Lucas said, “We'll ask you to wait here. Detective Smith and I have to discuss the situation.”
They walked just far enough down the hall to be out of earshot, and Lucas asked, “What do you think?”
“I don't think we've got an arrest,” Smith said. “What about the warrants?”
“We got crime scene both at her house and the business. If you want to send along a couple guys…”
“I'll do that,” Smith said. He looked down the hall at Jane Widdler. “Cut her loose?”
Lucas looked at her, turned back to Smith, and nodded, but reluctantly. “I agree that we don't have an arrest. Yet. We tell her to get a lawyer, and we talk to the lawyer: keep her in town, don't start moving money, or she goes inside. We can always find something… possession of stolen property.”
“If we find any.”
Lucas grinned. “Okay. Suspected possession of stolen property. Or how about, conspiracy to commit murder? We can always apologize later.”
“Tell that to her attorney.”
They walked back down the hall, Widdler watching nervously, twisting her Kleenex.
Lucas said, “Mrs. Widdler. You need to get an attorney, somebody we can talk to.
We believe that you may be involved in the illegal activities surrounding Leslie's death…”
“You're going to arrest me?” She looked frightened; fake-frightened, but who could tell? “We're searching your home and your business right now,” Lucas said. “We're not going to arrest you at the moment, but that could change as we work through the day. You need to be represented. You can get your own attorney, or we can get one for you…”
“I'll get my own…”
Lucas was looking in her eyes when he told her that she wouldn't be arrested; she blinked once, and something cleared from her gaze, almost like a nictitating membrane on a lizard. “You can call from here, we can get you privacy if you want it,” Lucas said, “or you can wait until you get home.”
“I don't care about privacy,” she said. “I do want to make some calls, get an attorney.”
Her chin trembled, and she made a dismayed look. “This is all so incomprehensibly dreadful.”
They offered to drive her home, since they were going there anyway. This time, she sat in the backseat by herself, calling on her cell phone. She talked first to her personal attorney, took down a number, and called that: “Joe Wyzinsky, please? Jane Widdler: Mr. Wyzinsky was recommended by my personal attorney, Laymon Haycraft. I'm with police officers right now. They are threatening to arrest me. Charges? I don't know exactly. Thank you.”
When Wyzinsky's name came up, Lucas and Smith looked at each other and simultaneously grimaced.
Widdler, in the backseat, said, “Mr. Wyzinsky? Jane Widdler, of Widdler Antiques and Objets d”Art. My husband was shot to death this morning, apparently suicide.
The police say that he was involved in murder and theft, and I believe they are talking about the Bucher case. They suspect me of being involved, but I'm not.”
She listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, yes, of course, I'm very capable…
With two police officers, they're driving me home. They say my home and business are being searched. No, I'm not under arrest, but they say they might arrest me later this afternoon, depending on the search.”
She sounded, Lucas thought, like she was making a deal on an overpriced antique tea table. Too cool.
“… Yes. Lucas Davenport, who is an agent of the state, and John Smith, who is on the St. Paul police force. What? Yes. Hang on.” She handed the phone to Lucas. “He wants to talk to you.”
Lucas took the phone and said, “What's happening, big guy?”
Wyzinsky asked, “You Miranda her?”
“Absolutely. John Smith did it, I witnessed. Then we insisted that she get representation, so there'd be no problem. Glad she got a pro.” Lucas wiggled his eyebrows at Smith.
“You're taking her to her house?” Wyzinsky asked.
“Yup.”
“She says you might arrest her. For what?”
“Murder, kidnapping, conspiracy to murder, attempted murder, arson, theft, possession and sale of stolen goods,” Lucas said.
“Cruelty to animals,” Smith added.
“And cruelty to animals,” Lucas said. “We believe she took part in the killing of a dog named Screw, after which Screw's body was thrown out on the streets of St.
Paul. Make that, cruelty to animals and littering.”
“Anything else?”
“Probably a few federal charges,” Lucas said. “We believe she may have been involved in murders in Chippewa Falls and Des Moines, as well as here in St. Paul, so that would be interstate flight, transportation of stolen goods, some firearms charges, et cetera.”
“Huh. Sounds like you don't have much of a case, all that bullshit and no arrest,” Wyzinsky said.
“We're nailing down the finer points,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, I got a nail for you right here,” Wyzinsky said. “How's Weather?”
“She's fine.”
“You guys going to Midsummer Ball?”
“If Weather makes me,” Lucas said. “I do look great in a tux.”
“So do I,” Wyzinsky said. “We ought to stand next to each other, and radiate on the women.”
“I could do that,” Lucas said.
“So-let me talk to her again,” Wyzinsky said. “Is it Widdler? And, Lucas-don't ask her any more questions, okay?”
Widdler took the phone, listened, said, “See you there, then.” She rang off and said to Lucas, “You two seemed pretty friendly.”
“We've known each other for a while,” Lucas said. “He's a good attorney.”
“He won't let friendship stand in the way of defending me?”
“He'd tear my ass off if he thought it'd help his case,” Lucas said. “Joe doesn't believe people should go to jail.”
“Especially when they're innocent,” she said. “By the way, he told me not to answer any more questions.”
Four cops were working through Widdler's house. Lucas suggested that she pack a suitcase, under the supervision of one of the crime-scene people, and move to a motel.
“We're not going to leave you alone in here, until we're finished. We can't take the chance that you might destroy something, or try to.”
“Can I use the bathroom?” she asked.
“If they're done with a bathroom,” Lucas said. “And Mrs. Widdler: don't try to leave the area. We're right on the edge of arresting you. If you go outside the 494-69 loop, we probably will.”
Wyzinsky showed up while Widdler was packing. He was short, stocky, and balding, with olive skin, black eyes, and big hands, and women liked him a lot. He was bullshitting a cop at the front driveway when Lucas saw him. Lucas stepped on the porch, whistled, and waved Wyzinsky in. The lawyer came up, grinning, rubbed his hands together. “This is gonna be good. Where is she?”
“Upstairs packing,” Lucas said. He led the way into the house. “Try not to destroy any evidence.”
“I'll be careful.”
Smith came over: “We thought she'd be happier if she moved out while we tear the place apart.”
Wyzinsky nodded: “You finished with any of the rooms yet? Something private?”
“The den.” Lucas pointed. Two big chairs and a wide-screen TV with French doors.
“I'll take her in there,” Wyzinsky said. To Smith, he said, “Jesus, John, you ought to eat the occasional pizza. What do you weigh, one-twenty?”
“Glad to know you care,” Smith said.
“Of course I care, you're nearly human,” the lawyer said. He looked around, doing an appraisal on the house; its value, not the architecture. He made no effort to hide his glee. “Man, this is gonna be good. A dog named Screw? Can you say, 'Hello, Fox News,' 'Hello, Court TV? Who's that blond chick on CNN who does the court stuff? The one with the glitter lipstick? Hel-lo, blondie.”
“In your dreams,” Smith said, but he was laughing, and he went to get Widdler.
Wyzinsky and Widdler were talking in the den when a cop came out of the home office: “You guys should come and look at this,” he said.
Smith: “What?”
“Looks like we have a suicide note. Or two. Or three.”
Eventually, they decided that there were either three or four suicide notes, depending on how you counted them. One was simply a note to Jane, telling her the status of investment accounts at U.S. Bank, Wells Fargo, and Vanguard, and noting that the second-quarter income-tax payments had all been made. Whether that was a suicide note, or not, depended on context.