proven beyond doubt, from crime-scene evidence alone, that a dope dealernamed Rashid al-Balah had killed a gambler named Trick Bentoin. The evidence showed that Bentoin’s body had been dumped in a peat bog in the Carlos Avery state wildlife-management area north of Minneapolis.
They’d had witnesses who recounted tension between Bentoin and al-Balah over a gambling debt, and threats made by al-Balah. They had blood from the trunk of al-Balah’s car, they had seeds and soil from plants that grew nowhere else but Carlos Avery, and when it was all done, they put their man away.
Then, a year or so later, the dead man showed up. He’d been in Panama, playing high-stakes gin rummy. As the Russians would say, gavno; and as Lucas’s pal Del had wondered, “Who did Rashid kill and throw in a peat bog? Had to be somebody. ”
T HE CRIME - SCENE CREW arrived half an hour after Reasons called in.
Fifteen minutes before they got there, Chick Daniels from the News-Tribune hopped out of his car in the parking lot of the Goodwill store and Reasons said, “Here comes the press,” and walked toward him. They met in the middle of the street, talked for a few minutes, then Reasons walked him across to the shed and said, “We’re gonna let him have a look inside, but deny we did it.”
Lucas nodded, and the reporter, a twenties-something guy with long brown hair and Labrador retriever eyes, stuck his head in the door of the shed, looked at the litter inside for a minute, then backed away and said, “Can I look at this foundation thing?” Reasons walked him around back; they looked at the foundation. Lucas heard his name mentioned and then Nadya’s, mentioned and spelled.
Nadya said, “You always talk to the news before you know anything?”
Lucas nodded. “Always. Especially before we know anything.”
“That seems operationally unsound.” She was very serious.
“It might be,” Lucas said cheerfully. “But see this way, we get our pictures on television.”
“This is good?”
“Sure. It proves we exist.”
She still looked solemn, and a bit uncertain, so Lucas said, “I’m pulling your leg. With this kind of thing, we’ve found that talking to the news media, especially the newspapers, doesn’t hurt much. Especially if the reporter’s decent. The news is gonna get out anyway, and it’s better to have it accurate, than a bunch of rumors.”
“What is this leg-pulling?” she asked.
A FTER THE WALK AROUND , the reporter went back to the other side of the street and got on his cell phone. “I told him he’s gotta stay over there,” Reasons said. “He’s a pretty good guy. TV’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”
Ten minutes before the crime-scene crew arrived, as Lucas was looking at the sole of his shoe, wondering about the brown stuff stuck on it, the no-name detective arrived, wearing knee shorts and a golf shirt. He was carrying a black milled-aluminum flashlight.
“Great knees,” Lucas said.
No-name was not in a mood for repartee. “Fuck you. Let me look.”
He stood in the door of the shack and shined the flashlight across the floor. “Somebody was living here, all right. You sure it was Wheaton?”
“I don’t know. Sounds like her. We got a guy saw her every day. He’s over there . . .” Reasons pointed across the street, where the Latino man was sitting on the hood of an eighties Plymouth. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t ask for a green card until we’ve deposed him.”
The no-name detective glanced at the Latino, then continued playing his flashlight across the interior of the shed, methodically sweeping the dirty floor and walls. Now he said, “Look at this,” and he stepped inside.
Lucas looked. Eight inches to the side of the door, at head height, a nail stuck out of the wood. In the light from the flash, Lucas could see a tiny swatch of fiber hanging from the head of the nail, like hair, or short, bristly spiderwebs.
“Green. Green wool, I think,”
They’d had witnesses who recounted tension between Bentoin and al-Balah over a gambling debt, and threats made by al-Balah. They had blood from the trunk of al-Balah’s car, they had seeds and soil from plants that grew nowhere else but Carlos Avery, and when it was all done, they put their man away.
Then, a year or so later, the dead man showed up. He’d been in Panama, playing high-stakes gin rummy. As the Russians would say, gavno; and as Lucas’s pal Del had wondered, “Who did Rashid kill and throw in a peat bog? Had to be somebody. ”
T HE CRIME - SCENE CREW arrived half an hour after Reasons called in.
Fifteen minutes before they got there, Chick Daniels from the News-Tribune hopped out of his car in the parking lot of the Goodwill store and Reasons said, “Here comes the press,” and walked toward him. They met in the middle of the street, talked for a few minutes, then Reasons walked him across to the shed and said, “We’re gonna let him have a look inside, but deny we did it.”
Lucas nodded, and the reporter, a twenties-something guy with long brown hair and Labrador retriever eyes, stuck his head in the door of the shed, looked at the litter inside for a minute, then backed away and said, “Can I look at this foundation thing?” Reasons walked him around back; they looked at the foundation. Lucas heard his name mentioned and then Nadya’s, mentioned and spelled.
Nadya said, “You always talk to the news before you know anything?”
Lucas nodded. “Always. Especially before we know anything.”
“That seems operationally unsound.” She was very serious.
“It might be,” Lucas said cheerfully. “But see this way, we get our pictures on television.”
“This is good?”
“Sure. It proves we exist.”
She still looked solemn, and a bit uncertain, so Lucas said, “I’m pulling your leg. With this kind of thing, we’ve found that talking to the news media, especially the newspapers, doesn’t hurt much. Especially if the reporter’s decent. The news is gonna get out anyway, and it’s better to have it accurate, than a bunch of rumors.”
“What is this leg-pulling?” she asked.
A FTER THE WALK AROUND , the reporter went back to the other side of the street and got on his cell phone. “I told him he’s gotta stay over there,” Reasons said. “He’s a pretty good guy. TV’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”
Ten minutes before the crime-scene crew arrived, as Lucas was looking at the sole of his shoe, wondering about the brown stuff stuck on it, the no-name detective arrived, wearing knee shorts and a golf shirt. He was carrying a black milled-aluminum flashlight.
“Great knees,” Lucas said.
No-name was not in a mood for repartee. “Fuck you. Let me look.”
He stood in the door of the shack and shined the flashlight across the floor. “Somebody was living here, all right. You sure it was Wheaton?”
“I don’t know. Sounds like her. We got a guy saw her every day. He’s over there . . .” Reasons pointed across the street, where the Latino man was sitting on the hood of an eighties Plymouth. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t ask for a green card until we’ve deposed him.”
The no-name detective glanced at the Latino, then continued playing his flashlight across the interior of the shed, methodically sweeping the dirty floor and walls. Now he said, “Look at this,” and he stepped inside.
Lucas looked. Eight inches to the side of the door, at head height, a nail stuck out of the wood. In the light from the flash, Lucas could see a tiny swatch of fiber hanging from the head of the nail, like hair, or short, bristly spiderwebs.
“Green. Green wool, I think,”
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