Lucas Davenport Novels 16-20

by John Sandford

  “Take it easy, Phil,” he said. He gave himself a few more inches of space. “We’re not saying that you had anything to do with it. We’re just asking you, politely, if you’ve seen him, and we’re telling you the consequences if you’re lying to us. We know he’s an old pal of yours.”

  Lighter stepped closer to Lucas and jabbed a hand in the general direction of Minneapolis. “You know what those fuckers just did to me? I was supposed to get two hundred bucks, plus tips, today. I turned down other work, and I get there and they tell me to go fuck myself. The fuckin’ supervisor’s ass-fuck brother-in-law got the job, and I can’t say a fuckin’ thing or they’ll fire my ass. I been working there for ten fuckin’ years ...”

  “Hey, man, we know nothing about that,” Del said, his hands out, and down, trying to make peace. “We’re just asking ...”

  “... ten fuckin’ years. And you know what I figured out after all that time, the one big thing? The one huge fuckin’ thing?” He held a thick index finger in front of Del’s nose, in a “one.”

  “What’s that?” Del asked, and Lucas winced. Some questions were best left unanswered.

  “I really, really HATE fuckin’ cops,” Lighter said, and he launched himself at Del, who’d moved a step forward.

  Lucas gave him a hard elbow as he went by and they both lost their footing and fell, and they rolled and Del was yelling, “Hey now, hey now,” and then both Lucas and Lighter were on their feet. Lighter launched a roundhouse punch that would have knocked Lucas’s head off, and Lucas dodged it and grabbed his arm, but his arm was like a fence post and Lighter yanked it free and hit Lucas on the forehead with a backhand and Lucas went down again, not hurt badly, but his city shoes gave him no traction in the snow.

  As Lucas was rolling and scrabbling back to his feet, Lighter went after Del and Del hit him, hard, in the chest, with no effect at all—a heavy wool coat was like armor on a guy as big as Lighter—and Lighter grabbed Del by the shoulders and head-butted him, and then Lucas was on Lighter’s back, trying to get an arm around his neck.

  Lighter twisted round and round, and Lucas hung on, best he could, and Lucas, in the spinning, saw Del, his nose pouring blood, coming back into the fight. Lighter suddenly screamed and went down, sideways, and Lucas saw Del coming through on a low roundhouse kick, which had taken out one of Lighter’s knees.

  Lucas tried to pin him, but Lighter threw him off and grabbed one of Del’s legs and pulled him into the pile, and Lucas half-stood and hit Lighter on the side of the face, hard as he could. Lighter let go of Del, and Del, jerking away, sprayed blood over Lighter’s face, and Lighter came back at Lucas, snarling like a dog.

  Del shouted “fuck it” and ran away. Lucas didn’t know what had happened except that he was on his own, ducking and rolling, faster than the other man; now on Lighter’s back again, hanging on for dear life, on the ground, in the bloody snow.

  He and Lighter rolled over once and then again, with Lighter trying to pull Lucas’s arms free from his neck, then Del was back and he shouted, “Roll him once more,” and Lucas pushed with one leg and rolled Lighter faceup, on top of Lucas, and then Lucas heard a metallic WHANK and Lighter groaned and jerked and pushed against Lucas, and there was another WHANK and Lighter went slack.

  Lucas rolled him over one last time, with the last of his strength, and Del, looking crazy, his face a mass of blood, stood there with the cast-iron briquette shovel from the charcoal grill. “Bend his arms back, let’s get some cuffs on him.”

  They did, and then sat there in the snow for a minute, Lighter blowing bubbles of blood into the snow, and Lucas asked Del, “How bad?”

  Del said, “My whole face hurts.”

  Lucas said, “Thanks, man. He was kicking my ass.”

  Del laughed and licked blood off his lips. “We gotta call somebody. I’m not hauling this asshole back to town.”

  “Need to get you to a hospital,” Lucas said. He fumbled out his cell phone and punched in 911. A woman asked, “Is this an emergency?”

  WHILE THEY SAT in the snow and waited for the Washington County deputies, the woman came out on the porch and said, “You took him. Didn’t think you could.”

  “Piece of cake,” Del said.

  THE WASHINGTON COUNTY deputies showed up with an ambulance, and one cop car and the ambulance headed to the hospital in St. Paul, Del riding with the cop.

  Lucas and the other deputy decided that since the assault took place at the house, they could look around to see if there was evidence that might apply to the crime. They walked through, found a bag of marijuana in the refrigerator and added that to the list, and a bottle of a hundred or so little white pills in the Cadillac, which they agreed was speed, and bagged up for the lab.

