Sympathy Between Humans Part 37

Out in the hall, Hadley said, "What was that about?" Hadley said, "What was that about?"

My hands were shaking with anger. I laced them behind my back where Hadley couldn't see. "Marc's girlfriend is a sometime informant named Ghislaine Morris," I said. "She might know something about where'd he'd go in a situation like this."

"Right," Hadley said. He was walking down the hall, and I was following. "But why'd you tell Jerod to put all that in his statement?"

"She set these events in motion," I said.

"So she ran her mouth," Hadley said. "That's not against the law. We can't charge her with anything."

"No, we can't," I said. "But I'm going to check out a motor-pool car and go talk to her."

We stopped in front of the coffee machine, and Hadley filled a paper cup to the rim. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow in invitation. I shook my head, No, thanks. No, thanks.

"Good idea," Hadley said. "But why a motor-pool car?"

"My Nova is back at the building Ruiz lived in," I explained. "I rode over here with you."

I'd been so numb from finding out what happened to Cicero that I hadn't even thought of my car as we'd left; I would have climbed into a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p if that was what Hadley had led me to.

"Right," Hadley said. "Wait a minute, then, and I'll go talk to the girlfriend with you."

I shook my head in negation. "Sooner is better," I said. "You've still got to look over Jerod's statement and get him processed in at the jail."

At the motor pool, I signed out a nondescript, well-maintained mid-size sedan, dark blue. It reminded me of something that Gray Diaz would drive. I shot it up the ramp a little faster than necessary, and two administrators, crossing the garage in rippling trench coats over their suits, looked at me with disapproval. pool, I signed out a nondescript, well-maintained mid-size sedan, dark blue. It reminded me of something that Gray Diaz would drive. I shot it up the ramp a little faster than necessary, and two administrators, crossing the garage in rippling trench coats over their suits, looked at me with disapproval.

I'd decided what to do with Ghislaine. I was going to bring her down to the station and find out what she knew about the whereabouts of her boyfriend, Marc. But first we were going to make a little detour to the medical examiner's office.

I'd warned her that if she threatened again to give up Cicero, I'd put her in prison. It had been an empty threat. Now she'd done worse than report Cicero to the police, and my hands were tied. She'd done nothing chargeable, as Hadley had said. But I could do this: I could make Ghislaine look at Cicero, make her see the end result of her actions in a stainless-steel drawer.

The girl who opened the door at Ghislaine's apartment looked like her country cousin: a little shorter, a little heavier, with hair that was as white as corn silk, and small, apprehensive blue eyes. She was braless under a V-necked white T-s.h.i.+rt, her pale legs in cutoffs, barefoot. Behind her issued the mindless noise of a television talk show. at Ghislaine's apartment looked like her country cousin: a little shorter, a little heavier, with hair that was as white as corn silk, and small, apprehensive blue eyes. She was braless under a V-necked white T-s.h.i.+rt, her pale legs in cutoffs, barefoot. Behind her issued the mindless noise of a television talk show.

"I'm here to see Ghislaine," I said.

"She's not here," the girl said.

"You don't mind if I come in and verify that, do you?" I took out my s.h.i.+eld. Her eyes widened fractionally, and she stepped backward. "I was just feeding the baby," she said as I came in.

"Shadrick?" I said.

She shook her head. "My baby. Shad's with Ghislaine."

A six-month-old infant, dressed in fuzzy, androgynous yellow, sat in a high chair on the border between kitchen and living room, linoleum and carpet.

"Did Ghislaine do something wrong?"

Yes. "No," I said. "I need to ask her some questions. She's a material witness." "No," I said. "I need to ask her some questions. She's a material witness."

I moved toward a short half-hallway, like the one in Cicero's apartment. The bathroom didn't take long to check out. A ghost of steam hung in the air from an afternoon shower, and creams and cosmetics cluttered the sink. There was no one behind the rippled, frosted gla.s.s of the shower door.

In the first bedroom, the bed was unmade, but not so much that I couldn't see the giant, yellow face of Tweety bird on the rumpled comforter. On the wall was a Packers pennant, and below that bookshelves with no books on them except high school yearbooks. Model horses lined two of the shelves in their entirety, and a stuffed dog lounged on its side on a third shelf. I'd come to an apartment inhabited by children.

"That's my room," the girl said.

"I didn't catch your name," I said.

"Lisette," she said.

Another improbable Gallic name. Lisette's heritage, as evinced by her looks, seemed to be pure Saxon; I didn't think she was French.

"Are you and Ghislaine related?" I asked.

Lisette shook her head. "Just roommates."

I moved on to the last bedroom.

