• • •
Lucas and Sherwoodwaited outside Barbier’s courtroom while Capslock picked up the warrant. The first Russian lived only ten minutes out of Saint Paul’s downtown, in a mixed retail-residential strip on Grand Avenue; his name was Rick Thompson, Capslock said. Thompson lived in an older two-story house next to a children’s toy store, and, Capslock had been told, in his calls the night before, had divided the place into three apartments. He lived on the bottom floor, and the two second-floor apartments were occupied by escorts.
Lucas: “Rick Thompson? We’re looking for Russians.”
“He is a Russian. He changed his name from something else. His friends call him Oly, which is short for something Russian,” Capslock said.
“American citizen?” Sherwood asked.
“I asked, couldn’t get an answer,” Capslock said. “Now, the thing I’ve been told about the escorts is they’re nothing like the ones you see on TV, those super-villain chicks with big makeup and the tight dresses. These girls look like they just drove in from Wayzata.”
Lucas said to Sherwood, “Wayzata’s a nice higher-end suburb for blond people.”
Sherwood: “Blond, physically fit…”
“Shapely, well-dressed, well-groomed,” Capslock said. “Your mom would be impressed, but suspicious.”
“Sounds exactly like my mom,” Sherwood said.
“They’re not straight-up hookers,” Capslock continued. “It’s not like they’re living in a whorehouse, taking on all comers. A downtown dress-up early-evening cocktail party might cost you a grand, with dinner afterwards. Dates for younger sons. You want more, you can get it, but it’ll be another grand, or more, depending on your inclinations.”
“In the meantime, you can pick up a girl outside the Target Center for a hundred bucks and a half bottle of Everclear,” Lucas said. “If you have a full bottle, you might not need the hundred bucks.”
“Completely different market,” Capslock said. After a moment, to Sherwood, “You wouldn’t drink the Everclear, you’d pour it on your dick, hoping to get a little antiseptic action after you’d parted ways.”
“Sounds like certain old-timey bars in Juarez, except they use tequila,” Sherwood said.
Capslock: “Really?”
Sherwood: “Really. You’d go into the bar and order a twofer. They’d have the tequila ready when you came out of the back. One shot to drink, one shot to pour on your dick.”
• • •
Thompson’s house wasas Capslock had been told, older, but well kept. A wide front porch spanned half the width of the house, and the steps up to the porch looked new, as did the railing around the porch. A two-person swing hung on one side of the porch, but looked unused.
Capslock led the way up the steps to the door and pushed the doorbell twice. They could hear trudging footfalls from inside, and after a minute, the front door opened, and a short, round-faced woman peered out at them. “Who are you?” she asked.
Lucas said, “U.S. Marshals Service. We need to speak to Mr. Thompson.”
She frowned and said, “I’m not sure he’s here. I’m the housekeeper. His bedroom door is still closed.”
“He’s here,” Sherwood said. “We can see him on our cameras. Go knock on his door.”
The woman took a half step back, said, “Wait here,” and disappeared into the back of the house.
“I gotta use that cameras line,” Capslock said to Sherwood. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem.”
They heard the housekeeper knocking, heard a man’s voice, and then she came back and said, “Come sit in the front room. He is putting on his trousers.”
The three of them stepped inside, into a short hall that opened onto a living room, to the left, and a set of stairs that went to the second floor, on the right. Everything looked new, and recently painted. The place smelled of root vegetables and bread.
Thompson appeared a moment later. A tall, paunchy man, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, he had a three-day beard, going white, dressed in a black V-neck tee-shirt, gray sweatpants, and pomegranate-colored slippers. He appeared to be about forty. He said to the housekeeper, “Marie, why don’t you finish in the kitchen. I’ll talk to these men here.”
The housekeeper went trudging off; Lucas, Sherwood, and Capslock hadn’t sat down, and Thompson asked, “You wanna sit down?”
The words were right, but colored with an accent.
