“Probably kidnapped—her old lady has all the money in the world,” McGuire said.
“Were the three of you in business together?”
A line of wrinkles appeared in McGuire’s forehead: “Where’d you hear that?”
“Just from . . . friends.”
“We talked about it,” Robinson said.
Looking for a little shock: “Did she give you fifty thousand dollars? ”
Robinson: “No way.”
McGuire, almost angry: “She didn’t give us a fuckin’ nickel.”
Lucas went in again. “She didn’t give you fifty thousand dollars in cash, mostly fifties and hundreds?”
“No. She didn’t,” McGuire snapped. “What the hell is this?”
“Trying to find out what happened to the money,” Lucas said. “We heard you were trying to build a website. A website takes money. This”—he gestured around the living room, at the computers and servers and cable lines—“takes a lot of money.”
“Takes thirty thousand, and we busted our butts getting it,” McGuire said. “If we went national, we’d be looking for more money to set up an office and buy more equipment, and we talked to her about it, but she disappeared before we did anything. And we weren’t asking for fifty thousand. Fifty thousand wasn’t enough—we were looking for a quarter million, and even then, I’d have to keep working.”
Not enough money, Lucas thought. He asked, “Where do you work?”
McGuire worked at Inter-Load Systems, a company that tracked mixed heavy freight and matched it with space available on over-the-road trucks. The company was a new start-up, and McGuire worked on the mathematical models that worked out delivery routes and times.
“Sounds complicated.”
“It is,” McGuire said. He was surly, and he looked tired; more than tired. Exhausted.
Lucas asked where he was the night of the shooting. “Working here,” McGuire said.
“Any witnesses?”
“Well—Denise. I mean, it was the middle of the night, where’d you expect me to be?”
“Out clubbing, maybe,” Lucas said.
McGuire snorted. “I don’t have time to take a leak. The last time I went to a club, the Beastie Boys were big.”
Lucas peered at him for a moment, then asked, “So what does this new website do? The one you were working on with Frances?”
“Tries to get people to make free advertisements. Then we test them for online reception, and try to sell them to the companies that they advertise,” McGuire said.
“What?”
Robinson stepped up. “Suppose you’re, like, Coca-Cola, and you keep putting out those crappy old Coke ads that no kid would ever watch, because they’re so lame. So we solicit ads from guys with video cameras—high-quality stuff, not your home video—and when they come in, we test them, and then we pitch them to Coke. Coke gets a really out-there ad, something the kids will watch, really cheap—even if they reshoot it—and we get a cut.”
“Is that going to work?” Lucas asked, genuinely curious.
“Not unless we can come up with a quarter-million bucks in the next few months. Word’s getting out, and we’re not moving fast enough,” McGuire said. “We get four or five guys doing this, only one’s going to make it. He’ll make a hundred million bucks, everybody else goes broke.”
“Well, shit,” Lucas said. He scratched his head. “If advertisements are so expensive to make, why would anyone make one for free?”
“The model’s already there,” McGuire said. “It’s publishing. When Stephen King was starting out, nobody paid him a nickel for all the work he was doing. Eventually, he sells a book, and then the big money arrives. But the publishing companies didn’t put up a penny until he had something good.
“So you’ve got all these guys with cameras and they’ve been to film school and they know models and young actresses—they can put out a video for a few hundred bucks. Get some experience, get some attention, and maybe, if they’re lucky, they get a whole bunch of money. It’s like publishing, and we’re like the agents.”
“Huh,” Lucas said. “That could work.”
“I sure as shit hope so,” McGuire said.
“So you see why we’re missing Frances,” Robinson said. “There was a possibility that she could round up some money. Her, her friends, maybe her mom and her mom’s friends.”
“Some of those people could drop a quarter-million dollars on the ground and not miss it,” McGuire said. “Frances’s dad joined a golf club out in Palm Springs a few years ago, and the admission fee was a quarter-million dollars. For a golf club. And here we’ve got this idea, and we . . . just . . . can’t . . . get it done.”
