The man pushing the lawn mower made a turn at the end of the lawn and started back; Lucas recognized Ray Cherry, forty pounds heavier than he’d been when he’d fought in Golden Gloves tournaments in the sixties. Most of the weight had gone to his gut, which hung over beltless Oshkosh jeans. His face had gone from square to blocky, and a half-dozen folds of fat rolled down the back of his neck to his shoulders. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat. He saw Davenport and Greave, pushed the lawn mower up to their feet, and killed the engine.
“What’re you doing, Davenport?”
“Lookin’ around, Ray,” Lucas said, smiling. “How’ve you been? You got fat.”
“Y’ain’t a cop no more, so get the fuck off my property.”
“I’m back on the force, Ray,” Lucas said, still smiling. Seeing Ray made him happy. “You oughta read the papers. Deputy chief in charge of finding out how you killed this old lady.”
A look crossed Cherry’s face, a quick shadow, and Lucas recognized it, had seen it six or seven hundred or a thousand times: Cherry had done it. Cherry wiped the expression away, tried a look of confusion, took a soiled rag out of his pocket, and blew his nose. “Bullshit,” he said finally.
“Gonna get you, Ray,” Lucas said; the smile stayed but his voice had gone cold. “Gonna get the Joyces, too. Gonna put you in Stillwater Prison. You must be close to fifty, Ray. First-degree murder’ll get you . . . shit, they just changed the law. Tough luck. You’ll be better’n eighty before you get out.”
“Fuck you, Davenport,” Cherry said. He fired up the mower.
“Come and talk to me, Ray,” Lucas said over the engine noise. “The Joyces’ll sell you out the minute they think it’ll get them a break. You know that. Come and talk, and maybe we can do a deal.”
“Fuck you,” Cherry said, and he mowed on down the yard.
“Lovely fellow,” Greave said in a fake English accent.
“He did it,” Lucas said. He turned to Greave and Greave took a step back: Lucas’s face was like a block of stone.
“Huh?”
“He killed her. Let’s see her apartment.”
Lucas started for the apartment door, and Greave trotted after him. “Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute. . . .”
THERE WERE A thousand books in the apartment, along with a rolled-up Oriental carpet tied with brown twine, and fifteen cardboard cartons from U-Haul, still flat. A harried middle-aged woman sat on a piano bench, a handkerchief around her head; her face was wind- and sunburned, like a gardener’s, and was touched with grief. Charmagne Carter’s daughter, Emily.
“. . . Soon as they said we could take it out. If we don’t, we have to keep paying rent,” she told Greave. She looked around. “I don’t know what to do with the books. I’d like to keep them, but there’re so many.”
Lucas had been looking at the books: American literature, poetry, essays, history. Works on feminism, arranged in a way that suggested they were a conscious collection rather than a reading selection. “I could take some of them off your hands,” he said. “I mean, if you’d like to name a price. I’d take the poetry.”
“Well, what do you think?” Carter asked, as Greave watched him curiously.
“There are . . .” He counted quickly. “. . . thirty-seven volumes, mostly paper. I don’t think any of them are particularly rare. How about a hundred bucks?”
“Let me look through them. I’ll give you a call.”
“Sure.” He turned away from the books, more fully toward her. “Was your mother depressed or anything?”
“If you’re asking if she committed suicide, she didn’t. She wouldn’t give the Joyces the pleasure, for one thing. But basically, she liked her life,” Carter said. She became more animated as she remembered. “We had dinner the night before and she was talking about this kid in her class, black kid, she thinks he’ll be a novelist but he needs encouragement . . . No way’d she kill herself. Besides, even if she wanted to, how’d she do it?”
“Yeah. That’s a question,” Lucas said.
“The only thing wrong with Mom was her thyroid. She had a little thyroid problem; it was overactive and she had trouble keeping her weight up,” Carter said. “And her insomnia. That might have been part of the thyroid problem.”
“She was actually ill, then?” Lucas glanced sideways at Greave.
