Lucas Davenport Novels 16-20

by John Sandford

  Antsy had done some enforcement work for Siggy, but hadn’t been arrested because he really, really didn’t know anything. Anything. When Siggy split, Antsy had taken up bouncing as a career, and methamphetamine as a hobby.

  Most recently, he’d drubbed the bejesus out of two St. Paul cops, one of whom was the daughter of a BCA agent stationed upstate in Bemidji. Antsy, like his brother, was still on the run, but the word was, he didn’t have the cash to go far.

  Antsy was still around; and he might also be calling on the beauteous Heather, looking for a little cash money—another reason to keep the surveillance going.

  So, here lucas was, observing the often-semi-naked or even fully naked Mrs. Toms every day or two, walking around in front of her open windows, one of the least body-conscious women Lucas had ever done surveillance on, waiting for the family to show up.

  He picked up the pregnancy in the third month, the baby bump under her upscale Pea in the Pod maternity clothing.

  Nobody had ever seen a boyfriend—so Siggy had been back, Lucas thought, and they’d missed him.

  In addition to a salesman’s natural affability, and his willingness to use wire cutters on slow-pay retail dealers, Siggy had been a genuine family man. He’d be back again.

  Just not today.

  Lucas looked down at the laptop, where he’d been wrestling with bureaucratic ratshit. He was late with the annual personnel evaluations, and some time-serving wretch, deep in the bowels of the bureaucracy, whose life work involved collecting evaluation forms, was torturing him with e-mails and phone messages.

  And what, really, could he say about Del? Or about Virgil? Or about Jenkins and Shrake?

  The questionnaire asked if Del presented himself in a manner that conformed to standards of good practice as outlined in Minnesota state regulations. In fact, the last time Lucas had seen Del, he’s been unshaven, hungover, three months late for a haircut, and was wearing torn jeans, worn sneaks, and a sweatshirt that said, *underwear not included.

  Virgil, Lucas knew, drove around the state pulling a boat and trailer and almost daily went fishing or hunting on state time, the better to focus investigative vibrations—a technique that seemed to work.

  Jenkins and Shrake carried leather-wrapped saps. Jenkins called his the Hillary-Whacker, in case, he said, he should ever encounter the junior senator from New York.

  Should all of this go into a file?

  Lucas sighed, stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and looked out the window. The last of the snow was being washed out by the rain, and only a few hard lumps of ice remained behind the curbs, where the snowplow piles had been. If the rain continued, the ice would be gone by morning. On the other hand, if the temps had been ten degrees lower, the storm would have produced twenty inches of snow, instead of two inches of rain.

  He didn’t need that. He was done with winter.

  Until the middle of February, it seemed that the snow would keep coming forever. Not much at one time, but an inch or two, every third day, enough that he had to fire up the snowblower and clear off the driveway before his wife drove on the snow and packed it down.

  In mid-February, it got warm. Two rainy weeks in the forties and fifties, and the snow was gone. That’s when the end-of-winter blues got him. March was a tough month in the Cities. Dress warm, and the day got warm and you sweated. Dress cool, and the day turned cold, and you froze. Cars were rolling lumps of dirt, impossible to keep clean. Everybody was fat and slow, and crabby.

  Lucas had been playing winter ball in a cops-and-bureaucrats league at the St. Paul YMCA. Some of the bureaucrats were wolverines—hesitate on a shot and they’d have two fingers up your nose and one hand in your shorts. So he was in shape, the theory being that you wouldn’t get the winter blues if you worked out a lot.

  But that was theory, and mostly wrong. He needed the sun, and for more than a week in Cancun.

  Lucas had jet-black hair salted with streaks of gray, and his face was pale with the winter. He had strong shoulders and a hawk’s beak nose, blue eyes, and a couple of notable scars on his face and neck. Traces of the job.

  His paternal ancestors, somewhere back through the centuries, had paddled wild fur out of the North Woods, mink and beaver and otter and martin and fisher, across Superior and the lesser Great Lakes, down the St. Lawrence. A bunch of mean Frenchmen; and finally one of them said, “Screw this Canadian bullshit,” and moved to the States.

