there…”
L ESTER CAUGHT L UCAS outside his office as Lucas was locking the door.
“Any ideas?” he asked.
“What everybody else says—money or a nut,” Lucas said. “If we don’t get a ransom call, we’ll find him in her files or in her family.”
“There could be a problem with the files,” Lester said. “Manette talked to the Wolfe woman and she hit the roof. I guess there was a hell of an argument. Medical privilege.”
“Doesn’t exist, Frank,” Lucas said. “Subpoena the records. Don’t talk about it. If you talk about it, it’ll turn into a big deal and the media will be wringing their wrists. Get a judge out of bed, get the subpoena. I’ll take it over myself, if you want.”
“That’d be good, but not tonight,” Lester said. “We’ve got too much going on already. I’ll have it here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Lucas nodded. “I’ll pick it up as early as I can drag my ass out of bed,” he said. He didn’t get up early. “I’m gonna stop and see the kid, too. Tonight.”
“Bob talked to her,” Lester said, uncomfortably.
“Yeah, he did,” Lucas said. And after a moment, “That’s your problem.”
“Bob’s a nice guy,” Lester said.
“He couldn’t catch the clap in a whorehouse, Frank.”
“Yeah, yeah…did you talk to the kid’s folks?”
“Two minutes ago,” Lucas said. “I told them I was on the way.”
C LARICE B ERNET WORE a suit and tie. Her husband, Thomas, wore a cashmere sweater and a tie. “We don’t want her frightened any more than she is,” Clarice Bernet said. She hissed it, like a snake. She was a bony woman with tight blonde hair and a thin nose. Her front teeth were angled like a rodent’s, and she was in Lucas’s face.
“I’m not here to frighten her,” Lucas said.
“You better not,” Bernet said. She shook a finger at him: “There’s been enough trouble from this already. The first officer questioned her without allowing us time to get there.”
“We were hoping to stop the kidnapper’s van,” Lucas said mildly, but he was getting angry.
Thomas Bernet waggled his jowls: “We appreciate that, but you have to understand that this has been a trauma.”
They were standing in the quarry-tiled entry of the Bernets’ house, a closet to one side, a framed poster on the opposite wall, a souvenir from a Rembrandt show at the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam in 1992. A sad, middle-aged Rembrandt peered out at Lucas. “ You have to understand that this is a kidnapping investigation and it could become a murder investigation,” Lucas snapped, his voice developing an edge. “One way or another, we’ll talk to your daughter and get answers from her. We can do it pleasantly, here, or unpleasantly down at Homicide, with a court order.” He paused for a half-beat. “I’d rather not get the court order.”
“ We don’t need threats,” Thomas Bernet said. He was a division manager at General Mills and knew a threat when he heard one.
“I’m not threatening you; I’m laying out the legal realities,” Lucas said. “Three people’s lives are in jeopardy and if your daughter has a bad night’s sleep over it, or two bad nights, that’s tough. I’ve got to think about the victims and what they’re going through. Now, do I talk to, uh, Mercedes, or do I get the court order?”
M ERCEDES B ERNET WAS a small girl with a pointed chin, a hundred-dollar haircut, and eyes that were five years too old. She wore a pink silk kimono and sat on the living room couch, next to a Yamaha grand piano, with her ankles crossed. She had recently developed breasts, Lucas thought, and sat with her back coyly arched, making the best of what was not yet too much. With her mother sitting beside her, and her father hovering behind the chair, she told Lucas what she’d seen.
“Grace was standing there, looking back and forth, like she didn’t know what was going on. She even walked back toward the door for a minute, then she went
L ESTER CAUGHT L UCAS outside his office as Lucas was locking the door.
“Any ideas?” he asked.
“What everybody else says—money or a nut,” Lucas said. “If we don’t get a ransom call, we’ll find him in her files or in her family.”
“There could be a problem with the files,” Lester said. “Manette talked to the Wolfe woman and she hit the roof. I guess there was a hell of an argument. Medical privilege.”
“Doesn’t exist, Frank,” Lucas said. “Subpoena the records. Don’t talk about it. If you talk about it, it’ll turn into a big deal and the media will be wringing their wrists. Get a judge out of bed, get the subpoena. I’ll take it over myself, if you want.”
“That’d be good, but not tonight,” Lester said. “We’ve got too much going on already. I’ll have it here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Lucas nodded. “I’ll pick it up as early as I can drag my ass out of bed,” he said. He didn’t get up early. “I’m gonna stop and see the kid, too. Tonight.”
“Bob talked to her,” Lester said, uncomfortably.
“Yeah, he did,” Lucas said. And after a moment, “That’s your problem.”
“Bob’s a nice guy,” Lester said.
“He couldn’t catch the clap in a whorehouse, Frank.”
“Yeah, yeah…did you talk to the kid’s folks?”
“Two minutes ago,” Lucas said. “I told them I was on the way.”
C LARICE B ERNET WORE a suit and tie. Her husband, Thomas, wore a cashmere sweater and a tie. “We don’t want her frightened any more than she is,” Clarice Bernet said. She hissed it, like a snake. She was a bony woman with tight blonde hair and a thin nose. Her front teeth were angled like a rodent’s, and she was in Lucas’s face.
“I’m not here to frighten her,” Lucas said.
“You better not,” Bernet said. She shook a finger at him: “There’s been enough trouble from this already. The first officer questioned her without allowing us time to get there.”
“We were hoping to stop the kidnapper’s van,” Lucas said mildly, but he was getting angry.
Thomas Bernet waggled his jowls: “We appreciate that, but you have to understand that this has been a trauma.”
They were standing in the quarry-tiled entry of the Bernets’ house, a closet to one side, a framed poster on the opposite wall, a souvenir from a Rembrandt show at the Rijksmuseum Amsterdam in 1992. A sad, middle-aged Rembrandt peered out at Lucas. “ You have to understand that this is a kidnapping investigation and it could become a murder investigation,” Lucas snapped, his voice developing an edge. “One way or another, we’ll talk to your daughter and get answers from her. We can do it pleasantly, here, or unpleasantly down at Homicide, with a court order.” He paused for a half-beat. “I’d rather not get the court order.”
“ We don’t need threats,” Thomas Bernet said. He was a division manager at General Mills and knew a threat when he heard one.
“I’m not threatening you; I’m laying out the legal realities,” Lucas said. “Three people’s lives are in jeopardy and if your daughter has a bad night’s sleep over it, or two bad nights, that’s tough. I’ve got to think about the victims and what they’re going through. Now, do I talk to, uh, Mercedes, or do I get the court order?”
M ERCEDES B ERNET WAS a small girl with a pointed chin, a hundred-dollar haircut, and eyes that were five years too old. She wore a pink silk kimono and sat on the living room couch, next to a Yamaha grand piano, with her ankles crossed. She had recently developed breasts, Lucas thought, and sat with her back coyly arched, making the best of what was not yet too much. With her mother sitting beside her, and her father hovering behind the chair, she told Lucas what she’d seen.
“Grace was standing there, looking back and forth, like she didn’t know what was going on. She even walked back toward the door for a minute, then she went
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