‘Hey there!’ Gunnar called in a loud, cheery voice. ‘Time to wake up!’
The figure on the horse didn’t move. Gunnar felt uneasy. There was something... well, something dead about it. The man’s head had evidently slipped down over the far side of the origami-like horse’s neck and couldn’t be seen. Gunnar walked round it. His first thought was that he must have made some mistake, for there was no head there either. Then he saw the red stub of neck sticking up from the collar of the man’s shirt. He gasped for breath and started saying the Lord’s Prayer as he fumbled for his phone, found it and tapped in the emergency number. While it was ringing he looked around for any sign of the head but saw nothing. He returned his gaze to the sculpture again, in all its grotesque horror an arresting and almost poetic sight. Almost as though the horse was about to lift off and fly the headless man up to heaven.
Superintendent Walker adjusted his sunglasses. He would have preferred to spend this Saturday morning with his family but knew he wouldn’t be able to relax. He was standing next to the Viking ship sculpture in front of the US Bank Stadium. People were already making their way inside, even though the mayor wasn’t due to officially open the gathering until one o’clock, almost ninety minutes away. While waiting he stared up at something that was hanging from the mast above him. It was about the size of a tennis ball and evidently didn’t weigh much, dancing around in the gusting wind, although he couldn’t make out what it was.
‘Walker!’
It was Springer from the JTTF. He came walking out through the entrance to the stadium with O’Rourke from SWAT. Springer seemed relaxed, but O’Rourke kept his eyes on the line of people, scanning it incessantly.
‘How are things looking?’ asked Walker.
‘We’ve got snipers in position covering the whole of the stadium,’ said Springer. ‘Our people are in the TV room monitoring pictures from every security camera. If someone in the stands takes so much as a packet of pastilles from their pocket, we’ll see it.’
Springer glanced at O’Rourke, who nodded his agreement before continuing.
‘Everyone going in gets searched, more thoroughly than usual. If someone in the line notices what’s going on and tries to leave then we’ve got people watching for that too. Every stadium employee has security clearance and they’re getting searched too. In short: if Gomez tries anything he’ll be in trouble long before he gets inside the stadium.’
‘Good,’ said Walker. He shivered inside his coat even though the sun was shining.
‘How about Homicide?’ said Springer. ‘Anything new?’
Walker shook his head. ‘He’s keeping himself well hidden. Speaking of which, have you considered the possibility he might be in disguise, even wearing some kind of mask?’
‘Of course,’ said Springer. ‘Today we treat everybody as though they could be Tomás Gomez, no matter what they look like.’
Walker’s phone rang. It had to be Hanson. He was late; Walker had tried to ring him once already. He read the name that came up on the display. Rooble Isack.
‘Isack,’ said Walker. ‘It’s been a while. Listen, I’m a little busy right now, is this something that can wait?’
‘Walker,’ said Rooble Isack in his rumbling voice, ‘I’m thinking you’ll agree that what I have to tell you can’t wait, sir.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m at the hospital, with Marco Dante. The gunrunner we think this Tomás Gomez tried to kill on Tuesday.’
‘Yeah yeah, I’m familiar with the case.’
‘We’re here because in connection with the assault we were able to carry out a search of Dante’s garage and we found all sorts of illegal weapons. We’ve got a good case against him, but Dante’s lawyered up and wants a deal in exchange for information about Tomás Gomez.’
‘And?’
‘The question is, how much is this information worth to us? And to you, because Gomez is also now a murder suspect.’
‘Worth a lot,’ said Walker. ‘A lot. And you’re right, it’s urgent.’
‘That’s all I needed to know. I’ll get back to you soon.’
‘Thanks, Rooble.’
They hung up.
‘Where the hell is Hanson?’ asked Springer.
‘You tell me. Looks like your man might have got caught up in traffic.’
Your man. During that JTTF meeting, when Springer made it clear he preferred Hanson to Kay Myers to represent the Homicide Division, Walker’s first impulse had been to intervene and say the decision was his to make. But Myers had got in before him when she said that was fine by her. Of course, he could have made the change after the meeting, but there was something about this whole case that told him not to. A feeling that this Gomez was an obstacle that could trip them up badly. And in that case he would prefer that it was Hanson rather than Myers who took the fall. The decision was as cynical as it was practical. On the other hand, what could go wrong?
Walker didn’t know, but again he shivered in the sunlight.
‘Say, Springer, can you see what that thing is hanging up there?’
Springer looked up. ‘Looks like a small fish,’ he said.
‘A fish?’
‘Yeah, one of those pufferfish, you know.’
Kay got up early, headed down to the Rialto and interviewed the ticket seller and the projectionist, the only two who had been working the previous day. They couldn’t add anything much except to say that the victim had been a regular at the movie theatre. And they couldn’t — naturally — provide the names and addresses of any of the other patrons. Kay told them two crime technicians were on their way and that the Rialto couldn’t open to the public again until they’d been there and done their job. She drove off, heading for the city hall, and wondering whether to contact the TV preacher and find out whether he’d seen or heard anything. She decided to wait until the techs and the pathologists came up with their findings. Instead, back in the Homicide Division’s office, she did what she had made up her mind to do as she lay awake during the night. To do Bob Oz a favour. And — probably — fuck things up for herself. She raised a cup of coffee to her lips as she studied the computer screen. It was a list of all murder cases involving more than one victim. Her first search had been for Perez and 1995. She’d located the report and then widened her search. She took a screenshot of the report and the search returns and clicked on the Share icon. Typed in Bob Oz’s email address. Hesitated a moment, then clicked the Send button. Heard the swish of the departing email — and possibly her own chances of promotion — as it flew off and away.
She breathed out heavily, as though she’d been holding her breath. The open office was almost completely silent; the only sound Kay heard was Joe Kjos’s voice as he sat a few seats away, talking on the phone. Sounded like he was checking a tip-off. And she had one she needed to check too before she could take her weekend break. She looked at her watch. A trip to Cedar Creek and the woman who called in a potential lead shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes on a Saturday morning.
She was on her way out when something struck her and she stopped, turned and made her way back to the new office. Saw to her surprise that the paint job was now finished. The pots and brushes were all gone. She felt a vague sense of disappointment but dismissed it and headed on out the building.