The Lucas Davenport Collection, Books 11-15

by John Sandford

  Hardly a light in the house: a yellow glimmer from the kitchen, which looked like an alarm light, or a candle.

  “Nobody home,” Cappy said. “Ain’t that a bite in the ass?” He was annoyed: all dressed up and nowhere to go.

  “Maybe he ran,” Barakat said.

  “He was talking about going to Green Bay. Somewhere in Green Bay,” Cappy said, remembering the vague conversation after the attack on the doctor chick. “He even said where—but I don’t remember that part.”

  “This is a misfortune,” Barakat said. Then, “There’s more than one way to ... I don’t know the word ... flay? Flay a cat?”

  “Skin a cat,” Cappy said. “What you got in mind?”

  Barakat said, “Well, there are two brothers....”

  They went and knocked on Honey Bee’s door, but there was no answer, and in the last dying light of day, they turned the car around and headed back to town.

  AT BARAKAT’S PLACE, they got into the cocaine, clicked around the television, ate a pizza, and had a long, intricate, dope-fueled discussion about their childhoods. “I don’t really think you should kill your old man, because it’s not the right thing to do,” Cappy announced at one point. “That’s why I stay away from Rochester. ’Cause if I saw that cocksucker, I’d shoot him down like a yellow dog.”

  “My father, he has money, but does he give it to me? No. It’s mine by rights,” Barakat said. “He got it from his father, who got it from his father. But with my father, it stops. He tells me everything. He tells me to do this, and I must do this. He tells me to do that, to be a doctor, and here I am, a doctor. Do I want to be a doctor? No, I do not. Not much. Huh? Every day, I have my finger in somebody’s rectum. Is this a way to go through life? I am living in Paris, and I see other sons, whose fathers are not so greedy, and they are living very, very well. And the women. The most beautiful women in the world, and do I get them? No, I do not, because my father is so greedy, so small.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “West Palm Beach, in Florida.”

  “Tell you what, when we get done with this, we go to Rochester, you kill my old man, and then we go to Florida, and I kill your old man,” Cappy said. “My old man owns a recreational equipment business, and I’ll fuckin’ inherit. And you’ll fuckin’ inherit. We’ll both be fuckin’ rich.”

  “My friend,” Barakat said, pausing for a twist, “we have a deal. Huh. I kill your cocksucker father and you kill my cocksucker father and we go to Paris.”

  Cappy took a hit and a thought occurred to him: “You don’t like being a doctor. That’s scary, you know, having a doctor working on you who doesn’t like it.”

  “Well, I don’t like it much, but ...” Snort. “I am really a very good doctor, huh? I know what I’m doing. But I don’t like it. I have seen one asshole too many.”

  At two o’clock in the morning, they watched the last drunk roll out of Cherries, pause in the parking lot to light a cigarette and zip a parka against the cold, and then drive away; two minutes later, a bartender came out, walked around to the side, got in his car, and disappeared.

  “Let’s go,” Cappy said. They got out of the van and walked across the back parking area, where Lyle Mack’s car was parked next to the dumpster, the last car at the bar. They climbed the back stoop to the door, then stepped sideways into a shadow of the loading-dock door.

  Ten minutes, and a light went out; and another. “He’s coming,” Cappy muttered.

  “Finally. My hands are freezing.”

  They both unconsciously shuffled their feet. A minute later, Lyle Mack came out the back door, turned to pull it shut. Cappy jumped across the space between the loading dock and door, hit Mack in the back, slammed him through the door and into the bar.

  Barakat was a step behind, with his .45. Cappy was on Mack’s back, Mack facedown on the floor, trying to do a push-up. Barakat slammed the door closed, and in the dark, pressed the muzzle of the .45 against Mack’s head and said, “Stop, or I kill you.”

  Mack went limp. Cappy said, “Lyle, we need to talk.”

  LYLE PLEADED and moaned and argued, but they taped him up with duct tape, awkward in their heavy winter gloves, and then Lyle asked the question, “Why?”

  “The thing is, man, this whole deal has gotten too complicated, and sooner or later somebody is going to talk, and then you’re going to sell us out,” Cappy said. “So we decided we had to move.”

