‘‘So it was pretty much street talk about the fourth one.’’
‘‘There was something else too—the first three were all up there in the colored section. But the last guy was down on Grand Avenue. You look on a map, it looks pretty close, but you don’t see many blacks over there. Not walking on the street—especially not then, not as tight as everybody was about the first three shootings. And there’s Wylie’s Market used to be over there. You remember Wylie’s?’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘They had a surveillance camera in the back of the store, looking at the cashier’s cage and the front door, get people’s faces coming in. Anyway, on the film, you can see the street through the window, and we picked out Arris strolling down the street, just a minute or so before he was shot. But there weren’t any blacks, either before or after.’’
‘‘Huh. Is the tape still around?’’
‘‘Yeah, someplace. Since the case is still open . . .’’ ‘‘Did you ever look at the people around Arris? Friends and coworkers?’’
‘‘Oh, sure. Went over to that bank where he worked, came up empty. He’d been dating a few women, but hadn’t had anything serious in a couple of years. All he did was work: that’s what everybody said. Wasn’t interested in pussy, gambling, booze. Just interested in work.’’
‘‘Huh. And he was dead when they found him.’’
‘‘Yup. Never knew what hit him. Probably never saw it coming. Entry wound right below the bump on the back of his head, exit wound right between his eyes.’’
‘‘Exit wound? So how’d you know it was a .380—was there a shell?’’
‘‘Yeah, we found it in the grass next to the curb. There was a partial print, but really partial—not enough even to start looking for a match.’’
‘‘Slug fragments?’’
‘‘Yeah, one piece. Hollow point of some kind, nothing that would identify a pistol.’’
‘‘Not much of anything, then.’’
‘‘Nope. Listen, if you want, I’ll call Doug Skelly over in St. Paul and get him to run down that tape for you.’’
‘‘Thanks, Jelly. Wish you were still on the job.’’
‘‘Wish I was too, man. I hate this fuckin’ place.’’
THE FILE ON ANDREW INGALL CONSISTED OF ONE sheet: His boat had been reported missing on Superior on a clear, fine day with good sailing winds. The Coast Guard, the Civil Air Patrol, and the local sheriff’s departments in adjacent Minnesota and Wisconsin counties had done a search. Nothing was ever found, not even a life jacket.
An address and phone number were listed in the town of North Oaks. Lucas punched the number in, got an answering machine, a woman’s voice. He hung up, dialed Dispatch, had them check the cross-reference index for numbers on both sides of that address, dialed the first one.
‘‘Hello?’’ Another woman.
‘‘Yes, my name is Lucas Davenport and I’m with the Minneapolis Police Department. I’m trying to get in touch with Annette Ingall, but all I get at her home is an answering machine.’’
‘‘Oh my God, nothing happened to Toby?’’
‘‘No, no, I just need to talk to her about her husband. Do you know if she works? Where I could call her?’’
‘‘Well, she has a bridal wear boutique downtown . . .’’
THE BRIDAL SHOP WAS A BRISK TEN-MINUTE WALK from City Hall, among a cluster of boutiques on Marquette Avenue. Annette Ingall was a tall woman with auburn hair and pale blue eyes; motherly, Lucas thought later, though she was probably five years younger than he was. She did a smiling double take when he walked into the store, and when a clerk came over and he asked for her, she said, ‘‘That would be me. Can I help you?’’
He stepped closer and pitched his voice down: ‘‘I need to talk to you privately for a moment. I’m with the Minneapolis Police Department—nothing happened with your boy, it’s a completely different matter.’’
Her hand went to her throat as the smile died on her face. ‘‘How do you know about my son?’’
‘‘Because I called one of your neighbors to find you, and she said, ‘Oh my God, nothing happened to Toby?’ ’’
‘‘Oh. Okay.’’ The smile flickered back. ‘‘Why don’t you come back to my office.’’
Ingall led the way through a door into the back of the store, to a small office cubicle that stuck out into a stockstorage area. There were two chairs inside, and she sat behind her desk and crossed her legs.
Lucas sat down and said, ‘‘I’m investigating the death of Daniel Kresge.’’