  They also bagged both Lighter’s cell phone and the woman’s. Her name, she said, was Butch. Alice, really, but nobody called her that. “Joe never called,” she said. “I’ll tell you, Phil probably would’ve helped him out, if he called, but he never called.”

  No Joe.

  The cop asked Lucas, “How bad are you hurt?”

  “I’m okay. He backhanded me.”

  “You’re limping.”

  “I don’t know what happened, but the sole of my shoe came off,” Lucas said, lifting one foot off the ground. Four hundred and fifty bucks of Italian calfskin, and the shoes looked like suede rags after a car wash.

  “Man, I’m glad you took him on. Somebody was going to have to do it, sooner or later. I was afraid it was gonna be me,” the cop said. “So, what do you want to do?”

  “I’ll write up my part, you write up your part. Del can handle the arrest ... you can do the search ... whatever.” He stood up, bent over and touched his toes, then bent backward. Aches and pains. “I’m tired. I’m going home.”

  WHEN HE GOT HOME, Shrake eased out the back door, took a look at Lucas and said, “Holy shit. What happened to you?”

  “Tap dancing with a steroid freak,” Lucas said. “Del got his face messed up. He’s down at Regions.”

  “How bad?”

  “They’ve got him sitting in the waiting room, waiting, so apparently it’s not so bad. He hit the guy with a shovel.”

  “With a shovel?” Shrake’s face lit up. “Man, I miss all the good stuff.”

  “Yeah, well, I need a shower.”

  “Listen. Weather’s on the warpath,” Shrake said, his voice dropping. “That’s why I snuck out. Virgil told her what was going on, with the Frenchman, and she freaked out.”

  “Ah, man. Just what I needed.”

  Shrake said, “If you wait a minute, I’ll get a shovel out of the garage.”

  Made Lucas smile, for the first time since the fight.

  WEATHER WAS WAITING in the kitchen, arms crossed under her breasts in what Letty called the “You’re goin’ down” pose. That fell apart when Lucas dragged in, and she said, “Oh my God—what happened?”

  “Fight,” he said. He detected the possibility of some sympathy, so he added, “Del’s down at Regions. Guy head-butted him, eyebrows got ripped up, just about bit through his lip. Saved my ass. The guy was crazy, a goddamned Frankenstein’s monster. Del hit him in the face with a shovel.”

  “A shovel?”

  “Twice.”

  Shrake, who’d come in behind Lucas, chortled, and said, “Twice? That’s my boy.”

  Weather looked past Lucas and snapped, “Shrake, go play the piano. I need to talk to Lucas. Privately.”

  Shrake stepped hastily across the kitchen and out, and Weather turned back to Lucas and asked, “Really—you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay. I need to take a shower. I got blood on my coat and it has to go to the cleaner’s, and my shirt and pants are probably ruined, and my shoes are gone.”

  “So what? You’ve got more clothes than Brooks Brothers,” she said. “Are you hurt? Your forehead’s all scraped.”

  “I’m fine. Del’s not so fine. I mean, nothing serious, but he’s gonna be in some pain,” Lucas said. “The
thing is, it was all pointless. The guy freaked and jumped us because he was pissed off about losing a limo-driving job. Ah, Christ, I stink. I had the guy all over me. I smell like the ass-end of a limo driver.”

  Weather crossed her arms again. “Virgil told me about the French-accent thing. If you think for one second that Gabe had anything to do with it ...”

  “I don’t think it for one second,” Lucas said. “I’ve already got Virgil looking for other people with French accents.”

  “Well, that’s just fine,” Weather said. “Virgil told me that. He also told me that he didn’t want me alone with Gabe, which means he’s thinking about Gabe. I was screaming at him: at Virgil. But he wouldn’t budge. You know what he gets like.”

  Lucas thought, silently, Good. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Do that,” she said. She looked at him for a second, and said, “Don’t go telling him behind my back that he’s doing the right thing.”

  “I won’t,” Lucas lied. They could hear Shrake playing “White Christmas” on the piano, and it echoed strangely through the house. “Listen, you want to come up and wash my back? I’m sorta hurtin’ here.”

  “No, because then you’ll try to jump me, to make sure you’re still alive. I’m not sure that I’m not still pissed off at you.”

  “Looking for some comfort,” Lucas said, trying to put a little pathos into it.

  “Well, I’m going down to Regions and comfort Del,” she said. “I bet Cheryl’s freaked out. You call Virgil.”

  “Take Shrake with you.” Shrake was banging out “Silent Night” with a jazz beat. He only knew how to play the piano one way, and only knew Christmas tunes, so that was what you got—honky-tonk Baby Jesus.

  “And Jenkins,” Weather said. “Jenkins is out driving around the block again. This whole thing is driving me insane.”