  “Man, I can’t sell you out,” Lyle Mack said. “If I sell you out, I go to jail for thirty years.”

  “Yes, yes. Now. We need answers to two questions,” Barakat said. “Where is the dope? And, where is your brother?”

  “Well, fuck you,” Lyle Mack said, nearly choking on the words. “You’re gonna kill me anyway.”

  “But maybe not,” Barakat said. “You don’t want to hurt Joe, because he is your brother. But if Joe disappears, then who can touch us? Then, we believe you. You won’t sell us out, because there is no reason. You take revenge on us, you send yourself to prison. We will kill your brother, and then the woman doctor cannot reach us, and maybe you plan revenge, or maybe you choke on his death, but you don’t sell us out.”

  “About the dope,” Cappy said. “We’re not going to see any of that. That’s gone, isn’t it?”

  “No. We hid it good. We gotta wait, guys—”

  “Bullshit, wait,” Barakat said. “Now, Lyle, I think you will tell us where the drugs are, and where your brother is. How hard this will be, you decide.” He emptied his pockets—the scalpel, the hammer, two vinyl gloves. He took off his winter gloves, pulled on the medical gloves. “Now, I will tell you. You do not believe what we will do to you, so before you answer the question, I will cut a ball off. Huh? One ball. You will still be able to fuck later, with one ball. But if you do not answer after the ball comes off, then I cut off your penis and then the other ball. Then, I work with the hammer. Huh?”

  “Oh, man, don’t do that. I’ll tell you,” Lyle Mack said. “Joe’s on his way to Mexico. Our friend Eddie picked him up this afternoon. They should be in Wichita tonight. The drugs, we hid up north ... ”

  Barakat held up a hand. “Maybe I believe you. But I cut off one ball anyway, huh? Just to show you.” He wiggled his fingers and picked up the scalpel.

  Cappy said, “Let’s get him in where it’s warmer,” and they dragged him like a sack of potatoes across the loading dock and through the door into the bar itself, his head bumping on the door-jamb. Cappy got a chair and said, “Roll him,” and when Barakat rolled him, Cappy put the chair across Lyle Mack’s chest, one of the crossbars over his neck, another cutting into the fat man’s gut. Cappy sat in the chair and said to Barakat, “Go ’head.”

  Lyle Mack began to weep: “Man, please, please, don’t do this, man, please ...”

  ANYONE WALKING by the bar, bareheaded and listening, might have heard the screams, but then again, they might not have; there was just enough wind to carry the sound away.

  14

  LUCAS GOT UP EARLY, with Weather, then went back to bed for a while, and finally rolled out at seven o’clock, two hours before he usually did. He got cleaned up, ate breakfast, played chase-the-tennis-ball with Sam, and then sent Sam and the housekeeper off to the grocery store. As she went, the housekeeper said, “You should take the truck today. There’s a storm warning.”

  “Yeah? When’s it supposed to get here?”

  “They were saying tonight. I can’t see it on the radar yet, but it’s coming.”

  Lucas went to look at the TV. The storm was still winding up over western South Dakota. Brought up the computer in the den, checked again: heavy snow tomorrow, starting with flurries around dawn, with rapidly falling temperatures. Ten to fifteen inches of snow possible in the next forty-eight hours. The Black Hills were being pounded.

  He went out and told the housekeeper, “Not until tomorrow, they’re saying.”

  She said, “Somebody’s here.”

  A car pulled into the driveway, a
nd he looked and saw Jenkins getting out. He let him in the back door, and then heard Shrake arrive, and let him in, too. “Gonna storm tomorrow,” Shrake said. He was holding a box of sticky buns. “What’re we doing?”

  “Marcy’s getting an arrest warrant for Lyle Mack. We’re a little thin on cause, but we think he’s talking to Joe.”

  “Prepaid cell,” Shrake said.

  “That’s what we think. We can get the cell phone as part of the arrest, and then ...”

  “We’ve got real probable cause,” Jenkins finished.

  THEY HAD COFFEE and two sticky buns each, and talked about the fact that none of them smoked anymore, and how enjoyable it had been, and then Marcy called: “I got two pieces of news, one of which I should have had a long, long time ago, but you jerks held out on me.”

