Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob.
“They’re not using a key to knock,” she blurted. “It’s not the hotel.”
“Answer the door,” Cohn told Lane. He’d been lying on the bed, now was on his feet.
Lane went to the door, opened it just a crack, said, “Shoot,” and opened it wide. A young blond woman carrying an old-style hard makeup case stepped through, spotted Cohn, cried, “Brutus,” and threw herself at him. He picked her up, her legs wrapped around his waist. Cruz shouted at him, as Lane closed the door, “You fucker. You fucker, Brute. Goddamn you . . .”
“How are you, Lindy?” Lane asked, and to McCall, he said, “It’s Lindy.”
“I’m outa here,” Cruz said.
“Rosie, calm down, okay?” Cohn said, over Lindy’s shoulder.
Lindy said, “Yeah, calm down, Rosie. Jesus Christ.”
“Lindy’s just visiting. I’ll put her on the plane home in a few days,” Cohn said.
Cruz put her hands, in fists, on her hips, her face a hard clutch of anger: “Why the hell . . .”
“Because I couldn’t wait,” Cohn said. “That’s why.”
“Brute . . .”
“Y’all get out of here, back in an hour,” Cohn said, “or we’re all gonna be pretty embarrassed.”
They shuffled out, Cruz running her hands through her short hair in exasperation, and Cohn said, “Better make it two hours.”
* * *
SATURDAY ON THE sloping front lawn of the state Capitol, in St. Paul.
Letty strolled through the crowd, protesters, rubberneckers, street people, vendors, cops, taking it all in. She was a teenager, one toe in senior high, but for two years she’d worked unofficially for Channel Three, an unpaid intern. She was sponsored there by one of Lucas’s ex-girlfriends—a girlfriend with whom he’d had a daughter, who now lived with her mother and her mother’s new family.
Letty occasionally thought about how tangled it all was—women having children with two different men, men having children with several different women, and she was about to become the official daughter of the only husband and wife who’d ever behaved like parents with her . . .
Letty had been born in the bleakest part of northwest Minnesota, the daughter of an alcoholic mother; her father took off when she was a child, and she hadn’t seen him since. They’d lived in an old farmhouse outside a small country town, so she hadn’t even had the benefit of close-by neighbors. They had no satellite TV, so there’d been only two weak over-the-air TV channels, and she’d grown up as a county library patron, and a reader.
When she got into school, she’d encountered a man who made his living wandering through the local marshlands in the late fall and winter, trapping fur. He’d taught her how to do it—not much to learn, you could get most of it in a few days of observation—and she’d become a trapper, taking muskrats out of the marshes and raccoons out of the county landfill. That had gone on for most of her elementary school days; she’d taught herself to drive at the same time, and how to avoid the local highway patrolmen. The money from the trapping had become the family’s main source of income.
A tough kid.
A series of murders had torn up her life: had resulted in her mother’s death, and had brought Lucas Davenport and Del Capslock into town. She and Lucas had hit it off almost immediately, and he’d brought her home as his legal ward.
Cinderella.
Her job with Channel Three was more than decorative. Lucas’s cop pals kept her well-stocked with tips, and since they were always reported by other producers and reporters, her favored reporters did very well with her.
A woman with a baby, sitting outside a tiny orange nylon tent, smiled at her and Letty smiled back and said, “Hello, there.”
“You can’t really be a TV person,” the woman said, looking at the credential tags around Letty’s neck.
“But I am,” Letty said happily.
Across the park, in the street, a white van cruised by, the side
“They’re not using a key to knock,” she blurted. “It’s not the hotel.”
“Answer the door,” Cohn told Lane. He’d been lying on the bed, now was on his feet.
Lane went to the door, opened it just a crack, said, “Shoot,” and opened it wide. A young blond woman carrying an old-style hard makeup case stepped through, spotted Cohn, cried, “Brutus,” and threw herself at him. He picked her up, her legs wrapped around his waist. Cruz shouted at him, as Lane closed the door, “You fucker. You fucker, Brute. Goddamn you . . .”
“How are you, Lindy?” Lane asked, and to McCall, he said, “It’s Lindy.”
“I’m outa here,” Cruz said.
“Rosie, calm down, okay?” Cohn said, over Lindy’s shoulder.
Lindy said, “Yeah, calm down, Rosie. Jesus Christ.”
“Lindy’s just visiting. I’ll put her on the plane home in a few days,” Cohn said.
Cruz put her hands, in fists, on her hips, her face a hard clutch of anger: “Why the hell . . .”
“Because I couldn’t wait,” Cohn said. “That’s why.”
“Brute . . .”
“Y’all get out of here, back in an hour,” Cohn said, “or we’re all gonna be pretty embarrassed.”
They shuffled out, Cruz running her hands through her short hair in exasperation, and Cohn said, “Better make it two hours.”
* * *
SATURDAY ON THE sloping front lawn of the state Capitol, in St. Paul.
Letty strolled through the crowd, protesters, rubberneckers, street people, vendors, cops, taking it all in. She was a teenager, one toe in senior high, but for two years she’d worked unofficially for Channel Three, an unpaid intern. She was sponsored there by one of Lucas’s ex-girlfriends—a girlfriend with whom he’d had a daughter, who now lived with her mother and her mother’s new family.
Letty occasionally thought about how tangled it all was—women having children with two different men, men having children with several different women, and she was about to become the official daughter of the only husband and wife who’d ever behaved like parents with her . . .
Letty had been born in the bleakest part of northwest Minnesota, the daughter of an alcoholic mother; her father took off when she was a child, and she hadn’t seen him since. They’d lived in an old farmhouse outside a small country town, so she hadn’t even had the benefit of close-by neighbors. They had no satellite TV, so there’d been only two weak over-the-air TV channels, and she’d grown up as a county library patron, and a reader.
When she got into school, she’d encountered a man who made his living wandering through the local marshlands in the late fall and winter, trapping fur. He’d taught her how to do it—not much to learn, you could get most of it in a few days of observation—and she’d become a trapper, taking muskrats out of the marshes and raccoons out of the county landfill. That had gone on for most of her elementary school days; she’d taught herself to drive at the same time, and how to avoid the local highway patrolmen. The money from the trapping had become the family’s main source of income.
A tough kid.
A series of murders had torn up her life: had resulted in her mother’s death, and had brought Lucas Davenport and Del Capslock into town. She and Lucas had hit it off almost immediately, and he’d brought her home as his legal ward.
Cinderella.
Her job with Channel Three was more than decorative. Lucas’s cop pals kept her well-stocked with tips, and since they were always reported by other producers and reporters, her favored reporters did very well with her.
A woman with a baby, sitting outside a tiny orange nylon tent, smiled at her and Letty smiled back and said, “Hello, there.”
“You can’t really be a TV person,” the woman said, looking at the credential tags around Letty’s neck.
“But I am,” Letty said happily.
Across the park, in the street, a white van cruised by, the side
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