“You’re up late,” he said.
“Yeah. Mom’s cutting in the morning, so she went to bed at ten. Gotta be quiet when you go up.”
“Okay. You know what she’s doing?”
“Rhino, and then she’s covering some burns,” Letty said.
She watched him chew until he asked, “What?”
“Mom thinks you’re onto something. You know who killed her?”
Lucas shook his head: “You might blab to Jennifer.” Jennifer Carey worked for Channel Three, where Letty was an unofficial intern.
“Would not,” Letty said. “Not unless you told me I could.”
Lucas said, “All right. I’ve got a couple of ideas.” He told her about Hanson’s mysterious disappearance. “I’m thinking he knew the person who did it, and that person got worried and killed him.”
“When are you going to find out?”
“Pretty soon,” he said.
“So this is the time you gotta be really careful,” Letty said. “If you’re gonna take him out.”
“You worry too much.”
“You’re right. And you’re not worried enough.”
He snuck into bed, quiet and silent as a cat burglar, and then Weather said in the dark, “I hope your daughter gave you a good talking-to.”
“Ah, yeah… she did.”
“Good. I’m going to sleep now, so I don’t cut off poor Mrs. Johnson’s nose.”
Rhino, Lucas thought, as he drifted away, for rhinoplasty. From the Greek rhino for nose, plus plassein, to shape. A nose job, in other words.
But he didn’t dream of rhinos; he dreamed of the mysterious Fell.
I do not like thee, Dr. Fell…
Weather got up at five-thirty, and Lucas at eight, early for him. He hadn’t felt her go; he usually didn’t. He stretched, yawned, did some push-ups and crunches, got cleaned up, got his gun, sat down in his den, and made a call.
Quentin Daniel picked up and in an old man’s voice said, “What?”
“This is Davenport. I need to talk.”
“That was a bad day,” Daniel said. “That was about as bad a day as I’ve had since Carol died. On top of the Jones kids coming up-”
“That’s what I need to talk about.”
“When?”
“How about now?” Lucas suggested.
“You know where that Starbucks is, down the street from me?” Daniel asked.
“Sure.”
“Meet you there in thirty minutes,” Daniel said.
Quentin Daniel had been a ranking detective when Lucas first met him, and later, for eight years, the chief of police. He’d done some bad things in his time, and he knew it, as did Lucas, and they’d never been quite square since.
But Daniel was smart and had been a good investigator, and knew the Jones case and also knew his cops. That, in fact, had been his most serious strength: he knew his investigators so well that he’d match them to cases that he knew would catch their imaginations, and they’d work all the harder for it. He’d also had complete confidence in his own intelligence, and other smart cops didn’t intimidate him. He saw the intelligence of others as simply another weapon in his arsenal.
Lucas had been his finest weapon.
Lucas crossed the street to the Starbucks just as Daniel opened the door to go inside. He’d always been a bigger man, but now had thinned down; his hair was longer, and silvery gray, and he was dressed for golf in a red shirt and white slacks, with athletic shoes. He must be in his middle seventies, Lucas thought.
He held the door for Lucas, said, “You’re looking rich,” and Lucas asked, “What’s your handicap now?” Daniel said, “Same as always: my swing.”
Inside, Daniel ordered a skinny half-caff no-foam latte and Lucas got a bottle of orange juice from the cooler. “Get a table while I’m waiting,” Daniel said.
Lucas found a table in the corner, and when Daniel came over, asked, “How’ve you been?”
“I’ve lost twenty pounds and gotten my cholesterol lower than my IQ. Of course, I’m eating nothing but twigs.”
They chatted for a minute, and Daniel asked about Lucas’s kids, and Lucas filled him in, and then Lucas said, “You remember, way back when, on the Jones case, I was running after a guy named Fell?”
“I remember you were running after a guy,” Daniel said. “There was something unusual about him.”
Lucas filled him in and Daniel started nodding. “I got it now,” he said. Then Lucas told him about the weird death of Brian Hanson, and the timing, and his thoughts about the possibility that somebody on the force had been talking to the killer.
“So what I want to ask you-you knew these people better than anyone-do you know anyone that Hanson might have been talking to? Did you ever have any feeling that he was worried about it, that there was anything going on there?”
Daniel took a sip of his coffee, then leaned back and closed his eyes, silent for so long that Lucas thought he might be into a serious senior moment; then he opened his eyes and said, “Hanson had some kind of a family problem. Something criminal, and it involved sex. Not here, though-not in Minneapolis. I remember hearing that he was maneuvering around, trying to get something done, and I had somebody tell him to take it easy. You know, unofficially. Be careful about asking for favors.”
Lucas said, “Really.”
“You’re not surprised.”
“There are some indications, if you have a suspicious mind, that suggest the killer was close to Hanson. I saw a picture of his kid, when the kid was still young, a teenager, and he sort of looks like the description of Fell, except that he wasn’t fat. And the guy who shot Marcy had a black beard-and I’ve been told that Hanson’s son can’t grow a beard.”
“Maybe if you were planning to gun somebody down in a quiet neighborhood, where it’d get noticed, you’d want to invest two dollars in a disguise,” Daniel said.
“Could happen,” Lucas said. “Do you remember anything else at all?”
Daniel leaned back, looked out the window for a minute-a young mom pushing a stroller, looking satisfied with herself-and took a hit on his coffee. Turning back to Lucas, he said, “You know, I don’t. It was something serious, but not for us. Brian fixed it somehow-talked to some pals, got a lawyer. Never had any hint that his kid might have been involved in the Jones case. I think Brian would have told us, if he thought that. But if you think Hanson’s death might be involved, I’d take a look at the kid.”
“That’s the biggest hint we’ve gotten so far,” Lucas said.
“And that’s all I got for you,” Daniel said. “I wish I had more. Marcy being killed… goddamnit, I can’t get it off my back. I didn’t know her long, before I retired, but she was a comer. I keep thinking about her. I keep seeing her.”
Lucas nodded: “So do I. I keep wanting to call her up, tell her some stuff.”
Lucas drove back to the BCA and found Sandy. She was wearing one of her long light hippie dresses, and a pair of round sunglasses that she thought made her look like Yoko Ono or somebody, but actually made her look like one of the three blind mice. He told her what he needed, and in one minute, she’d found Hanson’s kid’s driver’s license information, including his current address, in a nice neighborhood in St. Paul. In two minutes, they’d downloaded his driver’s license photo. They printed it; he told Sandy he needed everything they could get on him, and headed back to his car.
