Part 38 (1/2)

”Lucas, I can't. I'd push on you,” she said. She stepped closer.

”It'll be okay, as long as I don't move quick. It's quick that hurts. If you sort of snuggle onto my lap. . . .”

”If you're sure it won't hurt,” she said.

The snuggling hurt only a little, and made everything feel better. He closed his eyes after a while and went to sleep, with her head on his chest.

AT SIX O'CLOCK, they watched the news together.

Roux triumphant.

And generous, and sorrowful, all at once. She paraded the detectives who worked on the case, all except Del, who hated his face to be seen. She mentioned Lucas a half-dozen times as the mastermind of the investigation. She painted a mournful portrait of Connell struggling for women's rights, dedicating herself to the destruction of the monster.

The mayor spoke. The head of the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension took a large slice of the credit. The president of the AFSCME said she could never be replaced. Connell's mother flew in from Bemidji, and cried.

Wonderful television, much of it anch.o.r.ed by Jan Reed.

”I was so scared,” Weather said. ”When they called . . .”

”Poor Connell,” Lucas said. Reed had great eyes.

”f.u.c.k Connell,” Weather said. ”And f.u.c.k you too. I was scared for myself. I didn't know what I'd do if you'd been killed.”

”You want me to quit the cops?”

She looked at him, smiled, and said, ”No.”

Another television report showed the front of Lucas's house. Why, he didn't know. Another was shot from the roof of the apartment across the street from Jensen's, looking right into Jensen's place. The word fishbowl was used.

”Makes my blood run cold,” Weather said. She s.h.i.+vered.

”Hard to believe,” Lucas said. ”A hot-blooded Finn.”

”Well, it does. It's absolutely chilling.”

Lucas looked at her, thought about her a.s.s, that day in the bathroom. The aesthetic a.s.s that led to all of this . . .

Lucas urged her off his lap, stood up, creaking, hurting. He stretched carefully, like an old arthritic tomcat, one piece at a time, and suddenly his smile flicked on and he looked happy.

The change was so sudden that Weather actually stepped away from him. ”What?” she asked. Maybe the pain had flipped him out. ”You better sit down.”

”You're a beautiful woman, with a good mind and a better-than-average a.s.s,” he said.

”What?” Really perplexed.

”I gotta run into town,” he said.

”Lucas, you can't.” Angry now.

”I'm stoned on Advil,” he said. ”I'll be all right. Besides, the docs said I'm not that badly injured, I'm just gonna have a little pain.”

”Lucas, I've had a broken rib,” she said. ”I know what it feels like. What could be important enough . . . ?”

”It's important,” he said. ”And it won't take long. When I get back, you can kiss the hurt for me.”

He walked very carefully down toward the garage, feeling each and every bruise. Weather tagged behind. ”Maybe I should drive you.”

”No, I'm okay, really,” he said. In the kitchen, he picked up the phone, dialed, got homicide and asked for Greave. Greave picked up.

”Man, I thought you were incommunicado,” Greave said.

”You know that kid that does ch.o.r.es over at the Eisenhower Docks?” Lucas asked.

”Yeah?”

”Get him. Hold him there. I'll meet you in the lobby. And bring one of the cellulars, I'm gonna want to make a phone call.”

GREAVE WAS WAITING in the lobby when Lucas arrived. He was wearing jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt under a light wool sports jacket, with his pistol clipped over his left front pelvic point, like Lucas. The kid was sitting in a plastic chair, looking scared. ”What's going on, sir?” he asked.

”Let's go up on the roof,” Lucas said, leading them toward the elevator. Inside, he pushed the b.u.t.ton for the top floor.

”What're we doing up there?” Greave asked. ”You've got something?”

”Well, Koop's gone, so we oughta solve this case,” Lucas said. ”Since the kid here won't talk, I thought we'd hold him off the roof by his ankles until he gave us something we could use.”

”Sir?” The kid squeezed back against the elevator wall.

”Just kidding,” Lucas said. He grinned, painfully, but the kid still pressed against the wall of the elevator. From the top floor, they walked up the short flight of stairs to the roof, wedged the door open, and Lucas asked, ”Did you bring the phone?”

”Yeah.” Greave fumbled in his pocket and pulled it out. ”Tell me, G.o.dd.a.m.nit.”

Lucas walked to the air-conditioner housing. The housing was new, no sign of rust on its freshly painted metal. ”When did they put this in?” he asked the kid.

”When they were remodeling the building. A year ago, maybe.”

High up on the edge of it was the manufacturer's tag with a service phone number, just like the tag he'd seen on the air conditioner across from Sara Jensen's building. Lucas opened the portable and dialed the number.

”Lucas Davenport, deputy chief, Minneapolis Police Department,” he told the woman who answered. ”I need to talk to the service manager. Yeah, it has to do with repair work on one of your installations.”

Greave and the kid watched him as he waited, then: ”Yes, Davenport, D-a-v-e-n-p-o-r-t. We're conducting a homicide investigation. We need to know if you repaired an air conditioner at the Eisenhower Docks apartment complex last month. You installed it about a year ago. Huh? Uh, well, you could call the department and ask. Then you could call me back . . . Okay.” Lucas looked at Greave, his ear to the phone. To Greave he said, grinning, ”He's got to call up a listing on his computer, but he doesn't remember it.”

”What?” Greave was as perplexed as Weather. He looked at the air conditioner, then at the kid. The kid shrugged.

Lucas said into the phone, ”You didn't? Isn't it under warranty? Un-huh. And that would cover all repairs, right? Okay. Listen, a detective named Greave will be coming over to take a statement from you later today. We'll try to make it before five o'clock.”