Harmon was fifteen hundred miles away in Washington, but Lucas could almost hear the shrug. “If we can.”
MORE TIME PASSED. Del nailed the McDonald’s thefts, and Neil Mitford, the governor’s aide, came down to shake his hand. “Fuck a bunch of Russian agents, this McDonald’s thing was important.”
“I oughta get a certificate or something,” Del said, cutting his eyes toward Lucas, who yawned.
“You should,” Mitford agreed. He took a dollar out of his pocket. “Here. It’s even signed by the secretary of the treasury.”
FOUR WEEKS AFTER Carl was shot, Lucas got a note from Nadya.
“Thank you very much for your hospitality; I enjoyed my time working with you,” the note said. Blah-blah-blah. She sounded like an exchange student, Lucas thought. The laser-printed portion of the note seemed to have been written with the idea that carbon copies would be filed somewhere. The real meat came at the very end, handwritten in blue ink. “My fellow bureaucrats were most impressed with my wounds, so I thank you also for the photograph. Love, Nadya.”
The note was signed Lt. Colonel Nadezhda Kalin.
“Our girl got a promotion,” Lucas told Weather. He went around all day feeling pleased, although he didn’t exactly know why.
SIX WEEKS AFTER Carl was shot, Lucas was sitting in his office, feet on his desk, reading about a series of snipings in which the victims were horses.
Somebody—some nut—would shoot the animals in the stomach, often several times, with a .22, and even if the shooting didn’t kill the animal, the horse would have to be put down by a veterinarian.
Nine horses had been killed in three counties, and horse lovers were in an uproar. The governor wanted it fixed, and quick. Mitford put it this way: “In the whole universe of politically sensitive shootings, if Carl Walther and his shootings and a Russian spy ring is a three, then the horses are a nine. Right up there with the McDonald’s heist.”
“Horses are more important than cops getting killed,” Lucas said.
“I wouldn’t say so, but the fact is, cops get shot from time to time. Nothing you can do about it,” Mitford said. “But don’t fuck with horses. Or dogs. The voters’ll rip your fuckin’ heart out. I’ll tell you, Lucas, if you can catch this guy, the governor would be really, really grateful . . .”
SO HE WAS sitting there, reading horse files, when the phone rang. He picked it up, and was told it was Kelly, the cop from Duluth.
“Guess what?”
“How many guesses?”
“Well, fuck it. I’ll just tell you. The crime-scene guys finally unrolled that bubble-wrap mattress and found a fingerprint. Nice, neat, clear.”
Lucas sat up: “No shit. Is there a name?”
“That’s the interesting part. There is a name. Attached to a drunk-driving arrest there in St. Paul about nine years ago, a college student named Annabelle Ramford. We’ve looked her up, and she’s apparently a lawyer there in St. Paul. Got a phone and everything.”
“A lawyer? She’s supposed to be a bum.”
“Beats the shit out of me. I don’t know what it means,” Kelly said.
“There’s a John Ramford, he’s like a really bigshot lawyer downtown . . .”
“I’d call him up and ask about Annabelle, then . . . and if you could do it, the Duluth Police Department will be in your debt.”
“Like I need that,” Lucas said.
BUT AS SOON as he was off the phone, he looked up the Ramford firm in the phone book, called, and asked for Annabelle Ramford. “May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Mmm . . . No.” He hung up and got his coat.
TEN MINUTES LATER, having dumped his car in one of the new parking ramps downtown, he was talking to the receptionist at the Ramford firm: “I would like to see Annabelle Ramford.”
“May I tell her your name?”
“Just tell her it’s the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension about the bubble wrap. She’ll know.”
The receptionist asked him to take a seat. He took a seat, picked up a copy of Newsweek, and in two minutes read more than he wanted to know about the cell phone industry in Finland. The receptionist said, “Ms. Ramford will see you now.”
The receptionist directed him to an oak-doored elevator, which operated between two floors only. He took it up one. A stylish young woman was leaning in a doorway, and when she saw him step out of the elevator, she said, “Officer Bubble Wrap?”
“Yes.” He walked down toward her. She was wearing a pale green dress that was almost jade, but had a gray tone to it; a subtle color that set off her eyes. A single strand of pearls acted as a frame for her tanned, athletic face. “My name is Lucas Davenport. I’m with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
A skeptical look appeared on her face. “You’re not here to see me about the Quentin case, are you? I told Judge Martin that we would not deal on that . . .”
“I don’t even know what the Quentin case is,” Lucas interrupted.
“Then what are you . . . bubble wrap?” She was puzzled, and waved him into her office. The office was small, cluttered with paper and yellow Post-It notes, and an unseemly amount of personal junk, Lucas thought: bric-a-brac, knickknacks, gimcracks, tchotchkes. Riffraff? No, riffraff was people . . .
He sat down and said, “I’ve been looking for a woman that you may know. You’ve at least been in touch with her. She was living on the street in Duluth, and she was a witness to a crime there, a murder. I know that she’s now in St. Paul . . .” He gave her a short version of the story.
