Part 25 (2/2)

”That is interesting,” she said. She made a note in her notebook, then put the eraser end of her pencil against her teeth, pensively, erotically. He was starting to fixate on the idea of television anchorwomen and oral s.e.x, Lucas thought. ”The gun issue's so hot . . . right now.” She would pause every so often, leaving a gap in the conversation, almost as though she were inviting him to fill it in.

She paused now, and Lucas said, ”Reed's an English name, right?”

”Yes. I'd be English on my father's side,” she said. ”Why?”

”I was thinking,” Lucas said. ”You've got great Italian eyes, you know?”

She smiled and caught her bottom lip with an upper tooth, and said, ”Well, thank you. . . .”

When she left, Lucas went to the door with her. She moved along a little more slowly than he did, and he found himself almost on top of her, ushering her out. She smelled fine, he thought. He watched her down the hall. She wouldn't be an athlete. She was soft, smooth. She turned at the corner to see if he was watching, and just at that moment, when she turned, and though they resembled each other not at all, she reminded him of Weather.

TH EREST OF the day was a wasteland of paper, old reports, and conjectures. Connell wandered in after two, even paler than usual, said she'd been working on the computers. Lucas told her about the interview with Abby Weed. Connell nodded: ”I'd already written them off. Hitting the Hillerods was just our good deed for the day.”

”How're you feeling?”

”Sick,” she said. Then quickly: ”Not from last night. From . . . the big thing. It's coming back.”

”Jesus, Meagan. . . .”

”I knew it would,” she said. ”Listen, I'm going to talk to Anderson, and start helping Greave on those histories. I can't think of anything else.”

She left, but came back ten seconds later. ”We've got to get him, Lucas. This week or next.”

”I don't know. . . .”

”That's all the time I've got this round . . . and the next round will be even shorter.”

LUCAS GOT HOME early, found Weather on the couch reading The Robber Bride, her legs curled beneath her.

”A dead end?”

”Looks like it,” Lucas said. ”The woman in Madison confirmed Joe Hillerod's story. We're back to looking at paper.”

”Too bad. He sounds like a major jerk.”

”We've got him on the guns, anyway,” Lucas said. ”He handled most of the rifles, and their ID guys got good prints. And they found bolt cutters and a crowbar in his truck, and the tool-marks guy matched them to the marks on a gunshop door out in Wayzata.”

”So what's left? On the murder case?”

”G.o.d, I don't know. But I feel like things are moving.”

Lucas spent the late evening in the study, going through Anderson's book on the case-all the paper that anybody had brought in, with the histories that Greave had completed. Weather came to the door in her cotton nightgown and said, ”Be extra quiet when you come to bed. I've got a heavy one tomorrow.”

”Yeah.” He looked up from the paper, his hair in disarray, discouraged. ”Christ, you know, there's so much stuff in here, and so much of it's bulls.h.i.+t. The stuff in this file, you could spend four years investigating and never learn a f.u.c.kin' thing.”

She smiled and came over and patted his hair back into place, and he wrapped an arm around her back and pulled her close, so he could lean his head between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. There was something animal about this: it felt so good, and so natural. Like momma. ”You'll get him,” she said.

AN HOUR LATER, he was puzzling over Anderson's note on the deaf people. Everything sounded right: a guy with a beard, going to the bookstore, in a truck. How in the h.e.l.l did they screw up the license so bad? He glanced at his watch: one o'clock, too late to call anybody at St. Paul. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Maybe something would bubble to the surface of his mind. . . .

20.

KOOP BROUGHT A sack of Taco Bell soft tacos to the rooftop, tossed the sack on top of the air-conditioner housing, and pulled himself up after it. There was still enough light that Sara Jensen might see him if she looked out her window, so he duckwalked across the housing until he was behind the exhaust vent.

Putting the tacos aside, he shook the Kowa scope out of its canvas case and surveyed the apartment. Where was the blond guy? Had he come back? His heart was chilly with the fear. . . .

The drapes from both rooms were open, as usual. Sara Jensen was nowhere in sight. The bathroom door was closed.

Satisfied for the moment, Koop settled in behind the vent, opening the tacos, gulping them down. He dripped sour cream on his jacket: s.h.i.+t. He brushed the sour cream with a napkin, but there would be a grease stain. He tossed the napkin off the edge off the housing, then thought, I shouldn't do that, and made a mental note to pick it up before he left.

Ten minutes after he arrived, Sara Jensen walked-hurried-out of the bathroom. She was nude, and the thrill of her body ran through him like an electric current, like a hit of speed. He put the scope on her as she sat at her dressing table and began to work on her makeup. He enjoyed seeing this, the careful work under the eyes, the touch-up of the lashes, the sensuous painting of her full lips. He dreamed about her lips. . . .

And he loved to watch her naked back. She had smoothly molded shoulders, the ripple of her spine from the top of her round a.s.s straight to the nape of her neck. Her skin was fine, clear-one small dark mole on her left shoulder blade, the long, pale neck . . .

She stood, turned toward him, face intent, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s bobbing, the gorgeous pubic patch . . . She dug through her dresser, looking at what? Underwear? She pulled on a pair of underpants, took them off, threw them back, pulled on a much briefer pair, looked at herself in the mirror. Looked again, backed away, pulled the bottom elastic of her pants away from her thighs, let it snap back, turned to look at her b.u.t.t.

And Koop began to worry.

She found a bra to go with the pants, an underwired bra, perhaps: it seemed to push her up. She didn't really need it, he thought, but it did look good. She turned again, looking at her self, snapped the elastic on her pants leg again.

Posed.

She was pleased with herself.

”What are you doing, Sara?” Koop asked. He tracked her with the scope. ”What the f.u.c.k are you doing?”

She disappeared into a closet and came back out with a simple dark dress, either very dark blue or black. She held it to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, looked into the mirror, shook her head at herself, and went back into the closet. She came back out with blue jeans and a white blouse, held them up, put them on, tucked in the s.h.i.+rt. Looked at herself, made a face in the mirror, shook her head, went back into the closet, emerged with the dress. She took off the jeans, stripping for him again, exciting him. She picked up the dress, pulled it over her head, smoothed it down.

”Are you going out, Sara?”

She looked in the mirror again, one hand on her a.s.s, then took the dress off, tossed it on the bed, and looked thoughtfully at her chest of drawers. Walked to the chest, opened the bottom drawer, and took out a pale-blue cotton sweat suit. She pulled it on, pushed up the sleeves on the sweats.h.i.+rt, went back to the mirror. Pulled off the sweats.h.i.+rt, took off the bra, pulled the sweats.h.i.+rt back on.

Koop frowned. Sweat suit?

The dress had been simple but elegant. The jeans casual but pa.s.sable at most places in the Cities. But the sweat suit? Maybe she'd just been trying on stuff. But if so, why all the time in the bathroom? Why the sense of urgency?

Koop turned away, dropped behind the duct, lit a Camel, then rolled onto his knees and looked back through her window. She was standing in front of her mirror, flipping her hair with her hands. Brus.h.i.+ng it back: breaking down its daytime structure.

Huh.

She stopped suddenly, then ducked back at the mirror, gave her hair a last flip, then hurried-skipped once-going out of the bedroom, into the front room, to the door. Said something, a smile on her face, then opened the door.

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