Lucas paused, waited for her to pull back together; the smell of the old cigarette butts closed in around them. “You saw him the night he was killed. At the A1.”
“Yes.” Her head bobbed and she bit her lower lip, holding it together. “I went over after work. I had a beer and a cheeseburger, and we talked for a couple of minutes, but it was pretty busy, so I went home. We were going to a play the next night, over at Loring Park. I never saw him again… I went out of the bar and I turned around and waved and he waved back and that was the last I saw of him forever.”
“That’s tough,” Lucas said. “Yeah."
"You said there was more gossip…” She looked away, then back. “A friend of Dick’s, named Karl, said there was a Goth girl around, a fairy…” As she talked about it, her voice rose in pitch, and became squeaky with grief. “… and she was talking to Dick before closing. Not that there was anything going on, but nobody knew her.”
Lucas asked, “Did you tell the Minneapolis police about this?"
"No… Karl was supposed to.”
Lucas hadn’t seen anyone named Karl in the Minneapolis paper. “What’s Karl’s last name?”
“Lageson.” She spelled it, and added, “Karl with a K. He lives in Uptown. I don’t know where, exactly.”
Lucas noted it down, and asked, “So what’s a fairy look like?"
"Oh, you know. Skinny, small, big eyes, dark hair. Short skirts, long legs, ripped stockings. Everything black. Black nail polish, crimson lipstick. Black hair. I mean, not all fairies have black hair, but she did.”
“I don’t think Karl told anybody,” Lucas said. “Oh, shit. He should have. He’s the one who saw her. Or says he did. But he’s sort of…” She put a finger up at her temple and made a few circles. “He’s smoked too much weed. He might have just thought it up. Or gotten it from one of his Goth comics.”
“Anybody else see her?” Lucas asked. “I don’t know. If you go down to the A1, they’ll be talking about it, if anybody saw her. I mean some hot fairy mysterious Goth chick, everybody would be talking. Goths gossip a lot.”
“A few weeks ago, a young woman, a Goth, named Frances Austin disappeared,” Lucas said.
“I know about it,” she said, nodding. “The blood in the hall. She and Dick knew each other. You probably knew that.”
“Did you know her?” Her gaze fixed on him, but lost focus, as she considered the question. “I’m not sure. I saw her picture in the paper, and on TV, and people at the A1 were talking about it, because she’d been there the day before she disappeared. But I don’t know if I really remember her, or just remember the pictures on TV. I mean, I didn’t know her, but I might have seen her.”
“What was the nature of her relationship with Mr. Ford?"
"Well, he wasn’t sleeping with her, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Mobry said. “It was more like, a bartender with a regular who’s an okay person, and they shared some things like the gothic. A person who doesn’t start trouble and is friendly and leaves a tip.”
“Did you and Mr. Ford…"
"Call him Dick. Mr. Ford sounds really… dead."
"Did you and Dick talk about her?” Lucas asked. “Oh, sure, right after she disappeared. The police came and talked to Dick, and he told them what he knew. Which was hardly anything. She came in and got fish ’n chips the day before she disappeared. She was with a couple of other Goths-the police have their names, I don’t remember them. But then the day she disappeared, she didn’t come in. I think it was in the paper that she and a friend had lunch that day somewhere else, like a bagel place.”
“That’s right,” Lucas said. “So not at the A1. Anyway, she and Dick weren’t intimate-and I don’t mean sex. I mean, they didn’t share life stories. Dick was a bartender, so you know, he was a professional bullshitter. He didn’t even have any good bullshit about her.”
“Huh.” Lucas rubbed his nose. Goddamn stale cigarettes. “Do you think the same person who killed Dick killed Frances?” Mobry asked. “I don’t know. We don’t even know if she’s dead,” Lucas said. She sat with her hands in her lap: “You sound like you’re stuck."
"I just started,” Lucas said. “I’m trying to get something going."
"Why don’t you do some of that magic DNA stuff like you see on TV?"
"We did,” Lucas said. “The problem is, it’s not magic. Most of the time, you wind up proving that people who already said they were there, were there.”
“That doesn’t help,” she said.
They sat among the boxes, staring at each other for a moment, then Lucas asked, “Neither of you, you or Dick, had any bad vibrations from people, felt like somebody knew something, something was being held back?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I’ve got nothing. I don’t even have a body. His parents came and got him and took him back to Rochester. The funeral’s Friday.”
He stood up. “All right. I’m really sorry for your loss. Dick sounds like an okay guy.”
“He was a good guy,” Mobry said, and the tears started again. “Are you going to find the fairy Goth?”
“Yeah, I am. Any ideas?"
"If she’s real, somebody at the A1 knows her. Some of the guys would have been following her around, if she looks like what she sounds like.”
“Anything else? Anything?” She shrugged, wiped tears away with her fingertips, said, “Do the Austins have a butler? Maybe the butler did it.” Then she cried, and Lucas patted her on the shoulder and asked if she’d be all right, and she said, “Yeah, I’d just like to sit here awhile,” and Lucas left.
She hadn’t had anything to do with the murder, he thought. In Lucas’s experience, women who killed their boyfriends suffered either from too much intensity or too much innocence; Mobry didn’t have either quality.
Like Austin, she was overwhelmed with sadness; all the sadness was getting him down.
5
BACK OUT INTO the skyways, getting- out- of- the- office time, crowds jostling through to the parking ramps, a few of the younger women showing some pre- spring skin, the teen guys flashing tattoos over health- club muscles, their elders often with the competitive, fixed, dead- eyed, and querulous stare of people who were not getting far enough, fast enough, making enough, hustling all the time, working all the time, no time for an evening’s paseo, no time even for half- fast food. Scuttling people.
By the time Lucas got back to his car, the streets were snarled with evening rush- hour traffic, muttering along in a stink of exhaust and wet asphalt. He edged out into it, went around the block and down a few, to Washington Avenue, took the left, crawled a few more blocks, took the right turn across the Mississippi.
Lucas thought: Goths, mysterious fairies, dead bartenders ripped through their abdominal aortas-much better than a dead woman with a beer- bottle- cracked skull and a boyfriend who claimed he’d been out driving around; or paperwork; or political chores.
So he was whistling as he crossed the Hennepin Avenue bridge. He cheerfully chopped the nose off a Sprinter van, took the finger from the woman who was driving it, beat a red light by minus- fifteen feet, and dumped the car in a supermarket parking lot, leaving the BCA card on the dash.
The A1 was a block away, a brick building painted white, the paint gone dingy and gray, with a miniature theater- style marquee hanging over the door. The marquee said Surf amp; Turf, $9.99 and Happy Hour, 5-, which was either supposed to be cute, or the second number had fallen off.