Hidden Prey

was off the phone, he looked up the Ramford firm in the phone book, called, and asked for Annabelle Ramford. “May I tell her who’s calling?”
    “Mmm . . . No.” He hung up and got his coat.
     
    T EN MINUTES LATER , having dumped his car in one of the new parking ramps downtown, he was talking to the receptionist at the Ramford firm: “I would like to see Annabelle Ramford.”
    “May I tell her your name?”
    “Just tell her it’s the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension about the bubble wrap. She’ll know.”
    The receptionist asked him to take a seat. He took a seat, picked up a copy of Newsweek, and in two minutes read more than he wanted to know about the cell phone industry in Finland. The receptionist said, “Ms. Ramford will see you now.”
    The receptionist directed him to an oak-doored elevator, which operated between two floors only. He took it up one. A stylish young woman was leaning in a doorway, and when she saw him step out of the elevator, she said, “Officer Bubble Wrap?”
    “Yes.” He walked down toward her. She was wearing a pale green dress that was almost jade, but had a gray tone to it; a subtle color that set off her eyes. A single strand of pearls acted as a frame for her tanned, athletic face. “My name is Lucas Davenport. I’m with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
    A skeptical look appeared on her face. “You’re not here to see me about the Quentin case, are you? I told Judge Martin that we would not deal on that . . .”
    “I don’t even know what the Quentin case is,” Lucas interrupted.
    “Then what are you . . . bubble wrap?” She was puzzled, and waved him into her office. The office was small, cluttered with paper and yellow Post-It notes, and an unseemly amount of personal junk, Lucas thought: bric-a-brac, knickknacks, gimcracks, tchotchkes. Riffraff? No, riffraff was people . . .
    He sat down and said, “I’ve been looking for a woman that you may know. You’ve at least been in touch with her. She was living on the street in Duluth, and she was a witness to a crime there, a murder. I know that she’s now in St. Paul . . .” He gave her a short version of the story.
    She nodded, interested. “I do the pro-bono work here,” Ramford said, spreading her hand toward the clutter of paper. “I know a number of these women. But from Duluth? Why do you think I’d know . . . ?”
    “Because we found your fingerprint on a piece of bubble wrap that she was using for a bed. In Duluth.” Lucas was watching her eyes, and saw nothing in particular.
    “ My fingerprint?”
    “Exactly. There is no doubt—if you’re the same Annabelle Ramford who was arrested on a DWI about ten years back.”
    She smiled ruefully. “That was me. Graduation night. Boy, my father was pissed . But I’m sure I didn’t know anybody . . .”
    “So if you didn’t know her, if you never met her, how did your fingerprint get on this bubble wrap?” Lucas asked.
    She ran her index finger up and down her nose, thoughtfully, then looked up. “Ahhh . . . Was it a big piece of bubble wrap? Like most of a roll? Or two rolls?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay. And you found it around the port? Around a Goodwill store? Or do you know if she went to the Goodwill store, like if she shopped there, or something?”
    Now Lucas’s eyebrows went up. “Yes, the Goodwill was right across the street.”
    She leaned back in her chair. “Okay. We keep a boat up there,”Ramford explained. “My family does. An Island Packet 38, the Whiplash. About, let me see, it must have been early August, I took a bunch of stuff up there. Wine, mostly. Loose bottles. I wrapped them in this big sheet of bubblewrap. I had some sailing stuff up there, old clothes, and some, two, or three, I think, old life jackets—perfectly good, you understand, but older—that I took off the boat. I knew where the Goodwill store was, so I stopped and threw the clothes and the life jackets in the Dumpster. Then I had that bubble wrap, and it was used but perfectly good, and I think I had another roll, too, and I was sure some poor person could use it, so I threw it all in. I bet that’s where she got it.”
    “So you didn’t . . .”
    “No, I’ve never talked to a street person in Duluth. Honest,” she said. “Never. Down here, a few.”
    Lucas was watching her as she talked, and she had the most guileless eyes he’d ever seen on an attorney. That would be worth a lot in court, he thought. When she was