‘‘That’s your problem, thank God,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Go over and talk to Towson or one of his guys, see what they want to do.’’
‘‘They want it to go away,’’ Del said. ‘‘So does Rose Marie. Nobody wants to deal with it. I don’t want to deal with it anymore. Hell, I’m going on vacation in two weeks. I’m finally getting my shot at Cancu
´n. But now these old ladies, they want something done.’’
‘‘Why? Tell them to keep their mouths shut, and everybody’ll forget it,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘They’re not thinking that way. They’ve all been getting together in these fuckin’ . . . covens. They think they’ve got to pay their debt to society,’’ Del said morosely.
‘‘Jesus. Well, you asked for it,’’ Lucas said brightly. ‘‘I feel for you, pal. But when that doc told you about it, you coulda walked away.’’
‘‘Ah, man, you gotta find a way to help.’’
‘‘Not me.’’ Lucas laughed, and thought, My God, I think I just chortled . ‘‘I’m not Narcotics. Go talk to the guys down there.’’
‘‘They treat me like I got the plague . . .’’
‘‘That’s ’cause you got the plague,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I don’t want to hear about it.’’
‘‘Fuck me,’’ Del said, moodily. ‘‘I wasn’t cut out for this.’’
Lucas laughed again, said, ‘‘Nobody is. Sixty old ladies? Is that what it is? You poor fuck. You’re dead meat.’’
Del looked at his watch. ‘‘That lab report is about due.’’
‘‘Let’s get back,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘You think you got her?’’
‘‘It’s almost too much to hope for,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘When Helen said she had a hair sample, my teeth almost fell out.’’
LUCAS HAD A MESSAGE WHEN HE GOT BACK: ‘‘CALL DAVIS.’’ Davis Ericson worked in the state crime lab. He punched in the number, and Ericson picked up.
‘‘What’d you get?’’
‘‘Lucas. Tell you what, I’ve never seen this before. Not in real life.’’
‘‘What? You got arsenic?’’
‘‘The hair is stiff with it,’’ Ericson said. ‘‘She must’ve been eating it for a month before she croaked.’’
‘‘Goddamnit, Davis.’’
LUCAS PUNCHED IN THE COUNTY ATTORNEY’S NUMBER, waited for three minutes, and Kirk, the chief of the criminal division, picked up. Lucas explained about the lock of hair.
‘‘If Helen can swear that it came from her mother, then that might do it,’’ Kirk said.
‘‘That’s where Helen says it comes from.’’
‘‘Give me her name and address. We’ll set up an appointment for a deposition.’’
‘‘What about Audrey?’’
‘‘Easiest way to do it is, we’ll talk to the judge, and have bail revoked on the killing of her husband. And then before tomorrow’s bail hearing, we’d get an arrest affidavit put together on her mother, and arrest her on that. Maybe boost the charge on her husband to first degree.’’
‘‘So how long is that gonna take? The bail revocation?’’
‘‘Mmm . . . we’ll have to get some stuff in writing. If you’ll set out the circumstances of obtaining the hair sample, and describe the lab test—just in general terms—and walk it over here, I’ll have a secretary put together an affidavit and we’ll have the judge sign it this afternoon. If you can get your memo over here in an hour, we’ll have it done by the end of the day.’’
‘‘And then we pick her up.’’
‘‘Yup. We could have her inside for supper.’’
‘‘Excellent,’’ Lucas said.
AUDREY HAD BEEN UP MOST OF THE NIGHT, PACKING. She wanted to have it done in case she was rearrested, so that Wilson’s clothing wouldn’t still be hanging in the closets when she got back. She was eradicating the sight of him.
And she would probably be rearrested, she thought. If Davenport really had that hair, he would probably be coming for her in the next day or two. How long would a lab take? She had no idea. But she was certain it couldn’t be done before nine o’clock in the morning.
By seven-thirty, with four hours out for sleep, she was done with the packing. After a last quick check around, she hauled the boxes down to the front entry, and stacked them. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, she went to the library, fired up the computer, brought up Word, and wrote for half an hour, editing and reediting as she worked. Satisfied, she dumped the document to a floppy disk, put it in her purse.