Showing anger again. Frustration. Interesting.
Lucas asked more questions about Frances: was she angry, lonely, addicted, scared, vague? No, they said, she wasn’t any of those things. Robinson said at the end, “It was like one of those things where somebody’s killed in a car wreck after the senior prom. Everybody’s happy and then bam! Everybody’s dead. I didn’t see anything in Frances that I didn’t see every day—she expected to see us, to call us, and maybe to get in the business someday.”
“It wouldn’t have pissed you off if she’d said ‘no’? Sounds like she sort of led you on,” Lucas said.
“Would have pissed me off—but I think she was sold on the idea,” McGuire said. “I really thought she was going with us. When she disappeared, I thought I was going crazy. I kept trying to find out what happened, and nobody had anything to say.”
“You talk to her mother?” Lucas asked.
“I did once . . . right after Frances disappeared,” Robinson said. “Just seeing if anybody knew where she was. Mrs. Austin seemed really confused. Out of it. Like she was losing her grip. I felt so sorry for her.”
“Do you have any idea why she might have disappeared?”
McGuire said, “Well, you’ve been all over it: money. She was smart, but not brilliant or anything. She looked okay, but she wasn’t super pretty, like she might have a stalker or something. She was . . . nice. And she had money.”
There wasn’t much more. McGuire stood up when he left, and Lucas looked at him, standing, tried to imagine him with a gun in his hand. Still possible, he thought.
At the door, McGuire asked, “You don’t have anything to do with Davenport Simulations, do you? There was a cop involved in that.”
Lucas turned. “I started it, with a friend. He bought me out, when it got over my head. I’m out of it now.”
McGuire’s head bobbed: “I’m officially impressed. You probably know what I’m going through right now.”
“Fun at the time,” Lucas said.
“That’s because you made it,” McGuire said. “If you’d been wiped out by a competitor, it might not have been so much fun.”
“There were no competitors,” Lucas said.
“The olden days, when the world was new,” McGuire said.
“I’m not that ancient,” Lucas said.
“About six generations down the road, computer time,” McGuire said. “I mean, you probably once used cameras with film.”
McGuire stayed in the doorway, and as Lucas got to his car, he called, “If you want to make another butt-load of money, all we need is a quarter million.”
Lucas paused with one hand on the car-door handle: “Gimme a week to think about it and talk to some friends. Maybe . . .”
“I’ll call you,” McGuire said. “I’ll call you.”
Back at the office, Lucas pulled up e-mail from Sandy. One had NCIC data on the Lorens, the other had photos. He looked at the pictures—and ran into the eyewitness problem: the eighteen were all between twenty-two and thirty-five, with dark hair, and most of them could have been the guy who shot at him. Most of them, in fact, could have been McGuire, but weren’t. He couldn’t pick one out.
He got on the phone and called Alyssa Austin on her cell. “Where are you?”
“At our Edina site,” she
said.
“Do you have access to a computer, where you could get e-mail?”
“Of course. Right here in the office—I can access my account.”
“I’m forwarding eighteen digital photos to you. All Lorens. Stay on the phone, take a look at them.”
“Hang on.”
Lucas hung on for a minute, two minutes, then heard her pick up the phone and she said, “Lucas, I’m sorry. I just don’t remember. It could be any of them. Or none of them. Except the two guys with the receding hairlines. It wasn’t them.”
“All right. I had the same problem—I couldn’t identify any of them as the guy who shot me. We’ve got some more digging to do.”
His leg was hurting again, a continuing ache that occasionally flared into a streak of pain that shot down his leg to his foot. He sat at his computer, ignoring it, working the list of Lorens through the DMV, looking for pickup trucks. There were four—four out of eighteen— about average for Minnesota men, he suspected. Cut the list anyway, although he cut it to three, rather than four: one of the four just didn’t look right.
The leg would no longer be ignored, and he finally got the cane and told Carol that he was going home, and limped down to the car.
He was, he thought, caught in a loop.
