"Jesus, he's eating dog food," Lucas said, with just a rime of sarcasm in his voice.
Dunn pointed a finger at Lucas: "But that's exactly what he feels like. Exactly, He was spending a half-million a year when a Cadillac cost six thousand bucks and a million was really something. Now he's scraping along on maybe a quarter mil and a Caddy costs forty thousand."
"Poor sonofabitch."
"Listen, a million ain't that much any more," Dunn said wryly. "A guy who owns two good Exxon stations-he's worth at least a mil, probably more. Two gas stations. We're not talking about yachts and polo."
"So if you took your wife off, you wouldn't have done it for the money," Lucas said.
"Hell, if anybody got taken off, it should've been me. I'm worth fifteen or twenty times what Tower is. Of course, it ain't as good as Tower's money," he said ruefully.
"Why's that?"
" 'Cause I earned it," Dunn said. "Just like you did, with your computer company. I read about you in Cities' Biz. They said you're worth probably five million, and growing. You must feel it-that your money's got a taint."
"I've never seen any of it, the money," Lucas said. "It's all paper, at this point." Then: "What about insurance? Is there insurance on Andi?"
"Well, yeah." Dunn's forehead wrinkled and he scratched his chin. "Actually, quite a bit."
"Who'd get it?"
Dunn shrugged. "The kids… unless… Ah, Christ. If the kids died, I'd get it."
"Sole beneficiary?"
"Yeah… except, you know, Nancy Wolfe would get a half-million. They do pretty well in that partnership, and they both have key-man-key-woman-insurance to help cover their mortgage and so on, if somebody died."
"Is a half-million a lot for Nancy Wolfe?"
Dunn thought again, and then said, "It'd be quite a bit. She pulls down something between $150,000 and $175,000 a year, and she can't protect any of it-taxes eat her alive-so another half mil would be nice."
"Will you sign a release saying that we can look at your wife's records?" Lucas asked.
"Sure. Why wouldn't I?"
"Because a lot of medical people think psychiatric records should be privileged," Lucas said. "That people need treatment, not cops."
"Fuck that. I'll sign," Dunn said. "You got a paper with you?"
"I'll have one sent over tonight," Lucas said.
Dunn was watching Lucas's hand and asked, "What're you playing with?"
Lucas looked down at his hand and saw the ring. "Ring."
"Uh-oh. Coming or going?" Dunn asked.
"Thinking about it," Lucas said.
"Marriage is wonderful," Dunn said. He spread his arms. "Look around. A box for everything and everything in its box."
"You seem… sort of lighthearted about this whole thing."
Dunn suddenly leaned forward, his face like a stone. "Davenport, I'm so fuckin' scared I can't spit. I honest-to-God never knew what it meant, being scared spitless. I thought it was just a phrase, but it's not… You gotta get my guys back."
Lucas grunted and stood up. "You'll stick around." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." Dunn stood up, facing him. "You're a tough guy, right?"
"Maybe," Lucas said.
"Football, I bet."
"Hockey."
"Yeah, you got the cuts… Think you could take me?" Dunn had relaxed again, and a faintly amused look crossed his face.
Lucas nodded. "Yeah."
Dunn said, "Huh," like he didn't necessarily agree, and then, losing the smile, "What d'you think-you gonna find my wife and kids?"
"I'll find them," Lucas said.
"But you won't guarantee their condition," Dunn said.
Lucas looked away, into the dark house: he felt like something was pushing his face. "No," he said to the darkness.
CHAPTER 4
The Homicide office resembled the city room of a slightly seedy small-town daily. Individual cubicles for the detectives were separated by shoulder-high partitions; some desks were neat, others were a swamp of paper and souvenirs. Three different kinds of gray or putty-colored metal file cabinets were stuck wherever there was space. Old fliers and notes and cartoons and bureaucratic missives were tacked or taped on walls and bulletin boards. A brown plastic radio the size of a toaster, the kind last made in the sixties with a big, round tuning dial, sat on top of a file cabinet, a bent steel clothes hanger jammed into the back as an antenna. An adenoidal voice squeaked from the primitive speaker.
"… is one of the most historical of crimes, from the Rape of the Sabine women to the Lindbergh kidnapping of our own era…"
Lucas was drinking chicken noodle Soup-in-a-Cup, and paused just inside the door with the cup two inches from his lips. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it until the DJ interrupted:
You're listening to Blackjack Billy Walker, go ahead, Edina, with a question for Dr. David Girdler…
Dr. Girdler, you said a minute ago that kidnapping victims identify with their kidnappers. All I can say is, that's a perfect example of what happens when the liberal school system shoves this politically correct garbage down the kids' throats, teaching them things the kids know are wrong but they gotta believe because somebody in authority says so, like these union hacks that call themselves teachers…
Girdler's voice was consciously mellow, hushed, artificially and dramatically deepened. He said:
I understand your feelings-heh heh-about this, although I don't entirely agree with your sentiments: there are many good teachers. That aside, yes, that identification often takes place and begins within hours of the kidnapping; the victims may actually suggest ways that the police can be more effectively foiled in their efforts…
Lucas stared at the radio, not believing it. Greave was sitting at his desk, eating a Mr. Goodbar. "Sounds like a fuckin' politician, doesn't he? He couldn't wait to get on the radio. He walked out of the school and drove right down to the station."
"How long has he been on?" Lucas finished the Soup-in-a-Cup and dropped the cup in a wastebasket.
"Hour," Greave said. "Lotta newsies have been looking for you, by the way."
"Fuck 'em," Lucas said. "For now, anyway."
A dozen detectives were milling around the office-everybody from Homicide/Violent Crimes, more from Vice, Sex, and Intelligence. Some were at desks, others were parked on swivel chairs, some were leaning against file cabinets. A very tall man and a very short one were talking golf swings. A guy from Sex elbowed past with a cafeteria tray full of cups of coffee and Coke. Almost everybody was eating or drinking. The office smelled like coffee, microwave popcorn, and Tombstone pizza.
Harmon Anderson wandered over to Greave's desk, eating a chicken-salad sandwich. A glob of mayonnaise was stuck to his upper lip. "Anything for a buck," he said between chews. Anderson was a hillbilly and a computer expert. "Girdler is not a doctor. He has a B.A. in psychology from some redneck college in North Carolina."
Sherrill, still damp, strolled in, pulled off the tennis hat, slapped it against her coat, then took off her coat and hung it up. She nodded at Lucas, tipped her head at the radio, and said, "Have you been listening?"
Lucas said, "Just now," and to Greave, "Did you ask him not to?"
Greave nodded. "The standard line. I said we should keep it to ourselves so the perpetrators don't know exactly what we have, and so we can present a better image if we get to court."
"Did you say perpetrator?" Lucas asked.
"Yeah. So shoot me."
"I'd say he didn't give a fuck," Sherrill said, fluffing her hair. "I was listening on the way over. He's remembering stuff he didn't give to us…"
"Making it up," Lucas said.
"Everybody's gotta, be a movie star," Greave said. And they paused for a moment to listen: