She spoke softly but clearly: 'Hey, you, down there.'
The figure froze, then half-turned. She could see a crescent of his face in the ambient light from the street, like a sliver of the moon seen through a thin cloud, pale, obscure.
'I have a shotgun.' She pumped it, the old steel action cycling with the precisechick-chick sound effect heard in a thousand movies. 'It's a twelve-gauge. I'm pointing it at your head.'
The crescent of face disappeared. The man turned, quick as a thought, and bolted from the porch, down through the bushes, around the corner, and down the street, hands and heavy legs pumping frantically.
Watching him go, Jael allowed herself the first smile she'd enjoyed in twenty-four hours. But as she slid the window back down and locked it, a vagrant thought crossed her mind.
He hadn't looked like a crackhead. Not at all.
He looked like some kind of redneck.
Chapter 11
Sunday. The second day of the Maison case.
Lucas retrieved thePioneer Press from his front porch, looked at the large dark headline: 'Alie'e Maison Murdered.' And beneath that, the subhead 'Strangled in Minneapolis.'
The headline, he thought, was smaller than the moonwalk, and possibly even smaller than reproductions he'd seen of the Pearl Harbor news flash.
But not much.
And he thought: Trick.
County Attorney Randall Towson was not exactly a friend, but he was a decent guy. He took the phone call at his breakfast table and said, 'Tell me we got everything we need.'
'What?'
'On the Alie'e Maison killerwho you're calling to tell me you caught.'
'I have something much better. Honest to God.' Lucas tried to inject sincerity into his voice. 'I've found a chance to serve justice.'
The attorney betrayed a cautious curiosity. 'You're bullshitting me. Sorry, darlin'.'
'No, no, I've found an innocent guy in the prison system. You can get him out. And then you can take the credit, and the grateful taxpayers will undoubtedly return you to office for thewhat, fifth time?'
'Sixth,' Towson said. 'What the fuck sorry darlin'I'm eating breakfast with my granddaughter. What are you talking about?'
'Del Capslock was at the Alie'e party the other night. He wasn't there at the time of the murder, but he did meet an old friend of ours.'
'Who?' Suspicious now.
'Trick Bentoin.' Silence. Silence for so long that Lucas added, 'Trick had gone to Panama to play gin rummy.'
Then, his voice soft and unshaken, Towson said, 'This is a problem.'
'Yeah.' Lucas nodded, though there was nobody to see it.
'I've clearly identified it as a problem. Tomorrow, when I get to work, I'll get my best people working on a solution.'
'That would be good,' Lucas said.
Another long silence. Then: 'Great Jesus fuckin' Christ, Davenport,' Towson screamed. And meekly added, 'Sorry, darlin'.'
Catrin.
What to wear to a Sunday lunch? She was married to a doctor, so she probably had some bucks. She'd be more comfortable with something neat, rather than something out on the edge: Boots and black-leather jackets were out. Lucas dug through his closet, through a stack of dry cleaning, and finally came up with what he hoped would be righttwill pants in a deep khaki, a crisp blue shirt, and a brown suede sport coat. He added dark brown loafers and his dress gun, a P7 in 9mm.
Checked himself in the mirror; smiled a couple of times. Nah.
Better to can the little smile, he thought. Go for sincerity and pleasure at seeing her
On Sundays, City Hall was dead quiet. Not today. Lucas went straight for Roux's office; the secretary's desk was empty, but Rose Marie, dressed in slacks and a sweater with fuzzy white sheep on it, was in her office with two visitors. Dick Milton, the department's media specialist, was a former newspaper reporter who'd once written an eight-part investigative seriesSunday through Sundayon oak wilt. Angela Harris, a departmental contract shrink, was perched on the windowsill.
'What do you think?' Lucas asked as he stuck his head in the door.
'Media-wise?' Roux looked up. 'Just about what we expected.'
'Been a little rough on George Shaw,' Milton said.
'That's not rough,' Lucas said. He'd never liked Milton, even when he was reporting. 'Rough is sitting in the county jail, waiting to go to Stillwater for ten years, which is what George is gonna do.'
'Its not gonna hold, the connection between Shaw and Alie'e,' Milton said. He looked at Roux. 'This whole lesbian business they stayed pretty delicate about it last night, on the news shows, but I was on the Net and I saw a scan of the first copies ofThe Star, and they got a big sexy picture of this Jael Corbeau. She's hotter than Alie'e, so it ain't gonna stay delicate very long.'
'When'sThe Star gonna get here?' Lucas asked.
'This afternoon, I guess. They got stories on the Net about how theStar editors tore the ass off a whole issue as it was going out the door, and turned it around to do an Alie'e issue. The Journal says all them other rags are suckin' wind.'
'So it's gonna pump everything up,' Lucas said. He looked at Roux. 'You're still working the press pretty hard?'
'We're doing another press conference at ten o'clock, and then the Olson family and friends are supposed to be back around noon. They want the body as soon as they can get it. The funeral's gonna be later in the week, up in Burnt River. Then we'll probably have another press briefing around three o'clock, and if we need another, around seven.'
'Nothing came up overnight?'
'Nothing. Except this morning, Randall Towson called about Trick Bentoin.'
'I forgot to tell you about it,' Lucas said. 'The murder washed it away. Del says Tricks in a Days Inn down on 694, so we'll pick him up tomorrow and get a statement. Towson is gonna call Rashid Al-Balah's attorney, I guess, as soon as we get a statement from Trick.'
'Maybe nobody will notice?'
'We should announce it the day of the funeral,' Milton said. 'If we can hold off until then.'
'I dunno,' Lucas said. 'We really ought to get Al-Balah out of Stillwater as soon as we can.'
'Al-Balah?' Roux said. 'Fuck him. But why don't you get Bentoin today? Just in case.'
'Okay.' Lucas looked at the shrink. 'What do you think about Alie'e? We got a crazy?'
She shook her head. 'Too soon to tell. It looks more efficient than crazy, though. Of course, the man is disturbed in some sense.'
'He'd be more disturbed if I could get my goddamned hands on him,' Rose Marie said.
'Twelve of the people at the party have arrest records, and I'm looking at them for any sign of psychiatric involvement, but I don't see any so far,' the shrink continued.
'Twelve?' Lucas asked, looking at Rose Marie.
'Talk to Lesterbut it's all small stuff. Shoplifting, petty theft, two misdemeanor domestic assaults, one street fight, a couple of ticket scofflaw cases like that.'
Nothing.
A Post-it note was stuck to Lucas's door: Come get me. It was signed, Marcy. He walked down to Homicide, and found the place full of copsmore homicide cops than he'd ever seen in one spot, at one time, on a Sunday.