Ghislaine, I was guessing, was a year or two older than her roommate. It showed in her room, more feminine than childlike. Ghislaine's bed was made up, a pale-pink eyelet comforter pulled taut with cheap lace-trimmed throw pillows carefully arranged, and Ghislaine's toys were more expensive: an MP3 player, a cell-phone charger, a row of CDs. The closet door was open, and inside I saw leather coats and party dresses. A bulletin board like Marlinchen Hennessy's showed photos of Ghislaine, mostly with boys or Shadrick, rarely other girls.

Lisette was still watching me from the doorway. "Which one of these boys is Marc?" I asked.

"None of them," she said. "He didn't do things like that."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Get his picture taken with Gish," Lisette said. "Or act like a boyfriend. He was too cool for that."

"Oh, yeah?"

Lisette nodded. "Gish loans him the keys to her car, so he can go to these parties he doesn't even take her to. He leaves his laundry here for her to take to the Laundromat, and his clothes smell like other girls' perfume."

"How does Ghislaine take that?"

"She just keeps trying harder to please him. She b.i.t.c.hes to me, but never to Marc. And when I tell her, 'So dump him,' she does a complete turnaround."

"Like what?"

"She'll say, 'He's changing. I know he really cares about me, inside.' Ghislaine thinks that because he gives her stuff. But it isn't anything he cares about, just things he steals. Marc likes to think he's thugged out." Lisette rolled her eyes. "Anyway, Gish won't quit him. She keeps trying to think of something else she can do, to impress him."

Right. Then she did think of something, something really good, and all it cost was Cicero's life.

"Was Marc here today?" I asked.

Lisette shook her head.

"Thanks," I said.

A more impartial observer than I would stand in the doorway to Ghislaine's bedroom and look at the pretty objects she surrounded herself with, the sweet pastels, and mistake these things as signs of her innocence and harmlessness. They'd see a girl barely out of her teens, who liked pretty things and clothes and shopping, who kept her room with its Target-brand furnis.h.i.+ngs in perfect order, and they'd wish her well. They'd say it was Marc's fault she was so desperate to please him; they'd say it was society's fault that girls her age gave and gave to the boys around them, provided them with s.e.x and money and support and got nothing back, until they were desperate.

I'd thought all these things too, when I'd first met her. I'd dismissed s.h.i.+loh's opinion of her as grounded in his streak of judgmentalism. I'd been taken in by her chatter and her infectious warmth, and not recognized something malignant as a tumor that grew underneath it.

The truth was, Ghislaine's love of pretty things and nice clothes was at the heart of her malice. She wanted what she wanted, and if other people were hurt in the getting of those things, that wasn't real to her. Because they weren't real to her. Shadrick was, it seemed, and so was Marc. Everyone else was a resource to be used. Like Lydia, who she'd sold to the Narcotics task force. Like me, whose name she'd used to get out of a shoplifting bust. Like Cicero.

At the front door, Lisette realized her indiscretion. "Listen," she said, "you aren't going to tell Ghislaine what I told you about Marc, are you?"

"No," I said. "I won't."

Lisette looked relieved. "What do you want me to do if Ghislaine comes home?"

"Nothing," I said. "I'll catch up with her eventually."

"Hadley."

"It's me," I said, sitting in the car outside Ghislaine and Lisette's building. "I didn't find the girlfriend. I'm coming back in. Have you thought about what you want to do next?"

"It's past six," Hadley said. "I'm going home."

"I thought we were looking for Marc," I said.

"There's not much more we can do," Hadley said. "A unit's been to his place, but like we figured, he didn't go back there. He's probably on the run, but his description's out there. Someone will catch him."

Hadley didn't sound tired, but he'd probably been on the job since eight that morning. And he was right. In a situation like this, detectives didn't cruise around after hours in a radio car, vainly hoping to run across a suspect.

"Look, you want me to wait for you to come in?" he asked.

"Why?"

"Your car's still at that building, isn't it?" Hadley asked me. "I could give you a lift over there to get it."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I might hang out downtown awhile, see if any likely reports come in. I'll pick up my car later."

"Sarah, I know I said something like this earlier, and usually I wouldn't repeat myself, but I really think you're working this too hard." Hadley paused. "Did you know this guy? Was that not your first time up there, when you came by?"

I am sick of lying to people. I just want to tell the truth to someone I like and respect, for a change.

"I was supposed to get evidence so we could charge him," I said, evading the specific question. "If I'd moved faster, he'd be alive and in jail right-"

"No," Hadley interrupted. "This is not your fault. Those kids just blew Ruiz out like a match they were done with. It p.i.s.ses me off, too. I'm angry enough at them without having to think that they've caused someone I like to be sitting around a precinct house after hours, eaten up with guilt over what she might have done differently."