  When that happened was not exactly clear, but Lucas’s father had suggested that when it did, the immigrant might have had a case of blended whiskey on his shoulder. . . .

  His mother’s side was Irish and Welsh, and a bit of German; but Lucas wasn’t a genealogist and mostly didn’t care who’d done what back when.

  He picked up the glasses and looked through the window across the street at Heather Toms, who was in the kitchen making a smoothie, and doing a little dance step at the same time. She’d done her exercises every day, and while she’d once smoked the occasional cigarette, or maybe a doobie—always on the balcony, so the first baby wouldn’t get secondhand smoke—she’d quit with the pregnancy.

  Lucas quite approved of the way she was conducting herself, aside from the aiding and abetting of her murderous husband and drug-psycho brother-in-law.

  Nothing was going to happen, he thought. Time to go home . . .

  Lucas lived ten minutes from Heather’s apartment, west across St. Paul’s Highland district, in a new house on Mississippi River Boulevard, which wasn’t a boulevard. He and his wife, Weather, had designed and built the home themselves, to fit them. They’d done well, he thought, with a rambling two-story structure and ample garage, of stone and cedar shingles, and climbing ivy stretching up the siding.

  He’d been home for fifteen minutes, yawning, listening to the rain in the quiet of the house, picking through a copy of Musky Hunter, when he felt, rather than heard, the garage doors going up. Weather.

  He checked his watch: she was early.

  He ambled through the house and met her coming through the door carrying two grocery sacks. She looked around and asked, “Where is everybody?,” meaning their toddler son and the live-in housekeeper. Their ward, Letty, was at school.

  “Same place you were, I guess—went to the supermarket.”

  “Well, poop,” Weather said. She plopped the bags down on the food-prep island. “We’re gonna wind up with about thirty bananas.”

  Lucas snuggled up behind her and kissed her on the neck and she relaxed back against him, hair damp from the supermarket parking lot. She smelled like woman-hair and Chanel. She wiggled her butt once for his benefit, and then gave him an elbow and said, “We’ve got to talk.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  "I saw alyssa today,” Weather said, turning around. She was a Finn, through and through. A surgeon, a small woman with pale watchful eyes who saw herself as Management, and Lucas as Labor; or possibly saw herself as a Carpenter, and Lucas as Raw Lumber. “Actually, I didn’t so much see her, as she came to see me when I was working out. About you.”

  “Ah . . .” He shook his head. “Nothing new on her kid?”

  “Nothing new—but it’s not that. Did you see the story about the murder in Minneapolis, night before last?”

  “The bartender,” Lucas said.

  There’d been two murders in Minnesota that day. Since one of the victims had been young, blond and female, with large, firm breasts, the bartender had gotten short shrift from television, even though his had been the more interesting crime, in Lucas’s opinion, and the blonde had been inconveniently placed in Lake Superior.

  “He was a Goth,” Weather said. “He ran with the same group as Frances. Alyssa says the Minneapolis cops don’t have a clue, but came to talk to her because of the similarity of the killings. She said there was so much blood with Frances—”

  “We’re not sure about that,” Lucas said. He looked in the sack of groceries, saw the white pastry bag, peeked inside. Cinnamon rolls. The small, tasty, piecr
ust kind. He took one out and popped it in his mouth. “Could have been a little bit of blood, but widely smeared.”

  “But no viscera or skin,” Weather said. “Just blood.”

  “Wouldn’t have much if she were stabbed in the heart through her blouse. The blouse works like a strainer,” he mumbled through the crumbs.

  “Not the case with the bartender,” Weather said. A surgeon, she was familiar with the ways of blood. “I walked over and talked to Feeney. He says the guy was really ripped. Big, heavy knife with a long blade—could have been a hunting knife, but more likely was a butcher knife. Extremely sharp. Went in at the navel, was pulled up and out, and sliced right through the aortal artery. Also dumped out some of the contents of the stomach. The person who did it was strong, and close. To get that kind of a pull, even with a sharp knife, you’d need to be right up against the victim, so you could get the biceps into it. Be like lifting a dumbbell. So Feeney says.”

