“I’m not sure-it could go either way. I think he planned the theft with two other people he works with, from Hennepin National,” Lucas said. “He knew about the account, but didn’t move to steal from it until he got to Hennepin. He didn’t steal while he was at Polaris, as far as we know, and he didn’t start stealing until he’d been at Hennepin for quite a while. Didn’t even try to steal when he was unemployed, and he was out of work for months, which makes me think he didn’t have the back door then. Then he ran into these other people, at Hennepin. He’s lazy, he’s depressed, but somebody gave him a push.”
“I’d buy that,” ICE said. “I’ll tell you what-if that’s what happened, there won’t be any sign of it anymore. They’ll have taken everything out.”
“Shoot. You’re sure?”
“I would have. It wouldn’t be hard.”
When he got off the phone, Lucas spent some time thinking about Bone’s theory that the thieves were buying gold or diamonds-probably gold. If they were, they’d have to send it somewhere to be collected, and that would probably be the Twin Cities, simply because they were based there. They couldn’t just stick it in a suitcase and bring it on a plane. It’d be too heavy, and might bring questions from the TSA.
He didn’t know how gold was normally delivered, though he’d been told once that the post office would handle it via registered mail. The problem with the post office, from the police point of view, was that you had to jump through your ass to get any information about deliveries-they seemed to delight in making sure every legal technicality was observed before they’d cooperate with the cops.
But once a package was delivered, all he’d need was a search warrant. If Kline was taking deliveries…
He thought about that, looked at his watch again. Getting late, but fuck it, people were being killed. He went to his black book, got the number of Martin Clark, the head of Minneapolis Homicide-Homicide would have covered the Kline shooting-and called him.
When Clark came up, Lucas asked, “Are you done with the crime scene at the Kline shooting?”
“Pretty much,” Clark said. “Kline told us the story, and everything we saw jibed with what he said.”
“Get anything I need to know about?”
“Wasn’t much to get, other than a bunch of used-up slugs and brass,” Clark said. “From talking to Kline, we know the shooters weren’t in the apartment for more than a minute or two, and he thinks they were wearing gloves. So…”
“Could I get in there? Tonight?” Lucas asked.
“Ah, man…”
“Look, you don’t have to have anything to do with it,” Lucas said. “Get the watch guy downtown to get me the key. You got the key in an evidence locker?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll go on down and get it, and you can have a squad meet me at the door,” Lucas said. “The thing is, I talked to Kline, and I don’t like his story. I think he’s involved in the theft of this money from Polaris…. I just want to see the scene.”
After a moment, Clark said, “I’ll get you the key-but don’t get me in trouble.”
“I won’t,” Lucas promised. “I’ll be over at Homicide in twenty minutes, and over at Kline’s in forty-five. You get a squad down there, I’ll go in for ten minutes, and I’ll drop the key off when I get finished walking through.”
“Just leave the key with the uniform,” Clark said.
“Good with me,” Lucas said.
Lucas was at Homicide in fifteen minutes and signed for the key. Back on the street, he drove as quickly as he could to an all-night convenience store in North Minneapolis, known for its burglary support services, walked through to the back and got a once-and-future convict named Kevin to make a duplicate key for him.
“I keep losing mine,” he said.
“They all say that,” Kevin said.
By the time Lucas got to Kline’s apartment building, it was after eleven o’clock, and the building was mostly dark, and quiet. A cop was sitting out front, in his squad, the engine running and the internal light on, reading a hard-cover comic.
“Nice night,” he said, as Lucas walked up, after parking the Porsche.
“Not bad,” Lucas agreed.
Kline’s apartment was the first one at the top of the landing. Lucas pulled off a piece of crime-scene tape, let himself in, turned on the lights, put his hands in his pockets, and walked through the place.
The uniform said, “Stinks.”
Lucas spent fifteen minutes inside, looking at bullet holes, looking at angles. Finally he said, “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe he’s telling the truth. It sort of looks like he’s telling the truth. Problem is, nobody saw the supposed Mexicans.”
The cop shrugged. “He got shot, and they don’t have a gun, right? Seems pretty straightforward.”
“Nothing is straightforward in this,” Lucas said. He took a last look around. “Okay. I’m done.”
Outside, he passed the key to the cop and said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d sign it back in as quick as you could. Your boss didn’t like the whole idea.”
“I’ll do that,” the cop said.
Lucas sat in his car, his cell phone up to his face, faking a conversation, until the cop pulled away and a half dozen cars were between them. Then Lucas did a U-turn and followed, until he was sure the cop was headed downtown.
Five minutes later, he was back at Kline’s door. He used the new key to unlock it, pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and began searching the place.
He needed, specifically, a stash of coins, or a discarded envelope or package wrapping that would connect him to a gold dealer, or anything that could suggest a conspiracy with Turicek and Sanderson.
The apartment was small and shabby, smelling of spaghetti sauce overlain with the scent of human waste and blood; there was minimal cooking gear, three large bookcases full of paperback books and DVDs, an oversized TV with a game console hooked to it. The floor was littered with medical detritus, the paper and plastic packaging for bandages and syringes and whatever. Though he went through each cupboard and drawer, rolled and poked the mattress, looked in the toilet tank, and even removed every electric-outlet cover plate-took his time-he came up empty.
Then, in a military-styled shirt-jac, the kind with zippers on the sleeve, he found a cheap cell phone. He brought it up, looked at the call log, found dozens of incoming and outgoing calls, but only to three numbers. He took the numbers down and put the phone back.
When he finished the general search, he sat at Kline’s desk, going through the paper around the Mac Tower, and found a lot of litter and cryptic notes of the same kind Lucas had on his own desk. He turned on the computer and was asked for a password. He took out his notebook and looked up the password he’d found on the back of the Sirius Satellite Radio card, and typed it in: 6rattata6.
The computer shook him off, and he closed it down and turned away from the desk for a last look around the place.
There were two big framed posters on the wall opposite the desk, each showing multiple images of Japanese cartoon characters. He hadn’t looked behind them, so he looked behind them and found the back side of posters. When he was straightening the second one, his eye caught a caption with the word
He looked closer. The posters were composites of favorite cartoon characters, if
He went back to the computer and brought it up and it occurred to him that most people didn’t have large
