5

Stevens caught up to Windermere. “Why’d you slow down?” he said. “You had him.”

Ahead of them, the car reached the end of the parking lot and pulled out onto 7th Street. It drove fast, but not wild. Not out of control.

“Chevy, right?” Stevens said, pulling out his cell phone. “An Aveo, I think. You get the plates?”

“Yeah,” Windermere said. “I got them.”

Stevens had his phone to his ear. “Crowson,” he said. “Get a pen. The shooting downtown, the Saint Paul Hotel. We make the shooter’s ride.”

He handed Windermere the phone. Windermere recited the plate number and handed the phone back to Stevens.

“Get that to Saint Paul PD,” Stevens told Crowson. “It’s a little Chevy hatchback, gray, an Aveo, most likely. Get them looking.” Stevens ended the call and turned back to Windermere. “So what the hell happened?”

Windermere looked out to where the gray car had disappeared into traffic. Didn’t answer a moment. “I just lost it, Stevens,” she said finally. “The kid looked at me and I spooked.”

“Spooked. What the heck do you mean?”

“I just lost it.” She shrugged. “It’s like I was a potted plant, the way he looked at me. A cloud or something, insignificant. Like I wasn’t a cop and he wasn’t a killer.”

“You didn’t show him your badge,” said Stevens, “or your gun. Maybe he didn’t make you for a cop.”

Windermere shook her head. “It was more than that,” she said. “He just murdered somebody. He was making his escape. And he looked at me like he was waiting for a bus.”

She frowned, staring across the parking lot toward 7th Street, where the traffic slipped past, normal, like nothing had happened at all.

THEY WALKED BACK along 5th Street toward Rice Park and the Landmark Center and the Saint Paul Hotel. There were police everywhere now, and ambulances and the rest. TV news trucks. Bystanders. Like a movie scene.

Here we go again. Stevens flashed back to the kidnappers, Arthur Pender and his gang. Carter Tomlin and his team of bank robbers. He felt a brief twinge of excitement, and nursed it as long as he dared. Then he chased it from his mind.

Not your case, he thought. Not Windermere’s, either. This is Saint Paul PD all the way.

They waded back into the mix. Showed their badges to the uniform holding the line outside the hotel’s driveway. Then they walked up to the entrance, where the white-haired man’s body still lay on the pavement.

Uniforms lurked at the margins. Forensic techs combed the body. A couple dour-faced men in rumpled suits stood by the Bentley, sipping coffee, watching the techs. Every now and then one of them would crack a joke and the other would laugh a little, grim. Homicide cops.

Windermere flashed her badge at them. “Windermere, FBI,” she said. “Who’s working point?”

The men glanced at each other. Then the older guy stepped forward. “Parent,” he said. “Remember me?”

“The Tomlin case,” Windermere said, nodding. “You worked that poker game, right? This one yours, too?”

“At least until the FBI takes it off my hands.”

“No such luck. We’re just witnesses, Detective. This one’s yours.” She introduced Stevens.

Parent looked at them both. “Witnesses, huh? The two of you together?”

“Interdepartmental bonding,” said Stevens. “We saw the shooting from that bench over there. Got a look at your suspect and the plates off his car.”

“No shit.” Parent glanced back at the body. Then he pulled out a notepad. “Well, all right, witnesses,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”