Evangelina Read online

"Who and why, always seem to be on different sides of the same coin." Art rolled down the passenger window slightly and took in the autumn air. Lue recognized several pauses in Art's cadence. It was a lot like the pause from someone who was learning to avoid a stutter, or speaking English as a second language at their first formal occasion.

  Lue waited for another thought from his partner pro tem. I can wait. To catch this thing, I can wait, I can tolerate anything. A taciturn BCA agent. Polyester boxers. A credit report riddled with errors. Dyslexia. A one-eyed-person-in-the-land-of-the-blind soliloquy.

  "We should talk to your witness."

  "Come again?" Lue had begun thinking about the house again--the manageable yard, the numerous closets with floor-to-ceiling shelves, the new cabinetry. If he could find a roommate, maybe they could pool funds, go to the bank and work out a rent-to-own arrangement . . .

  "You had a witness at Webber's."

  "Yeah, the jogger." Hey, roommate!

  "I need to talk to her."

  "Yeah, me, too."

  "I suspect Pamela Pride knows more than she lets on."

  "You know that without meeting her? You really should meet her." Lue mentally reviewed his credit rating. It was excellent, since he took paying bills on time even more seriously than he took visits to the gun range. He was what banks craved: a workaholic eager to jump neck-deep into six-figure debt that would take decades to pay off. Ms. Pride could be a check-bouncing victim of multiple identity thefts, and they'd still average out okay. "I mean, meet her first, before jumping to conclusions."

  "I read your report. You did not ask all of the right questions."

  "Tell me about it." How long do you plan on staying in Moorston? Is that condo you're staying in a bit too small? Do men in uniform thrill you? Are you willing to give me power of attorney for an afternoon?

  "She has more to tell."

  "Broken record, Art, ever heard the phrase? I get it: you need to ask her more questions. That poor woman."

  Art closed his window and scowled at Lue. "You have feelings for Ms. Pride."

  "I pity her. I pity anyone caught in your monosyllabic crime-solving web. What questions do you have in mind? Maybe I can tease them out into full paragraphs, so you actually appear human."

  "We should go there."

  "What, to her condo across town? Now? The station is only four blocks away."

  Art turned in his seat and leaned in, practically breathing on the driver's neck. "I took you for a man of clearer priorities."

  "She works weekdays."

  "She may feel traumatized by what she's seen."

  Lue let out a long, snakelike hiss. Art was right--many witnesses to murder scenes took a day or two off work immediately afterward, to get their bearings or clear their heads. And if Pamela Pride had more to say, she was their best lead. It would do no good to face Chief Smiling Bear with an impatient BCA agent.

  "You could call her, at least."

  "Fine." The car veered, and they headed in a new direction.

  CHAPTER 9

  "Things happen," Art told Lue.

  Lue had been poking at the GPS since he hung up his cell from talking to Pamela (yes, she was home, which both annoyed and pleased him). It was challenging to pretend he hadn't already memorized Pamela Pride's address, but he believed he was making a good show of it. Art's statement provoked a crooked smile. "Things happen? Would you care to be more specific?"

  "Things you might not believe."

  "Okay."

  "Things which are true."

  "Right."

  "Things which appear unbelievable, but are true nonetheless."

  "I feel like you may have already covered that." Lue coughed into his fist. Sometimes, there was no polite way to ask: "So, are there pills, or some sort of medication, which you may be due to take today?" Possibly overdue?

  Art blinked. "I don't require medication."

  "Of course not."

  "My immune system is excellent."

  "Really? You have never been sick?"

  "I had a slight cold at three years old."

  "Huh. So, tell me more about these unbelievable but true things, especially if they have anything to do with the monsters you were avoiding talking about before."

  "To help me resolve these crimes, you have to understand."

  "About things happening which I might not believe but which are true even if I do not believe them? Indeed! Any other nuggets you want to toss my way? By the way, I think I have my first migraine. And my first duodenal ulcer. Do you believe this is a coincidence?"

  "Everyone has a secret."

