“…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 494–694 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? Hello, 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.”
24
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 patrol, 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.
“Anytime you want one,” Lucas said. “If you can’t get one to come tonight, we’ll take you downtown, put you in a cell, and we can wait until one gets here tomorrow.”
“But I haven’t done anything,” Anderson said.
“That’s what we need to talk about,” Lucas said.
IN THE END, she let them in, then called an attorney friend, who agreed to come over. While they waited, they watched American Volcanoes for forty-five minutes, a TV story of how Yellowstone could blow up at any minute and turn the entire United States into a hell-hole of ash and lava; Anderson drank two glasses of red wine, and then the attorney arrived.
Lucas knew her, as it happened, Annabelle Ramford, a woman who did a lot of pro bono work for the homeless, but not a lot of criminal law.
“We meet again,” she said, with a thin smile, shaking his hand.
“I hope you can help us,” Lucas said. “Miz Anderson needs some advice.”
Anderson admitted knowing the Widdlers. She looked shocked when Lucas suggested that she’d had a sexual relationship with Leslie Widdler, but admitted it. “You told me you’re gay,” Lucas said.
“I am. When I had my relationship with Leslie, I didn’t know it,” she said.
“But your relationship with Leslie continued, didn’t it?”
She looked at Ramford, who said, “You don’t have to say anything at all, if you don’t wish to.”
They all looked at Anderson, who said, “What happens if I don’t?”
“I’ll make a note,” Lucas said. “But we will find out, either from you, with your cooperation, or from other people.”
“You don’t have to take threats, either,” Ramford said to Anderson.
“That really wasn’t a threat,” Lucas said, his voice going mild. “It’s the real situation, Annabelle. If we’re not happy when we leave here, we’ll be taking Miz Anderson with us. You could then recommend a criminal attorney and we can all talk tomorrow, at the jail.”
“No-no-no,” Anderson said. “Look, my relationship with Leslie…continued…to some extent.”
“To some extent?” Smith asked. “What does that mean?”
“I was…” She bit her lip, looked away from them, then said, “I was actually more interested in Jane.”
“In Jane? Did you have a physical relationship with Jane?” Lucas asked.
“Well…yes. Why would I want to fuck a great big huge fat guy?”
Lucas had no answer for that; but he had more questions for Jane Widdler.
HE TURNED to the quilts, taking notes as Anderson answered the questions. She believed the quilts were genuine. They’d been spotted by Marilyn Coombs, she said, who took them to the Widdlers for confirmation and evaluation.
The Widdlers, in turn, had sent them away for laboratory tests, and confirmed with the tests, and other biographical information about Armstrong, that the quilts were genuine. The Widdlers th
en put together an investment package in which the quilts would be sold to private investors who would donate them to museums, getting both a tax write-off and a reputation for generosity.
“We have reason to believe that the quilts are faked—that the curses were, in any case. That the primary buyers paid only a fraction of what they said they paid, and took an illegal tax write-off after the donations,” Lucas said.
“I don’t know about any of that,” Anderson said. “I was the contact between the Widdlers and Mrs. Donaldson. I brought her attention to the quilts, but she made her own decisions and her own deals. I never handled money.”
“You told me that you didn’t know Mrs. Bucher,” Lucas said.
She shrugged. “I didn’t. I knew who she was, but I didn’t know her.”
“And you still…maintain that position?”
“It’s the truth,” she said.
“You didn’t go there with Leslie Widdler and kill Mrs. Bucher and her maid?”
“Of course not! That’s crazy!”
He asked her about Toms: never heard of him, she said. She’d never been to Des Moines in her life, not even passing through.
“Were you with Leslie Widdler last night?” Smith asked.
“No. I was out until about eight, then I was here,” she said.
“You didn’t speak to him, didn’t ride around with him…”
“No. No. I didn’t speak to him or see him or anything.”
THEY PUSHED ALL the other points, but Anderson wouldn’t budge. She hadn’t dealt in antiques with either Leslie or Jane Widdler. She had no knowledge of what happened with the Armstrong quilts, after Donaldson, other than the usual art-world reports, gossip, and hearsay. She could prove, she thought, that on the Friday night that the Buchers were killed, she’d been out late with three other women friends, at a restaurant in downtown Minneapolis, where she’d not only drunk a little too much, but remembered that there’d been a birthday party in an upper loft area of the restaurant that had turned raucous, and that she was sure people would remember.
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