  Feeney was a Hennepin County assistant medical examiner and worked just down the street from the Hennepin County Medical Center, where Weather did most of her work.

  “So what are we talking about?” Lucas asked.

  “Alyssa would like you to take a look,” Weather said. “So would I.”

  “I took a look,” Lucas said.

  “You read some reports,” Weather said. “I’m talking about a serious look. She didn’t come straight to you, because she knows what you think.”

  “She’s a fuckin’ wack job,” Lucas said.

  “Lucas: she believes in you,” Weather said, taking one of his hands, looking into his eyes, manipulating like crazy. “That you can find her daughter.”

  He pulled away, held his hands up: helpless, hopeless. “Weather: Alyssa believes her daughter was killed because her Pluto was in her House of Donald Duck. Because of the stars and the moon. That we can find her if we hire the appropriate psychic. I can’t talk to the woman. Twenty minutes and I want to strangle her.”

  “Then give her fifteen minutes,” Weather said.

  "Weather . . .”

  “She looks dreadful,” Weather said, pressing. “She loses her husband, she loses her daughter. All she wants is a little help, and all she gets is a bunch of flatfeet.”

  “Minneapolis guys are pretty good,” Lucas said. He popped another cinnamon roll. “They only look like a bunch of flatfeet.”

  “But Minneapolis isn’t working her case,” Weather said. “They only came to see her because of this dead bartender’s connection to Frances—some other Goth told them about the connection.”

  "So . . .”

  “But she says they think it’s a waste of time,” Weather said. “She could tell by the way they asked the questions. And then . . .”

  “What?”

  “She says your investigator thinks she may be involved. With whatever happened to Frances. She says that’s all they can think of. They don’t have any real suspects, so they suspect her, and they stopped looking for the real killer.”

  “Another reason you shouldn’t go around casting horoscopes,” Lucas said. “People tend to think you’re nuts.”

  “You think she could have done it?” Weather asked.

  “No.” He thought about it for a moment, then said into the silence, “Hell, I don’t know.”

  Weather took a cinnamon roll, popped it in her mouth, chewed twice, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Mmm. Mega-fat calories. So: will you see her, or will I have to nag you into it?”

  “Aw, for Christ sakes,” Lucas said.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’m pretty tied up. Maybe—”

  “Lucas. You haven’t done a thing for a month, except sit around and watch Heather Toms take her clothes off,” Weather said. “You always have this slump at the end of the winter. The only way out is work. So find the time.”

  “If I go along, could you provide me with a few sexual favors?” He wasn’t really doing much. And he was bummed. Sexual favors would help, and asking for them, as payment, felt agreeably sleazy; and might drain the excess testosterone he’d worked up watching the lovely Mrs. Toms dress and undress.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “So I’ll talk to her,” Lucas said.

  “Excellent. I’ll call her and confirm it,” Weather said. “Get away from the cinnamon rolls.”

  “At her house,” Lucas said. “I’ll see her at her house.”

  Weather went to make the call and Lucas popped a third roll. They were about as wide as a fifty-cent piece and three-quarters of an inch thick, a snail of pie dough layered with butter and cinnamon, and baked until they were chewy.

  He was modestly pleased with himself. Sexual favors and cinnamon rolls. Like hitting three bells on the Indian slots.

  Because, realistically, once Weather had decided that he was going to talk to Austin, there was no way out. If she put her mind to it, she could nag the paint off a garage. But, if he went to Austin’s house, he could always leave. No kicking, no screaming, no weeping, no people down the hall wondering what the hell was going on in Davenport’s office. He could simply leave.

  He thought about a fourth cinnamon roll.

  He was in good shape; he’d been working out. He couldn’t even pinch a half an inch. How many calories could a cinnamon roll have, anyway?