  Lue raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Okay, that I can understand and agree with. So, Detective McMahon: what is your secret?"

  Art lowered the window again and examined the neighborhood. "We're here."

  "I already knew that. Pick a different secret."

  As Lue pulled his dark-brown Caprice to a stop, Art popped his seatbelt off, swung open the door, and was out and up the sidewalk in half a second. He looked primed, he looked energized. He did not look at all confused. About anything. Lue envied him that.

  He followed quickly, not because he was hoping Pamela Pride had more info, but because he had to rescue her from the corduroy-jacketed freak striding up her sidewalk.

  And ask her for her credit rating.

  CHAPTER 10

  Pamela Pride answered the door in gray, loose-fitting sweatpants and a maroon sweatshirt that looked at least fifteen years old. Her hair was stuffed into a large pink plastic clip, her eyes were a bit puffy from lack of sleep, and there wasn't a lick of makeup in sight.

  Spectacular, Lue told himself. He checked Art for a reaction. The BCA agent stood stiffly, face inscrutable, badge held firmly aloft. That must be the secret. Art McMahon is a eunuch.

  "Do you think you really need the badge? She knows me, Detective McMahon."

  "She doesn't know me. Ma'am, may we come in?"

  "Yeah." Pamela smiled at Art, winked at Lue, and widened the door.

  Pamela's condo was well appointed but sparse. The spare furnishings confirmed Lue's theory that she had not lived here long, and that she had cosmopolitan tastes. The kitchen immediately to their left had all new appliances (Lue noted this glumly, as the house from earlier today had a refrigerator and washing machine that had clearly not been replaced post-murder), and multiple framed prints of abstract art in autumnal tones accented the cream-colored living room beyond.

  "Ms. Pride, this is Detective Art McMahon, from the Minnesota State Patrol's Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. He is assisting me with the investigation of the murder of David Webber."

  "Okay. You want tea?" She was over by the shining steel refrigerator, displaying a side-door selection of Snapples.

  "Thank you. Do you have green?"

  "My favorite." She reached in, grabbed a bottle, and slid it across the kitchen island. "Detective McMahon? I've got green, diet peach, diet raspberry . . ."

  "No thank you. Ms. Pride, I must ask you questions."

  Her grin faded. "Okay. I figured that. Fire away."

  They followed her into the living room as she tossed a diet raspberry back and forth between her hands. This time, Lue caught Art watching her backside as she sat delicately on her firm leather couch. Ah, the secret. The man actually has a pulse.

  "No work today?"

  Pamela shook her head as she popped open the bottle. "Didn't sleep last night. Called in sick. Your call woke me up." She looked up at Lue and shrugged apologetically.

  "What's your job?"

  "Lab tech at Nonnatus."

  Art gave Lue an inquiring look. "Hospital," Lue clarified.

  "How long have you worked there?"

  "Ten . . . no, eleven months. I graduated from Argosy University, and came right here."

  "Argosy--right in Saint Paul, right? So you know that downtown pretty well," Lue deduced. "How's the nightlife?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Dead as roadkill. My roommates and I always
went over the river to party."

  "To Minneapolis? Ouch. Pretty conventional." Lue winced. "My ex-wife tells me Saint Paul is better than most think. Lowertown neighborhood is resurging, maybe has some new wine bars. You lived right there and never checked it out?"

  "Nope." She returned a crooked smile. "I wasn't the wine bar type."

  Art cleared his throat. "Why did you move to Moorston?"

  She raised her bottle of tea. "That's where the job was, champ. Nonnatus was the only place to give me an offer straight out of school."

  "Do you like Moorston?" Lue asked, ignoring Art's impatient glare.

  "It's got its charms. I like that people seem to look out for each other, and I feel safe jogging in the evenings. I've never been in a river town before, and the historic downtown has a great coffee shop . . ."

  "General Java's?" Lue guessed.

  "Yeah, that's the one!" She looked appreciatively at him. "You go there in the morning?"

