the night, and Lucas could see the flickering white flares of their welders. And up ahead, the flashing lights of the cop cars on the riverfront, and Petty started on “Something in the Air.”
Anson was wearing a knee-length trench coat and a fedora, which sat back on his head, the brim snapped down over his scalp. He was talking to a cop, stopped when he saw Lucas. “You want to look?”
“Sure.”
Roy Carter was lying on his side, mouth and eyes open, his hair flattened, his shirtfront soaked with drying blood. He’d been tall, and almost gaunt, with reddish hair that looked blue in the streetlights, and freckles that looked black, the skin taut around his skull and cheekbones. The bottom arm, his right, was thrown out on the sidewalk; the top arm clutched at his gut and, like his shirt, was covered with blood.
“Same deal,” Anson said. “Stuck him, ripped him. It’s like a harakiri, almost, except that the rip is up.”
“Goddamnit, I was looking for him tonight. I missed him by thirty seconds,” Lucas said, turning away from the body. “He was with a Goth. They call her a fairy, just like the one who was talking with Dick Ford.”
“Ford? What fairy?”
Lucas explained it, taking it step-by-step. When he finished, Anson said, “So the fairy did it.”
“We need to talk to her,” Lucas said. “We need to find her. Really bad.”
“I’ll need the names of everybody who knows her,” Anson said.
“I’ll e-mail them to you tonight, before I go to bed,” Lucas said. “You’ve got some witnesses . . . and somebody told me that the fairy girl had called Carter. I don’t know whether it was at work, or at home, or on a cell, or what.”
“But there ought to be a number we can get at.”
“Should be,” Lucas said. “And a photo kit from the people who’ve seen her. Get it out to the media. Put some pressure on her.”
There was nothing for Lucas to do at the crime scene, except stand around with his hands in his pockets and bullshit with the uniforms. As the crime-scene people and the ME’s investigators worked over the body, Anson took a call, walking along the river with a finger in one ear, the phone to the other. He rang off and told Lucas that Carter had come from Little America, and that his parents were being notified. “Bad day out in the countryside. His parents both work for the post office,” he said. “If this happened to one of my kids, I’d jump off a bridge.”
“After you killed the guy who did it,” Lucas said, looking back at the body.
Anson nodded: “We don’t talk about that.”
Lucas went home; confirmed the murder to Weather, who was shocked: “We didn’t set this off, did we?”
“Nah. I’ve been working on the case for half a day,” Lucas said. “This guy’s been a target for longer than that.”
“Then how did you miss them at the nightclub? It sounds like they were trying to avoid you—and that’d mean . . .”
“. . . that they’d have to know who I was. Or, maybe, she just wanted to get him out of there, away from people who could look at her. Nobody really talked to her—she kept him moving. My guess is, she moved him away from the people in the front room, then went into the back room, the dance floor, and he had more friends back there, so she moved him out of there, too. We just . . . passed each other.”
She shook her head. “Too neat. There’s something going on that we don’t know about.”
“Gonna have to think about it,” Lucas said.
“Have to think by yourself,” she said. “I’m doing a palate tomorrow and it’s a bad one. I need to be out of here by five, so I’m going to bed.”
“See you tomorrow then.” He kissed her goodnight, and moved to the den, where he read again through the paper generated by the Minneapolis guys and his own BCA. Lucas had worked for both, and had his prejudices: the BCA guys worked a couple of murders a year, maybe, and they were often hard ones.
But Minneapolis—a lead
Anson was wearing a knee-length trench coat and a fedora, which sat back on his head, the brim snapped down over his scalp. He was talking to a cop, stopped when he saw Lucas. “You want to look?”
“Sure.”
Roy Carter was lying on his side, mouth and eyes open, his hair flattened, his shirtfront soaked with drying blood. He’d been tall, and almost gaunt, with reddish hair that looked blue in the streetlights, and freckles that looked black, the skin taut around his skull and cheekbones. The bottom arm, his right, was thrown out on the sidewalk; the top arm clutched at his gut and, like his shirt, was covered with blood.
“Same deal,” Anson said. “Stuck him, ripped him. It’s like a harakiri, almost, except that the rip is up.”
“Goddamnit, I was looking for him tonight. I missed him by thirty seconds,” Lucas said, turning away from the body. “He was with a Goth. They call her a fairy, just like the one who was talking with Dick Ford.”
“Ford? What fairy?”
Lucas explained it, taking it step-by-step. When he finished, Anson said, “So the fairy did it.”
“We need to talk to her,” Lucas said. “We need to find her. Really bad.”
“I’ll need the names of everybody who knows her,” Anson said.
“I’ll e-mail them to you tonight, before I go to bed,” Lucas said. “You’ve got some witnesses . . . and somebody told me that the fairy girl had called Carter. I don’t know whether it was at work, or at home, or on a cell, or what.”
“But there ought to be a number we can get at.”
“Should be,” Lucas said. “And a photo kit from the people who’ve seen her. Get it out to the media. Put some pressure on her.”
There was nothing for Lucas to do at the crime scene, except stand around with his hands in his pockets and bullshit with the uniforms. As the crime-scene people and the ME’s investigators worked over the body, Anson took a call, walking along the river with a finger in one ear, the phone to the other. He rang off and told Lucas that Carter had come from Little America, and that his parents were being notified. “Bad day out in the countryside. His parents both work for the post office,” he said. “If this happened to one of my kids, I’d jump off a bridge.”
“After you killed the guy who did it,” Lucas said, looking back at the body.
Anson nodded: “We don’t talk about that.”
Lucas went home; confirmed the murder to Weather, who was shocked: “We didn’t set this off, did we?”
“Nah. I’ve been working on the case for half a day,” Lucas said. “This guy’s been a target for longer than that.”
“Then how did you miss them at the nightclub? It sounds like they were trying to avoid you—and that’d mean . . .”
“. . . that they’d have to know who I was. Or, maybe, she just wanted to get him out of there, away from people who could look at her. Nobody really talked to her—she kept him moving. My guess is, she moved him away from the people in the front room, then went into the back room, the dance floor, and he had more friends back there, so she moved him out of there, too. We just . . . passed each other.”
She shook her head. “Too neat. There’s something going on that we don’t know about.”
“Gonna have to think about it,” Lucas said.
“Have to think by yourself,” she said. “I’m doing a palate tomorrow and it’s a bad one. I need to be out of here by five, so I’m going to bed.”
“See you tomorrow then.” He kissed her goodnight, and moved to the den, where he read again through the paper generated by the Minneapolis guys and his own BCA. Lucas had worked for both, and had his prejudices: the BCA guys worked a couple of murders a year, maybe, and they were often hard ones.
But Minneapolis—a lead
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