Lucas ate Egg Beaters and bacon, with coffee, heard the paper hit the front porch and went and got it, glanced at the headlines. The killings had been too late to catch the paper, although they'd be all over the television broadcasts-one cop, one innocent woman, and one masked intruder, all dead in one of the most expensive hotels in the Cities, right in the middle of the convention.
The press conference, Lucas thought, on the way in, might not be entirely friendly. He took his truck instead of the Porsche, for the reduced flash, and wondered whether he'd screwed up. If they really believed that a murder gang was operating in town, maybe there should have been two cops in each room? And fewer rooms, if necessary? They simply hadn't had the manpower, with the convention in town-and maybe they hadn't had the faith that anything would really happen. Maybe he'd been a bit perfunctory in his briefing of Benson and the other guys.
But they were supposed to be pros-they were supposed to know how to handle a deal like this. They all knew that a cop had been killed in Hudson. Why had Benson unlocked the door? The killers had been able to kick the safety bolt, but wouldn't have been able to kick the cross lock, if the door hadn't been opened '
No answers yet: maybe he'd get some from the crime-scene people.
Rose Marie Roux, his boss, was getting out of her Buick when he pulled into the BCA parking lot. She waited for him, squinting against the early morning sun, and when he caught up with her, said, "The governor's going to call Benson's folks this morning."
"All right."
"You good?" she asked.
"Aw ' you know."
She nodded. She'd been a cop before she was a lawyer, and a politician. "Let a little of it out, when you're talking to the cameras. Get angry. Makes better tape-you'll get better distribution on the pictures."
He half-laughed-snorted-and said, "Pretty fucking pathetic when you have to pull that bullshit."
"Modern times," she said.
Nelly Cassesford from Channel Three was walking up the sidewalk from the Channel Three van, carrying a cable of some sort. She saw Lucas and Rose Marie and slowed down to wait for them.
"We need to get started right on time, because we're up to our necks in convention stuff," she said. She was a slight, dark-haired woman with warm brown eyes. "Lots of trouble last night, lots of tape."
"We're good," Lucas said. "Did you talk to your guys about getting this out to LA?"
"Yup. Larry Johnston called them last night. They like that LA connection with the woman, don't care so much about the convention, so you'll get some time. Did you talk to everybody?"
Lucas nodded. "Yeah. I just hope they don't kiss us off."
"They won't. This is great stuff-manhunt. Woman-hunt. Unknown killers. Good-looking femme fatale. Appeal to the public for help." She didn't say, "Dead cops," which was good.
There were four cameras and a cooperative light setup in the BCA conference room. Del, Jenkins, and Shrake, all looking tired and ruffled, were clustered in the back of the room, and Mitford was talking to a St. Paul political reporter. He spotted Lucas and Lucas went that way, and Mitford asked, "You all set?"
"Yeah. You gonna say anything for the governor?"
"No. I'll leave it to you," Mitford said. "You know he'll be calling Benson's folks…"
"Rose Marie told me," Lucas said. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes to six. Time to do it.
Rose Marie went first, the usual political platitudes about tragedy and a life dedicated to government service. Then Lucas went on, and he did let it out, as Rose Marie had suggested, and though it felt a little calculated, he found it pretty easy to do.
"A murder gang is operating in the Twin Cities and they've killed two police officers and an innocent woman, and we need to take these people off the street right now," he said through his teeth. "We're distributing photos of two of the people involved. We don't know who the woman is, but we believe that she's in St. Paul and that she may have come from the Los Angeles area. If you see her, or if you know where or who she is, we need to find her. She may have been involved in the death of a young and innocent Spanish man whom she seduced and then possibly murdered in Washington, D.c'."
Let it out. From the intent expressions of the reporters, he figured it was working; gonna be good tape.
When he was done, he bounced a few questions, and then said, "We'll keep you up on this. I understand that the governor will have a comment later. He personally knew and valued Agent Benson and he'll be talking to Benson's folks this morning."
He saw Rose Marie nod and he was done.
When the reporters were heading out, Del asked, "What next?"
Lucas said, "We've got about a million cops out there. Let's get some guys, and get these pictures to every one of the cops. Tell them, you know, if they're standing around, to talk to people-shop owners, bank tellers, whatever, ask if they've seen these guys. Maybe something will pop up. Maybe we'll get lucky."
"I hate it when we have to get lucky."
Cohn and the other three had done some drinking over the night, a couple of bottles of blended whiskey, ginger ale, and ice cubes, an old-fashioned way to get hammered, and also to overfill the tank. Lane woke at seven o'clock, hungover, and had to pee so bad he was almost afraid to move. He first thought about McCall, and the dread of a close-by death hung on him. He coughed, and stirred and pushed himself up and staggered off to the bathroom in his underwear.
The apartment had two bedrooms, with Cruz in one, and Cohn and Lindy in the other, with Lane bagged out on the floor of the living room. Now he hung over the toilet, letting it all run out, coughing, finally dried up, pulled up his underpants, and went back to the living room.
Needed a cigarette, but he'd quit smoking three years earlier. Still needed one, but he was used to the random flashes. He'd wait it out: turned on the TV and hit the mute, went in search of the local weather station.
Saw Cohn's face, and then, in a blink, Cruz's. "Holy shit."
He yelled, "Rosie. Rosie, get in here. Rosie…" He was fumbling with the remote, finally brought up the sound, but Cruz's face was gone and he shouted, "Rosie," and caught, on the TV the last part of a pitch for help: "… see her or Brutus Cohn, do not attempt to apprehend them, but call nine-one-one immediately. They are heavily armed and considered extremely dangerous."
The woman turned to another camera and said, "St. Paul police are braced for another day of trouble…"
Cruz stumbled into the living room, dressed in a cotton nightgown, took in Lane, looked at the TV, said, "What?" and then Cohn stuck his head out, and Lane said to Cruz, "They just had your picture on TV along with Brute's. They got a picture of you."
"Oh, shit'" She looked unbelieving, shaking her head, asked, "Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure," Lane said. He picked up the remote and started clicking through the channels. The apartment was a model, so they had only basic cable service, and after he'd run up to CNN, he ran back down, and at the bottom, on Channel Three, caught another shot of Cruz, a poor shot but identifiable enough, with the anchor in the background: "… Davenport said that the woman may come from the Los Angeles area, because the phone used to take the photo listed a large number of calls to a phone from the three-two-three area code in Los Angeles; that phone has not been found…"