The phone and taxi came easily enough, and Qatar marveled at his own courage as they went north through town to a strip mall above Cleveland Avenue. “There,” he said, pointing. “The golf store.”
“Want me to wait?”
“No. A friend will take me back,” he said.
He made one fast run around the golf store to let the taxi get out of sight, then went back outside himself. He was a mile or two from Barstad’s; he didn’t know the exact distance, but it didn’t matter. He started walking.
What would he do when he got there?
He didn’t know, exactly. Love her up? Get the rope afterward? Tell her he lost his ring? He could feel the pinkie ring on his little finger. He could take it off, tell her he lost it, look around, then borrow the bathroom, retrieve the rope. Even get her to drive him back home . . .
He smiled at the idea: That would take some balls. Have her drop him off on his doorstep. The cop outside would have a heart attack.
He walked, thinking, What to do?
She’d betrayed him, that was for sure. He intertwined his fingers, flexed his hands. All right, he was a little angry. She’d betrayed him and she had that neck. . . . She had that neck and she’d taken him to the cops. . . . A little angry. She’d pretended to love him, had used him, and then had gone to the police. . . .
What to do?
26
MARCY AND MARSHALL were waiting when Lucas got in the next morning. “You better get over to Regions,” Marcy said. “The public defender called and he said Randy’s calmed down—but he wants to see you, not me.”
“Did he say why?”
“Randy said he wanted to deal with the boss,” she said.
Lucas shrugged. “So let’s get together a spread and take it over.”
“It’s ready,” Marcy said, holding up an envelope. “There’re pictures of the jewelry you got out of the place, and of the dead girl, Suzanne. I’ve arranged for a court reporter—we’re gonna share one with the PD’s office. A guy from St. Paul Homicide will be there.”
“And I’m coming,” Marshall said.
On the way to Regions, Lucas called Marc White, the intelligence cop baby-sitting Qatar. “Where is he?”
“In his office. Craig Bowden watched him into the building, and I picked it up from there. I haven’t actually seen him yet, but he’s due for a class in a half hour.”
“Stay close. We might be about to get an ID, and if we do, we take him.”
When he got off the phone, Marshall asked, “Are we gonna get an ID? Or is this Randy guy too crazy?”
“Randy’s crazy, but he’s not stupid. If his head is working, he’ll do it if the deal’s good enough. That’s what he’s all about: deals.”
“I always hoped I’d see the day, but I didn’t think I would,” Marshall said. His voice grated like a rusty gate.
ROB LANSING WAS waiting in the hall with his briefcase, a stocky black woman who carried a court reporting machine and a St. Paul Homicide cop named Barnes. Lansing said nothing at all, but pointed at Randy’s room and pushed through the door, followed by the court reporter. Lucas trailed behind, with Marshall and Barnes a step back.
Randy’s head was up, and he had some color, but every minute of a hard twenty-plus years was etched into his forehead and cheeks. “You guys really fucked me this time.” None of the hysteria of the day before.
“I feel pretty bad about it,” Lucas said. “You know I don’t like you—and I know you don’t like me—but I wouldn’t have wished this on you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Randy said. He looked at the court reporter and said, “Who’s this?”
“This is Lucille. She’s going to take down what we say, so there’s no question about what the deal is,” Lansing said. The reporter had unfolded her machine and was waiting.
Randy looked at Lucas and Marshall. “Is this deal straight? You guys take care of the medical and cut all the rest of the charges?”
“That’s the deal,” Lucas said, nodding.
“Let me see the picture.”
“I’ve got six pictures. We want to see if you can pick one of them out as the guy who sold you the jewelry.” Lucas took the manila envelope out of his pocket and shook two groups of photos into his hand and pulled the paper clip off one group.
“You have a name on the guy?” Marshall asked.
“I mostly called him ‘dude,’ but I think his straight name is James.”
“James,” Lucas said. He looked at the court reporter, who was taking it all down.
“One more brick,” Marshall said.