Frances’s disappearance led to Dick Ford’s murder. Dick Ford’s murder led to the fairy. He investigated the fairy girl and got shot at by a dark-haired stranger. And the stranger—Loren X?—goes back to Frances. Maybe?
The house was empty when he got home, the housekeeper off somewhere with Sam, Weather still at work, Letty at school. With no need to use the car for a while, he took a full pain pill and went back to a computer, and called up Sandy’s e-mail on the NCIC files.
One of the Lorens who owned a pickup had had a minor drug bust—personal use marijuana—in Minneapolis. Another had been arrested and convicted of theft from a Wal-Mart warehouse and had made restitution. The Wal-Mart guy didn’t sound like he’d be the type to hang around with Frances. The third guy lived in Fertile, and that was too far away.
The doper was a possibility. 2002 Toyota pickup. Huh. He called Del.
“You got a little time?”
“What’s up?” Del asked.
“I want to talk to a guy on the Austin case, but I’ve taken a couple of pain pills.”
“You need a designated driver.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve never been one,” Del said. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
Loren whiteside o’keefe lived in a nice-enough, but not too nice, apartment complex in Woodbury, east of downtown St. Paul. They pressured an assistant manager into letting them through the locked outer doors, and took the elevator up to three. Identical blond-wood doors were spaced evenly down long blank corridors, the medium-blue carpet the indoor-outdoor stuff that looked good for a year.
“Place will be a slum in ten years,” Del said. “Walls look like they’re made out of cardboard.”
“Owners’ll pay it off in ten, though,” Lucas said. “Then it’s all gravy.”
“If you don’t mind being a slumlord,” Del said.
Lucas was limping, and Del asked, “You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m terrific.” The pain had definitely backed off, but every once in a while, a muscle spasm took him by surprise.
O’Keefe was in 355. They heard music, knocked, and a pudgy, big-headed, rosy-cheeked man opened the door. “Eh?”
“Loren O’Keefe?”
“Ya. Who’re you?”
He had dark hair, a big head, and sloping shoulders. The man who’d shot at Lucas had square shoulders and a small head. Couldn’t see that in the driver’s-license photograph. The photo also didn’t mention that O’Keefe had a slight but distinct Irish accent. Austin had said specifically that her Loren sounded local.
“Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.” They showed O’Keefe their IDs.
“So what’s up?” he asked. The TV behind him was tuned to an Oprah rerun.
With the sure sense that he was wasting everybody’s time, Lucas said, “We’re looking for a Loren who dated a girl named Frances Austin.”
O’Keefe looked at them blankly. “I’m sorry. That’s not me.”
“Ever hang out with any Goths?” Del asked.
“I’ve had a couple in my classes.”
“You’re a teacher?” Lucas asked.
“At Augsburg,” he said. “I teach drama.”
“Huh. You had a bust for marijuana.”
“Yup. Two fat boys,” he said cheerfully. “Jaesus, I bought three, only had time for one. Why couldn’t I be one of the guys who’s arrested for three seeds? No, they gotta get me with two-thirds of the weekly allotment.”
Lucas looked at Del, and tipped his head toward the corridor. “Okay. Well, I think you’re not the guy we’re looking for.”
“What? Already? You can’t leave me hanging,” O’Keefe said. "C’mon and have a cuppa tea and tell me about it.”
If his leg hadn’t hurt, Lucas wouldn’t have done it. He said, half to O’Keefe, and half to Del, “I’ve dinged up my leg. I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a minute.”
"Oho! Are you that copper that got shot?” O’Keefe was delighted. “Your name rings a bell.”
Lucas nodded: “That’s me.”
“You’re chasing a ripper, like good old Jack. Damnit, what good luck. Come in, come in.”
He’d had a pot of tea going, and had it ready in two minutes, fussing around like an old lady, with a tray and cup, and offered them milk to put in it. They both declined, while he took some; he had them sitting in a conversation group, two easy chairs and a love seat.
“So it’s this bartender and this liquor store clerk you’re investigating, then,” O’Keefe said. “How did my name come up?”
