laughed. "On the other hand, maybe not."
Lucas said, "You've been grousing about your old lady. Everything okay?"
"Ah, everything's okay, but she's been sick for a couple of weeks,"
Del said. "Not enough to go to the doctor, but, you know. Doesn't want to walk around much: her stomach is upset."
"Jeez, man, a couple of weeks? That could be something serious. You gotta get her to a doc."
"There are two kinds of nurses," Del said; his wife was a nurse. "There's the kind who think the sun shines out of a doctor's asshole, and the kind that think most doctors are running a long-term hustle, and who don't trust them any further than they could throw them. I got one of the second kind."
He turned his head to the window: "Old lady's leaving," he said. "Looks like it's bedtime."
"She'll be changing into her nightgown," Lucas said.
"Can I borrow the glasses?"
"Get your own fuckin' glasses."
Eric Clapton: "Willie & the Hand Jive."
After a restless night--disturbed a last time by Weather getting ready for work--Lucas had breakfast with the kids, talked to Letty about hip-hop music, stuffed creamed corn and whipped ham into Sam's mouth, and argued with the housekeeper about the lawn service, which wanted, too early in the year, in Lucas's opinion, to schedule a winter cleanup. At eight o'clock, he was on the phone to Alyssa Austin.
"I was wondering--have you begun organizing the financial records for Frances's estate?"
"Not yet, really--there's an accountant and a lawyer, but they're not pushing too hard," Austin said. "Not yet, anyway."
"Would it be possible for me to look at her financial records? Checkbook and investment records? All that?"
"Of course, if you think there might be something in there."
He hesitated for a moment, then said, "There was another Goth killing last night."
"Oh, no!" Her voice was a groan. "Who was it?"
"A kid named Roy Carter," Lucas said. "Middle twenties, I guess, worked in a liquor store and hung out at the A1 and November, at least some of the time. Did Frances ever mention the name?"
"Not that I remember. She had friends I didn't know, but he wasn't one of the long-term ones. What'd he look like?"
"Tall, pale, red hair, thin--bony, almost," Lucas said.
"That doesn't sound familiar. . . . Does he have a family?"
"Yeah, his parents are postal workers, I guess. Out in the countryside, somewhere."
"That's awful for them. That's awful," Austin said.
"So I can get that stuff?"
"Yes. I'll put it all out for you. I've got a board meeting today, but Helen will be here. I'll stack it up in the front room. You're welcome to stay as long you want. Helen can get you Cokes and coffee and sandwiches."
"One more thing. Have you heard of a couple . . ." He looked in his notebook again. '. . . named Denise Robinson and Mark Mc - Guire?"
"Sure. They were friends of Francie's. I should have given you their names, but I didn't think of them," she said. "They came by with her a couple of times after Hunter was killed, last fall sometime."
"What does Robinson look like?"
"Mmm, tall, gawky, blondish hair--sandy, maybe--wears big plastic-rimmed glasses. She's a marathoner. Bony shoulders, drinking - straw arms. She told me that she ran it under three, which means she's pretty serious about it. Why?"
"Just a couple names I picked up," he said. "I'm pushing all of Frances's friends for names."
And Robinson didn't sound like a fairy, he thought after he'd rung off.
He called Anson, the Minneapolis detective, from the car, on the way to Austin's house. Anson was sleepy: he'd gotten six hours the night before. "And I gotta have eight, or I'm just not worth shit." They both yawned together, into their phones, and Anson added, "We got the ID last night, it's confirmed. I got our guys to make up a mug shot of the fairy--I'm going to run it around this morning, talk to all those people on your list."
"Let me know what you get," Lucas said. "I'm on the way over to Alyssa Austin's to look at her daughter's
Lucas said, "You've been grousing about your old lady. Everything okay?"
"Ah, everything's okay, but she's been sick for a couple of weeks,"
Del said. "Not enough to go to the doctor, but, you know. Doesn't want to walk around much: her stomach is upset."
"Jeez, man, a couple of weeks? That could be something serious. You gotta get her to a doc."
"There are two kinds of nurses," Del said; his wife was a nurse. "There's the kind who think the sun shines out of a doctor's asshole, and the kind that think most doctors are running a long-term hustle, and who don't trust them any further than they could throw them. I got one of the second kind."
He turned his head to the window: "Old lady's leaving," he said. "Looks like it's bedtime."
"She'll be changing into her nightgown," Lucas said.
"Can I borrow the glasses?"
"Get your own fuckin' glasses."
Eric Clapton: "Willie & the Hand Jive."
After a restless night--disturbed a last time by Weather getting ready for work--Lucas had breakfast with the kids, talked to Letty about hip-hop music, stuffed creamed corn and whipped ham into Sam's mouth, and argued with the housekeeper about the lawn service, which wanted, too early in the year, in Lucas's opinion, to schedule a winter cleanup. At eight o'clock, he was on the phone to Alyssa Austin.
"I was wondering--have you begun organizing the financial records for Frances's estate?"
"Not yet, really--there's an accountant and a lawyer, but they're not pushing too hard," Austin said. "Not yet, anyway."
"Would it be possible for me to look at her financial records? Checkbook and investment records? All that?"
"Of course, if you think there might be something in there."
He hesitated for a moment, then said, "There was another Goth killing last night."
"Oh, no!" Her voice was a groan. "Who was it?"
"A kid named Roy Carter," Lucas said. "Middle twenties, I guess, worked in a liquor store and hung out at the A1 and November, at least some of the time. Did Frances ever mention the name?"
"Not that I remember. She had friends I didn't know, but he wasn't one of the long-term ones. What'd he look like?"
"Tall, pale, red hair, thin--bony, almost," Lucas said.
"That doesn't sound familiar. . . . Does he have a family?"
"Yeah, his parents are postal workers, I guess. Out in the countryside, somewhere."
"That's awful for them. That's awful," Austin said.
"So I can get that stuff?"
"Yes. I'll put it all out for you. I've got a board meeting today, but Helen will be here. I'll stack it up in the front room. You're welcome to stay as long you want. Helen can get you Cokes and coffee and sandwiches."
"One more thing. Have you heard of a couple . . ." He looked in his notebook again. '. . . named Denise Robinson and Mark Mc - Guire?"
"Sure. They were friends of Francie's. I should have given you their names, but I didn't think of them," she said. "They came by with her a couple of times after Hunter was killed, last fall sometime."
"What does Robinson look like?"
"Mmm, tall, gawky, blondish hair--sandy, maybe--wears big plastic-rimmed glasses. She's a marathoner. Bony shoulders, drinking - straw arms. She told me that she ran it under three, which means she's pretty serious about it. Why?"
"Just a couple names I picked up," he said. "I'm pushing all of Frances's friends for names."
And Robinson didn't sound like a fairy, he thought after he'd rung off.
He called Anson, the Minneapolis detective, from the car, on the way to Austin's house. Anson was sleepy: he'd gotten six hours the night before. "And I gotta have eight, or I'm just not worth shit." They both yawned together, into their phones, and Anson added, "We got the ID last night, it's confirmed. I got our guys to make up a mug shot of the fairy--I'm going to run it around this morning, talk to all those people on your list."
"Let me know what you get," Lucas said. "I'm on the way over to Alyssa Austin's to look at her daughter's
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