somewhere.”
Lucas looked at Connell, who was showing just the faintest color.
The store owner, frowning, said, “You know, when I think about it, the question she asked was made up, like maybe she was dragging things out. I was sort of rolling my eyes, mentally, anyway. Then she leaves in a hurry. . . .”
“Like something happened while she was in the store?” Connell prompted.
“I hate to say it, but yes.”
“That’s interesting,” Lucas said. “We’ll need a list of everybody you know was here.”
The store owner looked away, embarrassed. “Hmm. “I think, uh, a lot of my clients would see that as an invasion of privacy,” he said.
“Would you like to see the pictures of Wannemaker?” Lucas asked gently. “The guy ripped her stomach open and all her intestines came out. And we think he might be hanging around bookstores.”
The store owner looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll get a list going,” he said.
LUCAS USED THE store phone to call Anderson, and told him about the identification. “She left here at nine o’clock.”
“We got her car fifteen minutes ago,” Anderson said. “It was in the impound lot, towed out of downtown St. Paul. Hang on a minute. . . .” Anderson spoke to somebody else, then came back. “It was towed off a hill on Sixth. I’m told that’s next to Dayton’s.”
“So she must have been headed somewhere.”
“Unless she already was somewhere, and walked back to the store.”
“I don’t think so. That’d be eight or ten blocks. There’s a lot of parking around here. She would have driven.”
“Is there anything around Dayton’s at nine? Was the store open?”
“There’s a bar up there—Harp’s. On the corner. Connell and I’ll stop in.”
“Okay. St. Paul’ll process the car,” Anderson said. “I’ll pass on what you found out at this bookstore. You’re getting a list of names?”
“Yeah. But it might not be much.”
“Get me the names and I’ll run ’em.”
Lucas hung up and turned around. Connell was marching toward him from the back of the store, where the owner had gone to talk with one of his clerks about people at the reading.
“One of the men here was a cop,” she said fiercely. “A St. Paul patrolman named Carl Erdrich.”
“Damnit,” Lucas said. He picked up the phone and called Anderson back, gave him the name.
“What?” Connell wanted to know when he got off the phone.
“We’ll check the bar,” Lucas said. “There’ll have to be some negotiations before we can get a mug of Erdrich.”
Connell spun around and planted herself in front of him. “What the fuck is this?” she asked.
“It’s called the Usual Bullshit,” he said. “And calm down. We’re talking about an hour or two, not forever.”
But she was angry, heels pounding as they walked back to Lucas’s Porsche. “Why do you drive this piece of crap? You ought to buy something decent,” she snapped.
Lucas said, “Shut the fuck up.”
“What?” She goggled at him.
“I said shut the fuck up. You don’t shut the fuck up, you can take the bus back to Minneapolis.”
CONNELL, STILL ANGRY, trailed him into Harp’s and muttered, “Oh, Lord” when she saw the bartender. The bartender was a dark-haired pixieish woman with large black eyes, too much makeup, and a bee-stung lower lip. She wore a slippery low-cut silk pullover without a bra, and a black string tie with a turquoise clasp at her throat. “Cops?” she asked, but she was smiling.
“Yeah.” Lucas nodded, grinned, and tried to meet her eyes. “We need to talk to somebody who was here Friday night.”
“I was,” she said, dropping her elbows on the bar and leaning toward Lucas, glancing at Connell. The bartender smelled lightly of cinnamon, like a dream; she had a soft freckled cleavage. “What do you need?”
Lucas rolled out the photo of Wannemaker. “Was she here?”
The bartender watched his eyes, and, satisfied with her
Lucas looked at Connell, who was showing just the faintest color.
The store owner, frowning, said, “You know, when I think about it, the question she asked was made up, like maybe she was dragging things out. I was sort of rolling my eyes, mentally, anyway. Then she leaves in a hurry. . . .”
“Like something happened while she was in the store?” Connell prompted.
“I hate to say it, but yes.”
“That’s interesting,” Lucas said. “We’ll need a list of everybody you know was here.”
The store owner looked away, embarrassed. “Hmm. “I think, uh, a lot of my clients would see that as an invasion of privacy,” he said.
“Would you like to see the pictures of Wannemaker?” Lucas asked gently. “The guy ripped her stomach open and all her intestines came out. And we think he might be hanging around bookstores.”
The store owner looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll get a list going,” he said.
LUCAS USED THE store phone to call Anderson, and told him about the identification. “She left here at nine o’clock.”
“We got her car fifteen minutes ago,” Anderson said. “It was in the impound lot, towed out of downtown St. Paul. Hang on a minute. . . .” Anderson spoke to somebody else, then came back. “It was towed off a hill on Sixth. I’m told that’s next to Dayton’s.”
“So she must have been headed somewhere.”
“Unless she already was somewhere, and walked back to the store.”
“I don’t think so. That’d be eight or ten blocks. There’s a lot of parking around here. She would have driven.”
“Is there anything around Dayton’s at nine? Was the store open?”
“There’s a bar up there—Harp’s. On the corner. Connell and I’ll stop in.”
“Okay. St. Paul’ll process the car,” Anderson said. “I’ll pass on what you found out at this bookstore. You’re getting a list of names?”
“Yeah. But it might not be much.”
“Get me the names and I’ll run ’em.”
Lucas hung up and turned around. Connell was marching toward him from the back of the store, where the owner had gone to talk with one of his clerks about people at the reading.
“One of the men here was a cop,” she said fiercely. “A St. Paul patrolman named Carl Erdrich.”
“Damnit,” Lucas said. He picked up the phone and called Anderson back, gave him the name.
“What?” Connell wanted to know when he got off the phone.
“We’ll check the bar,” Lucas said. “There’ll have to be some negotiations before we can get a mug of Erdrich.”
Connell spun around and planted herself in front of him. “What the fuck is this?” she asked.
“It’s called the Usual Bullshit,” he said. “And calm down. We’re talking about an hour or two, not forever.”
But she was angry, heels pounding as they walked back to Lucas’s Porsche. “Why do you drive this piece of crap? You ought to buy something decent,” she snapped.
Lucas said, “Shut the fuck up.”
“What?” She goggled at him.
“I said shut the fuck up. You don’t shut the fuck up, you can take the bus back to Minneapolis.”
CONNELL, STILL ANGRY, trailed him into Harp’s and muttered, “Oh, Lord” when she saw the bartender. The bartender was a dark-haired pixieish woman with large black eyes, too much makeup, and a bee-stung lower lip. She wore a slippery low-cut silk pullover without a bra, and a black string tie with a turquoise clasp at her throat. “Cops?” she asked, but she was smiling.
“Yeah.” Lucas nodded, grinned, and tried to meet her eyes. “We need to talk to somebody who was here Friday night.”
“I was,” she said, dropping her elbows on the bar and leaning toward Lucas, glancing at Connell. The bartender smelled lightly of cinnamon, like a dream; she had a soft freckled cleavage. “What do you need?”
Lucas rolled out the photo of Wannemaker. “Was she here?”
The bartender watched his eyes, and, satisfied with her
Similar Books