Randy took the first group of photos from Lucas, shuffled through them quickly, cocked his head at one, and said, “This is the dude. James.”
Lucas took it, showed it to Marshall, and then passed it to Lansing. To the court reporter he said, “Make a note that Mr. Whitcomb indicated the photograph of James Qatar and that officers Davenport, Marshall, and Barnes, and attorney Lansing are witnesses.” She nodded, and typed.
“Now I’m going to give Mr. Whitcomb another group of photos, and all of these are of James Qatar. This is to confirm his initial impression.”
Randy took the photos, again shuffled through them, and said, “Yeah, that’s the dude.”
“Did he kill Suzanne Brister?”
“Who?”
“Suzanne Brister was killed in your apartment. We have all the evidence, Randy—her blood was all over the place.”
“Dude . . .” Randy scrubbed his face with both hands. “I can’t remember. I was partying that night, and I come home and she was dead. I freaked out.”
“Did you do it?”
“No, man, that’s what freaked me out. I didn’t do it; I’d remember that. I walked up the stairs in the dark and I stepped on her and I felt down and here was this cold titty, and I almost jumped out the window. Then I turned on the light and there was this blood . . .” He shuddered. “Felt her up in the dark. I didn’t know she was dead.”
“So when was James last over?”
He scrubbed his face again. “I can’t remember.”
Lucas went back to the envelope of photographs, shook out the shots of the two rings found at Randy’s, and handed them to him. “We found these at your place—in your hideout. They came off a woman professor at St. Patrick’s University. You remember where you got them?”
Randy looked at them and scratched his head. “You got them at my place? My stash?”
“Yeah.”
“Must’ve been when I was wrecked, because I don’t remember.”
“What do you remember?”
“Well, that night, I was partying. I partied all night. I ran out of money and I went home and I got some more money, and then I partied some more and then I ran out of money again. . . . I kept running out of money and I kept going home and getting some more. . . . That’s what I remember, going back and forth, and then feeling this cold titty.”
“Who were you partying with?”
Randy rolled his eyes at Lansing, who nodded. “Dude named Lo Andrews.”
“I know him,” said the St. Paul Homicide cop. “Got a place off Como. There’s usually smoke coming out of the windows.”
“That’s the dude,” Randy said.
“You don’t know when Suzanne was killed or when you last saw James.”
“If James gave me those rings, he must have come over when I was wrecked,” Randy said.
They talked a while longer but got nothing significant. Out in the hallway, Lucas asked the St. Paul cop for Lo Andrews’s address, and the cop made a call to St. Paul Narcotics and get the number on Como.
Back in the car, Lucas called Marcy and said, “We’ve got a positive ID on Qatar. We’re gonna pick him up. Get started on a warrant for his house.”
“That’s great—I’ll get the warrant started right now. Del wants to talk to you.”
She handed the phone off to Del, who said, “Can I come with you?”
“Sure. He’s down at St. Patrick’s. M
eet you there. Is Lane around?”
Lane came on the line, and Lucas gave him Lo Andrews’s address. “Find the guy—St. Paul Narcotics will give you a guy to walk around with—and ask him about that night. If anybody went home with Randy, if anybody saw anything . . .”
“Talk to you this afternoon,” Lane said.
“NEVER THOUGHT I’D see it,” Marshall said. “Goddamnit.”
Lucas looked at him, and Marshall seemed to be sweating. He’d gotten a Coke from the hospital waiting room, and when he lifted it to take a drink, his hand was shaking. “You feel all right?”
“Well, uh, I’m not having a heart attack or anything, but my blood pressure’s probably nine hundred over nine hundred. I want to drag that sonofabitch out of that schoolroom. . . . He’s a goddamn teacher, Lucas. A teacher.”
“Teachers . . . They’re about as messed up as anybody. We’ve had a few of them over here.”
Marshall sat staring out the window, his lips moving, as though he were saying a silent prayer, but he’d heard Lucas, and suddenly smiled and seemed to unwind a notch. “Yeah, you’re right. Did I ever tell you about this weird old white-haired teacher from River Falls? I got a friend who’s a deputy in the county next door, and he swears it’s a true story. . . . Did I tell you this, the story about the guy and the llama and the golf club? No? Anyway . . .”
