“You want to come along and talk to Jane?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah,” Smith said. “This whole thing is…” He waved a hand in the air; couldn't think of a phrase for it.
“Screwed up?” Rose Marie offered.
Eventually four guys from the Medical Examiner's Office carefully lifted, pulled, and rolled Leslie Widdler's body out of the Lexus and onto a ground-level gurney.
“Guy shoulda worn a wide-load sign,” one of them said. When they got him flat, one of the ME investigators asked Lucas, “Which leg?”
“Both,” Lucas said.
They only needed the first one. Widdler's left leg was riddled with what looked like small-caliber gunshot wounds, surrounded by half-dollar-sized bruises going yellow at the edges. There were a few oohs and aahs from the crowd. Though they didn't really need it, they pulled up the other pant leg and found more bites.
“Good enough for me,” Smith said. “DNA will confirm it, but that, my friends, is what happens when you fuck with a pit bull.”
“Half pit bull,” Lucas said.
“What was the other half?” Rose Marie asked.
“Nobody knows,” Lucas said. “Probably a rat terrier.”
On the way to Widdler's, Lucas and Smith talked about an arrest. They believed that Leslie had been bitten by a dog, but had no proof that Screw had done the biting.
That was yet to come, with the DNA tests. But DNA tests take a while. They knew there had been a second person involved, a driver. They knew that Jane Widdler had probably profited from at least three killings, in the looting of the Donaldson, Bucher, and Toms mansions, but they didn't have a single piece of evidence that would prove it.
“We push her,” Smith said. “We read her rights to her, we push, see if she says anything.
We make the call.”
“We take her over to look at Leslie, put some stress on her,” Lucas said. “I've got a warrant coming, both for her house and the shop.
I'll have my guys sit on both places… look for physical evidence, records. We'll let her know that, maybe crack her on the way to see Leslie.”
“If she doesn't crack?”
“We do the research. We'll get her sooner or later,” Lucas said. “There's no way Leslie Widdler pulled these killings off on his own. No way.”
The thing about Botox, Lucas thought later, was that when you'd had too much, as Jane Widdler had, you then had to fake reactions just to look human-and it's impossible to distinguish real fake reactions from fake fake reactions.
Widdler was at her shop, working the telephone, her back to the door, when Lucas and Smith trailed in, the bell tinkling overhead. Widdler was alone, and turned, saw them, sat up, made a fake look of puzzlement, and said into the phone, “I've got to go. I've got visitors.”
She hung up, then stood, tense, vibrating, gripped the back of the chair, and said, “What?”
“You seem… Do you know?” Lucas asked, tilting his head.
“Where's my husband?” The question wasn't tentative; it came out as a demand.
Lucas looked at Smith, who said, “Well, Mrs. Widdler, there's been a tragedy…”
A series of tiny muscular twitches crossed her face: “Oh, God,” she said. “I knew it. Where is he? What happened to him?”
Lucas said, “Mrs. Widdler, he apparently took his own life.”
“Oh, no!” she shouted. Again, Lucas couldn't tell if it was real or faked. It looked fake… but then, it would. “He wouldn't do that, would he?” she cried. “Leslie wouldn't… Did he jump? Did he jump?”
“I'm afraid he shot himself,” Smith said.
“Oh, no. No. That's not Leslie,” Widdler said. She half turned and dropped into the chair, and made a weeping look, and might have produced a tear. “Leslie would never… his face wasn't… was he hurt?”
Lucas thought, If she's faking it, she's good. Her questions were crazy in pretty much the right way.
“I'm afraid you'll have to come with us, to make a technical identification of the body, but there's really no doubt,” Smith said. “Both Lucas and I know him, of course… Where did you think he was last night? Was he here? Did he go out early?”
Widdler looked away, her voice hesitant, breaking. “He… never came home.”
“Had he ever done that before?”
“Only… yes. I don't think… well, he wouldn't have done it again, under the same circumstances…” Her face was turned up at them, eyes wide, asking for an explanation. “But why? Why would he hurt himself? He had everything to live for…”
She made the weeping face again, and Lucas thought, Jeez.
Smith said, “There are some other problems associated with his death, Mrs. Widdler.
Some illegal activity has turned up, and we think you know about it. We have to inform you that you have the right to remain silent, that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney…”
“Oh, God!” She was horrified by the ritual words. “You can't think I did anything?”
They were in Lucas's truck, but Smith drove. Lucas sat in the back with Widdler.
Lucas asked, “How well did you know Claire Donaldson?”
“Donaldson? From Chippewa Falls?”
“Yes.”
Widdler made a frownie look: “Well, I knew of her, but I never met her personally.
We bought some antiques from her estate sale, of course, it was a big event for this area. Why?”
“Your husband murdered her,” Lucas said.
“You shut up,” Jane Widdler shouted. “You shut up. Leslie wouldn't hurt anybody…”
“And Mrs. Bucher and a man named Toms in Des Moines. Did you know Mrs. Bucher or Mr. Toms?”
She had covered her head with her arms; hadn't simply buried her face in her hands, but had wrapped her arms around her skull, her face slumped almost into her lap, and she said, “I'm not listening. I'm not listening.”
She snuffled and wept and groaned and wept some more and dug in her purse for the crumpled Kleenex that all women are apparently required to carry, and rubbed her nostrils raw with it, and Lucas stuck her again.
“Do you know a woman named Amity Anderson?”
The snuffling stopped, and Widdler uncoiled, her eyes rimmed with red, her voice thick with mucus, and she asked, “What does that bitch have to do with this?”
“You know her?” Getting somewhere.
She looked down in her purse, took out the crumpled Kleenex, wiped her nose again, looked out the window at the houses along Randolph Street, and said, “I know her.”
“How long?” Looking for a lie.
“Since college,” Widdler said. “She… knew Leslie before I did.”
“Knew him? Had a relationship with him?” Smith asked, eyes in the rearview mirror.
Snuffle: “Yes.”
Lucas asked, “Did, uh… were there ever any indications that a relationship continued?”
She leaned her head against the side window, staring at the back of Smith's head; the morning light through the glass was harsh on her face, making her look older and paler and tougher and German, like a fifteenth-century portrait by Hans Memling or a twentieth-century farm woman by Grant Wood. “Yes.”
“When you say yes…?”
“When he stayed out all night… that's where he was,” she said.
“With Amity Anderson,” Lucas said.
“Yes. She had some kind of hold on him. Some kind of emotional hold on him. Goddamn her.” Turning to Lucas, teeth bared: “Why are you asking about her? How is she involved in this?”
Lucas looked back at her, and saw a puzzle of Botox tics and hair spray, expensive jewelry and ruined makeup. “I don't know,” he said.
When Leslie Widdler was in the car, he looked somewhat dead. There might have been other possibilities, that he was drunk or drugged, sprawled uncomfortably in the backseat of the car, at least until you saw the hole in his temple.
At the ME's, they had peeled him out of the body bag and placed him on a steel table, ready to do a rush autopsy. There, under the harsh white lights, he looked totally dead, pale as a slab of Crisco. His expensive black alligator driving shoes pointed almost sideways, his tongue was visible at the side of his mouth, his eyes were still open. He looked surprised, in a dead way.
Jane blinked and walked away. “Yes,” she said as she went, and outside the examining room, she crumbled into a chair.