knows what we're doing…' He leaned over his desk and pressed the intercom button. 'Linda, get Sloan in here, and Anderson, and the point guys on the Bekker case, everybody who's around. Half an hour…'
'We've really got nothing on him yet, it's all speculation,' Lucas reminded him.
'We stay with him,' Daniel said sharply. 'I want to know every step he fuckin' takes. I got a feeling about this guy, Lucas. I get strong vibrations.'
'I'm thinking-' Lucas said. He was thinking of cracking Druze's apartment: an informal survey without a warrant.
Daniel stopped him in midsentence. 'Don't say it. But, uh, it would be nice to know some things…'
Lucas nodded, bent over Daniel's desk, opened the humidor and peered inside. Three cigars. He snapped it shut.
'What?' Daniel asked.
'I always wondered what you really had in there…'
The investigation file on Druze was thin. Nothing on NCIC-Anderson had run him against the federal computers as soon as Daniel called the meeting. Druze had been interviewed by Detective Shawn Draper after the Armistead murder, and the interview had been summarized in a half-dozen tight paragraphs. Subject said he was in theater at the time of the murder. Cited several incidents that placed him there. Brief cross-checks with other actors confirmed those incidents…
Daniel, Anderson, Lester, Sloan, Del, Draper, Shearson and three or four other detectives sat in Daniel's office, plotting out the surveillance, while Lucas sat in a corner reading the file. Draper, a large, sleepy man in a knit suit, slumped on a folding chair behind Anderson.
'You interviewed him, Shawn,' Lucas said during a break in the discussion. 'Did you think, in person, that he looked at all like the cyclops picture? Was there anything…?'
Draper scratched an ear. 'Naw… I wouldn't say so. I mean… he looked fucked up, but he wasn't… Naw.'
'Was he solid for an alibi on Armistead?'
'When the chief called about the meeting, I went back and looked at my notes. He really had the evening nailed down, after about seven or seven-thirty. Earlier than that, it was sketchy.'
'We think she was killed, what, about seven?' Lucas asked.
'Give or take,' Sloan said.
'So he could have done her, then come back and tried to make himself obvious around the place…'
Anderson jumped into the exchange. 'Yeah, but he didn't try to cover himself that much for the actual time of the murder. If I'd been doing it, I would have done something to establish myself before I went over. Then I would have gone over, done it and come back as fast as I could, maybe with a bunch of doughnuts or something, and established myself again,' he said.
'Well, he didn't,' Draper said shortly. 'He was solid later, but not earlier.'
'Hmph,' Lucas grunted.
'What?' asked Daniel.
'I'm still trying to fit that phone call in…'
The Star Tribune classified-advertising manager said he would see to the ad himself. Not responsible for the debts of Lucille K. Smith, signed Lucas Smith. It would appear the next morning.
'This is critical,' Lucas said. 'Keep your mouth shut, but this is the most important ad you'll run all year.'
'It'll be there…'
Lucas called Cassie from the lobby.
'What're you doing here? Oh Gawd, the apartment is a wreck…' Cassie buzzed him through the door. She met him, flushed, at her apartment door.
'Looks nice,' Lucas said as he stepped inside. The apartment was small, a kitchen nook opening directly off the living room, a short hall with three doors leading off it, a bathroom, a closet and the single bedroom.
'That's because I just stuffed four days' clothes in a closet, two days' dishes in the dishwasher, and did about a month's worth of cleaning.' She laughed, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, took in the briefcase he was carrying. 'What're you doing? You look like Mr. Businessman. I was about to leave for the theater.'
'I was over at the U and thought I'd stop by,' he said. 'You have to leave right away?'
She nodded and produced a sleepy-eyed pout. 'Pretty soon. Since I read Elizabeth's note, I thought I'd be on time for work.'
'Ah… well.'
'We could take a quick shower…' she offered.
'Nah. If we started a shower… And I've got to get back to work, anyway. See you after?'
'Sure. We'll be done before eleven.'
'I'll take you someplace expensive.'
'Shameless sweet-talker, you.' She caught his ear and pulled his head down and kissed him again.
'See you…'
He was in.
Druze's apartment was three floors below, and Lucas hadn't wanted to risk raking the lobby locks. That Cassie lived in the same building was not quite pure luck: several other Lost River players lived there, drawn by its proximity to the theater and the low rent. Lucas took the stairs down, emerging a few doors away from Druze's apartment. The hall was empty. Lucas stepped back into the stairwell, took a handset from the briefcase and called the surveillance team leader. At his last check, Druze was at the theater.
'Where is he?'
'Still inside.' The team leader didn't know where Lucas was.
'The instant he moves…'
'Right.'
The theater was less than a block from the apartment. If Druze had to run home for something, Lucas wanted adequate warning. He called Dispatch and gave the dispatcher Druze's telephone number.
'Patch me through… let it ring as long as necessary. The guy may be outside mowing the lawn,' he said.
'Sure…' Jesus, he thought. He had just made the whole dispatch department an accessory to a felony. He put the handset under his arm, so he could hear it if the dispatcher called back, and stepped into the hall. Sixteen doors, spaced alternately down the hall. Plasterboard walls, aging rug. The power rake would clatter, but there was no help for it. He walked down to Druze's apartment and heard the phone ringing. Five times, ten. Nobody. He tried the door, just in case-it was locked-and took the rake from the briefcase. The rake looked like an electric drill, but was smaller, thinner. A prong stuck out of the tip; Lucas slipped it into the lock and pulled the trigger.
The rake began to clatter, a sound like a ball bearing dropped into a garbage disposal. The clatter seemed to go on forever, but a second or two after it started, Lucas turned the lock and the door popped open.
'Hello? Anybody home?' The phone was still ringing when he stepped inside. 'Hello?'
The apartment was neat, but only because there was almost nothing in it. A stack of scripts and a few books on acting were piled into a small built-in bookcase, along with a tape player and a few cassettes. A couch was centered on a television, the remote left carelessly on the floor next to the couch. In his years in the police department, Lucas had been in dozens of cheap boardinghouses and transient apartments, places where single men lived alone. The rooms often had an air of meticulous neatness about them, as though the inhabitants had nothing better to do than arrange their ashtrays, their radios, their hot plates, their cans of Carnation evaporated milk. Druze's apartment had that air, a lack of idiosyncracy so startling it became an idiosyncracy of its own…
The telephone was still ringing. Lucas got on the handset and said, 'Betty? About that call-forget it.'
'Okay, Lucas.' A few seconds later, the ringing stopped.
The bedroom first. Lucas didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but if he saw it…
He went rapidly through the closets, patting the pockets of the sport coats and pants, checked the detritus on the dresser top, pulled the dresser drawers. Nothing. The kitchen went even quicker. Druze had little of the usual kitchen equipment, no bowls, no canisters, none of the usual hiding places. He checked the refrigerator: nothing but a head of lettuce, a bottle of A.1. sauce, a chunk of hamburger wrapped in plastic, an open box of Arm amp; Hammer baking soda and a red-and-white can of Carnation. Always a can of Carnation. Nothing in the ice cube trays. Nothing in the bottom drawer of the stove…
Druze did have a nice blunt weapon, a sharpening steel. Lucas took it out of the kitchen drawer, swung it,