‘‘Yes? I read about it.’’
Lucas picked up the tone. ‘‘You didn’t like him?’’
‘‘No. Not especially. He once made a pretty heavy pass at me, when he and his wife were still together. This was after my husband died, and I was feeling pretty vulnerable.’’
Lucas nodded: ‘‘I’m actually here because I want to know more about your husband. I have an abstract of a Douglas County file about his disappearance, but there’s not much in it.’’
‘‘There wasn’t much to say.’’ Her lower lip trembled as she said it; she was twisting a ring on her finger, and Lucas noticed that it was a wedding ring. ‘‘He just got on the boat and vanished.’’
‘‘But there isn’t any doubt that the boat sank?’’ Lucas asked.
‘‘What? Have you found out something?’’
‘‘No-no-no. Just . . . your tone of voice.’’
‘‘Well . . .’’ Again, the trembling lip. ‘‘It’s been almost impossible to put this behind me, because nothing was ever found. No body, no boat debris, nothing. After he disappeared, all kinds of inspectors went to the bank, and they came and questioned me to make sure he hadn’t taken off with some money. I mean, every time I get a phone call at home that I’m not expecting, I halfway think it’s going to be his voice.’’
‘‘But you really think the boat sank.’’
‘‘Yes.’’ She nodded firmly. ‘‘In fact, I even think I know what happened. Do you sail, Mr. Davenport?’’
‘‘I have. I’m not particularly good at it.’’ Weather was a sailing fanatic, as her father had been, and they’d gone out almost every warm weekend, and for a long two weeks in the Caribbean.
‘‘When a boat goes down, there’s almost always lots of debris,’’ Ingall said. ‘‘You know the enormous amount of stuff sailors carry around with them—books and logs and guides and all kinds of paper. Andy had even more of it than most people. Business papers and references and so on. Plus the boat had a lot of wood. So if it had blown up, like some people thought, they’d have found something . But they didn’t find anything. So you know what I think?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘What I think is, it was a cool day, and Andy had the autopilot on and he’d gone below. While he was down there . . . the keel fell off,’’ she said.
‘‘The keel?’’
‘‘Yes. The keel on our boat was about four thousand pounds of lead, held in place with four huge steel bolts. You normally couldn’t even see the bolts, without pulling up parts of the sole—the flooring.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ He knew what a sole was.
‘‘Anyway, I think the nuts worked off the bolts, from vibration, and then, with some sudden strain, the keel simply fell off,’’ she said. ‘‘If that happened, the boat would have turned turtle just instantly, and water would have started pouring down the companionway and the whole thing would have sunk in a minute or two. There are cases known like this. They’re rare, but it sort of explains everything. There wouldn’t have been time for life jackets or anything, and the inflow of water would have kept everything inside. It would’ve been just . . . glug.’’
‘‘But that’s a rare thing.’’
‘‘Yes—but.’’
‘‘But.’’
‘‘We kept the boat in Superior, and there’s this old guy up there who pretty much lives on his boat. Not technically, because they don’t allow that,
but he’s around day and night. When I was up there during the search, he told me that Andy’d had somebody working on the boat the night before he disappeared. He didn’t pay much attention, but he said he’d noticed the guy had pulled up the sole and stuck it in the cockpit, out of the way of whatever he was doing. He assumed the guy was working on the plumbing, but he could have been working on the bolts. Maybe there was something wrong with them. Or maybe he did something that messed them up.’’
‘‘Huh. Was your husband there that day? When the work was being done?’’
‘‘No, not that day.’’
‘‘Did he often hire people to do work when he wasn’t there?’’
‘‘From time to time. I mean, good boat-repair people are like plumbers or electricians. They’ll schedule you for some work, but something happens on another job and it gets stretched out, or they get free earlier than they think. So lots of times we’d just give them the key and the go-ahead to do the work whenever they could get there.’’
‘‘Did you know that work was being done?’’
‘‘No. But sometimes he didn’t tell me. The boat was more Andy’s thing than mine.’’
‘‘Did anybody ever talk to the guy who did the work?’’
