22

HIS THERMOS,” she said.

“His thermos? Why would a man with so few possessions need two thermos bottles?” I asked.

“No, there’s only one in here,” she said.

“There was also one in the hotel room. At the Angelus.”

“I don’t understand…”

“There was an open thermos bottle in the room where he died. But this thermos was here, at the shelter. So someone else must own this one…or someone else owned…”

“Why are you looking like that all of a sudden?” she asked. “Is there something I’m not understanding? You’re saying this Two Toes fellow who took Lucas’s ring left this thermos behind?”

“No. The homicide detective you talked to last night-now that I think about how he put it, he wasn’t very clear with you about this. Even though Lucas died of a heart attack, the coroner was puzzled, because Lucas seemed to have a healthy heart. That’s why the coroner is doing the toxicology studies.”

“Poison?”

“He thought it was a possibility. But the studies take weeks to complete.”

“You’re saying someone brought Lucas some kind of something in that other thermos?”

“I’m saying it’s very possible. A lot of things in the hotel room didn’t make sense-the missing ring, the pennies, the scrapes and bruises. But now we know that the thermos wasn’t Lucas’s. It explains how someone could have poisoned him.”

“Someone poisoned my boy…” She was looking at me in total disbelief.

“Maybe.”

“Who? Who would want to kill him?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe someone felt threatened by him.”

“Threatened? By a man who lived like this?” she asked, motioning toward the shelter. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Big tears rolled down her face. “Why wouldn’t he come home to me?” she whispered. “Why live in these places? On the streets of this city? I could have offered him a roof and meals. I would have taken care of him.”

I didn’t say anything.

She shook her head. “Pride. That devil’s pride in him. So hard in him, like a rock. Nothing could break it.”

I looked out across the parking lot, watching a group of men walking slowly toward the shelter door. “I’m not sure the people out here always know why they stay on the streets,” I said. “Maybe there aren’t any good reasons. But as for Lucas-how old was he when his father died?”

“About twelve, I guess. Why?”

“Old enough to be aware of his father’s drinking, and maybe what it cost you?”

She sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“So maybe he just wanted you to be proud of him, and he wasn’t quite there yet. Like that money for the phone call.”

“What do you mean?”

“He probably knew you could afford the call he made to Las Piernas. Maybe he just needed to show you that he wanted to pay his own way.”

“But I would have cared for him better than these people did. He’d rather be here all alone, not a friend in the world.”

“He had friends here.”

“Who? That man in the kitchen? You?”

“I wasn’t much of a friend. I’ve admitted that to you. But Lucas made friends here. Even on the street. His friends helped me find him. They respected him. He protected some of the weak ones from the bullies.”

“That was his way,” she said. “Even as a kid.”

She pulled herself together, then began carefully replacing the contents of the grocery bag. She looked over at me, and I realized that I still had the Bible on my lap. I started to close it, saw the note again.

“Can you read this?” I asked, handing it to her.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” she began.

“Er, no, I meant the scrap of paper.”

“Oh.” She frowned over it, then said, “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“I couldn’t make it out either,” I sighed.

“Oh, I think I can make it out. It just doesn’t make any sense. It says, ‘She rubs.’”

She passed it back to me. I studied it again, now that I had a hint of how to proceed. “How did he get such good grades with such lousy handwriting?” I asked.

“Teachers are as good as pharmacists at reading bad handwriting. His teachers knew he was bright-and you wouldn’t believe how hard some of them worked with him on it. He printed lots of things-his printing wasn’t as bad as his handwriting. But mostly it was just that they knew he was trying. Might have had some kind of learning disability, I don’t know. In those days, they didn’t test for things the way they do now.”

“This is ans?” I asked, looking at the first mark on the paper.

She looked at it again. “I think so. Or maybe ac.”

“Ac? Then it would make sense. Cherubs.”

She smiled a little. “Well, that’s a more sensible note to leave in a Bible.”

I drove her over to the rental car place, wondering if she was right. Maybe the Good Book wasn’t the inspiration for the note. After all, Lucas Monroe had died surrounded by angels.

GEOFF’S GREETING DIDN’Tdo anything to soothe my nerves as I entered the Wrigley Building. The old security guard shook his head slowly and said in funereal tones, “Mr. Walters is very happy.”

“Any idea what’s caused this monumental change in affect?”

“You mean, why is he so happy?”

I nodded.

“You.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure it can’t be as bad as all that,” I said, heading for the stairs.

“And I thoughtI was an optimist,” I heard him mumble behind me.

I ignored the stares of coworkers, the drop-off in both conversation and keyboard clatter as I made my way across the newsroom. I had thought to stop by Lydia’s desk, but decided not to prolong my misery. I glanced over to see her catching the tip of her nose between two fingers, scissors-style-as if snipping it off. It was an old signal between us from our school days, one I hadn’t seen since the last time I got sent to the principal’s office.Better no nose than a brown nose, it meant, invented long ago as a response to Alicia Penderson’s shameless kissing up to the nuns. Alicia had been in serious danger of putting a new crease in the backside of Sister Vincent’s habit.

I smiled, returned the gesture, and knocked on the frame of John’s open office door. “Hello, John. You wanted to see me?”

My smile must have taken him aback, because he scowled briefly before saying, “Come in, Irene. And close the door.” Once the door was shut, he smiled again and said, “Have a seat.”

He then went back to looking at a computer monitor, where he was scrolling the wire-browsing through the long directory, looking over the lead paragraphs of stories filed on the wire service. I took a quick peek over his beefy shoulder to see what he was reading and noticed there was nothing urgent or local on the monitor. The faker.

Unfortunately for John, I recognized the trick as one that Sister Vincent herself had often used: stall and make them squirm. My immunity to this tactic built by experts, I leaned back in my chair and studied my fingernails as if they had the winning lotto numbers painted on them.

“How’s the story on Moffett coming?” he asked, not looking at me.

“Oh, just swimmingly.”

He turned to look at me, his scrutiny real this time.

“So tell me about it.

“I’ve met with Corbin Tyler and it looks like I’ll finally be able to interview Roland Hill. So I’m meeting with some people who worked very closely with him. I expect to have more by the end of the week…”

“Dammit, Kelly, you work for anewspaper, not a goddamned history journal! The man resigned on Thursday. Monday, I practically had to chain you to your chair. It’s now Tuesday and you’re strolling in here late. Maybe I should put someone else on to this. Someone who has time to be a reporter. Maybe Dorothy Bliss should be handling this one.”

That brought me to my feet. “You want a load of half-assed, meaningless bullshit on your front page, go right ahead. You’ll have a column full of conjecture and nothing to back it up. She puts more filler in her stories than a flat-chested girl could stuff into a bra on prom night!”