motherâs home. Iâve given him furloughs so he could spend the weekend there twice.â
âWhen was the last time?â I asked.
âTwo weeks ago.â
I almost told him that Scottie was sighted at Lehaneâs two weeks ago, but let it slide.
âCould be at his momâs,â Karen said. âWeâll take a look.â
âDo you want the address?â Roger asked.
âI know her,â Karen said.
I almost said, âSo do I,â but caught myself.
I wanted to interview the other parolees in the house, find out who Scottieâs friends were. I let that slide, too. I could hear Special Agent Honsaâs voice in my ear telling me not to tip our hand, not to alert anyone that we were searching for Scottie who wouldnât normally learn about it through Karenâs 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 Rogerâs arm and said, âThis probably isnât as big a deal as it seems. As far as we know, Scottie hasnât done anything to cause any trouble for anyone, except for being tardy. We canât let that go unpunished.â
âOf course not.â
âIt doesnât mean we have to violate him.â
âNo.â
âWhen he returns, call me. Donât tell him that I was here. Just call me.â
âI will.â
âYou have my cell number?â
âItâs on speed dial,â 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 didnât want anyone to know.
âOne more thing,â I said.
âWhat?â I could tell that Roger wanted me out the door and down the street.
âDo you have any offenders housed here that they call T-Man, or who might be referred to as T-Man?â I asked.
Roger thought about it for a few moments, then shook his head and said, âNo.â
I almost believed him.
Â
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 Thomfordeâs motherâs 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. âHow do you know where Scottie Thomfordeâs mother lives?â she asked. She had been nursing the question all that time.
âI grew up with him,â I said.
âYou were friends?â
âYeah.â
âYou were friends with Scottie?â
âYeah.â
Karen seemed to have a difficult time wrapping her head around the idea. âWere you good friends?â she asked.
âFor a while we were.â
âWhy arenât you friends anymore?â
âHe kidnapped Victoria Dunston.â
âWe donât know that for sure.â
âIf you say so.â I wasnât in the mood to argue with her.
âI donât believe you and Scottie were good friends,â she said.
âGood enough that I testified on his behalf when he killed a guy.â
âScottie never killed anyone.â
âYes, he did. RightââI pulled the Audi to the curb between Herschel and Wheeler and pointed across the streetââthere.â
Karen looked at the spot I had indicated and back at me. âI donât believe it,â she said.
âWe were sixteen. I was driving my