'Then what are you… bubble wrap?' She was puzzled, and waved him into her office. The office was small, cluttered with paper and yellow Post-It notes, and an unseemly amount of personal junk, Lucas thought: bric-a- brac, knickknacks, gimcracks, tchotchkes. Riffraff? No, riffraff was people…
He sat down and said, 'I've been looking for a woman that you may know. You've at least been in touch with her. She was living on the street in Duluth, and she was a witness to a crime there, a murder. I know that she's now in St. Paul…' He gave her a short version of the story.
She nodded, interested. 'I do the pro-bono work here,' Ramford said, spreading her hand toward the clutter of paper. 'I know a number of these women. But from Duluth? Why do you think I'd know…?'
'Because we found your fingerprint on a piece of bubble wrap that she was using for a bed. In Duluth.' Lucas was watching her eyes, and saw nothing in particular.
'My fingerprint?'
'Exactly. There is no doubt-if you're the same Annabelle Ramford who was arrested on a DWI about ten years back.'
She smiled ruefully. 'That was me. Graduation night. Boy, my father was pissed. But I'm sure I didn't know anybody…'
'So if you didn't know her, if you never met her, how did your fingerprint get on this bubble wrap?' Lucas asked.
She ran her index finger up and down her nose, thoughtfully, then looked up. 'Ahhh… Was it a big piece of bubble wrap? Like most of a roll? Or two rolls?'
'Yes.'
'Okay. And you found it around the port? Around a Goodwill store? Or do you know if she went to the Goodwill store, like if she shopped there, or something?'
Now Lucas's eyebrows went up. 'Yes, the Goodwill was right across the street.'
She leaned back in her chair. 'Okay. We keep a boat up there,' Ramford explained. 'My family does. An Island Packet 38, the Whiplash. About, let me see, it must have been early August, I took a bunch of stuff up there. Wine, mostly. Loose bottles. I wrapped them in this big sheet of bubblewrap. I had some sailing stuff up there, old clothes, and some, two, or three, I think, old life jackets-perfectly good, you understand, but older-that I took off the boat. I knew where the Goodwill store was, so I stopped and threw the clothes and the life jackets in the Dumpster. Then I had that bubble wrap, and it was used but perfectly good, and I think I had another roll, too, and I was sure some poor person could use it, so I threw it all in. I bet that's where she got it.'
'So you didn't…'
'No, I've never talked to a street person in Duluth. Honest,' she said. 'Never. Down here, a few.'
Lucas was watching her as she talked, and she had the most guileless eyes he'd ever seen on an attorney. That would be worth a lot in court, he thought. When she was finished, he sighed and said, 'Shoot. I was hoping you might know her.'
She leaned back in her chair, and if she'd been wearing pants, might have put her feet up. 'I've been reading about this whole thing in Duluth-that was you up there, wasn't it? The spy thing? I remembered the name about fifteen seconds ago.'
'Yeah.'
'Your case against this boy-it sucks.' She smiled when she said it.
'You only say that because you're a defense attorney,' Lucas said.
'You mean the prosecutors haven't told you?' she asked.
Lucas grinned back at her: 'They've hinted that additional information would be welcome.'
'I'll bet. Like any additional information.' she said. 'The kid have a good attorney?'
Lucas shrugged. 'Public defender. So yeah, I'd guess he's probably pretty good. Why, you want it?'
'No, no. I do civil stuff,' she said, hastily. 'Guys beating wives, wives beating guys. The welfare department beating wives and guys out of their rightful checks…'
Lucas stood up, yawned, and stretched. 'Poop. Listen, thanks for your time.'
Going down in the one-floor elevator, Lucas thought about Annabelle Ramford. Working for her old man's law firm, wearing her little pearls and her little green dress, worrying about 'poor people' between charity benefits. Doing pro bono because it made her feel good and she didn't need the money. Her old man, he thought, was probably the kind of asshole who bought six-thousand-dollar Italian suits.
Still, there was something about Annabelle Ramford that tickled his bullshit meter. He just couldn't think what it might be.
Annabelle stood in the window outside her office and watched him stroll away down the street. She felt a little sorry for him. The case against the Walther kid was weak. If news reports were correct, the FBI was pressuring state prosecutors to make a deal that would let the kid out in a couple of years, in exchange for information…
It didn't have to be that way. The whole case against Walther would come together if Davenport could find Trey.
But Trey was gone for good. Not even Annabelle would know where to find her, not now, not ever again. Davenport turned the corner, and Annabelle Ramford went back to her office, dropped three pennies and a nickel into a half clamshell, sat down behind her computer, and put the whole thing out of her mind.
Outside on the street, Lucas looked around, thought about going back to the office. He could call Kelly and tell him about Ramford, and maybe plot a little strategy in Carl Walther's case. On the other hand, he could just go home and see Sam.
Walther had fired shots at cops, so he'd do some jail time. A couple of years, at a minimum. And who was to say that Carl hadn't been abused, having spent so much time with that crazy old man? The snarled-up history of the Walther spy ring was another matter, and finding an equitable resolution for that case was beyond him. Probably beyond anybody.
Lucas yawned. Whatever happened would happen. If he wanted nice neat endings, he was in the wrong business. And he'd been at the office too much, lately. He was getting stale. Worse than that, he was investigating horses.
He turned the corner, back toward the parking ramp. Better to go home and see Sam, he thought.
And he did.
