“I think we may have to look a little more closely at this,” Chase said.
Mallard turned and snapped, “I don’t think so, Jane.”
Mallard, Chase, and St. Vincent moved away, still talking, and Sherwood muttered to Lucas, “Jane thinks you’re a lying sack of shit, you lying sack of shit.”
“Fuck Jane.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” Sherwood said.
“If you get there, no pillow talk about this,” Lucas said. “Besides, I did sort of see something like that.”
“I didn’t, and I was looking right at them.”
“Stick with the half-turned-away story. They not only bought it, they desperately want to buy it.”
• • •
Lucas and Sherwoodstayed until all the bodies were gone, and all the FBI agents except Mallard and Chase. A crime scene crew was still looking for cartridge cases and marking frozen blood puddles. A few of the neighbors were still standing on the sidelines, but when a wrecker arrived to tow the shot-up Cadillac, they starteddrifting back to their homes. Then Mallard waved goodbye, and he and Chase headed for their rental car.
• • •
“The hit teamis gonna be long gone,” Lucas told Sherwood. They were sitting in their own car, trying to get warm. “If they’re headed for Mexico, they could already be through Des Moines. Gotta get Bernie’s photo out to every border crossing, but…I kinda think they’re gone for good. They had to have a solid plan to get out of the country.”
“I’m afraid you’re right. Well: I’ll probably get out of here myself, tomorrow or the next day,” Sherwood said. “I can’t say I found Minneapolis to be overwhelmingly charming. Me being wounded and all.”
“Not healed up yet?”
“I only got shot two days ago,” Sherwood said.
“Yeah, but it was like being scratched by a pine needle.”
“Maybe Jane could kiss it and make it better,” Sherwood said.
“If that happens, I’ll personally award you a hundred dollars,” Lucas said. “Ask to see her bullet scar. It’s on her rather attractive ass. I happened to be around when she got shot.”
“Do tell.”
“I do tell,” Lucas said. “Listen, you won’t get out of here tomorrow—too much bureaucracy to deal with. Why don’t you come over tomorrow night for dinner again? We’ll get Weather and go out to somewhere good. I mean, there’s no chance you’ll be taking Jane out, we both know that.”
“I’d like to do that,” Sherwood said. “What are you doing?”
“I plan to start by sleeping late.” He shrugged. “After that, I suspect both of us will be up to our necks in cheese-eating bureaucrats.”
• • •
Lucas was right.The next day they were interviewed, jointly and separately, by FBI interrogators and Minneapolis cops, about the shooting of Nikitin, and exactly how they’d gotten involved in the chase. At night, they went out to somewhere good, for a dinner that, if not morose, was subdued.
Lucas had never been impressed by the general run of FBI agents, but had known some exceptionally good ones, including Mallard and Chase, and the killing of the two agents was a weight on them all. At their latest report, Haskins was hanging on, but his career as a street agent was over: some of his injuries would probably never fully heal.
Sherwood said he had a flight out to Washington the next day at one o’clock. Leaving the restaurant, he shook hands with Lucas and said, “Next time you’re in D.C.”
29
At six o’clock the next morning, Weather prodded Lucas and said, “Your phone is ringing.”
Lucas, who’d been wrapped in sheets and had a foot stuck under Weather’s weight blanket, groaned: “What time is it?”
“About 6:30. But it must be important. You want me to get it for you?”