  He shrugged. "Nah. Shift starts too early. I try to grab an occasional lunch."

  "Oh, I'm there every morning at seven . . ."

  "If we could focus, please."

  "Sorry." She slunk back into the couch, and Lue gave Art a reproachful look.

  "Please recount what you saw near the Webber house."

  Lue pulled his earlobe and clenched his teeth. Pamela spotted this and gave him a warm smile: It's okay. I don't mind saying it again.

  "I was jogging down Snapdragon Lane away from the river . . . that's south, right? And I heard three or four gunshots. I had my phone on me, so I called nine one one. They said they'd have a car there in a few minutes and to keep away from the scene, so I kept jogging." She shrugged, flicked a hand through her hair, popped the pin, did something with her hair, then did something else and now her hair was pinned back up. "A few seconds later, I saw Detective Vue's patrol car and flagged it down. That's it."

  "Did you see anyone else before the shots?"

  "While I was jogging? Not on that block, I don't think."

  "And after?"

  "No. Not until Detective Lue got there."

  "Did you go look behind the house, where the shots were fired?"

  Her eyes widened. "Wow, no. The nine-one-one woman told me to get away from the scene and leave it to the cops."

  "The nine-one-one transcript confirms that," Lue reassured her. "But we had some reports nearby of an unusual shape fleeing the scene. We thought you might have seen something, before or after the call, which might give us some clues as to what it might have been."

  "An unusual shape? You mean, like a bear or something? I heard bears were making a comeback in this part of Minnesota."

  "Sure, a bear, or anything else that might have seemed unusual. You see anything like that?"

  "I wish I had. That would be neat. We certainly didn't have any of those in St. Paul. Maybe the nightlife around Argosy would've been better if we had."

  Lue snickered. Art fumed.

  "Did you see David Webber at all that evening?"

  "No."

  "Earlier that day?"

  "No."

  "Had you ever seen him before that day?"

  "No." Her posture shrunk a bit farther into the couch, and she looked nervously at Lue. "I never knew the guy. What, am I a suspect? I thought it was an animal."

  Lue chose not to hold back a chuckle. "No. Detective McMahon is simply being thorough. Just answer his questions, and we'll be on our way." He gave Art an obvious warning look . . . and received one in return.

  "Has anyone visited you since that evening?"

  "No." She took a big gulp of tea. "Should I be worried? I mean, if it's an animal, it's not going to care if I was there, right? Animals aren't that smart, are they? Not even bears?"

  Lue considered another comforting statement, but Art's combative stance made him think twice. He was certainly treating Pamela as a suspect, and Lue was worried what might happen if he truly upset her.

  "Have you seen anything strange lately?"

  She looked him up and down. "Well, you're pretty strange. The way you talk and the way you look at me like you don't believe anything I'm saying. If you're chasing after an animal, I don't have any pets and I haven't seen any bears. If you're chasing after a person and think he may still be out there, give me a physical description so I can call him in if I see him."

  "What a fabulous idea. I think Detective McMahon has all he needs for now. You still have my card, Ms. Pride?"

  She stood and pointed with a well-manicured nail at the steel refrigerator. On the side, a black square magnet with some short saying on it in a thin script, held up a familiar white and blue Moorston Police Department business card.

  "You call me if you think of anything else, okay?"

  "Yes, Detective. Thank you."

  "I am not done--"

  "Yes, you are." Lue grabbed Art's elbow as he passed him, barely avoiding whiplash, and pulled him through the kitchen. He caught the thinly scripted words on the refrigerator magnet as they passed: Hunger is the best cook.

  CHAPTER 11

  The moment Pamela Pride's door closed behind them, Art yanked his arm free of Lue's hold, made fists, and growled his question. "What's your problem?"

  "My problem? You interrogate like a jackass."

  "At least I interrogate." Art stormed down the hallway and slammed through the door.

  Lue followed him with an angry stride. "Oh, you dislike my style? Quel surprise. Well, perhaps we should compare notes. What did you learn from that interview, about Pamela Pride?"

