The woman chuckled, a pleasant, homey sound rattling down the phone line, and she said, 'You lawyers worry too much – and you ain't gonna see me, honey.'
'Maybe,' Carmel said. 'So how will we do it?'
'You have the money with you?'
'Yes, that's what Rolo said.'
'Good. Get in your Volvo, drive down to the University of Minnesota parking lot at Huron and Fourth Street. That's a big open lot, lots of students coming and going. There's a ticket-dispensing machine at the entrance. Park as far as you can from the pay booth, but park in a spot where there are other cars around you. Don't lock the driver's side door. Leave the money in a sack – one of those brown grocery sacks would be best – on the floor on the driver's side. Walk over to Washington Avenue… Do you know your way around over there?'
'Yes. I went to school there.' She'd spent seven years at the university.
'Good. Walk over to Washington, then walk down to the river. After you get to the River, it's up to you. Whenever you want, walk back to the car. I'll lock it when I leave it. And all the time, you'll be out in the open, in public. Safe.'
'What if somebody takes the money before you get there?'
Again, the pleasant chuckle: 'Nobody will take the money, Carmel.' The woman said 'CAR-mul,' while Carmel always pronounced it 'car-MEL.'
'When?'
'Right now.'
'How'd you know I have a Volvo?'
'I've been watching you off-and-on for a week or so. You drove it down to that Rainbow store the day before yesterday. I wouldn't have bought that sweet corn, myself; it looked a couple of days too old.'
'It was,' Carmel said. 'I'll be there in fifteen minutes.'
Carmel did exactly as Rinker asked, taking an extra few minutes in her walk along the Mississippi. When she got back to the car, the door was locked and the money was gone. She drove straight back to her apartment, and when she walked in, the phone was ringing.
'This is me,' the dry voice said.
'I hope everything went all right,' Carmel said.
'Went fine. I'm leaving town, but I wanted you to know that your credit is good.
Do you have a pencil?'
'Yes.'
'If you ever need me again, call this number' – the woman recited a phone number with a 212 area code that Carmel recognized as downtown Washington, D.C. – 'and leave a message on the voice mail that says, "Call Patricia Case." '
'Patricia Case.'
'Then I'll call you back within a day.'
'I don't think I'll ever need this.'
'Don't count on it; you lawyers have strange ways…'
'Okay. And thanks.'
'Thank you.' Click – and the dry voice was gone.
The phone rang again, before she had a chance to turn away.
'Carmel?' And for the second time that day, her heart was in her throat.
'Yes?'
'This is Hale.' Then, like she might not be able to sort out her Hales, he added, 'Allen.'
'Hale. My God, I heard about Barbara. How terrible.' She leaned into the telephone, vibrating with the urgency of the emotion. Tears started at the inner corners of her eyes. Poor Barbara. Poor Hale. A tragedy.
'Carmel… God, I don't know, I'm so screwed up,' Hale Allen said. 'Now the police think maybe I had something to do with it. The murder.'
'That's crazy,' Carmel said.
'Absolutely. They keep asking about how much money I'll inherit, and Barb's parents are saying all this crazy stuff…'
'That's terrible!' He needed help; and he was calling her.
'Look, what I'm calling to ask is, could you handle this for me? Could you deal with the police? You're the best I know…'
'Of course,' she said briskly. 'Where are you now?'
'I'm at home. I'm sitting here with all of Barb's stuff… I don't know what to do.'
'Sit right there,' Carmel said. 'I'll be there in half an hour. Don't talk to any more cops. If anyone calls, tell them to talk to me.'
'Won't that make them suspicious?' Not the sharpest knife.
'They already are suspicious, Hale. I know exactly where they're coming from.
It's stupid, but that's the way they think. So give them my office number and this number, and do not, do not, talk to them.'
'Okay.' He sounded better already. 'Half an hour?'
Oh, God. The thing about Hale Allen, she thought, was his hands. He had these big, competent-looking hands with clean, square nails, and fine dark fuzz on the first joints of his fingers, a hint of the underlying masculinity. He had beautiful, thick hair, and wonderful shoulders, and his brown eyes were so expressive that when he concentrated on her, Carmel felt weak.
But it was the hands that did it. And did it one afternoon in a nice lawyer bar with lots of plants in copper kettles, and antique dressers used as serving tables. There'd been three or four of them sitting around a table, different firms, no agenda, just gossip. He'd been laughing, with those great white teeth, and he'd looked deep into her a few times, all the way, she felt, to the bottom of her panty hose. But the main thing was, he'd been drinking something light and white, a California Chardonnay, maybe, and he kept turning the wine glass in those strong fingers and Carmel had begun to vibrate. They'd been together two dozen times since, but always in social situations, and never too long.
She thought, though, that he must know, somewhere in his soul. Now with this call…
She took fifteen minutes with her makeup – making it invisible – and after applying the lightest touch of Chanel No. 7, she went down to the parking garage and climbed into the Jaguar.
She forgot all about her resolution to stay away.
Hale Allen needed her.
Chapter Four
Lucas felt light: psychologically light. Nothing left to lose.
He hadn't spoken seriously with a woman since his break-up with Marcy Sherrill.
And he felt good: he'd been working out, shooting some hoops, running through the neighborhood, though he could feel it in his knees if he did more than five miles. Age coming on…
Money in the bank. All bills paid. The job under control, except for the
Cultural Commission. Even that had a calming effect on him. Like a boring concert, where the music never changed, the commission gave him three hours a week in which he had to sit still, his brain in neutral, his motor idling. He couldn't get away with sleeping during the meetings, but he'd managed to catch up on his reading.
Earlier in the year, before the Forty Days and Forty Nights, he'd felt himself on shaky ground, poised between sanity and another bout of depression. Marcy
Sherrill had changed that, at least. He felt as good as he could remember, if somewhat detached, disengaged, floating. His oldest childhood friend, a nun who was also a professor at St. Anne's College, had gone on a summer mission to Guatemala, giving thanks for a successful recovery from a terrible beating; half of his friends were on vacation. Crime, improbably, was down across the board.
And it was summer: a good one.
Lucas had been working four days a week, spending the three-day weekends at his cabin in Wisconsin. Five years past, a Northwoods neighbor, a flat-nosed guy from Chicago, had stocked a pond with large-mouth bass. Now the pond was getting good. Every morning, early morning, Lucas would walk a half-mile over to the
Chicago guy's house, push an old green flat-bottomed John boat into the water, and throw poppers and streamer flies at the lily pads until the sun got high.
The weight of the world dissolved in the mirror flashes of the smooth black water, the smell of the summer pollen, hot in the sun – the sun on his shoulders ? Eand the stillness of the woods.
Barbara Allen had been killed on a Thursday. Lucas tucked the memory of her sightless, upside-down body into a large mental file stuffed with similar images, and closed the file. On Thursday night, he left for the cabin. He missed
Friday's paper, but saw a Pioneer Press in a Hayward store window on Saturday morning: The main Page One story was headlined, 'Husband Questioned In Heiress
Slaying.'
On Sunday, the Star-Tribune's front-page piece started under a headline that said, 'Allen Murder Baffles Police' while the Pioneer Press went with 'Allen