25

LUCAS BROUGHT IN the intelligence cops to watch Qatar. Since Qatar didn't know he was being watched, only one man was assigned at a time: one man to watch the car, get him to work, monitor the classroom, and his travels during the day. "If he gets erratic, we'll get you help," Lucas told the first guy up. "Basically, at this point, it's baby-sitting."

The baby-sitter took Qatar through the night and then to work; a new guy picked him up at work, took him out of his office to a classroom, out to lunch, shopping, a visit to a funeral home, back to his office.

Lucas stayed in touch all day, but focused on the problem with Randy. He finally decided the best way to handle it was with Marcy. "He relates to women. He may relate to your getting shot."

"You want me to show him the bullet hole?"

She didn't have a bullet hole; she had a scar that looked like the star shape made when a pebble falls in mud, with a string leading out of it, which was the surgeon's entry cut. She was being tough, and Lucas recognized it: "If you think it'll help. You've got to read him."

Lucas applied some pressure on Randy's attorney by calling the public defender and explaining the deal. The PD went to Lansing and told him to take it, and to talk to Randy about it. The bureaucratic hassling took all of the morning and a piece of the afternoon, and finally an assistant county attorney got back to Lucas.

"We've been talking with the Ramsey county attorney and the Ramsey PD, and this is the deal: If Whitcomb can positively identify the picture, and give us details surrounding his contacts with the suspect…"

"Qatar."

"Yeah, Qatar. If he can do that, Ramsey'll reduce the ag assault to simple assault and drop the drug charge down to misdemeanor possession-and he takes a six-month to two-year sentence, which he spends in the hospital, because that's how long the docs think rehab will take. In other words, he takes an easy fall and we pay for medical."

"We'd have to pay it anyway, one way or another," Lucas said. "So the deal is done?"

"Everybody's agreed but Randy. The idea is, you show up with the pictures and see if you can get him to move."

"I'm sending Marcy Sherrill in to talk to him. He has a personal problem with me."

"Whatever you think. We need him if we're gonna have a chance with Qatar."

LUCAS AND MARCY drove to Regions together, and talked about approaches. "He's a pimp," Lucas said. "You oughta show a little street balls, like a hooker, but basically back off when he comes on to you. Gonna have to play him."

"That's the bullshit I don't like," she said. "That's why I never was a good decoy. I always wanted to go straight for the throat."

"Aim a little lower this time," Lucas said. "If you can get a grip on his dick, we can put Qatar away this afternoon."

Lansing was waiting outside Randy's hospital room. Lansing looked at Marcy and asked Lucas, "Who's this?"

"Why don't you ask me? I'm standing right here," Marcy said.

Lansing stepped back. "All right. Who're you?"

"I'm a Minneapolis police sergeant and I'm a little fuckin' cranky this afternoon, so if you don't want me to pull your nose off, I'd suggest you be polite. I'm the one who talks to Whitcomb."

Lansing looked at Lucas, who shrugged. " I'malways polite with her."

Lansing nodded abruptly, as if he'd had enough of the Minneapolis police show. "All right. I'll tell Mr. Whitcomb why we're here, and then you can make your pitch. It's all fine with us, if he goes for it-but he's pretty angry."

"I can relate," Marcy said.

Lucas waited in the hall, holding the door open just enough to hear. Lansing started the introductions, and Randy said, "Get her out of here. Get her the fuck out of here."

He sounded like he was trying to scream, but his voice was a cross between a whisper and a croak, as though he'd been shouting in whispers all day.

Marcy said, "I know what you're feeling, Randy. I got shot myself last year. I'm still in rehab."

"Tell somebody who cares, you fuckin' cunt," Randy croaked. "I wish they'd hit you in the fuckin' head."

Lansing said, "Randy, you've got to listen to this. This is a deal that's the best you could hope for, this is-"

"Fuck you. You're fired. I want another attorney. I got no fuckin' legs… You hear this?" Lucas heard a whacking sound and peeked through the door. Randy was flat on his back but flailing at his legs with one free hand. "Nothing here, nothing here…"

Lansing tried to grab his arm, said, "C'mon, stop it, Randy, gotta stop, you're hurting yourself."

A nurse burst past Lucas and into the room and shouted, "What's going on here? What's going on?"

Randy subsided, looked at the nurse, and said weakly, "Get them the fuck outa here. Get them the fuck out."

"NEVER HAD A chance," Marcy said, as they left the hospital. "Never let me get going."

"He was a little excited," Lucas said.

"Ah, man. I felt sorry for the guy," Marcy said. "Makes me think… I got lucky last year. A couple inches to the left, and I'm just like that."

"Nah." Lucas shook his head.

"Sure I would've been."

"Nah. A couple inches to the left with that rifle, and you would've been deader'n a mackerel," he said.

She stopped. "I'm not riding back with you if you're gonna pout about this."

"Who's pouting?" He looked back at the hospital. "Miserable little shit."

AFTER QATAR LEFT Barstad's apartment, he'd driven home and buried himself in his bed, sick with apprehension. But nothing had happened. Was it simply paranoia?

He relived every moment of the afternoon's sexual seizure with Barstad-it had been more like a seizure than play, he thought-and as he worked through it, eyes closed, in the silence of his bedroom.

The false notes were there. Everything she'd done had been dramatized. In their other meetings, she'd been the sexual technician: do this, do that, do the other. This time, she'd been a movie star: a bad actress.

He was worried about his rope. If she looked in the closet, she'd find it. She was sure to come across it sooner or later. He had to get it back, and hide it someplace where it would never be found. If the police were on him…

If the police were on him. That was the question.

He pushed himself up, steeled himself, got a drink of water, took a couple of aspirins, and went out to his car. He had an hour of light, he thought. If the police were there… He thought about it for a few minutes, then headed over to the Minneapolis Museum of Art. The museum was a reasonable destination for an art historian; even better, most people parked along the narrow streets, around the museum, and finding a space wasn't all that easy.

As he drove, he watched his rearview mirror. He assumed that any police car would not be right on his tail, so he tried to look three or four cars back. By the time he got to the museum, he was watching a gray American car. The car was a few years old and completely nondescript. He cruised up to the museum and slowed, looking for a space; stopped when he found one, a small one, tried to maneuver into it. Got it wrong, deliberately, and pulled back into the street.

The gray car, as far as he could tell, had disappeared from view. He tried again, messed it up, then gave up and drove past the museum, around the corner, around another corner, down the back of the museum, moving quickly now. As he reached the next corner, the gray car appeared in his rearview, and his heart jumped.

He was right: They were onto him.

He turned the corner, found another parking space halfway down the block, between the museum and a park. He began maneuvering into it, and with his arm over the backseat of the car, saw the gray car stop at the corner before coming around it. He was sure the man inside was looking at him. He got the car into the space, locked it, and, never looking back, walked around the corner and down the block to the museum entrance.