"Thanks," I said. "I won't stay too late. I promise."

I stayed at the precinct for two hours that night, drank coffee, talked with the midwatch people. Garden-variety crimes, or activity that might or might not be criminal, were reported over the radio. Along Nicollet Mall, a panhandler was hara.s.sing shoppers a little too hard. At the airport, a child who was supposed to be on a flight didn't get off. On the 35W, a car was pulled to the side without flashers, the driver drunk, sleeping, or slumped behind the wheel. Eventually, I gave up and asked a patrol officer who was heading out to give me a lift to Cicero's building. Before I left, I checked out a handheld radio. Just in case. at the precinct for two hours that night, drank coffee, talked with the midwatch people. Garden-variety crimes, or activity that might or might not be criminal, were reported over the radio. Along Nicollet Mall, a panhandler was hara.s.sing shoppers a little too hard. At the airport, a child who was supposed to be on a flight didn't get off. On the 35W, a car was pulled to the side without flashers, the driver drunk, sleeping, or slumped behind the wheel. Eventually, I gave up and asked a patrol officer who was heading out to give me a lift to Cicero's building. Before I left, I checked out a handheld radio. Just in case.

The patrol officer and I didn't talk much on the road, and we didn't talk about crime at all.

"Funny, isn't it?" he said. "Look, it's after nine and the sun's just set." He took a hand away from the wheel to point at the bath of golden light in the west.

"Tonight's the summer solstice," I reminded him.

"I know," he said. "But I still can't get used to it. I've lived here almost all my life, and it still gives me a thrill to see the sun setting at this hour."

When we got to the building, I didn't look up at the empty eyes of the windows above me. "Thanks," I said, shut the car door, and walked straight across the parking lot, where the Nova waited for me. I almost sensed a rebuke in its low-nosed posture: the Nova and I were getting separated a lot these days, a pilot and wingman out of sync with each other.

It was just as I was crossing into Northeast that the call came over the quietly crackling radio on the pa.s.senger seat beside me. In the careful language of over-the-radio communications, the dispatcher's voice reported a request for backup, shots fired at a small liquor store up Central Avenue. Not very far at all from where I was heading now.

I pressed the accelerator down.

When I'd heard the dispatcher's voice, a small shockwave had risen from deep in my body, heat rising to the surface of my skin. It was recognition.

The business wasn't a pharmacy, but that didn't surprise me. Whether or not Marc realized that Cicero's forged prescriptions were nonsense, he knew better than to try again to cash one in, at least not in the Cities. But Marc needed money, and so he was turning to a profession that he knew. Marc likes to think he's thugged out, Marc likes to think he's thugged out, Lisette had said. Lisette had said.

He had laid low until nightfall, and now he was moving. One score, and then he'd leave town.

The Nova's front end b.u.mped down and surged up as the car dove into a low parking lot. There was a single squad car outside.

I got out of the Nova, flashed my s.h.i.+eld as I approached. "What's going on?" I asked.

The officer looked up at me, and I saw that she was very young indeed. I knew her: Lockhart, from the drowning scene, who'd taken me downtown to have my statement taken. Roz had been with her then, but now she was nowhere in sight. Lockhart had graduated to working alone, but she didn't look quite in control of the situation.

She was trying, though. She responded to my question with a clipped nod, just a lift of her chin, and then cut her eyes toward the store. "I think I've got an armed a.s.sailant in there," she said. "The sole customer said he ran when the shooting started. Shooter was a young white male, he thinks."

"Where's the witness?" I asked.

"Across the street. I told him to stick around, then I yelled for everyone to vacate the parking lot and stay clear."

She must have had a bigger voice than her size suggested, because while a small crowd of witnesses were watching us, none of them had tried to breach the territory Lockhart had put off-limits.

"The customer just saw it out of the corner of his eye, the guy drawing the gun, then he ran," she went on. "He heard the shots as he made the door. Didn't see the shooter come out."

"What about the other customers?" I asked.

"He's pretty sure he was the only guy in there," Lockhart said. "Except the owner, who was behind the counter."

"The owner didn't come out?"

Lockhart shook her head. Her brown hair was clipped up against the back of her skull, but a small rooster tail was free enough to shake along with the movement. "Neither of them," she said.

"There could be a back way out," I said.

The store was a boxlike structure, with bars on the windows and posters for Minnesota's lottery games behind the bars, taped from the inside. Jostling with them for the attention of pa.s.sersby were posters for cigarettes, for beer, for flavored liqueur, and for phone cards. I couldn't see a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing that was happening inside. If anything was.

For the robber to flee through the back and not be seen again was one thing, but the owner should have made himself known to us, if he could walk.