his wife’s pregnant. How many is that for you? Six?”
“Seven . . . what’s happening?”
Connell, who had been listening impatiently to the chitchat, thrust the photos at him. “Was this woman here Friday night?”
Lucas, softer, said, “We’re trying to track down the last days of a woman who was killed last week. We thought she might’ve been at your poetry reading.”
Ned shuffled through the photos. “Yeah, I know her. Harriet something, right? I don’t think she was here. There were about twenty people, but I don’t think she was with them.”
“But you see her around?”
“Yeah. She’s a semiregular. I saw the TV stuff on Nooner. I thought that might be her.”
“Ask around, will you?”
“Sure.”
“What’s Nooner ?” Connell asked.
“TV3’s new noon news,” Ned said. “But I didn’t see her Friday. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was somewhere else, though.”
“Thanks, Ned.”
“Sure. And stop in. I’ve been fleshing out the poetry section.”
Back on the street, Connell said, “You’ve got a lot of bookstore friends?”
“A few,” Lucas said. “Ned used to deal a little grass. I leaned on him and he quit.”
“Huh,” she said, thinking it over. Then, “Why’d he tell you about poetry?”
“I read poetry,” Lucas said.
“Bullshit.”
Lucas shrugged and started toward the car.
“Say a poem.”
“Fuck you, Connell,” Lucas said.
“No, c’mon,” she said, catching him, facing him. “Say a poem.”
Lucas thought for a second, then said, “The heart asks pleasure first/And then excuse from pain/and then those little anodynes/that deaden suffering. And then to go to sleep/and then if it should be/the will of its inquisitor/the privilege to die.”
Connell, already pale, seemed to go a shade paler, and Lucas, remembering, thought, Oh, shit.
“Who wrote that?”
“Emily Dickinson.”
“Roux told you I have cancer?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t thinking about that. . . .”
Connell, studying him, suddenly showed a tiny smile. “I was kind of hoping you were. I was thinking, Jesus Christ, what a shot in the mouth. ”
“Well . . . ?”
“The Wild Lily Press over on the West Bank.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. That’s a feminist store. He’d be pretty noticeable.”
“Then The Saint, over in St. Paul.”
ON THE WAY to St. Paul, Connell said, “I’m in a hurry on this, Davenport. I’m gonna die in three or four months, six at the outside. Right now I’m in remission, and I don’t feel too bad. I’m out of chemo for the time being, I’m getting my strength back. But it won’t last. A couple weeks, three, and it’ll come creeping up on me again. I want to get him before I go.”
“We can try.”
“We gotta do better than that,” she said. “I owe some people.”
“All right.”
“I don’t mean to scare you,” she said.
“You’re doing it.”
THE OWNER OF The Saint recognized Wannemaker immediately. “Yes, she was here,” he said. His voice was cool, soft. He looked at Lucas over the top of his gold-rimmed John Lennon specs. “Killed? My God, she wasn’t the kind to get killed.”
“What kind was she?” Lucas asked.
“Well, you know.” He gestured. “Meek. A wallflower. She did ask a question when Margaret finished the reading, but I think it was because nobody was asking questions and she was embarrassed. That kind of person.”
“Did she leave with anyone?”
“Nope. She left alone. I remember, ’cause it was abrupt. Most readings, she’d hang around; she’d be the last to leave, like she had nothing else to do. But I remember, she headed out maybe fifteen minutes after we broke things up. There were still quite a few people in the store. I thought maybe she didn’t like Margaret.”
“Was she in a hurry?”
The store owner scratched his head, looked out his window at the street. “Yeah. Now that you mention it, she did sort of seem like she was going
“Seven . . . what’s happening?”
Connell, who had been listening impatiently to the chitchat, thrust the photos at him. “Was this woman here Friday night?”
Lucas, softer, said, “We’re trying to track down the last days of a woman who was killed last week. We thought she might’ve been at your poetry reading.”
Ned shuffled through the photos. “Yeah, I know her. Harriet something, right? I don’t think she was here. There were about twenty people, but I don’t think she was with them.”
“But you see her around?”
“Yeah. She’s a semiregular. I saw the TV stuff on Nooner. I thought that might be her.”
“Ask around, will you?”
“Sure.”
“What’s Nooner ?” Connell asked.
“TV3’s new noon news,” Ned said. “But I didn’t see her Friday. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was somewhere else, though.”
“Thanks, Ned.”
“Sure. And stop in. I’ve been fleshing out the poetry section.”
Back on the street, Connell said, “You’ve got a lot of bookstore friends?”
“A few,” Lucas said. “Ned used to deal a little grass. I leaned on him and he quit.”
“Huh,” she said, thinking it over. Then, “Why’d he tell you about poetry?”
“I read poetry,” Lucas said.
“Bullshit.”
Lucas shrugged and started toward the car.
“Say a poem.”
“Fuck you, Connell,” Lucas said.
“No, c’mon,” she said, catching him, facing him. “Say a poem.”
Lucas thought for a second, then said, “The heart asks pleasure first/And then excuse from pain/and then those little anodynes/that deaden suffering. And then to go to sleep/and then if it should be/the will of its inquisitor/the privilege to die.”
Connell, already pale, seemed to go a shade paler, and Lucas, remembering, thought, Oh, shit.
“Who wrote that?”
“Emily Dickinson.”
“Roux told you I have cancer?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t thinking about that. . . .”
Connell, studying him, suddenly showed a tiny smile. “I was kind of hoping you were. I was thinking, Jesus Christ, what a shot in the mouth. ”
“Well . . . ?”
“The Wild Lily Press over on the West Bank.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. That’s a feminist store. He’d be pretty noticeable.”
“Then The Saint, over in St. Paul.”
ON THE WAY to St. Paul, Connell said, “I’m in a hurry on this, Davenport. I’m gonna die in three or four months, six at the outside. Right now I’m in remission, and I don’t feel too bad. I’m out of chemo for the time being, I’m getting my strength back. But it won’t last. A couple weeks, three, and it’ll come creeping up on me again. I want to get him before I go.”
“We can try.”
“We gotta do better than that,” she said. “I owe some people.”
“All right.”
“I don’t mean to scare you,” she said.
“You’re doing it.”
THE OWNER OF The Saint recognized Wannemaker immediately. “Yes, she was here,” he said. His voice was cool, soft. He looked at Lucas over the top of his gold-rimmed John Lennon specs. “Killed? My God, she wasn’t the kind to get killed.”
“What kind was she?” Lucas asked.
“Well, you know.” He gestured. “Meek. A wallflower. She did ask a question when Margaret finished the reading, but I think it was because nobody was asking questions and she was embarrassed. That kind of person.”
“Did she leave with anyone?”
“Nope. She left alone. I remember, ’cause it was abrupt. Most readings, she’d hang around; she’d be the last to leave, like she had nothing else to do. But I remember, she headed out maybe fifteen minutes after we broke things up. There were still quite a few people in the store. I thought maybe she didn’t like Margaret.”
“Was she in a hurry?”
The store owner scratched his head, looked out his window at the street. “Yeah. Now that you mention it, she did sort of seem like she was going
Similar Books
