The false notes were there. Everything she'd done had been dramatized. In their other meetings, she'd been the sexual technician: do this, do that, do the other. This time, she'd been a movie star: a bad actress.
He was worried about his rope. If she looked in the closet, she'd find it. She was sure to come across it sooner or later. He had to get it back, and hide it someplace where it would never be found. If the police were on him…
If the police were on him. That was the question.
He pushed himself up, steeled himself, got a drink of water, took a couple of aspirins, and went out to his car. He had an hour of light, he thought. If the police were there… He thought about it for a few minutes, then headed over to the Minneapolis Museum of Art. The museum was a reasonable destination for an art historian; even better, most people parked along the narrow streets, around the museum, and finding a space wasn't all that easy.
As he drove, he watched his rearview mirror. He assumed that any police car would not be right on his tail, so he tried to look three or four cars back. By the time he got to the museum, he was watching a gray American car. The car was a few years old and completely nondescript. He cruised up to the museum and slowed, looking for a space; stopped when he found one, a small one, tried to maneuver into it. Got it wrong, deliberately, and pulled back into the street.
The gray car, as far as he could tell, had disappeared from view. He tried again, messed it up, then gave up and drove past the museum, around the corner, around another corner, down the back of the museum, moving quickly now. As he reached the next corner, the gray car appeared in his rearview, and his heart jumped.
He was right: They were onto him.
He turned the corner, found another parking space halfway down the block, between the museum and a park. He began maneuvering into it, and with his arm over the backseat of the car, saw the gray car stop at the corner before coming around it. He was sure the man inside was looking at him. He got the car into the space, locked it, and, never looking back, walked around the corner and down the block to the museum entrance.
He visited the Impressionists and post-Impressionists. Forced himself to take some time. Looked long and hard at a van Gogh, but saw nothing in it. Walked slowly around the gallery, and the paintings might as well have been Snoopy cartoons. A few people wandered past, but none of them met his eye or seemed interested in him. After a half hour, he could stand it no longer, and headed for the exit. He still had some light.
He maneuvered the car out of the parking space and headed home; never saw the gray car, could never find a car that seemed to be tracking him. Had he been wrong? He stopped at a grocery store, bought some sliced turkey and bread, more milk and cereal, finished the drive home. Nothing. Where were they?
By early evening, he was exhausted and bored at the same time. He had convinced himself again that he was being watched, and was afraid to leave the house in the night. He ate cereal again, munching through three bowls of the stuff, and lurched away from the table with a sugar high. He tried television, tried music, tried reading. Nothing worked, but the hours passed.
At midnight, he went to bed. Couldn't sleep, got up and took a pill. Still couldn't sleep, got up and took another one. And slept, but poorly.
But the next morning, on the way to work, he found them again.
"There you are, moron-there you are," he said, as the gray car nosed around a corner two blocks back. They weren't staying tight, but seemed content to follow at a distance. Was it possible that they had put a tracking device on the car? It was possible, he guessed. He went to work, taught a class, went to lunch; went to Marten's Funeral Home to talk about caskets for his mother. The funeral home would arrange to retrieve her body from the medical examiner.
He did it all on remote control. Most of his mind was busy worrying about the rope.
She'd find it; it was only a matter of time. And she'd know who put it there. And if she didn't do something silly, like play with it-if she just called the cops and told them about it-they'd find his prints all over the excellent rubber handle.
He had to get it back.
LUCAS AND WEATHER went to a new French restaurant called Grasses. At the door, Lucas discovered that the owner was named Grass and that they served beer, and felt better about it. "I was afraid we were gonna have a choice between rye and Kentucky Blue," he said. "Fuckin' French."
"Behave yourself. I know you like new restaurants."
It was true, he decided, and he even liked French food, if it wasn't of the two-crossed-carrots-and-a-fried-snail variety. They got menus and looked them over, and Weather said, "Nothing sounds good."
He looked at her over the top of the menu. "You're pregnant."
"No… that's not it. I'm just not particularly hungry," she said.
"That's a first, in a French restaurant. And it looks pretty good to me."
"Maybe a salad," she said. "A glass of wine."
They talked about Randy over the meal. "We've got to get him," Lucas said. "I'm going in tomorrow morning and give it another try."
"What about Miss Porno Queen? Are you going back?"
"Maybe-if Randy doesn't work out, we've got to find something to make him move. But this thing with Barstad… She was a hell of a lot freakier than he was. He was along for the ride."
"I need to see that tape," she said.
"Never happen," Lucas said. "If we ever go into court with that, I'm going to have a line of custody that nobody can shake. The word's gonna get out, and I told the guy at the evidence locker that if I ever see or hear of a piece of that tape getting out, or being played by anyone, he's going to jail. I made him believe me."
"Like that."
"Yeah. We could get murdered if that tape is ever shown to anybody. It'd be like the Los Angeles cops beating up those guys on tape. Can't you see some talking head during the sweeps, screaming about how we used this young woman to do that to get a confession out of the guy? We didn't know what she was going to do, but once she was into it, there was no way to back out. But nobody would believe us if we said so."
"You told Rose Marie."
"Of course."
"What did you say to the girl?" Weather asked.
"I yelled at her a little bit, but we've got to stay on her good side-we may need her again."
"To do the same thing?"
"No. No way. If she did it again, I'd kick the door and take Qatar right there. We won't be doing this again."
AS THEY WERE talking, Qatar was leaving his house.
The decision hadn't come easily. As far as he could tell, there'd been only one car with him during the day. He couldn't imagine that he had a large network around him-probably just somebody to keep track of him. If that was the case, and if he was very, very careful, he might be able to walk away from them. And he'd have to walk: There might be a locator device on the car, and he had no idea of what it might look like or where they'd put it.
He dressed carefully for the trip-in gray and black, with a watch cap. He left the television on, and changed his answering machine so that it would answer on the first ring. If someone were to call, that might leave the impression that he was at home, on the phone. He put a lamp in the study on his vacation timer. The light would go on at eight and go off at nine-thirty. He would have to be back before midnight.
He got his city map, slipped it into his pocket, checked his supply of small bills, said to himself, "This is crazy," and went out through the garage. He could have gone through the garage door into the backyard, but to do that, he would have to put himself in the open, against the white clapboard siding on the house. But a hedge ran down the side…
The garage interior was pitch black. He pulled the door closed behind himself and groped toward the window. He found it, unlocked it, slid the window slowly up, and stepped over the sill into the side yard. If the police did have a network, or whatever they called it, watching from the upper floors of the back neighbor's house, then they might see him: But they would
have to be watching closely, because the night felt as black and dense as velvet.
He pulled the window down and stood and listened; he heard nothing but cars. After two minutes of listening, he walked along the hedge all the way to the alley in back. Still heard nothing. He walked down the alley, the long way out, across the street at the end of the block, and into the next alley.
They might be following him, he thought, but he really didn't know how. He could hardly see himself in the night. He turned north, toward a shopping area. He needed a phone and a taxi.
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 wa
rrant 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. Meet 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.
Chosen Prey ld-12 Page 28