At nine o’clock, she was out of the house.
THE GOLD BUG WAS A CUSTOM JEWELRY BOUTIQUEON the south side of Minneapolis. A half-dozen craftsmen worked out of a small common smelting area, with actual fabrication of jewelry done in separate shops on a wing off the smelting area. She’d been there once before, with a ladies’ tour group from the country club, to look at gold jewelry and how it was made.
She hadn’t bought any gold, but she’d found the tour interesting.
A tall, bony redheaded woman was working at the desk, looked up and said a cheery ‘‘Hello’’ as Audrey tentatively poked her nose through the door.
‘‘Hello. Are the shops open?’’
‘‘Sure. Go on down. Do you know . . . ?’’
‘‘Yes. I’ve been here before.’’
Audrey scuttled away down the wing, walked past the open fire door that led to the smelting area, slowed, looked inside. A sign beside the door said, ‘‘Please come in and watch; but please be quiet.’’
One man was working at an exhaust hood; three other hoods were vacant. He looked up, focused on her.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she said. ‘‘Is it . . . okay?’’
‘‘Sure. Come on in. I’m just smelting a little gold, here.’’ She walked in with her purse clutched in front of her, an old lady. She’d have to work on this image, a little, she thought. If she got in the newspapers, perhaps she should look younger . . .
The goldsmith had gone back to his work, a small crucible that he worked with a torch; she couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but didn’t particularly care. She wasn’t interested in goldwork. With her eyes fixed on the torch, she drifted to another one of the exhaust hoods. The table beside it was empty. Goddamnit. She passed behind him, now looking around at the equipment, then turned so she could watch him from the other side. He was vaguely aware of her, she thought, but he was used to being watched, and paid no real attention.
She moved up to the next exhaust hood, and saw the bottle.
That was it. She stood next to the table, and when he momentarily turned away, his back more toward her, she reached carefully out, picked it up, and slipped it into her coat pocket. It was small, no bigger than a shotgun shell or an old iodine bottle. With the bottle in her hand, she moved closer to him.
‘‘Very interesting,’’ she said finally, as he finished a small pour into what looked like a lump of plaster.
‘‘Simple enough, after you’ve done it awhile,’’ he said.
She had no idea of what was going on, said, ‘‘Thank you,’’ and still looking carefully around the smelting room, drifted out the door. She stopped at two of the shops, looking at their small display cases. Then, glancing at her watch—it was already past ten o’clock—she headed for the door.
‘‘Have a nice day,’’ the redhead said, as she left.
You betcha .
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, AFTER A QUICK STOP AT A drugstore to buy a pack of razor blades, she fixed the pill in the parking lot of a Burger King. First, she took one of the Prozac capsules she’d gotten from Helen, carefully pulled the cap apart, spilled the drug into the palm of her hand and flicked it out the car window. Then she took out the bottle she’d stolen from the Gold Bug and looked at it. The simple label said, CAUTION , and below that, in small letters, Sodium Cyanide . And below that, Poison: If ingested, get physician’s help immediately. For industrial use only .
When the club lad
ies had visited the gold workshop, one of the goldsmiths had joked about using the cyanide to purify recycled gold. The same stuff Hitler’s boys had used to kill themselves, he’d said. She hadn’t known exactly what he was talking about—purifying the gold—but she remembered what he’d said about Hitler’s boys.
The cyanide was an off-white powder, innocent enough. She poured a little on the sandwich box, cut it up with the razor blade, then carefully refilled the Prozac cap with the cyanide. Then she slipped the top back on the cap: not bad. If you looked at it closely, it wasn’t quite right. But who looked at pills that closely?
She wrapped the pill in a napkin and put it on the car seat; the sandwich box she carried to a trash can and pushed it inside. A pay phone hung on the wall just inside the Burger King door, and she went in and dialed Helen’s number. Helen should be working, Connie should be at school. No answer. As a double check, she got the number of the auto parts place from directory assistance, called, and asked for Helen. Helen answered a second later, and Audrey clicked off as soon as she recognized her sister’s voice.
