’s really perfect.”
“And if she is . . .” Lucas squinted at the ceiling, calculating. “You and I oughta be getting fired just about the time the baby arrives.”
“Like you need the job. You got more money than Jesus Christ.”
“I do need the job. I need some job,” Lucas said.
“Then hang on. It’s gonna be a ride.”
AFTER LEAVING ROUX’S office, Lucas went back to Homicide, got an exact reading on where Aronson’s body had been found, marked it on a map and Xeroxed the map, then walked over to the Fourth Street parking ramp and got into his Tahoe. On the way south, out of town, he passed within a block of Aronson’s apartment, and remembered talking with her parents when she disappeared: trying to reassure them, when he felt in his cop heart that their daughter was already dead. They’d all been together at her apartment, her parents waiting for a phone call, from her, from anybody, and he remembered wandering around inside . . . .
Aronson’s apartment had been in a six-story brown-brick prewar building south of the loop, and her mother had been waiting at the door when Lucas turned the corner on the stairs.
“Glad you could come,” she’d said. He remembered that the apartment building hallways had smelled of paint, disinfectant, and insect spray but that Aronson’s apartment had the odor of a Christmas sachet.
The place felt like murder. A crime scene crew had been through it, leaving behind a kind of random untidiness—a disheveled feel, if apartments can be disheveled. All the cupboard doors were open; all the chests and closets and boxes and files and suitcases, all cracked open and left. The general air of bleakness, of disturbance, of violation, was exacerbated by the light that flooded the rooms: The crew had pinned back the drapes to let in as much light as possible, and on the day of Lucas’s visit, that light had been chilling.
Four rooms: living room, separate small kitchen, bedroom, and bath. Lucas had walked through, his hands in his pockets, peering at the debris of a short independent life: stuffed animals on the bed; an Animal Planet TV poster on one green plaster wall, showing a jaguar in a jungle somewhere; a plastic inflatable statue of The Scream; knickknacks on the shelves, with photos. Mostly people who looked like parents, or sisters . . . .
“Knickknack,” he said aloud at the traffic out the window of the Tahoe. He’d taken from the apartment a feeling of loneliness, or shyness. A woman who arranged fuzzy things around herself so that she might feel some affection. He remembered looking in her medicine cabinet for birth control pills, and finding none.
THE GRAVE SITE was on a hillside south of Hastings, according to his map; all the roads were clearly marked. He still got lost, missing a turn, trying to recover by cutting cross-country, stymied by a closed road. Eventually, he turned into a DNR parking lot that had been built to provide public access to a trout stream. Above the parking lot, the Homicide cops had said, halfway up the hill, and a hundred and fifty feet farther south. A triangle of old fallen trees was just below the grave site; the cops had used the trees as benches.
The woods were still wet from all the rain, and the hillside, covered with oak leaves, was slippery. He picked his way through the bare saplings, saw the triangle of downed trees, spotted the hole in the hillside and the scuffle marks where cops had worked around the hole. The rain was smoothing the dirt fill in the hole, and leaves were beginning to cover it. In two more weeks, he couldn’t have found the spot.
He walked farther down the hillside, then up to the crest; there were houses not far away, but he couldn’t see any. Whoever had put the body here had known what he was doing. The grave had simply been a bit too shallow, and a dog had found it, or coyotes. And then the hunter had come by, scouting for bird sign.
And that was all, except the sound of the wind in the trees.
On the way back to town, he called Marcy to tell her that he’d be running around town for a couple of hours, talking to his people, picking up bits and pieces.
“Afraid to leave them on their own?”
“I need time to think,” he said. “I’m a little worried about giving those drawings to the movie people, but I can’t see any other seams in the thing.”
“That’s probably our best bet,” Marcy agreed.
LUCAS SPENT THE rest of the morning and early afternoon roaming the metropolitan area, working his personal network, thinking about the Aronson murder and about the possibility of losing his job and maybe having a baby or two. He touched the hickey on his neck.
Susan Kelly was a pretty woman, but she wasn’t at Hot Feet Jazz Dance. Her dog was having a br
east cancer operation and she wanted to be there when it woke up, her assistant said. Lori, the assistant, was also a pretty woman, if a little over the edge with the dancing. She grabbed one of the brass rails that lined one wall of the polished-maple practice floor, dropped her head to the floor, and told Lucas from the upside-down position that a creep named Morris Ware was back in action, looking for little girls to pose for his camera.