‘‘Nope. We looked around, but nobody ever figured out who it was. We had a guy we’d used quite a bit, but he said he didn’t know anything about it. And nobody ever really saw the guy doing the work. He did it in the evening, mostly after dark. And he wasn’t there very long—so that made me think it wasn’t the plumbing, which would take a while. The only thing I could think of that you’d pull up the sole for, and wouldn’t take long, would be the bolts.’’
‘‘Look,’’ Lucas said, ‘‘I don’t want to upset you, but . . . was there any possibility of suicide?’’
‘‘No.’’ She said it positively.
Lucas said, ‘‘Okay.’’
‘‘Andy was a happy guy,’’ she said. ‘‘He was doing great in his job, he was up for a promotion, we were talking about putting a big garden in behind the house, we were talking about another child. I was supposed to bring Toby up to the islands the next day, and we were all going sailing, and Toby was all excited . . . No. He didn’t commit suicide. And he didn’t take off with any money or anything. He was just a heck of a good guy and well adjusted and his folks are nice and my folks liked him and they liked him at the bank . . .’’
‘‘This promotion,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Who got it? After he died.’’
‘‘Well . . . Wilson McDonald.’’
‘‘Would Andy have gotten the promotion if he hadn’t died? For sure?’’
‘‘ He thought so. He said he’d aced Wilson out of the slot. I mean, it’s never for sure until it’s done, and Wilson has all those family connections . . . Why?’’
‘‘We’re just trying to run down all possibilities,’’ Lucas said vaguely.
She was too smart for that. One hand went to her throat and she leaned toward him and said, ‘‘Oh my God, do you think Wilson McDonald killed Andy to get promoted, and then shot Dan Kresge? He got Dan’s job, didn’t he?’’
‘‘Temporarily. There seems to be some doubt about it in the long run . . .’’
She pointed a finger at him, excited: ‘‘Do you know about George Arris?’’
‘‘Yes . . .’’
‘‘Wilson got his promotion too.’’
‘‘I haven’t been able to establish that. Not clearly.’’ ‘‘Believe me, George would have gotten the job. My God, this never occurred to me,’’ she said. She pushed the palm of her hand against her forehead. ‘‘How could I have missed it? It’s so obvious.’’
‘‘There’s probably nothing to it,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘Oh, bull . . . feathers, Mr. Davenport. Three people dead and Wilson gets all the promotions? My God, he murdered Andy!’’
‘‘No-no-no. There’s no evidence of that at all.’’
‘‘Then why’d you bring it up?’’
‘‘Because I’m checking everything . . .’’
‘‘Wilson McDonald,’’ she marveled. ‘‘Who would’ve thought.’’
‘‘Please, Mrs. Ingall . . .’’
He halfheartedly tried to talk her out of the sudden conviction that Wilson McDonald had killed her husband; then said goodbye.
He was out the door and on the sidewalk when she called after him: ‘‘Mr. Davenport?’’
‘‘Yes?’’ He turned and she came down the walk to him.
‘‘If this was murder—just say it was, that somebody loosened up the bolts on the keel, okay? They couldn’t have taken them all the way off, because then the only thing that would be holding it on would be some adhesive and sealer. Then, with a good bump, the keel might have fallen off in the harbor.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘So they had to leave the bolts partway on, expecting them to work off, which they eventually would have. But they couldn’t know when . Toby and I usually went up with Andy, so whoever it was . . . wasn’t just killing Andy,’’ she said. ‘‘If Andy’d made the islands, we’d have been on the boat the next day, and it might’ve fallen off with us aboard. This guy, whoever it is—he was willing to kill all three of us.’’
LUCAS HAD LAST SEEN SHERRILL WHEN SHE LEFT TO pick up Bonnie Bonet, Robles’s friend. When he got back, Sherrill and a uniformed cop were marching a young woman down the hall, her hands cuffed behind her back. Lucas caught up with them, said, ‘‘Bonet?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Sherrill said.
Bonet snarled, ‘‘Who the fuck are you?’’
‘‘Sit her down in Homicide,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I’ll be there in a minute.’’