Helen’s house was no more than ten minutes away. If she tried to do something subtle, to sneak in, she’d probably draw more attention in the neighborhood than if she barged right in. She parked on the street, waited until she could see no one on the sidewalk, then hurried up the walk, through the outer porch, and rang the doorbell. No answer. She leaned on it the next time, ringing for a solid minute. Nothing.
Good.
She took her keys from her purse, found the key for Helen’s house, opened the door and went inside. The house was deathly quiet. She went straight through to Helen’s bedroom, to the corner where she kept her computer. Switched it on, took the floppy disk from her pocket, went to the My Documents folder. Helen had written a note to herself two months earlier, but the computer would update the time to show the last entry. Audrey slipped the floppy in the drive, brought up the text she’d written that morning, pasted it into the earlier note. Then she cut the text of the note itself, and checked her work.
If I die . . . the note began.
I’m sorry about everything! I killed those people, not Audrey! But Audrey was my only support, and I had to do something if Wilson was going to move up at the bank! If Wilson had lost his job all those years ago, what would have happened to Connie and me? Without the money from Audrey, we would have been on the street! My former ‘‘husband’’ is good for NOTHING!!! But I didn’t kill Mr. Kresge! I think that must have been an accident! And Chief Davenport, if somebody shows this to you, yes, I called you. I could no longer stand the way Wilson was treating Audrey! I was afraid he would kill her! I thought you would do an investigation and his treatment of her would come out and nobody would ever know it was me that called you, and Audrey could keep helping me, because now, if they got divorced, she’d get all kinds of money! Connie—I love you. You go stay with your aunt Audrey, because she really loves you. I’m sorry for all of this!!
And at the bottom of the note, she’d left all the fragments of sentences that she’d pushed while editing: I fearedilling heraaacidentkill treeting Wil;slonMisterKresgeWithout money I got from Audrey .
It would, she hoped, look like a practice note; she was especially proud of all the exclamation points. Helen used them everywhere, as though they were periods.
She closed the file, shut down the machine, put the disk in her purse, and headed for the bedroom. Helen carried a pill case with a chiming clock to remind her to take the pills; she took one at noon every day. The Prozac bottle itself she kept in the bedroom, in her bureau drawer. Audrey found the bottle, unscrewed the top, looked inside. A dozen pills. Carefully unwrapping the cyanide pill in the napkin, she let it drop on top of the pills in the bottle, and replaced the bottle, shut the drawer.
Out of the house: she’d been inside no more than ten minutes, she thought. As she drove away, she moved in the car seat and felt the cyanide bottle in her pocket. She should ditch it somewhere, she thought. But she liked the idea of it. A bottle of death. She thought about it for a while, then stopped in a park, where a thin shell of woods surrounded a small drainage lake. She stepped just inside the tree line, picked out a good-sized oak, walked over to it and sat down. Probed the ground with her car key: Damn. Frozen.
She looked around, spotted a culvert protruding from the edge of an embankment. She walked over to it, pushed the bottle well under the culvert. The bottle should be safe for years, she thought. Did cold weather affect cyanide? She had no idea.
Now , she thought, standing up.
Where are you, Davenport?
THIRTY-TWO
TWO UNIFORMED COPS WITH A WARRANT STOPPED by the McDonald house at four o’clock, and found it empty. Audrey McDonald’s car license-plate number was put on the air, along with a description. She was eating at Baker’s Square Restaurant, having waited impatiently all afternoon. Two cops went by while she was inside, but she missed them all going back home. At seven, the uniformed cops swung by her house again, and saw lights.
Audrey McDonald came to the door.
SHERRILL CALLED: ‘‘WE’RE SUPPOSED TO GO OUT TO dinner tonight.’’
‘‘Damn it, I’m sorry—but we’re busting Audrey Mc-Donald right now,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘All right. Tomorrow for sure.’’
‘‘Tomorrow.’’
AUDREY WAS PROCESSED THROUGHTHE COUNTYJAIL, then taken to an interview room to wait for her attorney.
J. B. Glass arrived a half hour later, a little white wine under his belt. He found Lucas waiting outside the interview room with Sloan, and said, ‘‘What the hell happened?’’
‘‘Your client’s a serial killer,’’ Sloan said laconically.
‘‘What, Sugar Pops or shredded wheat?’’ Glass said.