  “And that is?”

  “With your new equipment, with a high-priority case, you can do DNA in twelve hours.”

  “Didn’t know that,” Lucas said. “You get it back?”

  “Yes, we did. Guess what? Whoever strangled Jill MacBride, it wasn’t Joe Mack.”

  “What?”

  “Got some weird shit going down, big boy. Get your crew cranked up, and let’s go see Lyle Mack. If Joe didn’t strangle her, maybe he didn’t kidnap her—and he’s got no reason to run.”

  “Well, bullshit,” Lucas said. “I don’t know what happened, but Joe grabbed her. I mean, if he didn’t, it’d be like a zillion to one.”

  “You know what? A perfect solar eclipse is a zillion to one. But I’ve seen one.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Hey, I was there.”

  “Not the eclipse. I don’t believe that Joe didn’t snatch her. When will you get here?”

  “Fifteen minutes—leaving here in two.”

  MARCY’S NEWS gave them more to talk about, but in the end, they couldn’t figure out what it meant. She arrived in her husband’s truck, came in, looked at the box on the table and said, “I’ll bet you didn’t save a single—”

  “Ah, but we did,” Shrake said. “In fact, we saved two.”

  “I’m watching my weight,” she said.

  “I’ve been watching it, too,” Jenkins said. “I gotta tell you, it’s looking pretty good.”

  “Spoken like a true connoisseur,” Shrake said, and they bumped knuckles.

  Marcy said, “Mental note: don’t hire Jenkins and Shrake when Davenport finally fires them.”

  Lucas said, “Yeah-yeah. Let’s knock off the bullshit and get over to Mack’s. Take the buns with you.”

  “Yeah, take your buns with you,” Shrake said.

  Marcy gave him a delicate finger and asked Lucas, “Tell me what you think about the DNA.”

  “I have no idea,” he confessed. “Maybe more people are involved than we thought. Maybe, well, we know there was one guy at the hospital ... maybe when we get him ... I don’t know, Marcy. Did the DNA rule out Lyle Mack, too?”

  “Unless they’re adopted brothers, with different parents. They don’t look too much alike—I guess we could ask.”

  “They don’t look much alike, but they both sort of look like Ike,” Lucas said. “They weren’t adopted.”

  THE RIDE to Mack’s took twenty minutes: Marcy left her truck in Lucas’s driveway and rode with him, the better to eat the sticky buns—both of them—and drink her coffee. “Is Weather working on the twins?”

  “Not sure. They’re better, but they might get a little better if they go another few hours, or another day. It’s a mess. If they don’t move soon, one of them’s going to die.”

  “Man—sometimes it’s better being a cop.”

  “Yeah. Like when we were talking to MacBride’s kid,” Lucas said.

  “Jesus, Lucas: you still got that depressive thing going, huh?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not like you. For me, MacBride getting murdered was seriously annoying. That’s different,” she said. “You gotta handle the rage, big guy.”

  THEY’D PLANNED to take Mack at his house, but the place was locked up, and when they looked in the garage windows, the garage was empty. While they were looking, a car pulled into the driveway next door, and Marcy hustled over and talked to the driver, an old guy, and then hustled back. “Neighbor’s been up since six, and didn’t see or hear anybody over here. He says Mack usually goes to work around ten.”

  “Jeez, I hope he didn’t skip,” Shrake said.

  Lucas shook his head: “Ah, he’s probably just out early. Like us. Let’s check the bar.”

  AND MACK’S CAR was parked next to the dumpster behind Cherries. They got out, and Shrake and Jenkins walked around to the front, while Lucas and Marcy went to the back door. The door was locked, and they banged on it, with no response. Lucas looked around, couldn’t see a camera. Banged on the door again.

  Shrake came around the corner and said, “It’s all locked up, up front, but the neon’s turned on. The ‘Open’ sign.”

  “You bang on the door?”

  “Yeah, but it’s locked.”

  A cop car pulled into the lot, and a uniformed officer got out, looking at them, talking on a radio. Marcy said, “Poop,” and walked over to him, her badge out. They talked for a minute, then Marcy waved them over.