“Wonderful. Glad to hear it,” Lucas said.
“You ought to chain-whip him,” Lori said.
Ben Lincoln at Ben’s Darts & Cues told him that two Harley clubs, the Asia Vets and the Leather Fags, were planning a paint-ball war on a farm south of Shakopee, and it could get rough; some of the Leather Fags were reportedly replacing the paint balls with ball bearings. Larry Hammett at Trax Freight said that somebody had dumped a ton of speed on local over-the-road drivers: “Half the guys on the road are flying; I won’t let my daughter take the car out of the fuckin’ driveway.”
Lannie Harrison at Tulip’s Hose Couplings and Fittings told him a joke: “Guy walks into a bar and orders a scotch-and-soda. The bartender brings it over, puts it on the bar, and walks away. Just as the guy is reaching for the drink, this little teeny monkey runs out from under the bar, lifts up his dick, dips his balls into the scotch-and-soda, then runs back under the bar. The guy is astounded. He calls the bartender over and says, ‘Hey. This little monkey just ran out from under the bar . . .’ And the bartender says, ‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. Let me get you another drink.’ So he brings over a fresh scotch-and-soda and walks away with the old one. Just as the guy is reaching for the fresh drink, this little monkey runs out from under the bar . . .”
“Lifts up his dick and dunks his balls in the scotch-and-soda,” Lucas said.
“Yeah? You heard this?”
“No, but I’m familiar with the form,” Lucas said.
“Okay. So the guy calls the bartender back and said, ‘The little monkey . . .’ And the bartender says, ‘Listen, pal, you gotta watch your drink. I’ll give you one more fresh one.’ And the guy says, ‘Well, what’s the story about the goddamn monkey?’ The bartender says, ‘I only worked here a couple of weeks. But you see that piano player over there?’ He points to a guy at a piano and says, ‘He’s worked here for twenty years. He can probably tell you about it.’ So the guy gets his new drink and goes over to the piano player and says, ‘You know that little teeny monkey that runs out from under the bar and lifts up his dick and dips his balls in your scotch-and-soda?’
“The piano player says, ‘No, but if you hum a couple of bars, I can probably fake it.’ ”
AT A SOUTHSIDE sweatshop, where illegal Latinos embroidered nylon athletic jackets with team insignias, Jan Murphy told him that a noted University of Minnesota athlete had gotten a job at a package-delivery service. Unlike the other messengers, who drove small white Fords, the athlete’s company car was a Porsche C4.
“A kid’s gotta have wheels, this day and age. And who knows, maybe he only handles special deliveries, really important stuff,” Lucas said.
“Oh, that’s right,” Murphy said, pointing a pistol finger at him, “Mr. Four-Year Letterman, right? Hockey? I’d forgotten.”
At The Diamond Collective, Sandy Hu told him that nothing looked better with a little black dress than a black pearl necklace and matched tear-shaped black pearl earrings, on which she could give him a special police discount, four payments of only $3,499.99 each.
“Why didn’t you just make it four payments of $3,500?”
“ ’Cause my way, it keeps the price under the magic $14,000 barrier.”
“Ah. Well, who would I give it to?” Lucas asked.
Hu shrugged. “I don’t know. But you see a hickey like the one on your neck, you try to sell the guy something expensive.”
She hadn’t heard anything new about anybody; she had heard the monkey balls joke.
Svege Tanner at Strength and Beauty said that over the weekend, somebody took twenty-five thousand dollars in cash from an apartment rented by an outstate legislator named Alex Truant. “The word is, Truant has a girlfriend here in the cities and they’d been dropping some big money at the casinos. With one thing or another, he was like way-deep over his head, so he got hired by the trial lawyers to carry some water for them. That’s where the twenty-five came from.”
“Who’d you hear this from?” Lucas asked.
“The girlfriend,” Tanner said. “She works out here. Got an annual ticket.”
“Think she’d talk to somebody?”
“Yeah. If somebody went to see her right away. Truant whacked her around when the cash came up missing. He thought she took it. She doesn’t look so good with a big fuckin’ mouse under her eye.”
“Did she? Take it?”
Tanner shrugged. “I asked, she says no. She’s the kind who if she stole twenty-five thousand on Monday, would come in Tuesday wearing a mink coat and driving a fire-engine-red Mustang. If you know what I mean.”
