Mind Prey

motherfucker is, and we let her go.”

17
    A NDERSON TRACKED G LORIA Crosby through the state records, starting with a driver’s license to get her exact age, then into the national crime computers—she’d been twice convicted of shoplifting from Walgreen’s drug stores—and through the court records into the mental health system. Crosby had been in and out of treatment programs and hospitals since she was a young teenager; her home address was listed as North Oaks, a suburban bedroom north of St. Paul.
    “We oughta get some people up there,” Anderson said, leaning in the office door.
    “I’m not doing anything except reading the book,” Lucas said, taking his feet out of his desk drawer. “Is Sloan still wandering around?”
    “He was drinking coffee down in Homicide.”
     
    T HEY TOOK L UCAS’S Porsche, Sloan driving it hard. Lucas said, “I hope Gloria doesn’t set our guy off. If he gets the feeling that people know …”
    Sloan, grunting as he shifted up and hammered the Porsche through the North Oaks entry, said, “If I was Gloria, I’d be very fucking careful. Very careful.” The address came up, a small redwood rambler that looked out of place among the larger homes. The house was set into a low rise, with a split-rail fence defining the yard. Sloan asked, “Put it right in the driveway?”
    “Yeah. I’ll take the back.”
    “Sure.”
    Sloan squealed into the driveway, hit the brakes, and they were out, Lucas heading around the side of the house. The grass on the open parts of the yard had been thoroughly burned off, though the summer hadn’t been especially hot or dry. In the shadier spots, it was long and ragged, untended.
    Sloan walked up to the front door, passed a picture window with drawn curtains, stopped, peered through a crack in the curtains, saw nobody, and rang the doorbell.
     
    M ARILYN C ROSBY WAS a slight, gray-haired woman, stooped, suspicious, her face lined with worry. She stood in the doorway, one hand clutching her housecoat at the throat. “I haven’t seen her or heard from her since last spring, some time. She wanted money. I gave her seventy-five dollars; but we’re not close any more.”
    “We need to talk,” Sloan said, low-keyed, relaxing. “She may be involved with the man who did the Manette kidnapping. We need to know as much about her as we can—who her friends are.”
    “Well…” She was reluctant, but finally pushed the door open and stepped back. Sloan followed her in.
    “She’s not here, is she?” Sloan asked.
    “No. Of course not.” Crosby frowned. “I wouldn’t lie to the police.”
    Sloan looked at her, nodded. “All right. Where’s your back door?”
    “Through there, through the kitchen…What?”
    Sloan walked through the kitchen with its odor of old coffee grounds and rancid potatoes and pushed open the back door.
    “Lucas…yeah, c’mon.”
    “You had me surrounded?” Crosby seemed offended.
    “We really need to find your daughter,” Sloan said. Lucas came inside, and Sloan said, “So let’s talk. Is your husband home?”
    “He’s dead,” Crosby said. She turned and walked back into the house, Sloan and Lucas trailing behind. She led them to a darkened living room, with a shag carpet and drawn curtains. The television was tuned to Wheel of Fortune. A green wine bottle sat next to a lamp on a corner table. Crosby dropped into an overstuffed chair and pulled up her feet.
    “He was out cutting a limb off an apple tree, got dizzy, and went like that.” She snapped her fingers. “He had seventy thousand in insurance. That was it. I can’t get at his pension until I’m fifty-seven.”
    “That’s a tragedy,” Sloan said.
    “Three years ago last month, it was,” she said, looking up at Sloan with rheumy eyes. “You know what his last words to me were? He said, ‘Boy, I feel like shit.’ How’s that for last words?”
    “Honest,” Lucas muttered.
    “What?” She looked at him, the suspicion right at the surface. Sloan turned so Crosby couldn’t see his face, and rolled his eyes. Lucas was stepping on his act.
    “Have you seen this man? He might have been younger when he came around,” Sloan said, turning back to Marilyn Crosby. He handed her the composite drawing. She studied it for a moment and then said, “Maybe. Oh, last winter, maybe, he might have come around once. But his hair was different.”
    “Were they with anyone else?”
    “No, just the two of them,” she said, passing the composite