“No. No, she really wasn’t. Not even bad enough to take pills. She was just way too thin. She weighed ninety-nine pounds and she was five-six. That’s below her ideal weight, but it’s not emaciated or anything.”
“Okay.”
“Now that kid isn’t gonna get help, the novelist,” Emily said, and a tear started down her cheek.
Greave patted her on the shoulder—Officer Friendly—and Lucas turned away, hands in pockets, stepping toward the door. Nothing here.
“You ought to talk to Bob, next apartment down the hall,” Emily said. She picked up a roll of packaging tape and a box, punched it into a cube. She stripped off a length of tape, and it sounded as if she were tearing a sheet. “He came in just before you got here.”
“Bob was a friend of Charmagne’s,” Greave explained to Lucas. “He was here the night she died.”
Lucas nodded. “All right. I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Thanks. I hope you get those . . . those fuckers,” Emily said, her voice dropping into a hiss.
“You think she was murdered?”
“Something happened,” she said.
BOB WOOD WAS another teacher, general science at Central in St. Paul. He was thin, balding, worried.
“We’ll all go, now that Charmagne’s gone. The city’s going to give us some moving money, but I don’t know. Prices are terrible.”
“Did you hear anything that night? Anything?”
“Nope. I saw her about ten o’clock; we were taking our aluminum cans down for recycling and we came up in the elevator together. She was going off to bed right then.”
“Wasn’t depressed. . . .”
“No, no, she was pretty upbeat,” Wood said. “I’ll tell you something I told the other policemen: when she closed the door, I heard the lock snap shut. You could only throw the bolt from inside, and you had to do it with a key. I know, because when she got it, she was worried about being trapped inside by a fire. But then Cherry scared her one day—just looked at her, I guess, and scared her—and she started locking the door. I was here when they beat it down. They had to take a piece of the wall with it. They painted, but you can kind of see the outline there.”
The wall showed the faint dishing of a plaster patch. Lucas touched it and shook his head.
“If anything had happened in there, I would have heard it,” Wood said. “We share a bedroom wall, and the air-conditioning had been out for a couple of days. There was no noise. It was hot and spooky-quiet. I didn’t hear a thing.”
“So you think she just died?”
Wood swallowed twice, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Jeez. I don’t know. If you know Cherry, you gotta think . . . Jeez.”
IN THE STREET, Lucas and Greave watched a small girl ride down the sidewalk on a tiny bicycle, fall down, pick it up, start over, and fall down again. “She needs somebody to run behind her,” Greave said.
Lucas grunted. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Big philosopher, huh?”
Lucas said, “Wood and Carter shared a wall.”
“Yes.”
“Have you looked at Wood?”
“Yeah. He thinks newspaper comics are too violent.”
“But there might be something there. What can you do with a shared wall? Stick a needle through it, pump in some gas or something?”
“Hey. Davenport. There’s no toxicology,” Greave said with asperity. “There’s no fuckin’ toxicology. You look up toxicology in the dictionary, and there’s a picture of the old lady and it says, ‘Not Her.’ ”
“Yeah, yeah. . . .”
“She wasn’t poisoned, gassed, stabbed, shot, strangled, beaten to death . . .
what else is there?”
“How about electrocuted?” Lucas suggested.
“Hmph. How’d they do it?”
“I don’t know. Hook some wires up to her bed, lead them out under a door, and when she gets in bed, zap, and then they pull the wires out.”
“Pardon me while I snicker,” Greave said.
Lucas looked back at the apartment building. “Let me think about it some more.”
“But Cherry did it?”
“Yup.” They looked down the lawn. Cherry was at the other end, kneeling over a quiet lawn mower, fiddling, watching them. “You can take it to the bank.”
LUCAS GLANCED AT his watch as they got back to the car: they’d been at the apartments for almost an hour. “Connell’s gonna tear me up,” he said.
“Ah, she’s a bite in the ass,” Greave said.
They bumped into Mae Heinz in the parking ramp, getting into her car. Lucas beeped the horn, called out, “How’d it go?”
Heinz came over. “That woman, Officer Connell . . . she’s pretty intense.”
