away.’’
‘‘Trouble?’’
Ghent flopped a hand, dismissively. ‘‘Just . . . weirdness.’’
Rose Marie Roux was sitting at a cluttered desk in Identification, chewing Nicorette, paging through a document Lucas recognized as the departmental budget. She looked up when Lucas came in and said, ‘‘I swear to God, if you killed the smartest guy on the city council, the average IQ in Minneapolis would go up two points. Don’t quote me.’’
‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘The York case.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
Morris York, two years on the force, found with a halfounce of Mexican bud in a Marlboro box behind his patrol car visor. His marijuana habit had been detected by a departmental mechanic who claimed he was getting a contact high off the car’s upholstery. Internal Affairs made movies of York getting mellow on the job.
‘‘Tommy Gedja says this morning, at the council meeting, if that’s all we’re doing in our cars, why do we need new cars? I think he was serious. I think they’re gonna try to pull twelve cars out from under us.’’
Lucas shrugged: ‘‘Life sucks and then they cut your budget. What’re you doing down here?’’
‘‘More budget problems.’’ A piece of white paper, wrapped in a plastic folder, lay on the desk’s otherwise empty typewriter tray. She picked it up and handed it to him. ‘‘Came in the mail, first thing this morning.’’
Dear Chief of Police Roux:
One week ago, Mr. Kresge sent a memo to Susan O’Dell which said that her department would not be allowed to continue with a planned expansion because of budget constraints. Mrs. O’Dell has worked on the expansion for a long time and when she got the memo, her quote was, ‘‘God Damn him, I’m going to kill him.’’ There were three people in the room at the time: Sharon Allen (assistant to the vice president), Michelle Stephens (executive secretary), and Randall Moss ( assistant head cashier). I can’t tell you my name, but I thought you should know.
‘‘Not much here,’’ Lucas said. He snapped the paper with his index finger. ‘‘We could interview Stephens to see how serious she thinks it is. Or if she’s just trying to torpedo O’Dell.’’
‘‘Stephens?’’ Roux had the gene that allowed her to lift one eyebrow at a time, and her left brow went up.
Lucas nodded. ‘‘She’s probably the one who sent it— sounds like somebody who actually heard O’Dell say it, but she misuses the word ‘quote,’ which means not a lot of education. On the other hand, everything is spelled right, and secretaries spell things right. She’s very aware of titles and refers to Kresge as ‘mister,’ which means she saw him as somebody with a lot more status than she has: not an associate. She wouldn’t put herself first on the list, because that would make her nervous. And an assistant head cashier probably has a college education.’’
‘‘So how’s she dressed, Sherlock?’’
Lucas smiled, but a droopy, tired smile: ‘‘Navy jacket and skirt or tan jacket and skirt with an older but neatly ironed white shirt and some kind of tie. Practical heels. Single mother. Tense. Anxious. Angry with O’Dell for personal reasons. Hurting for money.’’
Roux said, ‘‘Smart-ass.’’ She turned and shouted into a closet-sized office: ‘‘Beverly! Bring the other thing out so Sherlock Holmes can take a look.’’
The department’s document specialist, a dark-haired woman with a faint Moravian accent, bustled out of the closet with another slip of paper wrapped in plastic.
‘‘Also in the mail,’’ Roux said. ‘‘Beverly’s checking for fingerprints.’’
‘‘There are none,’’ the woman said. ‘‘Not on the letter or the envelope. Standard twenty-pound copier paper, no watermark. Printed with a laser printer.’’ Lucas took the paper.
Chief Roux:
Daniel S. Kresge was shot by Wilson McDonald, who was hunting with Kresge when the shooting occurred. I have known
‘‘Trouble?’’
Ghent flopped a hand, dismissively. ‘‘Just . . . weirdness.’’
Rose Marie Roux was sitting at a cluttered desk in Identification, chewing Nicorette, paging through a document Lucas recognized as the departmental budget. She looked up when Lucas came in and said, ‘‘I swear to God, if you killed the smartest guy on the city council, the average IQ in Minneapolis would go up two points. Don’t quote me.’’
‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘The York case.’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
Morris York, two years on the force, found with a halfounce of Mexican bud in a Marlboro box behind his patrol car visor. His marijuana habit had been detected by a departmental mechanic who claimed he was getting a contact high off the car’s upholstery. Internal Affairs made movies of York getting mellow on the job.
‘‘Tommy Gedja says this morning, at the council meeting, if that’s all we’re doing in our cars, why do we need new cars? I think he was serious. I think they’re gonna try to pull twelve cars out from under us.’’
Lucas shrugged: ‘‘Life sucks and then they cut your budget. What’re you doing down here?’’
‘‘More budget problems.’’ A piece of white paper, wrapped in a plastic folder, lay on the desk’s otherwise empty typewriter tray. She picked it up and handed it to him. ‘‘Came in the mail, first thing this morning.’’
Dear Chief of Police Roux:
One week ago, Mr. Kresge sent a memo to Susan O’Dell which said that her department would not be allowed to continue with a planned expansion because of budget constraints. Mrs. O’Dell has worked on the expansion for a long time and when she got the memo, her quote was, ‘‘God Damn him, I’m going to kill him.’’ There were three people in the room at the time: Sharon Allen (assistant to the vice president), Michelle Stephens (executive secretary), and Randall Moss ( assistant head cashier). I can’t tell you my name, but I thought you should know.
‘‘Not much here,’’ Lucas said. He snapped the paper with his index finger. ‘‘We could interview Stephens to see how serious she thinks it is. Or if she’s just trying to torpedo O’Dell.’’
‘‘Stephens?’’ Roux had the gene that allowed her to lift one eyebrow at a time, and her left brow went up.
Lucas nodded. ‘‘She’s probably the one who sent it— sounds like somebody who actually heard O’Dell say it, but she misuses the word ‘quote,’ which means not a lot of education. On the other hand, everything is spelled right, and secretaries spell things right. She’s very aware of titles and refers to Kresge as ‘mister,’ which means she saw him as somebody with a lot more status than she has: not an associate. She wouldn’t put herself first on the list, because that would make her nervous. And an assistant head cashier probably has a college education.’’
‘‘So how’s she dressed, Sherlock?’’
Lucas smiled, but a droopy, tired smile: ‘‘Navy jacket and skirt or tan jacket and skirt with an older but neatly ironed white shirt and some kind of tie. Practical heels. Single mother. Tense. Anxious. Angry with O’Dell for personal reasons. Hurting for money.’’
Roux said, ‘‘Smart-ass.’’ She turned and shouted into a closet-sized office: ‘‘Beverly! Bring the other thing out so Sherlock Holmes can take a look.’’
The department’s document specialist, a dark-haired woman with a faint Moravian accent, bustled out of the closet with another slip of paper wrapped in plastic.
‘‘Also in the mail,’’ Roux said. ‘‘Beverly’s checking for fingerprints.’’
‘‘There are none,’’ the woman said. ‘‘Not on the letter or the envelope. Standard twenty-pound copier paper, no watermark. Printed with a laser printer.’’ Lucas took the paper.
Chief Roux:
Daniel S. Kresge was shot by Wilson McDonald, who was hunting with Kresge when the shooting occurred. I have known
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