  3

  The rain continued through the night—the better for the sexual favors, which were hottest in a flickering candlelight, with freshets of water pouring through the gutters and downspouts—but was beginning to ease by the time he’d finished breakfast. He drove into the office, made a series of morning calls, checking on his agents, then made the ten o’clock meeting at the planning center, where the BCA director, Rose Marie Roux, chaired the security committee for the Republican National Convention.

  Lucas had reported to Roux for years, first when she was the Minneapolis chief of police, later when she was named the director of the BCA, and he’d followed her over. She’d always been political—a street cop for a couple of years, then an office cop while she went to law school, then a state representative, a state senator, Minneapolis chief, and over to the BCA.

  She was smitten by the convention job. Lucas thought she was behaving like a starstruck teenager, hanging out with the guys in black suits and ear bugs, who spoke into their cuff links and cut their hair ranger-style.

  Smitten was bad.

  The security for the convention was going to be inadequate, because the Twin Cities area didn’t have the police resources, and the feds weren’t coming through with enough extra. None of the big shots would get hurt, of course, because they’d be blanketed by gun-toting Secret Service thugs, but the town, in Lucas’s opinion, was toast. Whoever’d had the bright idea of inviting the convention to St. Paul, he thought, should have had his head X-rayed until it smoked.

  He slipped out before the meeting was done and before he might be tempted to take out his gun and shoot someone. He went downstairs and called the governor’s chief weasel, up on Capitol Hill, and got three minutes alone with the great man.

  The governor was at his desk, with a stack of outstate weekly newspapers by his left hand. The sun was shining through a crack in the clouds, in through the window behind the governor’s head, and bathed him in holy nimbus. Then the cloud-cut closed, and the nimbus went away.

  “What?” the governor asked, when Lucas shut the door.

  “Got a favor to ask.”

  The governor was a thin man, sleek, his hair lacquered in place, with delicate cheekbones and an aristocratic lip. He’d been reading the real estate ads in one of the weeklies, his stocking feet up on a mahogany file cabinet. The governor was the scion of one of Minnesota’s bigger fortunes, originally considered to be the runt of the litter, and now pretty much running the state and the family. Some said he thought they were the same thing. . . .

  His socks, Lucas observed, were a pale lavender with the thinnest of scarlet clocks. The governor cocked an eye at him and asked, “Is this gonna cause
me trouble? Whatever it is?”

  “Probably the least amount of trouble of anything you’ve done today,” Lucas said, as he dropped into a leather armchair. “If you get assassinated this week, can I have those socks?”

  “No. We pass these down through the generations, to the oldest sons.”

  "C’mon. Where’d you get them?”

  “Ferragamo.” The governor folded the paper, dropped it in a wastebasket, and said, “The shit is about to hit the fan. The question is, will it hit before the next election?”

  “What shit?” Lucas asked. For one crazy moment, he thought the governor might be concerned about convention security.

  “The ethanol market is gonna drop dead,” the governor said. “Capacity is outrunning demand, and the big energy companies are moving up to the trough. A whole bunch of farmers who mortgaged the farm to build all these small plants, they’re gonna lose their shirts. Then they’ll want to know what I’m going to do about it.”

  Lucas shrugged. “That’s your problem. And the farmers’. Though it’s not your biggest problem.”

  “What’s my biggest problem?” The governor’s eyebrows went up.

  “The convention,” Lucas said. “The protesters are gonna trash the place, right down the hill from your office. If we quadrupled the security we’re planning, it wouldn’t be a quarter of what we need.”

  The governor frowned: “I don’t know. This is a pretty lefty state.”

  “The people causing the trouble aren’t lefties,” Lucas said, rapping his knuckles on the rosewood desk. “They’re vandals. Petty criminals. Jerkoffs. They wouldn’t care if the Blessed Virgin Mary showed up holding hands with Karl Marx. This is their Super Bowl, and it’s sixty-forty that they’re gonna tear us a new asshole.”

  The governor looked mildly impatient. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “No, no. Nobody listens anyway,” Lucas said, discouraged. “The planners believe we can count on the goodwill of the people; like the vandals are just another caucus. Fuckin’ morons.”

  “The people? Or the planners?”