“Yes. She is.”
“We got one of those drawings, but . . .”
“What?”
Heinz shook her head. “I don’t know whether it’s my drawing or hers. The thing is, it’s too specific. I can mostly remember the guy with the beard, but now we’ve got this whole picture, and I don’t know if it’s right or not. I mean, it seems right, but I’m not sure I’m really remembering it, or if it’s just because we tried out so many different pictures.”
“Did you look at our picture files, the mugs . . . ?”
“No, not yet. I’ve got to get my kid at day care. But I’m coming back tonight. Officer Connell is going to meet me.”
CONNELL WAS WAITING in Lucas’s office. “God, where’ve you been?”
“Detour,” Lucas said. “Different case.”
Connell’s eyes narrowed. “Greave, huh? Told you.” She gave Lucas a sheet of paper. “This is him. This is the guy.”
Lucas unfolded the paper and looked at it. The face that looked back was generally square, with a dark, tight beard, small eyes, and hard, triangular nose. The hair was medium length and dark.
“We gotta feed it to the TV. We don’t have to say we’re looking for a serial killer, just that we’re looking for this guy on the Wannemaker case,” Connell said.
“Let’s hold off on that for a bit,” Lucas said. “Why don’t we take this around to the other people who were in the store and get it confirmed. Maybe ship it out to Madison, and anywhere else the guy might have been seen.”
“We gotta get it out,” Connell objected. “People gotta be warned.”
“Take it easy,” Lucas said. “Make the checks first.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“Because we haven’t gotten anything unique to this guy,” Lucas said. “If we wind up in court with a long circumstantial case, I don’t want the defense to pull out this picture, hold it up by our guy, and say, ‘See—he doesn’t look anything like this.’ That’s why.”
Connell pulled at her lip, then nodded. “I’ll check with people tonight. I’ll get every one of them.”
9
KOOP WAS AT Two Guy’s, working his quads. The only other patron was a woman who’d worked herself to exhaustion, and now sat, legs apart, on a bent-up folding chair by the Coke machine, drinking Gatorade, head down, her sweat-soaked hair dangling almost to the floor.
Muscle chicks didn’t interest Koop: they just weren’t right. He left them alone, and after a couple of tentative feelers, they left him alone.
Koop said to himself, Five, and felt the muscle failing.
A TV was screwed to the wall in front of the empty stair climbers, tuned to the midday news program, Nooner. A stunning auburn-haired anchorwoman said through a suggestive overbite that Cheryl Young was dead of massive head wounds.
Koop strained, got the last inch, and dropped his feet again, came back up, the muscle trembling with fatigue. He closed his eyes, willed his legs up; they came up a half inch, another quarter inch, to the top. Six. He dropped them, started up again. The burn was massive, as though somebody had poured alcohol on his legs and lit it off. He shook with the burn, eyes clenched, sweat popping. He needed an inch, one inch . . . and failed. He always worked to failure. Satisfied, he let the bar drop and pivoted on the bench to look at the television.
“. . . believed to be the work of young drug addicts.” And a cop saying, “. . . the attack was incredibly violent for so little gain. We believe Mr. Flory had less than thirty dollars in his wallet—we believe it was probably the work of younger gang members who build their status with this kind of meaningless killing. . . .”
Good. They put it on the gangs. Little motherfuckers deserved anything they got. And Koop couldn’t wait any longer. He knew he should wait. The people in the building would be in an uproar. If he was seen, and recognized as an outsider, there could be trouble.
But he just couldn’t wait. He picked up his towel and headed for the locker room.
KOOP WENT INTO the lakes neighborhood on foot, a few minutes before nine, in the dying twilight. There were other walkers in the neighborhood, but nothing in particular around the building where he’d killed the woman: the blood had been washed away, the medical garbage picked up. Just another door in another apartment building.
“Stupid,” he said aloud. He looked around to see if anyone had heard. Nobody close enough. Stupid, but the pressure was terrific. And different. When he went after a woman, that was sex. The impulse came from his testicles; he could literally feel it.
