stripe, and the Porsche in the background.”
“You’ll take it any way you can get it, buster. Maybe I should worry about you hanging out with newspaperwomen, again.”
“Ah, I’m too pussy-whipped to do anything questionable.”
“I beg your pardon . . .”
AS SOON AS THEY BROKE OFF , he said, “Sloan,” and punched in Sloan’s office phone from memory.
Somebody else answered. “Where’s Sloan?” Lucas asked.
“Who is this?”
“Davenport.”
“Hey, Lucas. This is Franklin. Sloan was talking to Anderson out in the hall a minute ago, let me go look. He’s been calling you at the office and on your cell phone . . .”
Franklin dropped the phone and went away. Lucas looked at his cell phone’s screen: sure enough, three missed calls. Then Lucas heard Franklin’s voice again but couldn’t make out what he said, then Sloan picked up: “We got some ink. This little fucking weasel from the Strib picked it up.”
“I know,” Lucas said. He yawned. “What do you think?”
“Are you still in bed? You sound like you’re in bed.”
“Yeah, yeah, so what do you think?”
“The chief is jumping up and down, which is what you get when you hire a small-town guy. He’s scared to death that the city council might pee on him. Or even worse, the TV people,” Sloan said.
“You worried?”
“Not yet. Not as long as he doesn’t kill another one in town. I suppose you’re gonna have the governor on your ass.”
Lucas yawned again. “Don’t know yet,” he said when he had the yawn under control. “Dead people don’t have any political clout, but it could come from somewhere else, I suppose.”
“How about a sense of moral obligation?” Sloan said.
“Ah, you fuckin’ Republicans, nothing ever makes you happy.”
“Fuck a bunch of Republicans,” Sloan said. “Anyway, I had Anderson send a whole book over to you by e-mail. You could have your secretary print it out for you before you get there. It’s everything we got, plus some medium-rez pictures from the Larson scene. You can have your co-op guys put it all in the database.”
“All right. I’ll be over there by ten. Want to hook up, say ten-thirty?”
“You got the case now?”
“I’m giving it to myself,” Lucas said. “If they want to put somebody else on it, too, that’s okay.”
“See you at ten-thirty,” Sloan said. “By the way, I got my papers.”
Lucas didn’t immediately track the reference. “Huh?”
“My retirement papers. I got them. I’m filling them out,” Sloan said.
“Ah, for Christ’s sake, Sloan, you aren’t gonna quit.”
“Yeah, I am. Talk to you at ten-thirty.”
LUCAS CALLED HIS SECRETARY and told her to print out Sloan’s murder file, and get it to the co-op group. Then he dressed, went downstairs, into a silent house, sat at the bar in the kitchen, and ate cholesterol-free, fat-free, carbohydrate-free, salt-free, puffed oatmeal air with a splash of fat-free milk. Still hungry, he went, feeling furtive, even though Weather was six thousand miles away, into Weather’s home office, opened the file cabinet, picked up a stack of medical reports, found the gold box of Godiva birthday bonbons hidden under them, stole the two he figured would be least conspicuously missing, and let them melt in his mouth as he headed for the door.
The second one had a maraschino cherry in the center: excellent. Feeling much better and hardly guilty at all, he wheeled out onto Mississippi River Boulevard, over to Cretin, and down to I-94, playing with the Porsche’s engine as he went.
CAROL WAS POKING FRANTICALLY at her computer when Lucas arrived at the office. Lucas ran the BCA’s Office of Regional Research, a bullshit title invented by Rose Marie Roux created to cover up the fact that he did what he wanted, or what the governor wanted him to. A fixer, in some ways.
He had two full-time investigators, and since the office was so small, Carol, technically a secretary, was
“You’ll take it any way you can get it, buster. Maybe I should worry about you hanging out with newspaperwomen, again.”
“Ah, I’m too pussy-whipped to do anything questionable.”
“I beg your pardon . . .”
AS SOON AS THEY BROKE OFF , he said, “Sloan,” and punched in Sloan’s office phone from memory.
Somebody else answered. “Where’s Sloan?” Lucas asked.
“Who is this?”
“Davenport.”
“Hey, Lucas. This is Franklin. Sloan was talking to Anderson out in the hall a minute ago, let me go look. He’s been calling you at the office and on your cell phone . . .”
Franklin dropped the phone and went away. Lucas looked at his cell phone’s screen: sure enough, three missed calls. Then Lucas heard Franklin’s voice again but couldn’t make out what he said, then Sloan picked up: “We got some ink. This little fucking weasel from the Strib picked it up.”
“I know,” Lucas said. He yawned. “What do you think?”
“Are you still in bed? You sound like you’re in bed.”
“Yeah, yeah, so what do you think?”
“The chief is jumping up and down, which is what you get when you hire a small-town guy. He’s scared to death that the city council might pee on him. Or even worse, the TV people,” Sloan said.
“You worried?”
“Not yet. Not as long as he doesn’t kill another one in town. I suppose you’re gonna have the governor on your ass.”
Lucas yawned again. “Don’t know yet,” he said when he had the yawn under control. “Dead people don’t have any political clout, but it could come from somewhere else, I suppose.”
“How about a sense of moral obligation?” Sloan said.
“Ah, you fuckin’ Republicans, nothing ever makes you happy.”
“Fuck a bunch of Republicans,” Sloan said. “Anyway, I had Anderson send a whole book over to you by e-mail. You could have your secretary print it out for you before you get there. It’s everything we got, plus some medium-rez pictures from the Larson scene. You can have your co-op guys put it all in the database.”
“All right. I’ll be over there by ten. Want to hook up, say ten-thirty?”
“You got the case now?”
“I’m giving it to myself,” Lucas said. “If they want to put somebody else on it, too, that’s okay.”
“See you at ten-thirty,” Sloan said. “By the way, I got my papers.”
Lucas didn’t immediately track the reference. “Huh?”
“My retirement papers. I got them. I’m filling them out,” Sloan said.
“Ah, for Christ’s sake, Sloan, you aren’t gonna quit.”
“Yeah, I am. Talk to you at ten-thirty.”
LUCAS CALLED HIS SECRETARY and told her to print out Sloan’s murder file, and get it to the co-op group. Then he dressed, went downstairs, into a silent house, sat at the bar in the kitchen, and ate cholesterol-free, fat-free, carbohydrate-free, salt-free, puffed oatmeal air with a splash of fat-free milk. Still hungry, he went, feeling furtive, even though Weather was six thousand miles away, into Weather’s home office, opened the file cabinet, picked up a stack of medical reports, found the gold box of Godiva birthday bonbons hidden under them, stole the two he figured would be least conspicuously missing, and let them melt in his mouth as he headed for the door.
The second one had a maraschino cherry in the center: excellent. Feeling much better and hardly guilty at all, he wheeled out onto Mississippi River Boulevard, over to Cretin, and down to I-94, playing with the Porsche’s engine as he went.
CAROL WAS POKING FRANTICALLY at her computer when Lucas arrived at the office. Lucas ran the BCA’s Office of Regional Research, a bullshit title invented by Rose Marie Roux created to cover up the fact that he did what he wanted, or what the governor wanted him to. A fixer, in some ways.
He had two full-time investigators, and since the office was so small, Carol, technically a secretary, was
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