pen with one at the Como Park Zoo.
“Do I need a lawyer?” he asked Liska again.
“Why would you need a lawyer, Gil? You haven't done anything wrong that I know of. You're not under arrest. But if you think you need one . . .”
He looked between the two detectives, trying to figure out if this was some kind of trick.
“I'm sorry,” Kovac said as he pulled a chair out at the end of the table and sat down. Shaking his head, he fished a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, lit it, and took a long drag.
“I've had about three hours of sleep all week,” he said on a breath of smoke. “I've just come from one of the worst autopsies I've seen in years.” He shook his head and stared at the table. “What was done to this woman —”
He let the silence drag, smoking his cigarette as if they were all in the break room taking their fifteen minutes away from the desk. Finally, he stubbed it out on the sole of his shoe and dropped the butt in an empty coffee cup. He rubbed his hands over his face and combed his mustache with his thumbs.
“Where is it you're living now, Gil?” he asked.
“On Lyndale—”
“No. I mean this friend you're house-sitting for. Where is that?”
“Over by Lake Harriet.”
“We'll need an address. Give it to Nikki here before you go. How long you been doing that—house- sitting?”
“Off and on. The guy travels a lot.”
“What's he do?”
“He imports electronics and sells them over the Internet. Computers and stereos, and stuff like that.”
“So why don't you just bunk in with him all the time and dump the apartment?”
“He's got a girlfriend. She lives with him.”
“She there now?”
“No. She travels with him.”
“So, how about you, Gil? You seeing anybody?”
“No.”
“No? You been separated for a while. A man has needs.”
Liska made a sound of disgust. “Like you think a woman doesn't?”
Kovac gave her a perturbed look. “Tinks, your needs are common knowledge. Would you pretend for a minute you're not liberated and go get us some more water? It's hotter than hell in here.”
“I don't mind the heat,” she said. “But the way you smell could turn the stomach of a sewer rat. Jeez, Sam.”
“Just get the water.”
He shrugged out of his suit jacket and let it fall inside out over the back of his chair as Liska left grumbling. Vanlees watched her go, unhappy.
“Sorry about the stink,” Kovac said. “You ever wanted to know what a charred dead body smells like, now's your chance. Breathe deep.”
Vanlees just looked at him.
“So, you never answered my question, Gil. Do you pay for it? You like hookers? You see a lot of them around where you work. Pay them enough, you can do what you like. Some of them will even let you knock 'em around a little, if you're into that. Tie them down, stuff like that.”
“Detective Liska said you wanted to talk to me about Ms. Bondurant,” Vanlees said stiffly. “I don't know anything about those other murders.”
Kovac paused, rolling up his shirtsleeves and gave him the cop stare. “But you know something about Jillian's murder?”
“No! That's not what I meant.”
“What
“Just how she was around the Edgewater, that's all. My take on her. Like that.”
Kovac nodded and sat back. “So how was she? She ever come on to you?”
“No! She mostly kept her head down, didn't talk much.”
“She didn't talk to anyone or she didn't talk to you? Maybe she didn't like the way you watched her, Gil,” he said, poking once again at the sore spot.
Sweat beaded on Vanlees's forehead. “I didn't watch her.”
“Did you flirt with her? Come on to her?”
“No.”
“You had a key to her place. You ever go in there when she wasn't around?”
“No!” The denial did not come with eye contact.
Kovac went for another of Quinn's hunches. “Ever dig through her panty drawer, maybe take a souvenir?”
“No!” Vanlees shoved his chair back from the table and got to his feet. “I don't like this. I came in here to help you. You shouldn't treat me like this.”
“So help me, Gil,” Kovac said with a nonchalant shrug. “Give me something I can use. You ever see a boyfriend hanging around her place?”
“No. Just that friend of hers—Michele. And her father. He came over sometimes. He owns her place, you know.”
“Yeah, I suppose. The guy's as rich as Rockefeller. You ever think maybe this deal with Jillian was a kidnapping? Someone wanting to tap in to the father lode, so to speak? You ever see any suspicious characters hanging around, scoping out the place?”
“No.”
“And you've been hanging around enough to notice, isn't that right?”
“I work there.”
“Not exactly, but what the hay—saying so gives you just cause to be there, check out the various apartments, maybe do a little lingerie shopping.”
Purple in the face, Vanlees declared, “I'm leaving now.”
“But we've barely started,” Kovac protested.
The door swung open again and Liska came in with the water. Quinn held the door and came in behind her. In contrast to Kovac, he looked crisp and fresh except for the dark circles under his eyes and the lines etched deep beside them. His face was a hard, emotionless mask. He took a paper cup from Liska, filled it with water, and drank it down slowly before he said a word. Vanlees's gaze was on him the whole time.
“Mr. Vanlees, John Quinn, FBI,” he said, holding out his hand.
Vanlees was quick to accept the gesture. His hand was wide and clammy with stubby fingers. “I've read about you. It's an honor to meet you.”
He took his seat again as Quinn went to the chair directly across from him. Quinn slipped his dark suit jacket off and hung it neatly on the back of the chair. He smoothed his gray silk tie as he sat down.
“You know a little about me, do you, Mr. Vanlees?”
“Yeah. Some.”
“Then you probably have some idea how my mind works,” Quinn said. “You probably know what conclusion I might draw looking at the history of a man who wanted to be a cop but couldn't cut it, a man with a history of window peeping and fetish burglary—”
Vanlees's face dropped. “I'm not—I didn't—”
Liska picked up the Polaroid camera sitting on the table and quickly took his picture.
Vanlees jumped as the flash went off. “Hey!”
“A man whose wife has evicted him and criticizes his sexual abilities,” Quinn went on.
“What? She said what?” Vanlees sputtered. His expression now was a mix of torment and embarrassment and disbelief. A man caught awake in a nightmare. He came out of the chair once more to pace. Circles of sweat ringed the armpits of his dark shirt. “I can't believe this!”
“You knew Jillian Bondurant,” Quinn went on without emotion. “You were watching her.”
