a cabinet in there with a glass front. It used to be full of old vases and dishes and bowls. One of them had Chinese coins in it. I’m not sure, because some of it’s broken, but I don’t think there are as many pieces as there used to be. It looks too…loose.”
“Could you identify any of it? If we came up with some stuff?”
Lash shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know anything about it. I never really looked at it, except, one time when Mrs. Bucher showed me the coins. It just looks too loose. It used to be jammed with vases and bowls. Coins are all over the floor now, so they didn’t take those.”
“Okay…Any other last thoughts?”
Ronnie said to Lucas, “‘The love of money is the root of all evils.’ Timothy, six-ten.”
The little asshole was getting on top of him.
Lucas said, “‘Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.’ Woody Allen.”
His mother cracked a smile, but Ronnie said, “I’ll go with Timothy.”
4
A S THE L ASHES LEFT, Smith and another cop came rolling down the hall, picking up their feet, in a jacket-flapping, gun-flashing hurry.
“Got a break,” Smith said, coming up to Lucas. “Let’s go.”
Lucas started walking. “What happened?”
“Guy showed up at Rhodes’s with some jewelry in a jewelry box. Jewelry was cheap but the box was terrific. Our guys turned it over, it’s inscribed ‘Bucher’ on the back.”
Rhodes’s was a pawnshop. Lucas asked, “Do they know who brought it in?”
“That’s the weird thing,” Smith said. “They do.”
“Where’re we going?” Lucas asked.
“Six-twelve Hay. It’s off Payne, nine blocks north of Seventh. SWAT is setting up in the parking lot behind the Minnesota Music Café.”
“See you there.”
P AYNE A VENUE WAS one of the signature drags across St. Paul’s east side, once the Archie Bunker bastion of the city’s white working class. The neighborhood had been in transition for decades, reliable old employers leaving, a new mix of Southeast Asians and blacks moving in. Lucas dropped past the cathedral, onto I-94 in a minute or so, up the hill to Mounds Boulevard, left and left again.
The café was an old hangout of his, at the corner of East Seventh and Payne, with a graveled parking lot in back, and inside, the best music in town. A dozen cars were in the lot, cops pulling on body armor. A half-dozen civilians were watching from the street. Smith arrived ten seconds after Lucas, and they walked over to Andy Landis, the SWAT squad commander.
“What you got?” Smith asked.
“We’re in the house behind him and on both sides,” Landis said. “Name is Nathan Brown. Don’t have anything local on him, but the people in the house behind him say he moved here from Chicago four or five years ago. There’re about fifty Nathan and Nate Browns with files down in Chicago, so we don’t know who he is.”
“Got the warrant?” Smith asked.
“On the way. Two minutes,” Landis said.
“Love this shit,” Smith said to Lucas.
“You ever been on the SWAT squad?”
“Ten years, until the old lady nagged me out of it,” Smith said. “Turned my crank.”
“Wasn’t it called something else? They called you the ‘breath mint’?”
“CIRT,” Smith said. “Critical Incident Response Team.”
“SWAT’s better,” Lucas said.
T HE WARRANT ARRIVED and the SWAT squad moved out in three groups. Lucas and Smith tagged behind.
“The couple who found the bodies…did they notice anything missing around the house?” Lucas asked.
Smith shook his head. “Not that they mentioned. But they weren’t housekeepers—the wife does the cooking, the husband did maintenance and gardening and the lawn. And with shit thrown all over the place like it was…The niece is on the way from California. She’ll probably know something.”
T HE SWAT TEAM came in three groups: a blocking group at the back door, and two at the front of the house, one from each side. They came across
“Could you identify any of it? If we came up with some stuff?”
Lash shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know anything about it. I never really looked at it, except, one time when Mrs. Bucher showed me the coins. It just looks too loose. It used to be jammed with vases and bowls. Coins are all over the floor now, so they didn’t take those.”
“Okay…Any other last thoughts?”
Ronnie said to Lucas, “‘The love of money is the root of all evils.’ Timothy, six-ten.”
The little asshole was getting on top of him.
Lucas said, “‘Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons.’ Woody Allen.”
His mother cracked a smile, but Ronnie said, “I’ll go with Timothy.”
4
A S THE L ASHES LEFT, Smith and another cop came rolling down the hall, picking up their feet, in a jacket-flapping, gun-flashing hurry.
“Got a break,” Smith said, coming up to Lucas. “Let’s go.”
Lucas started walking. “What happened?”
“Guy showed up at Rhodes’s with some jewelry in a jewelry box. Jewelry was cheap but the box was terrific. Our guys turned it over, it’s inscribed ‘Bucher’ on the back.”
Rhodes’s was a pawnshop. Lucas asked, “Do they know who brought it in?”
“That’s the weird thing,” Smith said. “They do.”
“Where’re we going?” Lucas asked.
“Six-twelve Hay. It’s off Payne, nine blocks north of Seventh. SWAT is setting up in the parking lot behind the Minnesota Music Café.”
“See you there.”
P AYNE A VENUE WAS one of the signature drags across St. Paul’s east side, once the Archie Bunker bastion of the city’s white working class. The neighborhood had been in transition for decades, reliable old employers leaving, a new mix of Southeast Asians and blacks moving in. Lucas dropped past the cathedral, onto I-94 in a minute or so, up the hill to Mounds Boulevard, left and left again.
The café was an old hangout of his, at the corner of East Seventh and Payne, with a graveled parking lot in back, and inside, the best music in town. A dozen cars were in the lot, cops pulling on body armor. A half-dozen civilians were watching from the street. Smith arrived ten seconds after Lucas, and they walked over to Andy Landis, the SWAT squad commander.
“What you got?” Smith asked.
“We’re in the house behind him and on both sides,” Landis said. “Name is Nathan Brown. Don’t have anything local on him, but the people in the house behind him say he moved here from Chicago four or five years ago. There’re about fifty Nathan and Nate Browns with files down in Chicago, so we don’t know who he is.”
“Got the warrant?” Smith asked.
“On the way. Two minutes,” Landis said.
“Love this shit,” Smith said to Lucas.
“You ever been on the SWAT squad?”
“Ten years, until the old lady nagged me out of it,” Smith said. “Turned my crank.”
“Wasn’t it called something else? They called you the ‘breath mint’?”
“CIRT,” Smith said. “Critical Incident Response Team.”
“SWAT’s better,” Lucas said.
T HE WARRANT ARRIVED and the SWAT squad moved out in three groups. Lucas and Smith tagged behind.
“The couple who found the bodies…did they notice anything missing around the house?” Lucas asked.
Smith shook his head. “Not that they mentioned. But they weren’t housekeepers—the wife does the cooking, the husband did maintenance and gardening and the lawn. And with shit thrown all over the place like it was…The niece is on the way from California. She’ll probably know something.”
T HE SWAT TEAM came in three groups: a blocking group at the back door, and two at the front of the house, one from each side. They came across
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