“Not exactly a wizard.”
“Not exactly,” Tanner said.
“Got a phone number?”
“I do.”
A SHYLOCK NAMED Cole had retired and moved to Arizona. An old doper named Coin had been hit by a car while lying unconscious in the street, and was at Hennepin General, sober for the first time since he’d gone to an antiwar rally in the sixties; he didn’t like it. An enormously fat man named Elliot, who ran a metal-fabrication shop but was mostly known for being enormously fat, had come down with prostate cancer, and was going to die from it. Half-Moon Towing was bankrupt and the bad-tempered owner, who collected guns, blamed the city council for cutting him out of the city towing contracts.
Routine, mostly. A few notes, a few melancholy thoughts about finding a new job. But who else would pay you to have this kind of fun?
LUCAS MADE IT back to the office and found Marcy waiting with Del and Lane; plus Rie from Sex, and Swanson and Tom Black from Homicide. The start of virtually every homicide investigation—other than the ordinary ones, where they knew who the killer was—began with paper, the details lifted from the murder scene, with interviews, with the reports from various laboratories. Swanson and Black had been pushing the routine.
“The problem is, Aronson didn’t have a boyfriend or a roommate, and the two ex-boyfriends we can find don’t look real good for having done it. One of them is married and has a kid now, working his way through college, and the other one lives in Wyoming and barely seemed to remember her,” Swanson said.
“She have a phone book?” Sherrill asked.
Black shook his head. “Just a bunch of scraps of paper with numbers on them. We checked them and came up dry. Woman in the next apartment said she heard a male voice over there a couple of times in the month before she disappeared. Never any kind of disturbance or anything.”
“Look at the numbers stored in her cell phone?” Lucas asked. “Anything in her computer? She got a Palm Pilot or anything like that?”
“She had a cell phone, but there weren’t any numbers stored at all. The e-mail in her computer was mostly with her parents and her brother. No Palm. We got her local phone records: She had lots of calls out to ad agencies and to friends—we talked to them, they’re all women, and we don’t see a woman for this—and then some random calls out, pizza, stuff like that. We never tried to reconstruct the pizza-delivery guys, and now . . . hell, I don’t know if we could. It’s been too long.”
“What you’re saying is, you ain’t got shit,” Del said.
“That’s the way it is,” Black said. “That’s one of the reasons we always thought there was a possibility that she was still alive—we came up so empty. She didn’t drag around bars. Wasn’t a party girl. No drugs, didn’t drink much. No alcohol at all in her apartment. She worked at a restaurant called the Cheese-It down by St. Pat’s. I suppose she could have run into somebody there, but it’s not a meat rack or anything, it’s a soup-and-sandwich place for students. She freelanced ad work, desig
ning advertisements, and did some Web design, but we couldn’t get hold of anything.”
Swanson was embarrassed. “We’re not looking too swift on this thing.”
LUCAS PARCELED OUT assignments.
“Swanson and Lane: Take all those ad agencies and the restaurant. Find out who she was talking to. Make lists of every name you run.”
He turned to Black, who had once been partnered with Marcy. “Marcy can’t do a lot of running around yet, so I want you and her to work out of the office, get these three women in here, the ones who got drawings, and list every person they knew or remember having talked to before they got the drawings. No matter how slight the connection. When they can’t remember a name, but remember a guy, get them to call people who would know him. I want a big-mother list.”
To Rie: “I want you and Del to get copies of the drawings and start running them around to the sex freaks. This guy has a screw loose, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s shown a few of these things around. He’s an artist, so maybe he’s been out looking for a little appreciation. We want more names: all the possibilities that your friends can think of.” He snapped his fingers. “Do you remember Morris Ware?”
“No.”
“I do,” Del said. He looked at Rie. “Might’ve been before your time. He takes pictures of children.”
“He may be back in business,” Lucas said. To Del: “Why don’t you hang with me tomorrow. If we have time, we’ll go look him up.”
“All right.”
“I see a couple of big possibilities for an early break,” Lucas said. “The first one is, somebody knows him and turns him in. The second one is, we’ve got to figure he’s had some contact with these women. If we get big enough lists, we should get some cross-references.”
“But we need those big-mother lists,” Black said.
“That’s right. The more names we get, the better the chances of a cross. And the more people we can find who have gotten these drawings, the bigger the lists will be.”
Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15 Page 41
