Lucas shook his head. "He's got to wear an ankle bracelet, he doesn't have any access to money, and J. B.'s already told him we're whipped. Why would he run? What would he run with?"
"All right. See you when? Wednesday?"
"Or maybe Thursday. I want to take a little time with Weather… Goddamnit."
LUCAS SPENT THE evening thinking about the phone call from Lansing-and about the phone call to Randy. He and Weather ate in, Weather watching him, and when they were done she said, "I'm going to let you brood," and got out her laptop to do some office catch-up. Lucas wandered around first the house and then the garage, cleaning nothing out of the Porsche, then the yard, and back into the house again, working through it. Weather fired up a DVD movie, but he couldn't focus. "You haven't figured it out yet, whatever you're figuring out?"
"I hope not," he said.
They finally went to bed at midnight, and just before she went to sleep, Weather asked, "Are you really going to stay home all day?"
"Nah. Probably not. May go for a run in the Porsche. Knock around a little."
"I'll try to get home early. Why don't we go out to the marina and take a look at my boat?"
"Okay."
She went quickly and softly to sleep, as she often did. Lucas lay awake, waiting for the phone to ring. He thought it might ring sometime after three o'clock, but it didn't. He never heard Weather leave, and when he opened his eyes, it was eleven in the morning.
He ate breakfast, went out and got in the car, took it out on the Interstate across the river to Wisconsin, jumped on his favorite blacktop road to River Falls, and let the Porsche engine out of the box. For the next hour he looped along the backroads, surprised that the golf courses were already open, looking for but not seeing any more snow in the woods-it had melted away in a week. Sometimes, after a long winter, the snow stayed back in the trees into May. Not this year.
He thought about Qatar, about the bloody clothing from Barstad's. At three o'clock, he pulled the lightly breathing Porsche into the parking lot at St. Patrick's, walked across the lawns to Qatar's office building, and found the janitor with the whiskey nose.
"If you were gonna hide something in this building where you could get at it quick and whenever you wanted, safely and without anybody seeing, but you didn't want to hide it in your own office…"
"You mean like if Jim Qatar hid some evidence."
"Yeah. Where would you hide it?" Lucas asked.
The janitor thought for a couple of minutes, then said, "I personally might hide it anywhere, because I can go anywhere in the building and nobody looks at me twice. But if I was Jim Qatar… Let me show you. You know about the skeleton cases upstairs?"
"No."
"Next floor up from Qatar's office. Just up the stairway. Let's take the elevator," the janitor said. On the way up, he said, "You think maybe he didn't burn the clothes?"
"I don't know. It seems a little risky… What if somebody saw him down there?"
"Yeah, but if you know your way around, like he did, you could do it. It's a little risky, but hell, what're we talking about? You think he murdered-what, a dozen people?"
They got out at the top floor. The hallway outside the elevator was lined with glass cases, each holding reconstructed skeletons or stuffed birds or animals-thirty or forty of them, Lucas thought, lining both sides of the narrow hall. The ceiling hung low overhead, a checkerboard of darker and lighter wood panels.
"This originally was book storage and supplies, but when that moved out, they put these cases up here for the art students," the janitor said. "They're supposed to draw from them, and some of them do. Human skeletons down that way, and some muscle things, full-sized."
"So Qatar…"
"I'll show you." There were hard-backed wooden chairs between cases. "They sit on these, drag them around…" He pulled a chair out, stood on it, and pushed one of the wooden ceiling panels. It lifted easily. "There used to be a higher ceiling-way high, to the top of the building-but dirt filtered down all the time, and there wasn't any way to clean it, so they put this drop-ceiling in. Years and years ago. Maybe in the sixties, maybe. Anyway, all the kids know about it. There's a ledge right inside, and sometimes, if they're working, they'll just push one of these things up and leave their stuff in here."
"All right." Lucas looked down the hall. There were probably a hundred panels per side: He could spend the rest of the afternoon looking, and probably not finding anything. On the other hand…
"You want to look? Glad to give you a hand."
"Nah, you go on," Lucas said. "I might push up a few of them."
"Are you sure? Glad to."
"Nah. I can take care of it."
Lucas looked him back into the elevator, and when he was gone, and the elevator cables stopped grinding, he dragged a chair out and began pushing up panels in the silence of the long hallway. He found he could place the chair beneath one panel, lift it and the panels on both sides, and so cover three with one move of the chair. He went left down the hall from the elevator, spent twenty minutes, found nothing but an old lunch-very old, maybe a decade.
Instead of working back down the other side of the hall, he carried his chair back to the elevator and started the other way. On the second panel, he saw a plastic sack stuffed on the ledge. But Qatar had been carrying a grocery sack…
He had driving gloves in his pockets. He pulled them on, then tugged at the plastic bag. Heavy and hard. He lifted it down carefully and peeled back the garbage bag.
A laptop: not what he'd been expecting. He stepped down carefully, sat on the chair, and opened the laptop's cover-found the switch and turned it on. A green light came up instantly: still charged. A student? Windows came up, and then the icons on the left side of the screen. Halfway down he spotted the eye-in-the-square of Photoshop.
"Sonofabitch," he muttered. He brought Photoshop up, found a file listed as "B1," opened it. A photograph of a woman, but skeletonized, reduced to a skein of fine lines. He maneuvered it awkwardly around the screen, unfamiliar with the Photoshop protocols, but finally got a face. Barstad. "There you are," he said. He maneuvered the pointing stick, brought up another one. A woman he didn't recognize, but he recognized the pose: It had been lifted from a porn site. He scanned the list of files. Found an A1, A2, and A3.
Opened A1, found the face.
Closed his eyes for a moment, then said, "Gotcha."
Aronson stared back at him.
There had to be prints on the bag or the laptop. Nobody could be that careful, that paranoid… and the surfaces were perfect for prints. But now, what to do? He sat thinking for another five minutes, vacillating, then stood on the chair and put the package back on the ledge.
Hesitated, then put the panel back in place.
Went down in the basement and found the whiskey-nosed janitor. "It's taking longer than I thought, and I can't see well enough, all the way back," he lied. "I'm gonna bring in a crime- scene crew tomorrow. Don't let anybody go up there, okay? You don't have to guard it, but don't let anybody mess around up there."
"I'll keep everybody out. I'll block it off, if you want."
"It doesn't look like there are many people around… why don't you just keep an eye on it? There might be fingerprints somewhere, and we wouldn't want to mess them up."
The janitor nodded. "Never thought of fingerprints. Whatever you say-I go home at seven, but I'll make sure that everybody knows it's off-limits."
HE SPENT THAT evening thinking about the phone call to Randy and about the laptop. Did the laptop assemble the bricks into a wall? Or was it just another half-assed brick? Even if they could demonstrate that Qatar did the drawings, and therefore knew Aronson before she died, what if Qatar argued that he met her through the second man-Randy-or vice versa, that Aronson had met Randy through him. After all, only one of the dead women was associated with a drawing. And there were more than a dozen women still alive who'd got them.