He had Lucas laughing in two minutes. But Lucas, glancing sideways, could see what seemed like despair hanging in his eyes over the storytelling smile.
THE ARREST HAPPENED almost exactly as Qatar had seen it in his nightmares, give or take a snap-brimmed fedora. He was in his office, and heard the voice and footsteps in the hall—the bustle of people moving, a voice that was hushed. He turned his head, sat up straight, listening. A second later, the door opened and a dark-haired, dark-complected man in a gorgeous charcoal suit opened the door and asked, “James Qatar?”
Behind the man in the suit were two other men, and Burns Goodwin, the college president.
Qatar stood up and tried to look puzzled. “Yes?”
“HE SORTA FREAKED,” Lucas told Marcy. “He denied it all and then he started crying—I mean, really weeping. Sobbing. I think it bummed Marshall out. He wanted resistance, and all he got was this mud puddle.”
“Where is he? Marshall?”
“Still over at the jail talking with the county attorneys about Wisconsin stuff. If we find anything in the house, there may be a Wisconsin claim.”
“What difference does it make? He’s gonna get thirty years.”
“If we get him. If we don’t, but if we have something from Wisconsin, that could be another trial.”
After talking to Marcy, Lucas walked down to tell Rose Marie about the arrest.
“Another notch,” she said.
“If we get him. Towson is worried that Randy’s identification might be a little shaky.”
“Ah, we got him,” she said. “With Randy and the jewelry, with Qatar’s access to all the victims, with the Wisconsin school record . . . we’ve got him.”
He went back to Marcy. “I’m gonna go over to Qatar’s house, see what’s going on there,” he told her. “Then I’m gonna go home and take a nap. Fuck around the with car. Let me know.”
The phone rang, and she held up a finger, picked it up, listened, and said, “Just a moment. I’ll see if he’s in.” She pushed the hold button and asked, “It’s that Culver guy. He says he really needs to talk to you.”
“Let me have that.” He took the phone and said, “Lucas Davenport.”
“Chief Davenport, listen, did you take Ellen somewhere? I mean, do you know where she is?”
“No—she was at her place the last time I saw her. What’s going on?”
“I haven’t seen her. Usually she comes over for a cup of coffee or I go over to her place, but it’s all locked up. Now a bunch of women are milling around outside. They were supposed to have a quilting class, and they say whenever she’s had to cancel a class she’s called them. She doesn’t answer her phone. I can’t see inside very well because of the one-way stuff, but I can see a little, and it looks like some stuff has been tipped over or thrown around.”
“Stay right there,” Lucas said. “I’m on my way.” He dropped the phone, looked around for Del, a little wild-eyed, said “Fuck,” and headed for the door.
“What? What?” Marcy yelled after him. “Where’re you going?”
“Call the dispatcher and tell them I want a squad, right now, out front. . . . Right now,” he shouted back. He was running down the hallway when he saw Marshall carrying a carton of yogurt and a cup of coffee.
“Terry, c’mon, Terry . . .” He kept running, and Marshall ran carefully after him, calling, “What happened, what happened?”
A squad was cutting across the street toward the front entrance, the driver waving at Lucas. Lucas caught the front door and Marshall piled in the back. Lucas said, “Go that way, across the Hennepin Bridge, lights and siren.” The driver nodded, and they took off, slicing through the traffic like a shark. When they were moving, he turned to look at Marshall in the backseat and said, “Nobody can find Ellen Barstad. The Culver guy from next door says it looks like the place is a little torn up inside.”
“No, no.” Marshall was shocked. “Not that girl—we’ve been following him, he couldn’t have.”
“Maybe it’s nothing.”
Lucas began giving directions to the driver as they made the turn onto Hennepin, and then Marshall said, “But this feels really bad. This feels bad.”
“She’s from outstate somewhere. Maybe she got freaked and went home.”