She nodded, interested. “I do the pro-bono work here,” Ramford said, spreading her hand toward the clutter of paper. “I know a number of these women. But from Duluth? Why do you think I’d know . . . ?”
“Because we found your fingerprint on a piece of bubble wrap that she was using for a bed. In Duluth.” Lucas was watching her eyes, and saw nothing in particular.
“My fingerprint?”
“Exactly. There is no doubt—if you’re the same Annabelle Ramford who was arrested on a DWI about ten years back.”
She smiled ruefully. “That was me. Graduation night. Boy, my father was pissed. But I’m sure I didn’t know anybody . . .”
“So if you didn’t know her, if you never met her, how did your fingerprint get on this bubble wrap?” Lucas asked.
She ran her index finger up and down her nose, thoughtfully, then looked up. “Ahhh . . . Was it a big piece of bubble wrap? Like most of a roll? Or two rolls?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. And you found it around the port? Around a Goodwill store? Or do you know if she went to the Goodwill store, like if she shopped there, or something?”
Now Lucas’s eyebrows went up. “Yes, the Goodwill was right across the street.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Okay. We keep a boat up there,” Ramford explained. “My family does. An Island Packet 38, the Whiplash. About, let me see, it must have been early August, I took a bunch of stuff up there. Wine, mostly. Loose bottles. I wrapped them in this big sheet of bubblewrap. I had some sailing stuff up there, old clothes, and some, two, or three, I think, old life jackets—perfectly good, you understand, but older—that I took off the boat. I knew where the Goodwill store was, so I stopped and threw the clothes and the life jackets in the Dumpster. Then I had that bubble wrap, and it was used but perfectly good, and I think I had another roll, too, and I was sure some poor person could use it, so I threw it all in. I bet that’s where she got it.”
“So you didn’t . . .”
“No, I’ve never talked to a street person in Duluth. Honest,” she said. “Never. Down here, a few.”
Lucas was watching her as she talked, and she had the most guileless eyes he’d ever seen on an attorney. That would be worth a lot in court, he thought. When she was finished, he sighed and said, “Shoot. I was hoping you might know her.”
She leaned back in her chair, and if she’d been wearing pants, might have put her feet up. “I’ve been reading about this wh
ole thing in Duluth—that was you up there, wasn’t it? The spy thing? I remembered the name about fifteen seconds ago.”
“Yeah.”
“Your case against this boy—it sucks.” She smiled when she said it.
“You only say that because you’re a defense attorney,” Lucas said.
“You mean the prosecutors haven’t told you?” she asked.
Lucas grinned back at her: “They’ve hinted that additional information would be welcome.”
“I’ll bet. Like any additional information.” she said. “The kid have a good attorney?”
Lucas shrugged. “Public defender. So yeah, I’d guess he’s probably pretty good. Why, you want it?”
“No, no. I do civil stuff,” she said, hastily. “Guys beating wives, wives beating guys. The welfare department beating wives and guys out of their rightful checks . . .”
Lucas stood up, yawned, and stretched. “Poop. Listen, thanks for your time.”
GOING DOWN IN the one-floor elevator, Lucas thought about Annabelle Ramford. Working for her old man’s law firm, wearing her little pearls and her little green dress, worrying about “poor people” between charity benefits. Doing pro bono because it made her feel good and she didn’t need the money. Her old man, he thought, was probably the kind of asshole who bought six-thousand-dollar Italian suits.
Still, there was something about Annabelle Ramford that tickled his bullshit meter. He just couldn’t think what it might be.
ANNABELLE STOOD IN the window outside her office and watched him stroll away down the street. She felt a little sorry for him. The case against the Walther kid was weak. If news reports were correct, the FBI was pressuring state prosecutors to make a deal that would let the kid out in a couple of years, in exchange for information . . .
It didn’t have to be that way. The whole case against Walther would come together if Davenport could find Trey.
But Trey was gone for good. Not even Annabelle would know where to find her, not now, not ever again. Davenport turned the corner, and Annabelle Ramford went back to her office, dropped three pennies and a nickel into a half clamshell, sat down behind her computer, and put the whole thing out of her mind.
OUTSIDE ON THE STREET, Lucas looked around, thought about going back to the office. He could call Kelly and tell him about Ramford, and maybe plot a little strategy in Carl Walther’s case. On the other hand, he could just go home and see Sam.
Walther had fired shots at cops, so he’d do some jail time. A couple of years, at a minimum. And who was to say that Carl hadn’t been abused, having spent so much time with that crazy old man? The snarled-up history of the Walther spy ring was another matter, and finding an equitable resolution for that case was beyond him. Probably beyond anybody.
Lucas yawned. Whatever happened would happen. If he wanted nice neat endings, he was in the wrong business. And he’d been at the office too much, lately. He was getting stale. Worse than that, he was investigating horses.
He turned the corner, back toward the parking ramp. Better to go home and see Sam, he thought.
And he did.
• • •
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Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15 Page 169
