Paul. Make that, cruelty to animals and littering.”
“Anything else?”
“Probably a few federal charges,” Lucas said. “We believe she may have been involved in murders in Chippewa Falls and Des Moines, as well as here in St. Paul, so that would be interstate flight, transportation of stolen goods, some firearms charges, et cetera.”
“Huh. Sounds like you don't have much of a case, all that bullshit and no arrest,” Wyzinsky said.
“We're nailing down the finer points,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, I got a nail for you right here,” Wyzinsky said. “How's Weather?”
“She's fine.”
“You guys going to Midsummer Ball?”
“If Weather makes me,” Lucas said. “I do look great in a tux.”
“So do I,” Wyzinsky said. “We ought to stand next to each other, and radiate on the women.”
“I could do that,” Lucas said.
“So-let me talk to her again,” Wyzinsky said. “Is it Widdler? And, Lucas-don't ask her any more questions, okay?”
Widdler took the phone, listened, said, “See you there, then.” She rang off and said to Lucas, “You two seemed pretty friendly.”
“We've known each other for a while,” Lucas said. “He's a good attorney.”
“He won't let friendship stand in the way of defending me?”
“He'd tear my ass off if he thought it'd help his case,” Lucas said. “Joe doesn't believe people should go to jail.”
“Especially when they're innocent,” she said. “By the way, he told me not to answer any more questions.”
Four cops were working through Widdler's house. Lucas suggested that she pack a suitcase, under the supervision of one of the crime-scene people, and move to a motel.
“We're not going to leave you alone in here, until we're finished. We can't take the chance that you might destroy something, or try to.”
“Can I use the bathroom?” she asked.
“If they're done with a bathroom,” Lucas said. “And Mrs. Widdler: don't try to leave the area. We're right on the edge of arresting you. If you go outside the 494-69 loop, we probably will.”
Wyzinsky showed up while Widdler was packing. He was short, stocky, and balding, with olive skin, black eyes, and big hands, and women liked him a lot. He was bullshitting a cop at the front driveway when Lucas saw him. Lucas stepped on the porch, whistled, and waved Wyzinsky in. The lawyer came up, grinning, rubbed his hands together. “This is gonna be good. Where is she?”
“Upstairs packing,” Lucas said. He led the way into the house. “Try not to destroy any evidence.”
“I'll be careful.”
Smith came over: “We thought she'd be happier if she moved out while we tear the place apart.”
Wyzinsky nodded: “You finished with any of the rooms yet? Something private?”
“The den.” Lucas pointed. Two big chairs and a wide-screen TV with French doors.
“I'll take her in there,” Wyzinsky said. To Smith, he said, “Jesus, John, you ought to eat the occasional pizza. What do you weigh, one-twenty?”
“Glad to know you care,” Smith said.
“Of course I care, you're nearly human,” the lawyer said. He looked around, doing an appraisal on the house; its value, not the architecture. He made no effort to hide his glee. “Man, this is gonna be good. A dog named Screw? Can you say, 'Hello, Fox News,' 'Hello, Court TV? Who's that blond chick on CNN who does the court stuff? The one with the glitter lipstick? Hel-lo, blondie.”
“In your dreams,” Smith said, but he was laughing, and he went to get Widdler.
Wyzinsky and Widdler were talking in the den when a cop came out of the home office: “You guys should come and look at this,” he said.
Smith: “What?”
“Looks like we have a suicide note. Or two. Or three.”
Eventually, they decided that there were either three or four suicide notes, depending on how you counted them. One was simply a note to Jane, telling her the status of investment accounts at U.S. Bank, Wells Fargo, and Vanguard, and noting that the second-quarter income-tax payments had all been made. Whether that was a suicide note, or not, depended on context.
The other three notes were more clearly about suicide: about depression, about growing trouble, about the unfairness of the world, about the sense of being hunted, about trying to find a solution that would work. One said, to Jane, “If I don't get back to you, I really loved you.”
Wyzinsky and Widdler talked for more than an hour, then Wyzinsky emerged from the den and said, “Mrs. Widdler has some information that she wants to volunteer. She says that she has to do it now, or it might not be useful. If any of this ever comes to a trial, I want it noted that she cooperated on this. That she was helping the investigation. I would like to make the point that she is not opening herself to a general interrogation, but is making a limited statement.”
“That's fine with me. We'll record it, if that's okay,” Lucas said.
“That's okay, though we don't really need it,” Wyzinsky said. “This isn't definitive evidentiary testimony, it's simply a point that she wishes to make, a suggestion.”
“Better to record,” Lucas said. “Just take a minute.”
They got a recorder from one of the crime-scene guys, and a fresh cassette, and set up in the den. Lucas turned it on, checked that it worked, started over, said his name, the date, time, and place of the recording, the names of the witnesses, and turned the show over to Widdler.
Jane Widdler said, “I understand that I'm suspected of being an accomplice to my husband in illegal activities. I deny all of that. However, to help the investigation, I believe that the police must watch Amity Anderson, who has had a romantic attachment to my husband since we were in college, and which I thought was finished. However, I was told by Agent Davenport today that Amity Anderson figures in this investigation.
I know Amity and I believe now that she is involved, and now that Leslie is… gone… she will try to run away. That is her response to crisis, and always has been.
She wouldn't even fight with me over Leslie's affections. Once she is gone, she will be very hard to find, because she is quite familiar with Europe, both eastern and western. If she has money, from these supposed illegal activities, it could take years to find her. That's all I have to say.”
Lucas said, “You think she was involved?”
Wyzinsky made a face, tilted his head, thought it over, then nodded at Widdler.
“I don't know,” Widdler said. “I can't believe my husband was involved in anything illegal. Why should he be? Everything is going wonderfully in the business. We are the top antique and objets d”Art destination in the Twin Cities. But I can't explain how he was found this morning, where he was found, and I can't explain the rifle.
Agent Davenport said that he must have had an accomplice, and accused me of being the accomplice.
I am not and never have been an accomplice. I'm a storekeeper. But Amity Anderson… I don't know if she did anything wrong, but I think she must be watched, or she will run away.”
“That's pretty much it,” Wyzinsky said.
Lucas peered at Jane Widdler for a moment, then reached out and turned off the recorder.
“All right. Do not leave the Twin Cities, Mrs. Widdler.”
“Are you going to watch Amity?”
“We're working on all aspects of the case. I don't want to compromise the case by talking about it with a suspect,” Lucas said.
“He'll watch her,” Wyzinsky grunted. “Not much gets past Agent Davenport.”
Widdler left with Wyzinsky, and the crime-scene people continued to pull the house apart. Lucas got bored, went over to the Widdler shop, talked to the crime-scene guy in charge, who said, “More shit than you can believe, but none of it says 'Bucher' on the bottom. Haven't found any relevant names in the files…” “Keep looking,” Lucas said.
The ME, done with the autopsy late in the day, said that it could be suicide, or it could be murder. “Given the circumstances, we just can't tell,” he said. “The gun was pointed slightly upward and straight into the temple, two
