think of anything from the file, I’ll call.”
“You helped,” Mallard said. “Between us, we gave old man Mejia, ummm, a clearer view of the situation. There are things that Malone and I just can’t say.”
Lucas nodded. “Whatever. I’ll be watching you guys. When are you going to St. Louis?”
“We’re already moving our setup crew in. Malone and I will be there as soon as there’s any hint that she’s there,” Mallard said. “Given her whole psychology, the way she was abused from the time she was a kid, then her true love getting shot, and losing the baby…can you think of any more likely place than St. Louis to pull her in?”
Lucas shook his head. “Nope. If I were her, I’d be there.”
Malone smiled at him, her nasty lawyer’s smile. “That’s another reason we asked you. You two think alike.”
LUCAS WAS BACK in Minneapolis by midafternoon, having unexpectedly survived both flights. He stopped first at the new house, counted six guys working on it, talked to the foreman, and was told that the cable and telephone wiring was going in the next day. He collected a sample pad of parquet blocks that the designer was proposing for the library floor, and headed downtown.
MARCY SHERRILL WAS sitting at her desk, staring at a computer screen, when Lucas walked in. “How’s Cancún?” she asked, looking up.
“Hot and humid. Full of foreigners,” Lucas said. He yawned: already a long day. “Anything new?”
“Ummm…Bob Cline croaked yesterday—did you know him?”
“Yeah, vaguely.” Cline was an aging radio talk show host known for his unwavering support of the police department, no matter who had done what. “How’d he die?”
“Heart attack, I guess. He was at a Saints game and he was on his way home when he pulled over to the side of the road and died. Called 911 on the car phone but never said a word.”
“Not a bad way to go…. Anything else?”
“Rose Marie wants you to come by. She called twice. The homicide guys—Sloan, basically—got the name of a kid in that bus-stop drive-by on Thirty-third. They say he’s the one, but they can’t find him. His family says he went to New York, which probably means we oughta look in L.A.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“All right. I’ll go talk to Rose Marie.” He yawned again. “What’re you doing?”
She yawned back, picking it up from him. “Vacation and comp time report.”
“Okay.” He opened his briefcase, took out the copy of the FBI report, which he’d transferred from his suitcase, and handed it to her. “I sneaked a copy—this is illegal. Read it and tell me what you think.”
“How was Malone?” She asked the question with a tone.
“Be nice,” Lucas said. “She’s dating a paperhanger or something.”
“You mean like Hitler?”
“What?” She’d lost him.
“Hitler was supposed to be a wallpaper guy, or something. Before he became a dictator.”
“Oh. Well, he’s not exactly like Hitler, I don’t think. I’ll ask her next time I see her…. Read the file. Mallard’s in love with her. With Malone.”
Marcy perked up. “Which one told you that? Or did you just perceive it?”
“Mallard told me. I told him to grab her ass, but he didn’t.”
“Jesus, Lucas, grab her ass ?” She was appalled.
“You know what I mean. Make a move. ”
“Grab her ass,” Sherrill said, shaking her head. “He told him to grab her ass.”
“Not exactly that…” Then he had to explain, but it was too late. As soon as the word ass had come out of his mouth, he’d fulfilled all female expectations of insensitivity, and nothing more was necessary. He finally gave up trying to explain and went to see Rose Marie Roux, the chief of police.
LUCAS SOMETIMES SUSPECTED that the chief was a self-switching manic-depressive, willing herself into periods of gloom or frenzy as an antidote to the emotional control required of her chiefdom. When he walked into her office, and found her
“You helped,” Mallard said. “Between us, we gave old man Mejia, ummm, a clearer view of the situation. There are things that Malone and I just can’t say.”
Lucas nodded. “Whatever. I’ll be watching you guys. When are you going to St. Louis?”
“We’re already moving our setup crew in. Malone and I will be there as soon as there’s any hint that she’s there,” Mallard said. “Given her whole psychology, the way she was abused from the time she was a kid, then her true love getting shot, and losing the baby…can you think of any more likely place than St. Louis to pull her in?”
Lucas shook his head. “Nope. If I were her, I’d be there.”
Malone smiled at him, her nasty lawyer’s smile. “That’s another reason we asked you. You two think alike.”
LUCAS WAS BACK in Minneapolis by midafternoon, having unexpectedly survived both flights. He stopped first at the new house, counted six guys working on it, talked to the foreman, and was told that the cable and telephone wiring was going in the next day. He collected a sample pad of parquet blocks that the designer was proposing for the library floor, and headed downtown.
MARCY SHERRILL WAS sitting at her desk, staring at a computer screen, when Lucas walked in. “How’s Cancún?” she asked, looking up.
“Hot and humid. Full of foreigners,” Lucas said. He yawned: already a long day. “Anything new?”
“Ummm…Bob Cline croaked yesterday—did you know him?”
“Yeah, vaguely.” Cline was an aging radio talk show host known for his unwavering support of the police department, no matter who had done what. “How’d he die?”
“Heart attack, I guess. He was at a Saints game and he was on his way home when he pulled over to the side of the road and died. Called 911 on the car phone but never said a word.”
“Not a bad way to go…. Anything else?”
“Rose Marie wants you to come by. She called twice. The homicide guys—Sloan, basically—got the name of a kid in that bus-stop drive-by on Thirty-third. They say he’s the one, but they can’t find him. His family says he went to New York, which probably means we oughta look in L.A.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“All right. I’ll go talk to Rose Marie.” He yawned again. “What’re you doing?”
She yawned back, picking it up from him. “Vacation and comp time report.”
“Okay.” He opened his briefcase, took out the copy of the FBI report, which he’d transferred from his suitcase, and handed it to her. “I sneaked a copy—this is illegal. Read it and tell me what you think.”
“How was Malone?” She asked the question with a tone.
“Be nice,” Lucas said. “She’s dating a paperhanger or something.”
“You mean like Hitler?”
“What?” She’d lost him.
“Hitler was supposed to be a wallpaper guy, or something. Before he became a dictator.”
“Oh. Well, he’s not exactly like Hitler, I don’t think. I’ll ask her next time I see her…. Read the file. Mallard’s in love with her. With Malone.”
Marcy perked up. “Which one told you that? Or did you just perceive it?”
“Mallard told me. I told him to grab her ass, but he didn’t.”
“Jesus, Lucas, grab her ass ?” She was appalled.
“You know what I mean. Make a move. ”
“Grab her ass,” Sherrill said, shaking her head. “He told him to grab her ass.”
“Not exactly that…” Then he had to explain, but it was too late. As soon as the word ass had come out of his mouth, he’d fulfilled all female expectations of insensitivity, and nothing more was necessary. He finally gave up trying to explain and went to see Rose Marie Roux, the chief of police.
LUCAS SOMETIMES SUSPECTED that the chief was a self-switching manic-depressive, willing herself into periods of gloom or frenzy as an antidote to the emotional control required of her chiefdom. When he walked into her office, and found her
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