prove that he was ever notified of his court date. And his lawyer at that time, a court- appointed guy, moved to New Mexico and is running an ashram or some shit, and… you see what I mean? Too much horseshit and not enough money.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t help me, though,” Lucas said. “You know what I’d do?'
'What?'
'I’d bust him anyway, if I was ready,” Wane said. “On the California warrant. It’s still good. Then you notify us, and it takes a while for the paper to get through the mill, and then some time to get back to you… You could have him inside for probably ten days or two weeks if you picked your weekends right. Bust him on a Friday, notify on a Monday, takes four or five days out here, we decline to prosecute the following Tuesday or Wednesday… and we can probably drag our feet a little.”
“I might do that,” Lucas said. “We only wanted a shot at squeezing him, anyway.”
“So if I get some paper from you, I’ll know what you’re doing.'
'Good enough,” Lucas said. “The prosecutor-he wasn’t stabbed or anything, was he?” Wane laughed. “No. We got one of those two- story McDonald’s here, you know? He takes his Big Mac and his fries upstairs to eat and read his newspaper, and when he finishes, he heads for the stairs, still reading the
“Jesus,” Lucas said. “Anybody get sued?” Wane laughed a little longer, the laughs interspersed with hacks
“He had an estranged wife. She testified that he’d come over twice a week and spend forty-five minutes trying to work through the estrangement. Doggy- style, for the most part, the rumor is. Anyway, she was still his wife, technically, and she sued for loss of companionship and got three- point- four million from McDonald’s.
“If there’s an afterlife, he’s probably got a serious case of the red ass,” Lucas said.
“If there’s an afterlife, he’s got more problems than that,” Wane said. “Nasty little bullet- headed know- it- all fuck.”
Lucas was back at the office and took a call from Sandy, the researcher: “I’ve got a Loren who might be interesting.” When Lucas didn’t immediately respond, she said, “You know-you had me looking up Lorens?”
“Oh, yeah. That didn’t come to much,” Lucas said. “You still want this guy?” she asked. “What’s he look like?'
'He fits the general description. Dark hair, anyway. The key thing is, he went to the university at the same time as Frances, and it’s likely, but not for sure, until I can check some more, that they were in some of the same classes.”
“Jeez,” Lucas said. “That might be something. Shoot it over here.” The photo popped up a couple minutes later in his e- mail. He looked at it, called Jackson, the photographer, and asked if he could get a print. “Forward it to me,” Jackson said. “By the time you get down here, I’ll have it.”
Lucas forwarded Sandy’s e- mail, got a diet Coke from the machine, and walked downstairs to Jackson’s cubbyhole. Jackson said, “I’m doing a little work on it.” He had the photo on a computer screen and was touching it up. “A little Photoshop.”
A minute or so later, he tapped a couple of keys, got up a response box, clicked his mouse, and the printer churned out a glossy print. “Another piece-of-shit photograph-I wonder why nobody makes an effort to get decent ID shots? They should at least look human.”
“Maybe you should start a campaign,” Lucas said. He looked at the photo. Could it be the man in the alley? Could be.
He called Austin, who was at home. “I’m ten minutes away-I want to run down and show you a photograph,” he said. “Of who?'
'I’d rather have you respond to it sort of… spontaneously.”
At the Austins’, a man in a jean jacket, jeans, and cowboy boots was putting a cardboard carton in the back of a pickup, where a half dozen more cartons were already stacked. Austin was at the door, and when Lucas came up, she waved at the pickup driver, who was backing the truck out, and said to Lucas, “Finally pulled the trigger on Frances’s clothes. Sent them off to Goodwill.”
“That’s got to be harsh,” he said. “Had to be done. She’s gone,” she said. And, “Come in.” He stepped inside and said, “Just need a minute.” He had the photo in a manila envelope, slipped it out and handed it to her. She looked at it, and her face turned white and she blurted, “Oh, my God. It’s Loren Doyle.'
'This is the guy? The Loren?” Lucas asked. “Oh my God.” Her hand was at her throat. She pushed the photo back at him and said, “That’s the guy, but I just remembered, when you handed it to me… I mean, I never knew him well, just saw him that once, but now I know why I remembered him.”
Lucas spread his hands: “What?'
'He’s dead,” she said. “He was killed in an awful boat accident on the Mississippi, right below downtown St. Paul. He was in one of those jet boats with a couple of other guys and they hit a barge. I think there were three people and they all got killed.”
“Ah, jeez, I remember that,” Lucas said. “But that was…'
'Way before Frances. I remember now. He was in one of her classes, they were on a project together, a case study for a business class. About General Electric or General Mills or General Motors. And then she told me he was killed. They weren’t close, but we were both shocked. You know how people are when it’s somebody you just met and was alive and everything?”
“Damnit,” Lucas said. He looked at the photo. “I thought we were on to something.” He looked at her, still white. “Are you okay?”
“It gave me such a start,” she said. “Like he came back from the grave.”
Lucas was back on the road two minutes later, driving away with the uneasy sense that something had just gotten by him. Was it possible that Loren
He was almost back at the office when he took a call from Cheryl Weiner, the agent watching Frank Willett. “Lucas, this guy is getting ready to run,” she said. “He just brought a duffel out to his truck and he seems to be in a sweat. He was supposed to be doing a Pilates class and he skipped it… Okay, here he comes again. He’s got skis.”
“Stick with him,” Lucas said. “I’m on the way.” He was halfway to Minneapolis when she called back: “He’s in his truck, he’s backing out, you want me to block him? Want me to grab him?”
“No, no, no… we don’t know what he’s up to, if he’s got a gun. If he’s our guy, he’s killed four people, he might feel like his back’s against the wall. Just tag him. We’ll get some help.”
She tagged him, staying back. He showed no sign of looking behind him, in his haste to get out, she said. She took him up to I- 94 and then north, as Lucas closed in from behind. He called Carol, got piped to the highway patrol district office, and asked for help. Two patrol cars were nearby and available, one north of Willett, and one south. The one on the south blew past Lucas, and Lucas, still on with the patrol’s district office, warned them that he was going to fall in behind, and he did.
The car coming down from the north got off, waited for Willett and Weiner to pass, and then fell in behind. When the south car caught up, the two patrolmen moved on him: fell in behind, with lights and sirens, pulled him over, blocked front and back. Lucas and Weiner came in behind, waited for a lull in the traffic, and got out.
Willett didn’t resist and was cuffed by the time they were out. He was dressed in loose nylon pants and a sweatshirt. His brown hair was undone and fell almost to his shoulders.
“What?” he asked Lucas. “We’re arresting you on a California warrant for possession of marijuana, and on suspicion of murder in the death of Frances Elaine Austin,” Lucas said. “You have the right to remain silent…”
Willett’s face tightened up: “What? Frances? What’re you talking about, man?”
“… the right to have an attorney present during questioning…'
'Man! What are you talking about?” Willett yanked his arms against the highway patrolman, who jerked him backward away from Lucas.