  "I learned nothing valuable, between your interruptions."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "Nothing new. She confirmed the information in your report."

  "Wow. Sounds like a wasted trip then, am I right?"

  "It's not a waste to make sure."

  "Nor is it a waste when you pick up new information. Which I did, by acting less like a jackass and more like a detective. Did you take any training in interrogation technique?"

  "Explain." They were in the parking lot now, and Art didn't exactly look like he was listening to any explanation Lue was about to give.

  "First, she's lying about attending Argosy University. It's in Eagan, eight miles away. Not far enough away for someone making a false resume to remember, but certainly too far for someone who went there not to correct me."

  "Second, she's lying about General Java's. I actually do go there every morning at six forty-five, and I haven't once seen her walk in any time close to seven."

  Art stopped and leaned against the passenger side of the car. He was listening now.

  "Third, she wants to create a rift between you and me. She wanted me to get mad at you for pressing her: she treated me like a visitor, and you like an intruder. You played right into that, stomping around with your blunt questions and swinging your penis around like a billy club . . ."

  "My penis is not . . ."

  "Nobody wants to talk about your penis anymore. Fourth, she grabbed onto the whole our-suspect-is-not-a-human theory and ran real hard with that one. She said 'animal' at least three times after you simply asked her if she saw an unusual shape. You could have been talking about a man carrying a large sack, or a guy with a wheelbarrow, or a three-foot-tall acrobat. Heck, my aunt has an unusual shape when she gets up in the morning."

  "Yeah?"

  He ignored the interruption. The last thing he needed was Art wondering about his family. "But she went right to animal, stayed there, and tried to drag us there, too. She even brought up the idea of an animal smart enough to stalk . . . a monster, you might say.

  "Fifth, she's not afraid of law enforcement. Not even really nervous around us. Had no trouble suggesting our next steps--go find an animal, of course--and even flirted with me, even while you were trying to intimidate her. So she knows one or more people in law enforcement, I'd guess."

  Art let him finish, and then got in the car wordlessly. Pissed off, Lue got in the driver's side and slammed the d
oor shut.

  "What did you think?" he asked his partner as he ground the ignition. "Because I talk a lot, I have no clue how to listen? You Minnesota introverts are all the same: you think you have some magical Zen property that gives you special insight. You see a person who likes connecting with others through language, a guy who chats and jokes and puts himself out there a bit, and you assume that person is insecure, or too passionate, or disruptive, or boastful. You think that person has no listening skills. Add to that the typical arrogance a state detective will have when dealing with local police, and you get . . . well, you."

  The car screeched out of the parking lot. Lue adjusted the mirrors, even though he didn't have to. Then his angry brow leaned toward the windshield. Then he sat up to check his gauges. Then, back to the mirrors again.

  "What do you think it all means?" Art finally asked.

  "Is this you, asking for my opinion? Fine. I think Pamela Pride knows more than she lets on--she probably saw that same monster that night, and probably got an idea that it could stalk her. She would be afraid of it, and would want us to be thinking along those lines, so maybe we would come to our own conclusions. That way, she can keep her sanity."

  "What about the lies?"

  "About Argosy, and Java's? Well, there may be a sinister explanation for that, but right now we could also assume that she really needed a job in a bad economy, traveled far enough where a lie on her resume might last awhile, and is simply trying to weave a successful story for herself. None of that is a crime." It does, however, he thought ruefully, make her unsuitable as a cosigner on a mortgage or rental agreement.

  "And trying to create a rift between us?"

  "That, I can be more certain of: she thinks you suck, and she prefers talking to me. End of story."

  "You should ask her out."

  "That would be unethical."

  "Hurry up and solve the case."

  Lue was about to respond vehemently, until he saw the left corner of Art's mouth. "Humor is not your strong suit, Detective McMahon."

  "Our best move is to return to the station."

  "Where I was trying to take us a half hour ago."

  "Good thing you listened to me."

  Yes, Lue thought as he turned a sharp corner. It was.