John Mail was sitting in a folding chair, looking through a cardboard box of used D amp;D modules. He glanced down the store at Lucas, and then looked back into the box. Two other gamers, one of each sex, looked up when Paloma shouted at Lucas.
"A feminist role-playing game, modelled on Dungeons and Dragons," Paloma said, gradually moderating his voice as he walked toward Lucas. "Set in prehistoric times, but dealing with problems like heterosexual mating and child birth in an essentially lesbian-oriented setting. I'm calling it The Nest."
Lucas laughed. "Marcus, everything you know about feminism, you could write on the back of a fuckin' postage stamp with a laundry pen," he said.
The female gamer said, "Profanity is a sign of ignorance," and faced him, waiting to be challenged.
Marcus, coming up the store, said, "That was an obscenity, sweetheart, not a profanity. Get your shit straight. That's a vulgarity, by the way-shit is." To Lucas, he said, "How you been? Shoot anybody lately?"
"Not for several days," Lucas said. They shook, and Lucas added, "You're looking good."
"Thanks." Marcus's face was its usual dusty gray. "I'm watching my diet. I've eliminated all fats except a tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil, on salad, at noon."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Could you sign some stock since you're here?"
"Sure."
"Hey, are you Davenport?" the female gamer asked. She was a dark-haired high school senior, quivering with caffeine.
"Yes."
"I've got Blades at home, I'd love you to sign it."
"You still got the book on that?" Marcus asked the girl.
"Sure," the girl said.
"I'll get him to sign a book on a used one, and you bring yours in, and well trade," Marcus said.
"Dude," said the girl.
"Marcus, we gotta go in the back," Lucas said. "I need to talk for a minute."
"All right, let me get those games." He stepped over to the cash register stand, took a half-dozen boxes off a rack, walked to the used bin and picked up two more, and led Lucas down the length of the store into the back. Just before ducking through a gray curtain into his office, he called back to the girl, "Keep an eye on the desk, will you, Carol?"
The office was filled with cardboard shipping boxes. A roll-top desk was shoved into a corner, buried under ten pounds of unopened junk mail. There were three chairs, one overstuffed and comfortable, two folding, covered with green vinyl. The room smelled of old newsprint and slightly stale cat food. A fat red tabby was lying on the back ledge of the rolltop. The cat looked at Lucas, and Lucas's gray silk suit, and seemed to think about it.
"Sit down," Paloma said, waving one hand expansively. "Damn cat is sitting on my orders. Get off of there, Bennie."
They talked the games business for a minute or two-who was winning, who was losing, the sales wars. "Listen, Marcus, something's up," Lucas said. He leaned forward and tapped Paloma on the knee.
"Sure. Cop business?" Paloma had done a little snitching for Lucas.
"Yeah. You heard about that shrink getting snatched? And her kids? Big news in the Strib this morning?"
"Yeah, I saw that," Paloma said, amazed. "Took her right out of the parking lot."
"The guy who did it might be a gamer," Lucas said.
"A gamer?" Paloma asked doubtfully. Another cat came out of the back, a gray one, a solemn female. Marcus picked her up and scratched her ears, and she stared at Lucas with her yellow eyes.
"Yeah. Big guy, wearing a GenCon t-shirt, middle twenties. Probably strong, like a body builder. Has a violent streak. Blond, shoulder-length hair."
"Nice Dexie," Paloma said to the cat. Then he shook his head, slowly, thinking. "Not really. Big and tough, huh? That doesn't sound like too many gamers." He scratched his nose, thinking. "Except…"
"Who?"
"The guy out there now-he's a big guy." Paloma nodded toward the door to the front. "Pretty tough-looking. And I think I've seen him in a GenCon shirt."
"Where? Sitting down? He was kinda short." Lucas looked toward the curtain that separated the office from the sales floor.
"He was sitting in an old folding chair. He's probably six-four, maybe two-twenty. Strong as a bull," Paloma said.
Lucas stepped toward the door. "What's his name?"
"I don't know. I've seen him two or three times before. Never said much to me."
"Have you ever seen his car?"
"No. Not that I know of," Paloma said.
"Huh," Lucas said. He went back through the door in a hurry, but the dark-haired man was no longer sitting in the chair. To the girl he said, "Where did that guy go? The guy who was sitting over there…"
She shook her head. "He left. You gonna sign a book for me?"
"Who is he? You know him?" Lucas hurried toward the street door.
"Nope. Never saw him before," she said. "Why?"
"How about you?" he called back to the male gamer. "You know him?"
"Nope. I'm with her."
Out on the sidewalk, Lucas went to the corner and looked all four ways down the intersecting streets. No van in sight. Nothing but a green Mazda, driven by a redheaded woman in a green dress, who seemed to be lost.
How long had they been talking in the back? Four or five minutes, no more.
And the guy had gone, disappeared, in that time.
Lucas stood on the street corner, wondering.
The parking garage that had once faced the back entrance to City Hall had been razed, and Lucas left the Porsche on the street. Paloma, who'd been following in a Studebaker Golden Hawk, found another space a half-block further on. As they walked back toward City Hall, they could hear the City Hall bell ringer playing "You Are My Sunshine," the tune clanging out above police headquarters.
A thin man fell in step with them. As Lucas turned to him, Sloan said, looking up at the bell tower, "Hope there are no fuckin' acid-heads around right now."
Lucas grinned: "That would be hard to explain to yourself-'You Are My Sunshine' banging around your brain."
"Makes me want to jump off the tower. And I'm not even high," Paloma said.
Sherrill caught them in the hallway outside Lucas's office. She was carrying a manila file: "We've got a problem." She glanced at Paloma, then turned back to Lucas. "We need to talk. Now."
"What? They got a court order?" Lucas asked.
"No. But you're not gonna like it."
Lucas turned to Sloan: "Marcus is here to look at the composite on the Manette kidnapper. He might want to add some stuff. Could you get him down there?"
"Sure," Sloan said. And to Marcus: "Let's go."
Lucas opened his office, nodded Sherrill into a chair, and hung his coat and jacket on an old-fashioned oak coat rack. "Tell me," he said. And he decided that he liked the tomboy-with-great-breasts look. He'd never hit on Sherrill, and now couldn't think how he'd missed her.
"There's a guy named Darrell Aldhus, a senior vice president at Jodrell National," Sherrill said. "He's been diddling little boys in his Scout troop."
Lucas frowned. "Does this have anything…"
"No. Nothing to do with Andi Manette, except that she hasn't reported the guy. And that's a felony. What's happening is, is what everybody was afraid was gonna happen. Aldhus admits in here-" Sherrill slapped the file-"that he's had several sexual contacts with boys, and he's trying to get himself cured. If we go after him, a defense attorney is gonna tell him to get the hell out of therapy and don't say shit to anybody. Since all we've got is her notes, nothing on tape, we really don't have that strong a case-not without her to back them up. We could put the Sex guys on it, have them start talking to kids…"
"Do we have any of the kids' names?" Lucas asked.
"No, but if we went in hard, I'm sure we could find some," she said.
"Goddamnit." Lucas opened a desk drawer and put his feet on it. "I didn't want this."
"The press is gonna be on us like a hot sweat," Sherrill said. "This guy is big enough that if we bust him, it'll be front-page stuff."