"Jesus."
"Yeah. He said he’d decided this, but when his kid got out okay, it wasn’t necessary, so he let it go. He hates the judge, but he says he’ll get at him politically, he doesn’t have to burn him up."
"What you’re saying is…"
"What I’m saying is, I hope it’s not something like that," Lucas said. "I hope it’s not somebody I bumped into years ago, took care of business, didn’t even think about it. And he’s been plotting all this time."
"We checked all recent prison releases."
"That’s what I mean. What if it’s not recent? What if it’s somebody from ten years ago, somebody I busted on a solid felony, say, who did a couple of years but figures I ruined his life and his family? And now he’s coming after me, by going after my family? I mean, I might never figure out who it is."
Atentative knock interrupted the thought. Del looked at the door, then back at Lucas, show-shrugged. "Come in," Lucas called.
A woman stepped inside. He remembered her face instantly, and her last name. He pointed a finger at her and said, "The bridal shop, Mrs. Ingall."
"Annette," she said.
"This is Detective Capslock," Lucas said. "Del, this is Mrs. Ingall; her husband disappeared in that yacht up on Superior. The McDonald case."
"Oh, sure."
Lucas: "Sit down. What can we do for you?" Ingall looked doubtfully at Del, who tried to smile pleasantly without showing too much of his yellowed teeth, and sat in the chair beside him, clutching her purse on her lap. "I saw on TV Three about your friend the nun who was attacked last night. I hope she’s going to be okay."
"She should be," Lucas said.
"I’ve been bothered by it all day," she said. "It kept nagging at me, and nagging at me, and finally I said, ‘ Annette, go over and talk to Chief Davenport for goodness’ sake, and let him worry about it.’ "
"Well…" Lucas spread his hands, waiting, an edge of impatience barely suppressed.
"After you told me that Wilson McDonald was probably responsible for killing Andy…"
"Mrs. Ingall, I didn’t exactly say-"
She waved him down and continued: "… I was pretty satisfied, because it made a nice pattern. He killed George Arris, shooting him with a gun. Then he killed Andy, by sabotaging the yacht. And then he killed Dan Kresge, shooting him, and Susan O’Dell, shooting her."
"Yes?"
"But then-this is what was nagging me-when I read about what happened with you, with your fiancee firebombed,and then this morning, with your friend the nun being hurt…"
"Yes, yes."
"Look: There were two other incidents which helped Wilson McDonald’s career, that nobody probably told you about, because they didn’t involve anybody being killed at the bank, where it would be obvious."
"Two others?" Lucas leaned forward, now interested.
"Two weird… accidents," Ingall said. "One involved a man named McKinney, who was in the investments department and was also competitive for promotions with Wilson. They were sort of neck and neck. This is way back, when Wilson was still selling out of the investments division, before he went to mortgages. And all of a sudden, this other man’s son was killed in a hit-and-run accident. If I remember, he was riding home in the evening on his bike, in the summer, I think he had a paper route or something, and he was hit and killed and they never found out who did it. Anyway, McKinney just fell apart. He couldn’t do anything, and when the job came up, which was right after that, Wilson got it."
"Huh," Lucas said. Del was looking at Ingall with interest.
"Then, and this must’ve been, oh, about 1990, there was sort of a bank recession going on. Lots of banks were restructuring and jobs were being cut. Wilson was one of a half-dozen people in the mortgage division as a vice president, and people knew some jobs were going to be cut over there. The man who was in charge of the cuts was named Davis Baird, and he had an assistant named Dick McPhillips. Davis Baird didn’t like Wilson, he thought he was a fat pompous oaf. He might have cut him. But Dick McPhillips was always under the influence of Wilson’s father. If Davis Baird had wanted to cut Wilson, McPhillips couldn’t stop it. But…" She paused dramatically.
"But," Lucas said, and Del nodded at her.
"But, while they were working out the cutbacks, all of a sudden Baird’s parents were killed in a fire at their cabin up north. I thought about this because of the firebomb at your friend’s house. Something exploded in the Bairds’ house-they even called it a firebomb in the paper, I think-and they were killed, and Baird had to take time off to deal with all of it. McPhillips was in charge of making the cuts, and he got rid of two of the five vice presidents over there…"
"But not Wilson," Lucas said.
"Not Wilson."
"Go ahead," Lucas said.
"So I started thinking, this took a strange mind. Not to attack the principal target directly, but to incapacitate the principal by attacking someone close to them. Distracting them in a really awful way. And I thought, you know, that’s what’s happening to Chief Davenport. He’s investigating these murders, and suddenly his fiancee’s house blows up, and then an old friend is almost killed. If Wilson McDonald weren’t dead, I would say he was doing it for sure. Especially since Andy’s death almost might be an accident, and Arris’s death was also easy to blame on somebody else- that gang. Nothing is what it looks like."
"Wilson McDonald is dead," Del said.
"Yes. Shot to death," Ingall said. "And that’s very curious."
Lucas closed his eyes, rubbed his face: "Jesus."
"Do you think this line of thought might be useful?" Ingall asked.
"I don’t know," Lucas said. "But you are a very smart lady."
"Yes, I’ve always thought so," she said.
TWENTY-FOUR
Most of the file on Audrey McDonald had been developed since she killed Wilson: name, age, weight, distinguishing marks. She had a number of scars; too many, Lucas thought. Her only prior contact with police had been two traffic tickets, one for speeding, one for failure to yield, which had resulted in a minor collision.
He made quick calls to the Department of Natural Resources and the Department of Public Safety: she’d never had a hunting license, never taken gun safety training, never applied for a handgun permit.
She’d graduated from St. Anne’s. That was interesting- she’d know her way around out there, she’d know what would happen if she called the Residence. She might even have overlapped with Elle Kruger, if just barely. He made a note to ask. After college, she’d worked as a librarian, then with a couple of charitable organizations.
He mulled over the file for a few minutes, then glanced at his watch. Almost time to see Elle. But first he picked up the phone book and looked up Helen Bell, Audrey’s sister. She was listed in South Minneapolis. Not expecting too much, he punched in her phone number. She answered on the second ring.
"I’d like to come talk to you about the whole case," he said, after he introduced himself.
"I… thought it was just about done," Bell said. He noticed her voice immediately: she sounded like Audrey, who sounded like the woman who’d called him to press him on McDonald.
"Well, we haven’t settled the Kresge thing," Lucas said. "I just want to come over and chat. Get some opinions."
"Okay. I’ll be here the rest of the day."
Three nuns, all in traditional dress, were perched on chairs in Elle’s room, watching a young nurse change a saline drip. When Lucas stepped in, easing the door closed, one of them chirped, "Hi, Lucas. She’s awake."