This impulse seemed to come from somewhere else; well, not entirely, but it was different. It drove him, like a child looking for candy. . . .
Koop carried his newly minted key and a briefcase. Inside the briefcase was a Kowa TSN-2 spotting scope with a lightweight aluminum tripod, a setup recommended for professional birders and voyeurs. He swung the briefcase casually, letting it dangle, keeping himself loose, as he started up the apartment walk. Feelers out: nothing. Up close, the arborvitae beside the apartment door looked beaten, ragged; there were footprints in the mud around the shrubs.
Inside, the lobby light was brighter, harsher. The management’s response to murder: put in a brighter bulb. Maybe they’d changed locks? Koop slipped the key into the door, turned it, and it worked just fine.
He took the stairs to the top, no problem. At the top, he checked the hallway, nervous, but not nearly as tense as he was during an entry. He really shouldn’t be here . . . Nobody in the hall. He walked down it, to the Exit sign, and up the stairs to the roof access. He used the new key again, pushed through the door, climbed another short flight to the roof, and pushed through the roof door.
He was alone on the roof. The night was pleasant, but the roof was not a particularly inviting place, asphalt and pea-rock, and the lingering odor of sun-warmed tar. He walked as quietly as he could to the edge of the roof, and looked across the street. Damn. He was just below Sara Jensen’s window. Not much, but enough that he wouldn’t be able to see her unless she came and stood near the window.
An air-conditioner housing squatted on the rooftop, a large gray-metal cube, projecting up another eight feet. Koop walked around to the back of it, reached up, pushed the briefcase onto the edge of it, then grabbed the edge, chinned and pressed himself up on top, never breaking a sweat or even holding his breath. A three-foot-wide venting stack poked up above the housing. Koop squatted behind the stack and looked across the street.
Jensen’s apartment was a fishbowl. To the right, there was a balcony with a wrought-iron railing in front of sliding glass doors, and through the doors, the living room. To the left, he looked through the knee-high windows into her bedroom. He was now a few feet higher than her floor, he thought, giving him just a small down-angle. Perfect.
And Jensen was home.
Ten seconds after Koop boosted himself onto the air-conditioner housing, she walked through the living room wearing
a slip, carrying a cup of coffee and a paper. She was as clear as a goldfish in an illuminated aquarium.
“Goddamn,” Koop said, happy. This was better than anything he’d hoped for. He fumbled with the briefcase, pulled out the spotting scope. “Come on, Sara,” he said. “Let’s see some puss.”
Koop had two eyepieces for the Kowa, a twenty-power and a sixty. The sixty-power put him virtually inside her room, but was sensitive to the slightest touch, and the field of view was tiny: with the sixty, her face filled the field. He switched to the twenty-power, fumbling the eyepiece in his haste, cursing, screwing it down. Jensen walked back through the living room and in and out of the kitchen, which he couldn’t see. He settled down to wait: he’d begun carrying a kerchief with him, with just a dab of her Opium. As he watched her windows, he held the kerchief beside his nose so he could smell her.
While she was out of sight, he scanned the living room. Huh. New lock. Something really tough. He’d expected that. She also had a new door. It was flat gray, as though awaiting a coat of paint. Metal, probably. Jensen had bought herself a steel-sheathed door after his visit.
Jensen showed up again in the bedroom and pulled the slip over her head, then stripped off her panty hose. She disappeared into the bathroom, came back out without her bra. Koop sucked air like a teenager at a carnival strip show.
Jensen had large, rounded breasts, the left one a bit larger than the right, he thought. She went back to the bathroom, came back a moment later without underpants. Koop was sweating, watched her digging something out of a dresser drawer—a towel? He couldn’t quite tell. She disappeared again.
This time she didn’t come back right away. Koop, feverish, heart pounding, kept his eye to the scope so long that his neck began to hurt, while running through his mind the sight of her body. She was solid, and jiggled a little when she walked, not quite a roll at her waist, but a certain fullness; she had an excellent ass, again the way he liked them, solid, sizable. With a little jiggle.
Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10 Page 12