“No, I don’t think so. This has got that bad feeling about it.”
Lucas nodded. “Yeah, it does.”
THEY WERE HALFWAY there when Del called: “What the hell’s going on?”
Lucas told him in three sentences, and Del said, “I’ll see you there.”
THEY PULLED INTO the parking lot in front of Culver’s shop ten minutes after Lucas and Culver spoke on the phone. Lucas hopped out, spotted Culver talking to two elderly women, and walked over, Marshall a step behind. “Is there a landlord? Who has the keys?”
“There’s a manager, but he goes around between buildings. I’ve got a cell phone.”
“Call him and see where he’s at,” Lucas said.
Culver hurried into his shop. Marshall was already pressing his face to the silvered glass on the door. “He’s right, it looks like some stuff is turned over,” he said.
Lucas pressed his face to the door and cupped his hands around his eyes. One of the quilt frames had been knocked onto the floor. “Goddamnit.” He stepped back, and over to the door of Culver’s place. Culver was walking toward him with a cell phone to his ear. He was saying, “Where’re you at? We need to get in.”
Lucas asked, “Where?”
Culver said, “He’s in Hopkins. He can be here in twenty minutes.”
“Fuck that,” Lucas said. “Have you got something we can break the glass with?”
“Here,” Marshall said. He reached under his jacket and produced a large-frame .357 Magnum. He pointed the weapon to one side, as though he’d done this before, stood close to the glass, and punched it with the butt of the gun. The punch knocked a dollar-size hole in the glass. He gave it another light whack and a piece of glass broke out. Marshall carefully reached through the hole and flipped the inside lock.
Lucas led the way in. The frame was on the floor and . . .
“Step easy,” he said sharply. He pointed at the track of blood.
“Ah, no, ah, man . . .” Marshall turned to the door, where Culver was standing, and said, “Stay out of here. Keep everybody out.”
They walked carefully through the blood spots—“Looks like an impact spray,” Lucas muttered—to the door of the living quarters. Lucas put one finger high on the door, muttered “Don’t touch” to Marshall, and pushed it open.
ELLEN BARSTAD WAS lying by the sink. She was fully clothed and she
was dead. No strangulation, this: Her head lay in a puddle of congealed blood, with patches of dried blood around it. The back of her head appeared to be torn off. Lucas said, “All right, let’s get some people on the way.” He glanced at Marshall. Marshall’s eyes were closed and he had one hand pressed against the middle of his face, the heel of his hand under his chin, the fingers pressed against his forehead. “Terry?”
“Yeah, yeah . . . Goddamnit, Lucas, I think we did this to her.”
Lucas swallowed once, trying to get rid of the sour taste in his throat, shook his head. Looked down the length of the kitchen and saw a hammer. “Weapon,” he said.
Marshall took his hands away from his face. “Had to be something like that to do the damage.” He was closer, and stepped over next to it. “It looks like it’s been wiped. I can see streaks, like . . . paper towel.”
“Let’s get out of here before we fuck something up,” Lucas said. “Get the lab guys going.”
Del arrived five minutes later and saw them outside, duct-taping a piece of cardboard over the hole in the glass door. They were just finishing as he came up, and he looked from Marshall to Lucas and said, “Don’t tell me.”
“She’s gone,” Lucas said. Del stepped toward the door and Lucas said, “Watch the blood in the work area. Don’t touch the door going into the back.”
Del disappeared inside, came back a minute later. His face carried the same expression as Marshall’s.
“When did he do it?”
“Looks like last night,” Lucas said. “The blood puddles had started to dry out. Maybe we can get a temperature and tell that way. We taped over the door to try to keep the ambient the same inside.”
“Christ, he looks like he freaked out,” Del said. “Looks like he chased her from the front door, maybe picked up that hammer off the frame—”
Lucas interrupted. “Sure it was hers?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure—I saw it sitting there the other day, and the one I saw isn’t there anymore. Picked it up, took a swing, cut her, but she made it into the back.”
Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15 Page 67