‘‘She wants an attorney,’’ Sherrill said.
‘‘Got any money?’’ Lucas asked.
Bonet shook her head defiantly. ‘‘No. You gotta appoint one.’’
Lucas nodded: ‘‘So call the public defender,’’ he told Sherrill. ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’
He dumped his coat and the file on Ingall in his office, and made a quick call: ‘‘I want everything we can find on Wilson McDonald. Everything.’’
BACK AT HOMICIDE, BONET WAS SITTING NEXT TO Sherrill’s desk, while the uniformed cop lounged at another desk between her and the door. She’d been uncuffed and Sherrill was scratching notes on a legal pad.
When Lucas walked in, Bonet looked up and said, ‘‘I want the attorney. I’m not answering any questions without an attorney.’’
‘‘I called. Somebody’s walking over,’’ Sherrill said.
‘‘I’m not going to ask you a question, Ms. Bonet,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I’m gonna make a little speech. Mr. Robles says you told him you shot Daniel Kresge because you thought Kresge was setting up a bank merger and your mother would lose her job. But he says he really doesn’t think you shot him, that you’re making a grandstand play, because you like the attention. For the experience of it. To fuck us over. Do you know the first thing that will happen when the word of your arrest gets out? The bank’s gonna fire your mother.’’
Bonet, naturally pale, went a shade paler. ‘‘They can’t do that. That’s discrimination . . .’’
Lucas was shaking his head: ‘‘No. There’s no union at the bank. They can fire her f or any reason they want, as long as the firing isn’t illegal—because of race or religion or like that. If her daughter is accused of murdering the bank president on her behalf . . . you think that’s not a reason? I’ll tell you what: Your mother’s gonna be on the sidewalk in about half an hour, as soon as the Star-Tribune guy checks out the day’s arrest reports. And they check every couple of hours.’’
Bonet looked at Sherrill, who nodded, then back at Lucas. ‘‘But I didn’t shoot him,’’ she blurted.
Sherrill dropped her pencil and said, ‘‘Oh, shit.’’
Lucas said, ‘‘Again, I’m not going to ask you any questions, but I’ll say this: If there’s anything that would prove that you didn’t shoot him, this w
ould be a good time to mention it.’’
‘‘Friday night,’’ Bonet said. ‘‘I was at a friend’s house until almost four in the morning, we were on-line, gaming.’’
‘‘How many people?’’ Lucas asked.
‘‘Four . . . three besides me.’’
‘‘She’d still have time to drive up there,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘It’d be tight,’’ Sherrill said.
‘‘But she could make it,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘I didn’t shoot anybody,’’ Bonet wailed. ‘‘I don’t even know where the asshole lived.’’
‘‘You were never up there?’’
‘‘Never. Why would I be?’’
‘‘After you left your friends, you went right home? Did you see anybody who knew you?’’
‘‘No . . . Well, I bought some Pepsi at the gas station, but they don’t know me there. Maybe they’d remember me.’’
‘‘What gas station?’’
‘‘It’s an Amoco down off 494, like 494 and France.’’
‘‘Did you pay with cash or a credit card?’’
‘‘Credit card!’’ Her face brightened. ‘‘The goddamn credit slip has the time and location on it. And it comes on my statement—I bet you can call Amoco and find out.’’
Lucas nodded and said, ‘‘Why’n the hell did you tell Robles that you shot McDonald?’’
‘‘Just to jerk his chain,’’ Bonet said. ‘‘He called me up and he pretended to be all freaking out and worried, and the next thing I know, he’s turned me in.’’
‘‘He pretended to be freaking out?’’
‘‘Yeah. Pretended. He’s a cold fish,’’ Bonet said. ‘‘I’ll tell you what, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it, and he deliberately set me up with that talk on the ’net about how to kill McDonald. I mean, he started it, I didn’t. And then he fed me to you.’’
‘‘Why do you think he might have done it?’’ Sherrill asked.
‘‘Because of the way he plays with guns all the time,’’ she said. ‘‘I think if you pretend to be killing people long enough, pretty soon you want to try it. Don’t you think?’’
Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10 Page 110
