not pulling my load, and they’re right. Whenever there’s a really horseshit case, I get it. I got one right now. Everybody in homicide is laughing about it. That’s what I need your advice on.”
“What happened?”
“We don’t know,” Greave said. “We’ve got it pegged as a homicide and we know who did it, but we can’t figure out how.”
“Never heard of anything like that,” Lucas admitted.
“Sure you have,” Greave said. “All the time.”
“What?” Lucas was puzzled.
“It’s a goddamned locked-room mystery, like one of them old-lady English things. It’s driving me crazy.”
Connell pushed through the door. She was wearing a navy suit with matching low heels, a white blouse with wine-colored tie, and carried a purse the size of a buffalo. She looked at Greave, then Lucas, and said, “Ready.”
“Bob Greave, Meagan Connell,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, we sorta met,” Greave said. “A few weeks ago.”
A little tension there. Lucas scooped Connell’s file from his desk, handed it to Greave. “Meagan and I are going out to the bookstores. Read the file. We’ll talk tomorrow morning.”
“What time?”
“Not too early,” Lucas said. “How about here, at eleven o’clock?”
“What about my case?” Greave asked.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Lucas said.
As Lucas and Connell walked out of the building, Connell said, “Greave’s a jerk. He’s got the Hollywood stubble and the Miami Vice suits, but he couldn’t find his shoes in a goddamn clothes closet.”
Lucas shook his head, irritated. “Cut him a little slack. You don’t known him that well.”
“Some people are an open book,” Connell snorted. “He’s a fuckin’ comic.”
CONNELL CONTINUED TO irritate him; their styles were different. Lucas liked to drift into conversation, to schmooze a little, to remember common friends. Connell was an interrogator: just the facts, sir.
Not that it made much difference. Nobody in the half-dozen downtown bookstores knew Wannemaker. They picked up a taste of her at the suburban Smart Book. “She used to come to readings,” the store owner said. He nibbled at his lip as he peered at the photograph. “She didn’t buy much, but we’d have these wine-and-cheese things for authors coming through town, and she’d show up maybe half the time. Maybe more than that.”
“Did you have a reading last Friday?”
“No, but there were some.”
“Where?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” He threw up his hands. “Goddamn authors are like cockroaches. There’re hundreds of them. There’s always readings somewhere. Especially at the end of the week.”
“How do I find out where?”
“Call the Star-Trib. There’d be somebody who could tell you.”
LUCAS CALLED FROM a corner phone, another number from memory. “I wondered if you’d call.” The woman’s voice was hushed. “Are you bringing up your net?”
“I’m doing that now. There’re lots of holes.”
“I’m in.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. How about the readings?”
“There was poetry at the Startled Crane, something called Prairie Woman at The Saint—I don’t know how I missed that one—Gynostic at Wild Lily Press, and the Pillar of Manhood at Crosby’s. The Pillar of Manhood was a male-only night. If you’d called last week, I probably could have gotten you in.”
“Too late,” Lucas said. “My drum’s broke.”
“Darn. You had a nice drum, too.”
“Yeah, well, thanks, Shirlene.” To Connell: “We can scratch Crosby’s off the list.”
THE OWNER OF the Startled Crane grinned at Lucas and said, “Cheese it, the heat . . . How you been, Lucas?” They shook hands, and the store owner nodded at Connell, who stared at him like a snake at a bird.
“Not bad, Ned,” Lucas said. “How’s the old lady?”
Ned’s eyebrows went up. “Pregnant again. You just wave it at her, and she’s knocked up.”
“Everybody’s pregnant. I gotta friend, I just heard
“What happened?”
“We don’t know,” Greave said. “We’ve got it pegged as a homicide and we know who did it, but we can’t figure out how.”
“Never heard of anything like that,” Lucas admitted.
“Sure you have,” Greave said. “All the time.”
“What?” Lucas was puzzled.
“It’s a goddamned locked-room mystery, like one of them old-lady English things. It’s driving me crazy.”
Connell pushed through the door. She was wearing a navy suit with matching low heels, a white blouse with wine-colored tie, and carried a purse the size of a buffalo. She looked at Greave, then Lucas, and said, “Ready.”
“Bob Greave, Meagan Connell,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, we sorta met,” Greave said. “A few weeks ago.”
A little tension there. Lucas scooped Connell’s file from his desk, handed it to Greave. “Meagan and I are going out to the bookstores. Read the file. We’ll talk tomorrow morning.”
“What time?”
“Not too early,” Lucas said. “How about here, at eleven o’clock?”
“What about my case?” Greave asked.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Lucas said.
As Lucas and Connell walked out of the building, Connell said, “Greave’s a jerk. He’s got the Hollywood stubble and the Miami Vice suits, but he couldn’t find his shoes in a goddamn clothes closet.”
Lucas shook his head, irritated. “Cut him a little slack. You don’t known him that well.”
“Some people are an open book,” Connell snorted. “He’s a fuckin’ comic.”
CONNELL CONTINUED TO irritate him; their styles were different. Lucas liked to drift into conversation, to schmooze a little, to remember common friends. Connell was an interrogator: just the facts, sir.
Not that it made much difference. Nobody in the half-dozen downtown bookstores knew Wannemaker. They picked up a taste of her at the suburban Smart Book. “She used to come to readings,” the store owner said. He nibbled at his lip as he peered at the photograph. “She didn’t buy much, but we’d have these wine-and-cheese things for authors coming through town, and she’d show up maybe half the time. Maybe more than that.”
“Did you have a reading last Friday?”
“No, but there were some.”
“Where?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” He threw up his hands. “Goddamn authors are like cockroaches. There’re hundreds of them. There’s always readings somewhere. Especially at the end of the week.”
“How do I find out where?”
“Call the Star-Trib. There’d be somebody who could tell you.”
LUCAS CALLED FROM a corner phone, another number from memory. “I wondered if you’d call.” The woman’s voice was hushed. “Are you bringing up your net?”
“I’m doing that now. There’re lots of holes.”
“I’m in.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it. How about the readings?”
“There was poetry at the Startled Crane, something called Prairie Woman at The Saint—I don’t know how I missed that one—Gynostic at Wild Lily Press, and the Pillar of Manhood at Crosby’s. The Pillar of Manhood was a male-only night. If you’d called last week, I probably could have gotten you in.”
“Too late,” Lucas said. “My drum’s broke.”
“Darn. You had a nice drum, too.”
“Yeah, well, thanks, Shirlene.” To Connell: “We can scratch Crosby’s off the list.”
THE OWNER OF the Startled Crane grinned at Lucas and said, “Cheese it, the heat . . . How you been, Lucas?” They shook hands, and the store owner nodded at Connell, who stared at him like a snake at a bird.
“Not bad, Ned,” Lucas said. “How’s the old lady?”
Ned’s eyebrows went up. “Pregnant again. You just wave it at her, and she’s knocked up.”
“Everybody’s pregnant. I gotta friend, I just heard
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