‘‘Her mother and father for starters,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘You’re really telling me I’ve got a millionaire client who might be a serial killer?’’ Glass asked in a hushed voice. He rolled his eyes to the heavens, the view toward which extended twenty-eight inches to the basement ceiling. ‘‘I don’t want to seem cynical, but . . . thank you, Jesus.’’
Then he was all business: ‘‘I want privacy with my client.’’
‘‘She’s in the room,’’ Lucas said.
‘‘Have you talked to her?’’
‘‘Nobody’s talked to her,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘She opened the door to her house and said, ‘I want my attorney.’ Nobody’s said a word to her since, except ‘Stand up, sit down, turn to the right.’ ’’
‘‘Good.’’ Glass nodded. ‘‘I’ll tell you, though, it’s gonna be a while before you can see her.’’
‘‘We can wait,’’ Lucas said.
THEY WAITED. GLASS TALKED TO HER FOR A HALF hour, asked Lucas if he could get a couple of cans of Diet Pepsi for them. Lucas walked through the dark hallways to a Pepsi machine, got two cans, walked back, passed them through the door.
‘‘Thanks,’’ Glass said, as he shut the door.
Another twenty minutes passed, and then Glass opened the door and said, ‘‘Come in.’’
Sloan led the way, carrying a portable tape recorder. Lucas nodded at Audrey. She fixed him for a moment with her cobra eyes, then broke off and looked down at the table. When Sloan was ready, and had a cassette running, he said, ‘‘This is a preliminary interview with Mrs. Audrey Mc-Donald, in the presence of her attorney, Jason Glass, conducted by Detectives Sloan and Davenport.’’
He ran the machine back to make sure it was working, replayed the statement, pushed record again, added the time and date, and turned to McDonald.
‘‘Mrs. McDonald, you have been rearrested after the revocation of your bail granted after the killing of your husband, Wilson McDonald . . . The bail revocation, however, is based on what we believe was the murder of your mother, Amelia Lamb.’’
‘‘I did no such thing. I loved my mother,’’ she said, calmly.
‘‘Mrs. McDonald, did you know that your sist
er saved a lock of your mother’s hair after she died?’’
‘‘Yes, I knew that.’’
‘‘We had the hair sample analyzed by the state crime laboratory, Mrs. McDonald, and the hair was found to contain amounts of arsenic which would be lethal to a human being.’’
‘‘I don’t know anything about that,’’ she said.
‘‘Um, do you know where she lived—Mrs. Lamb—at the time she died?’’ Glass asked Lucas.
‘‘In Lakeville.’’
‘‘Have the police inspected the house they lived in?’’
‘‘Not yet.’’
‘‘It was a very old house—you find arsenic all over the place in those old houses. It’s in the wallpaper, the paint, people used it all the time to spray for bugs. Mrs. Lamb may have had arsenic in her hair, but there’s no reason to think that my client put it there. In fact, she did not.’’
‘‘Did you get large insurance payments from both the death of your father and your mother, Mrs. McDonald?’’ Sloan asked.
‘‘She won’t answer that,’’ Glass said. He looked down at Audrey. ‘‘That’s something we’ve got to look into ourselves, before we start discussing it.’’
‘‘Did you use the insurance payments to put yourself through St. Anne’s, where you met Sister Mary Joseph?’’ Lucas asked.
Glass shook his head: ‘‘We’ll refuse to answer that.’’
‘‘We have gray duct tape from your house with only one set of fingerprints on it,’’ said Sloan. ‘‘The adhesive on the duct tape matches exactly adhesive taken off the door locks outside Susan O’Dell’s apartment. Did you put that tape there, Mrs. McDonald?’’
‘‘No, I did not.’’
The questioning went on for half an hour, Audrey growing more and more angry. Finally, she turned to Glass and said, ‘‘How much longer do we have to do this?’’
‘‘You want to stop now?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Then we’re done,’’ Glass said. To Sloan, ‘‘No more questions.’’ Sloan looked at Lucas, reached out to the recorder. Before he could turn it off, Audrey hissed at Lucas. ‘‘You think you’re so smart, but you just don’t understand anything.’’
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