"Sure."
"They had a surveillance camera in the back of the store, looking at the cashier’s cage and the front door, get people’s faces coming in. Anyway, on the film, you can see the street through the window, and we picked out Arris strolling down the street, just a minute or so before he was shot. But there weren’t any blacks, either before or after."
"Huh. Is the tape still around?"
"Yeah, someplace. Since the case is still open…" "Did you ever look at the people around Arris? Friends and coworkers?"
"Oh, sure. Went over to that bank where he worked, came up empty. He’d been dating a few women, but hadn’t had anything serious in a couple of years. All he did was work: that’s what everybody said. Wasn’t interested in pussy, gambling, booze. Just interested in work."
"Huh. And he was dead when they found him."
"Yup. Never knew what hit him. Probably never saw it coming. Entry wound right below the bump on the back of his head, exit wound right between his eyes."
"Exit wound? So how’d you know it was a.380-was there a shell?"
"Yeah, we found it in the grass next to the curb. There was a partial print, but really partial-not enough even to start looking for a match."
"Slug fragments?"
"Yeah, one piece. Hollow point of some kind, nothing that would identify a pistol."
"Not much of anything, then."
"Nope. Listen, if you want, I’ll call Doug Skelly over in St. Paul and get him to run down that tape for you."
"Thanks, Jelly. Wish you were still on the job."
"Wish I was too, man. I hate this fuckin’ place."
The file on Andrew Ingall consisted of one sheet: His boat had been reported missing on Superior on clear, fine day with good sailing winds. The Coast Guard, the Civil Air Patrol, and the local sheriff’s departments in adjacent Minnesota and Wisconsin counties had done a search. Nothing was ever found, not even a life jacket.
An address and phone number were listed in the town of North Oaks. Lucas punched the number in, got an answering machine, a woman’s voice. He hung up, dialed Dispatch, had them check the cross-reference index for numbers on both sides of that address, dialed the first one.
"Hello?" Another woman.
"Yes, my name is Lucas Davenport and I’m with the Minneapolis Police Department. I’m trying to get in touch with Annette Ingall, but all I get at her home is an answering machine."
"Oh my God, nothing happened to Toby?"
"No, no, I just need to talk to her about her husband. Do you know if she works? Where I could call her?"
"Well, she has a bridal wear boutique downtown…"
The bridal shop was a brisk ten-minute walk from City Hall, among a cluster of boutiques on Marquette Avenue. Annette Ingall was a tall woman with auburn hair and pale blue eyes; motherly, Lucas thought later, though she was probably five years younger than he was. She did a smiling double take when he walked into the store, and when a clerk came over and he asked for her, she said, "That would be me. Can I help you?"
He stepped closer and pitched his voice down: "I need to talk to you privately for a moment. I’m with the Minneapolis Police Department-nothing happened with your boy, it’s a completely different matter."
Her hand went to her throat as the smile died on her face. "How do you know about my son?"
"Because I called one of your neighbors to find you, and she said, ‘Oh my God, nothing happened to Toby?’ "
"Oh. Okay." The smile flickered back. "Why don’t you come back to my office."
Ingall led the way through a door into the back of the store, to a small office cubicle that stuck out into a stockstorage area. There were two chairs inside, and she sat behind her desk and crossed her legs.
Lucas sat down and said, "I’m investigating the death of Daniel Kresge."
"Yes? I read about it."
Lucas picked up the tone. "You didn’t like him?"
"No. Not especially. He once made a pretty heavy pass at me, when he and his wife were still together. This was after my husband died, and I was feeling pretty vulnerable."
Lucas nodded: "I’m actually here because I want to know more about your husband. I have an abstract of a Douglas County file about his disappearance, but there’s not much in it."
"There wasn’t much to say." Her lower lip trembled as she said it; she was twisting a ring on her finger, and Lucas noticed that it was a wedding ring. "He just got on the boat and vanished."
"But there isn’t any doubt that the boat sank?" Lucas asked.
"What? Have you found out something?"
"No-no-no. Just… your tone of voice."
"Well…" Again, the trembling lip. "It’s been almost impossible to put this behind me, because nothing was ever found. No body, no boat debris, nothing. After he disappeared, all kinds of inspectors went to the bank, and they came and questioned me to make sure he hadn’t taken off with some money. I mean, every time I get a phone call at home that I’m not expecting, I halfway think it’s going to be his voice."
"But you really think the boat sank."
"Yes." She nodded firmly. "In fact, I even think I know what happened. Do you sail, Mr. Davenport?"
"I have. I’m not particularly good at it." Weather was a sailing fanatic, as her father had been, and they’d gone out almost every warm weekend, and for a long two weeks in the Caribbean.
"When a boat goes down, there’s almost always lots of debris," Ingall said. "You know the enormous amount of stuff sailors carry around with them-books and logs and guides and all kinds of paper. Andy had even more of it than most people. Business papers and references and so on. Plus the boat had a lot of wood. So if it had blown up, like some people thought, they’d have found something. But they didn’t find anything. So you know what I think?"
"What?"
"What I think is, it was a cool day, and Andy had the autopilot on and he’d gone below. While he was down there… the keel fell off," she said.
"The keel?"
"Yes. The keel on our boat was about four thousand pounds of lead, held in place with four huge steel bolts. You normally couldn’t even see the bolts, without pulling up parts of the sole-the flooring."
"Yeah." He knew what a sole was.
"Anyway, I think the nuts worked off the bolts, from vibration, and then, with some sudden strain, the keel simply fell off," she said. "If that happened, the boat would have turned turtle just instantly, and water would have started pouring down the companionway and the whole thing would have sunk in a minute or two. There are cases known like this. They’re rare, but it sort of explains everything. There wouldn’t have been time for life jackets or anything, and the inflow of water would have kept everything inside. It would’ve been just… glug."
"But that’s a rare thing."
"Yes-but."
"But."
"We kept the boat in Superior, and there’s this old guy up there who pretty much lives on his boat. Not technically, because they don’t allow that, but he’s around day and night. When I was up there during the search, he told me that Andy’d had somebody working on the boat the night before he disappeared. He didn’t pay much attention, but he said he’d noticed the guy had pulled up the sole and stuck it in the cockpit, out of the way of whatever he was doing. He assumed the guy was working on the plumbing, but he could have been working on the bolts. Maybe there was something wrong with them. Or maybe he did something that messed them up."
"Huh. Was your husband there that day? When the work was being done?"
"No, not that day."
"Did he often hire people to do work when he wasn’t there?"
"From time to time. I mean, good boat-repair people are like plumbers or electricians. They’ll schedule you for some work, but something happens on another job and it gets stretched out, or they get free earlier than they think. So lots of times we’d just give them the key and the go-ahead to do the work whenever they could get there."