Lucas gave him a short version of the investigation, O’Keefe manically stirring his tea as he listened, his bright blue eyes like cornflowers in his pink face. He asked questions, and winkled more out of Lucas than Lucas had intended to give.
When Lucas finished, O’Keefe took a sip and said, “You shouldn’t be chasing Lorens, then. You should be putting pressure on the Austin woman. You should be . . . reenacting the crime. Right at the scene of the murder.”
“There’s a surprise,” Del said. “A drama teacher who wants to reenact. ”
"Ah, but I have a reason,” O’Keefe said. He shook a finger at them, like a professor might. “You have only two things. You have a motive: money. And you have a scene of a crime and it’s the first crime. Would I be wrong in assuming that the first crime of a series is probably the key crime?”
“Sometimes it is,” Lucas said, mildly amused. “There have been cases where a first murder was done to set up a second one, so that it would look like a series killing.”
“About as often as you’ve seen a leprechaun, I would expect,” O’Keefe said. He went on without waiting for an answer. “You have a motive and a crime scene. If you go back and reenact the crime as you believe it happened, you will see much more deeply into it, I guarantee it. I’m a playwright, as well as a teacher, and when you’re writing a play, you always go and look at the scene of the crime. Or whatever scene. You go to the actual place. When you’re in the actual place, you can work out possibilities and discard impossibilities. You can see the idiosyncrasies that make a scene come alive. I would urge you to reenact.”
“Maybe I will,” Lucas said. “Maybe—”
“And then, of course, there’s the obvious question. Often comes up in drama . . . in fact, it’d be a cliché, I’m sure you’ve already checked it out thoroughly.”
Lucas spread his hands. “What’s the obvious question?”
O’Keefe leaned forward, his trigger finger still crooked through the cup handle: “Mistaken identity.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “The daughter comes home, it’s dark, she turns off the security system, and the killer strikes! But, ho! To his or her horror, he finds that he has struck at the
wrong person. Hoping to recover, somehow, he bundles up the body and cleans up the crime scene. Since the daughter doesn’t live there, perhaps nobody will tumble to her disappearance for a day or two. Or three or four. Give him a chance to cover his tracks—or to strike again at his real target! The Austin woman!”
At some point during the recitation, O’Keefe had gone on stage, and Lucas and Del both bought it. When he snapped, “The Austin woman!” they both jerked away.
O’Keefe smiled: “But you’ve thought of that.”
They argued about it for a bit, as they finished their tea, and Del told O’Keefe about working undercover, which was something of an acting job.
“Fascinating! Fascinating!” O’Keefe said. “Have you ever thought about collaborating on a play? I think there could be great potential in a play about an undercover man: it’s so right for the stage; it combines friendship and treachery and a modern existential angst. Should you destroy your friend for the sake of The Man? There are so many ways we could take it. It’s just fantastic material!”
As they took the elevator down, Del asked, “You gonna reenact?”
“No,” Lucas said, with a Valley-girl inflection. “Jesus Christ, Del.”
“The guy might be on to something,” Del said.
“You gonna collaborate on a fuckin’ play?”
Del didn’t say anything for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe.”
Limping across the parking lot, Lucas asked, “Mistaken identity?”
“Never occurred to me,” Del said. “It’s got a funky logic to it.”
“Funky being the key word.” Lucas nibbled on the corner of his lower lip, then laughed and said, “Reenact. Reenact, my big white ass.”
“Like we were talking about what-if the other night, at the diner,” Del said. “What if Alyssa Austin was screwing somebody, like her husband was. What if this guy knocks off her husband to get at her? He thinks he might marry somebody with a billion bucks, or whatever she’s got. What if she begins to suspect? What if he decided he had to get rid of her and her suspicions, and he goes after her. But instead of getting Alyssa Austin, he gets the daughter. Female, looks about the same, she shows up in the dark and knows the security system . . .”
The Lucas Davenport Collection, Books 11-15 Page 81