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“Do that,” Virgil said.
—
“Okay!” Sandy said.“We’ve thrown one rat-fucker on the barbie, as the Aussies wouldn’t say.”
Virgil looked at Lucas: “How do you want to do this?”
Lucas shrugged: “The usual.”
The “usual” involved backing Bob Dahl/Darrell Clark Hinton against the wall to see if he’d turn on Noah Heath, the chairman ofthe board. Previous investigators had noted that Heath was as tall as the killer, although he was also described as “chubby.” The killer hadn’t looked chubby in the security video, but the rain suit could have disguised the weight.
“I’m not doing anything now,” Virgil said. “As long as we can get him alone.”
—
The headquarters ofHome Streets was in an appropriately down-market building off an I-94 frontage road, one slot in a rehabbed warehouse, stuck between a laundromat and a dog groomer.
Lucas parked in a space in front of the dog groomer, and when they got out of the car, wet-dog odor got all over them. The door to the Heart/Twin offices had a sign with a list of charities, including Home Streets and Big Grin—“Putting a Smile on the Children of the World.”
Inside the office, which carried a hint of wet dog, a big-haired receptionist with purple-rimmed glasses waited at a desk, behind “In” and “Out” boxes, a wired phone set, and a plastic plaque that said “Doreen Pollard.” Her chipboard desk guarded four visitors’ chairs that faced each other over a coffee table covered withNational Geographic,Reason, andAtlanticmagazines.
Pollard: “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“We’re with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension and the U.S. Marshals Service,” Virgil said. “We need to talk with Bob Dahl.”
The rear of the space held two fabric-walled cubicles, and farther back, a windowed office with a door. The back office was unlit and appeared to be empty.
The receptionist said, “Let me ring Mr. Dahl...” but as she saidit, Bob Dahl popped out of one of the cubicles and said, “I’ve got it, Doreen.” He walked toward them through the office and said, with a friendly grin, “We’d actually be more comfortable out here. My cubicle is a little tight. Is this about the tragedy?”
“Yes, the tragedy,” Lucas said. “We’d prefer a place a little more private, to talk.”
Dahl, a middle-sized man with a square build showing what might have been gym muscle under his short-sleeved shirt, looked from Lucas to Virgil and then back to Lucas, then to Doreen and back to Lucas, and finally said, “I guess we could use Noah’s office. He’s not in at the moment.”
“That would be good,” Lucas said.
—
As they passedbetween Dahl’s cubicle and the cubicle across the aisle, they looked into the two spaces; Dahl’s had a disorganized stack of paper on the desk, and an older desktop computer and printer. The other cubicle appeared to be unused, no paper, no computer.
Heath’s office was larger than either of the cubicles, and much better furnished. An expansive wooden desk, maybe cherry, a conversation area of four chairs around a matching wooden coffee table, a late model Windows computer, and a printer. A high-back leather chair sat behind the desk. Two pictures hung from the wall, one of a man shaking hands with another man, who was accepting a framed certificate of some kind. Lucas recognized the pictured Heath as a younger version of the man he’d met at the Sand murder scene. The other was a photo of a blond woman holding a miniature white poodle.
As they sat down in the conversation area, Lucas pointed at the first photo and asked, “That’s Noah Heath, right?”
“Noah’s on the left,” Dahl said, turning in his chair to look. “He’s getting a certificate of appreciation from, mmm, I think the Rotary. Or the Chamber, one or the other.”
Virgil got comfortable in his chair and asked, “How much have you and Heath stolen from your charities?”
Dahl was shocked. “What!”
Lucas: “You heard him, Darrell. We’re gonna need some cooperation here, or we’ll ship your ass back to LA on the fraud warrant. You know about that, right? The computer hustle?”
“I don’t know what...” Dahl began. “I should have a lawyer...”
“Darrell, we’ve got the fingerprints, the Social Security number you’re illegally using, the photos on your driver’s licenses going back to California,” Virgil said. “You can ask for a lawyer, if you want one, when we ship you back to LA. You want to go back to LA?”
“No,” he mumbled.
“We even know who Bob Dahl is, though we think he’s dead. Did you have anything to do with that? Dahl’s death?”