  “We’re going to get his push bar right up by a front window,” she said. “Shrake, you’re the tallest, see if you can look in.”

  The cop pulled up to the bar, and Shrake stood on his push bar, using a hand to block reflections. After a moment, he said, “Well, I can see ... yeah.”

  He hopped down.

  “What?” Marcy asked.

  “I can see a leg on the floor on the other side of the pool table.”

  “A leg. Like he’s hiding?”

  “Like he’s dead,” Shrake said.

  THE CITY COP wasn’t sure of the technical entry procedure, so Jenkins took a long switchblade out of his pants pocket, punched a hole in the front-door glass, and flipped the interior lock. Lucas led the way in, Marcy a step behind.

  Lucas called, “Mack?” but then they walked out of the main bar area and saw the body on the floor next to the pool table. A wooden chair sat over Mack’s neck and chest, with a wooden crossbar at his neck, so that somebody sitting on the chair could keep Mack from sitting up or twisting away. His hands and feet were taped. He had a hole in his forehead, with burn marks around it, and a puddle of blood under the head and the legs. The front panel of the pants had been cut away, and Mack’s groin was a mass of jellied blood.

  “Aw, man,” Shrake said.

  Marcy asked, “What’s that?” pointing at Mack’s stomach.

  Jenkins bent over, then straightened up and stepped back. “I do believe that’s the gentleman’s testicle,” he said.

  The city cop, gagging, mumbled something about calling it in, and dashed for the door. They stood there, the metallic smell of blood infusing the air, and listened to him retching in the parking lot.

  Then Shrake said, “You know what? When they did this, somebody was sitting in that chair, looking right down at his face.”

  LUCAS GOT everybody moving, BCA crime scene, the ME’s investigators, while Marcy called her chief. Lucas went into the back and found Jenkins in the office, with plastic gloves on his hands, going through Mack’s parka. “Anything?”

  “Cell phone, I think. I can feel it, but I can’t find the pocket.” The pocket was under a hidden zip flap, and Jenkins pulled it out, turned it on, and said, “This is probably it: it says it’s got seventy-five minutes of talk-time left.”

  “Need the numbers, right now,” Lucas said. “Incoming and outgoing calls.”

  “Got it.”

  Marcy came in: “Lucas: what do you think?”

  “We’re back to square one. We don’t know what’s happening. MacBride is killed by somebody we don’t know, Mack is tortured to death. Joe didn’t do this, so ... there’s gotta be somebody else. Probably a couple or three of them.”

  “Another gang?�
�

  “Don’t know. We’ve got a mystery guy at the hospital. We don’t know about him.”

  She said, “I wonder if the Macks had anything to do with it—the robbery, and all of it.”

  “Sure they did,” Lucas said. “If they didn’t, then why that?” He nodded toward the front room. “They cut on him until they got what they wanted, and then they stopped and killed him. If they were just doing it for pure pleasure, they could have gone on for a while. And then there’s Haines and Chapman, and we know they were good friends with the Macks ... and I still believe that Joe had something to do with MacBride. Maybe this is about the drugs. Maybe somebody figured out the Macks had the drugs, and came after them. You know what? I bet the drugs are still around.”

  LUCAS NEVER liked the writing of reports, but did it; in this case, he could unload most of it on the Mendota Heights cop, and he did that, too. Weather called at eleven o’clock and said, “We’re still on hold, but the kids are getting stronger. May go another day.”

  “It’s gonna snow tomorrow,” Lucas said.

  “We’re planning to operate inside the hospital, not on the parking ramp.”

  “Ah. That’s so clever.” He told her about Lyle Mack, and she said, “Worse and worse. All because some guy got mad and kicked poor old Don Peterson.”

  LUCAS TOLD MARCY, “I’m going to call Ike—notify him, and see if we can pry anything out of him. Maybe this’ll loosen him up.”

  The place was getting crowded, with Grace, the Mendota Heights chief, two more local cops, crime-scene and ME investigators. Lucas called the Washburn County sheriff, Stephaniak, told him what had happened, and asked, “Where’d you say he worked? I need to notify him.”

  “Better you than me,” Stephaniak said. “I’ve done that a few too many times.”