staff, they comfort me . . . .
Bekker went away . . . .
When he came back, the mourners were on their feet, looking at him. It was over, what? Yes, he should walk out, one hand on the side rail of the coffin . . . .
Afterward, at the cemetery, Bekker walked alone to his car, aware of the eyes on him. The women, looking. He composed his face: I need a mask, a grave mask, he thought. He giggled at the pun. He couldn’t help himself.
He turned, struggling to keep his face straight. The crowd was watching, all right. And on the hillside, in the grass, the man in the European suit, watching.
He needed something to enhance his mood. His hand strayed to the cigarette case. He had two more of the special Contacs, a half-dozen methamphetamines. They’d be fine after the barbs.
And a little ecstasy for dessert?
But of course . . .
The funeral was crowded, the coffin closed. Lucas sat next to Swanson, the lead investigator. Del sat with Stephanie Bekker’s family.
“The sonofabitch looks stoned,” Swanson mumbled, poking Lucas with an elbow. Lucas turned and watched Bekker go by. Astonishingly good-looking: almost too much, Lucas thought. Like a mythological beast, assembled from the bestparts of several animals, Bekker’s face seemed to have been assembled from the best features of several movie stars.
“Is he hurt?” Lucas whispered. Bekker was walking awkwardly, his legs like lumber.
“Not that I know of,” Swanson whispered back.
Bekker walked down the aisle; one hand on the coffin, unbending, his eyes invisible behind dark sunglasses. Occasionally his lips moved, as though he were mumbling to himself, or praying. It did not seem an act: the woodenness appeared to be real.
He followed the coffin to the hearse, waited until it was loaded, then walked down the block to his car. At the car he turned and looked directly at Lucas. Lucas felt the eyes and stood still, watching, letting their gazes touch. And then Bekker was gone.
Lucas went to the cemetery, curious. What was it with Bekker? Grief? Despair? An act? What?
He watched from a hillside as Stephanie Bekker’s coffin was lowered into the ground. Bekker never changed: his beautiful face was as immobile as a lump of clay.
“What do you think?” Swanson asked, when Bekker had gone.
“I think the guy’s a fruitcake,” Lucas said. “But I don’t know what kind.”
Lucas spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening putting the word out on his network, a web of hookers, bookstore owners, barbers, mailmen, burglars, gamblers, cops, a couple of genteel marijuana dealers: Anything on a hit? Any nutso walking around with big cash?
A few minutes after six, he took a call on his handset and drove back downtown to police headquarters in the scabrous wart of Minneapolis City Hall. Sloan met him in the hall outside the chief’s office.
“You hear?” Sloan asked.
“What?”
“We got a letter from a guy who says he was there when Stephanie got killed. Loverboy.”
“No ID?”
“No. But there’s a lot of stuff in the letter . . . .”
Lucas followed Sloan past the vacant secretary’s desk to the inner office. Daniel sat behind his desk, rolling a cigar between his fingers, listening to a Homicide detective who sat in a green leather chair in front of the desk. Daniel looked up when Sloan rapped on the open door.
“C’mon in, Sloan. Davenport, how are you? Swanson’s filling me in.”
Lucas and Sloan pulled up chairs on either side of the Homicide detective and Lucas asked him, “What’s this letter?”
Swanson passed him a Xerox copy. “We were just talking about possibilities. Could be a doper, scared off by Loverboy. Unless Loverboy did it.”
“You think it’s Loverboy?”
The detective shook his head. “No. Read the letter. It more or less hangs together with the scene. And you saw Bekker.”
“Nobody has a good word for the guy,” Sloan said.
“Except professionally. The docs at the
Bekker went away . . . .
When he came back, the mourners were on their feet, looking at him. It was over, what? Yes, he should walk out, one hand on the side rail of the coffin . . . .
Afterward, at the cemetery, Bekker walked alone to his car, aware of the eyes on him. The women, looking. He composed his face: I need a mask, a grave mask, he thought. He giggled at the pun. He couldn’t help himself.
He turned, struggling to keep his face straight. The crowd was watching, all right. And on the hillside, in the grass, the man in the European suit, watching.
He needed something to enhance his mood. His hand strayed to the cigarette case. He had two more of the special Contacs, a half-dozen methamphetamines. They’d be fine after the barbs.
And a little ecstasy for dessert?
But of course . . .
The funeral was crowded, the coffin closed. Lucas sat next to Swanson, the lead investigator. Del sat with Stephanie Bekker’s family.
“The sonofabitch looks stoned,” Swanson mumbled, poking Lucas with an elbow. Lucas turned and watched Bekker go by. Astonishingly good-looking: almost too much, Lucas thought. Like a mythological beast, assembled from the bestparts of several animals, Bekker’s face seemed to have been assembled from the best features of several movie stars.
“Is he hurt?” Lucas whispered. Bekker was walking awkwardly, his legs like lumber.
“Not that I know of,” Swanson whispered back.
Bekker walked down the aisle; one hand on the coffin, unbending, his eyes invisible behind dark sunglasses. Occasionally his lips moved, as though he were mumbling to himself, or praying. It did not seem an act: the woodenness appeared to be real.
He followed the coffin to the hearse, waited until it was loaded, then walked down the block to his car. At the car he turned and looked directly at Lucas. Lucas felt the eyes and stood still, watching, letting their gazes touch. And then Bekker was gone.
Lucas went to the cemetery, curious. What was it with Bekker? Grief? Despair? An act? What?
He watched from a hillside as Stephanie Bekker’s coffin was lowered into the ground. Bekker never changed: his beautiful face was as immobile as a lump of clay.
“What do you think?” Swanson asked, when Bekker had gone.
“I think the guy’s a fruitcake,” Lucas said. “But I don’t know what kind.”
Lucas spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening putting the word out on his network, a web of hookers, bookstore owners, barbers, mailmen, burglars, gamblers, cops, a couple of genteel marijuana dealers: Anything on a hit? Any nutso walking around with big cash?
A few minutes after six, he took a call on his handset and drove back downtown to police headquarters in the scabrous wart of Minneapolis City Hall. Sloan met him in the hall outside the chief’s office.
“You hear?” Sloan asked.
“What?”
“We got a letter from a guy who says he was there when Stephanie got killed. Loverboy.”
“No ID?”
“No. But there’s a lot of stuff in the letter . . . .”
Lucas followed Sloan past the vacant secretary’s desk to the inner office. Daniel sat behind his desk, rolling a cigar between his fingers, listening to a Homicide detective who sat in a green leather chair in front of the desk. Daniel looked up when Sloan rapped on the open door.
“C’mon in, Sloan. Davenport, how are you? Swanson’s filling me in.”
Lucas and Sloan pulled up chairs on either side of the Homicide detective and Lucas asked him, “What’s this letter?”
Swanson passed him a Xerox copy. “We were just talking about possibilities. Could be a doper, scared off by Loverboy. Unless Loverboy did it.”
“You think it’s Loverboy?”
The detective shook his head. “No. Read the letter. It more or less hangs together with the scene. And you saw Bekker.”
“Nobody has a good word for the guy,” Sloan said.
“Except professionally. The docs at the
Similar Books
