“Are you anxious yet?”
Roger slouched in his chair, disappointment etched across his face. He turned his head reluctantly and looked at Karen. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
“Nothing, for now,” she said. “We don’t know that he’s in the wind. Maybe he was hit by a truck. You men”—she was looking at me now— “if you expect the worst, you’ll usually find it.”
Roger shrugged. “He could be at his mother’s home. I’ve given him furloughs so he could spend the weekend there twice.”
“When was the last time?” I asked.
“Two weeks ago.”
I almost told him that Scottie was sighted at Lehane’s two weeks ago, but let it slide.
“Could be at his mom’s,” Karen said. “We’ll take a look.”
“Do you want the address?” Roger asked.
“I know her,” Karen said.
I almost said, “So do I,” but caught myself.
I wanted to interview the other parolees in the house, find out who Scottie’s friends were. I let that slide, too. I could hear Special Agent Honsa’s voice in my ear telling me not to tip our hand, not to alert anyone that we were searching for Scottie who wouldn’t normally learn about it through Karen’s employment. Besides, there was plenty of time for interrogations once Victoria was returned and the FBI launched a full-scale investigation.
Karen and Roger walked side by side to the door. He had his hands clasped behind his back and she was gripping her bag, and they moved carefully as if they were afraid to bump into each other. When they reached the door, Karen rested her hand on Roger’s arm and said, “This probably isn’t as big a deal as it seems. As far as we know, Scottie hasn’t done anything to cause any trouble for anyone, except for being tardy. We can’t let that go unpunished.”
“Of course not.”
“It doesn’t mean we have to violate him.”
“No.”
“When he returns, call me. Don’t tell him that I was here. Just call me.”
“I will.”
“You have my cell number?”
“It’s on speed dial,” Roger said.
The warm smiles they flashed at each other were so fleeting that you had to be an unlicensed, semiprofessional private investigator with years of experience to notice them. It occurred to me then that Roger and Karen had once been lovers, perhaps still were, and didn’t want anyone to know.
“One more thing,” I said.
“What?” I could tell that Roger wanted me out the door and down the street.
“Do you have any offenders housed here that they call T-Man, or who might be referred to as T-Man?” I asked.
Roger thought about it for a few moments, then shook his head and said, “No.”
I almost believed him.
It took about fifteen minutes to work our way through St. Paul back to the Merriam Park neighborhood. Karen spoke only twice during the trip. The first time was when we left the parking lot and she offered directions to Scottie Thomforde’s mother’s home. I told her I knew the way. She seemed surprised by that. The second time was ten minutes later when I hung a right off Snelling Avenue onto Marshall, heading west. “How do you know where Scottie Thomforde’s mother lives?” she asked. She had been nursing the question all that time.
“I grew up with him,” I said.
“You were friends?”
“Yeah.”
“You were friends with Scottie?”
“Yeah.”
Karen seemed to have a difficult time wrapping her head around the idea. “Were you good friends?” she asked.
“For a while we were.”
“Why aren’t you friends anymore?”
“He kidnapped Victoria Dunston.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“If you say so.” I wasn’t in the mood to argue with her.
“I don’t believe you and Scottie were good friends,” she said.
“Good enough that I testified on his behalf when he killed a guy.”
“Scottie never killed anyone.”
“Yes, he did. Right”—I pulled the Audi to the curb between Herschel and Wheeler and pointed across the street—“there.”
Karen looked at the spot I had indicated and back at me. “I don’t believe it,” she said.