  “Crazy is better than dead,” Lucas said. “That’s my rule of thumb.” He sniffed himself again. “Jesus, that guy smelled bad. You know? Some people just stink.”

  11

  TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE Barakat’s shift was due to end, a kid was brought in from a back-street traffic accident. He had a couple of cuts on his forehead, probably from airbag shrapnel, and his stomach “felt really bad.”

  Barakat ran him through the hospital’s blunt trauma protocol and learned that he’d been using a laptop in the passenger seat, and when the car hit the truck, the laptop had been jammed into the kid’s gut. Barakat thought, Liver, and talked to the shell-shocked mother for a minute, then got the scans going, woke up the radiologist and cranked up a surgeon, just in case.

  By the time everything was in place, he was running almost two hours overtime, for which he would not be paid. He went back to the locker room, changed clothes, and did a twist of coke to pick himself up. Hated overtime.

  He did another twist, washed his face, got his shoes on, and headed out. On the way, a senior medical guy slapped him on the back and said, “Nice call. The boy’s going into the OR right now.”

  “That’s great,” Barakat said. “I had a feeling that something was going on in there.” A little self-aggrandizement, combined with discreet, comradely sucking up, just might get him to Paris.

  Or LA, anyway.

  BY THE TIME he got to the parking ramp, it was fully dark and colder than it had been in the morning. The wind was coming from the northeast, which, he’d learned from watching local weather programs, meant it might snow. He shivered against it, pulled his coat collar closer, and hurried to his car.

  “Hey, bro.”

  Cappy was there, getting out of a white van a few spaces down from Barakat’s car. Barakat stiffened: Had Cappy told Lyle Mack about their discussion that morning, and Lyle sent Cappy to resolve the problem? There was nobody else in the ramp; they were alone in the dark.

  Barakat said, “You know, you’re parked in a physician’s space. That’s a good way to get noticed.”

  Cappy came slouching up. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hit ya.” And he grinned: “That’s what you were thinking about, weren’t you?”

  Barakat bit back a direct answer. “What’s that weak cigarette you’re smoking? It smells like a sewage-plant fire.”

  Cappy looked at his cigarette: “Just a Camel.”

  “Give me that,” Barakat said. He took the cigarette, dropped it on the ramp, ground it out with his foot. “Try one of these.” He shook out a Gauloise. “Smuggled in from Canada,” he said. The relief was surging through him like a flood tide.

  He held his lighter and Cappy took a drag: “Holy shit.”

  “So did you see her?” Barakat asked.

  “Yes, I did. I even followed her home,” Cappy said. He let the harsh smoke drift out through his nostrils: better than a hit of NyQuil. “She’s got three bodyguards, at least, and they’ve got shotguns and I suppose their pistols and all. If I’m going to do her, I’ll have to figure something out.”

  “Listen to me, Caprice. You must be maximum careful,” Barakat said. “I agree, it may be necessary, for your own satisfaction. This is what men sometimes have to do.”

  “She sorta punked me,” Cappy said.

  “This is what I am saying.” Barakat paused, then said, “I need something to eat. There’s a diner in St. Paul, we could talk.”

  Cappy said, “Sure.” He took a drag on the Gauloise. “Give me another one of those, hey?”

  Barakat took one for himself and gave the pack to Cappy.

  THEY GOT a booth at the Snelling Diner, and after the waitress had taken their orders, Barakat held up a twist and said, “I gotta use the men’s room. I’ll be right back.” He went in the men’s room, into the toilet stall, sucked up the twist, wiped his nose, checked himself in the mirror before he went back out. Back in the booth, Cappy asked, “You got another one of those?”

  Barakat said, “One more,” and pushed the twist across the table. Cappy took it and went back to the men’s room, and two minutes later, was back. “That’s better’n Wheaties,” he said.

  “I don’t know ...”

  “Never mind. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about Joe and Lyle. Those rascals hired me to get rid of this doctor chick and this kidnap chick and Shooter and Mikey, who was supposed to be their friends, and you know what? I was thinking about what you said, and you’re right. They’ll try to do me in, when I finish with the doctor chick. If I do her, then I’d be the last link, huh? Or you would be.”

  Barakat ticked a finger at him: “Now you are thinking correctly. But ...”

  “But?”

  “You, my friend, may have to kill the woman anyway. I don’t know; maybe you don’t think so. Women are nothing. Nothing. I don’t care if she’s a surgeon. That’s just some ... bullshit. But still: it would not do your dignity any good to let this woman pass.”

  “I gotta think about it some more,” Cappy said. “I kind of got a plan.”

  He explained, and Barakat thought the same thing that Cappy thought when he looked into the mirror: this boy is not long for the world. He didn’t say that. It would be useful, though, if he took Karkinnen with him, when he went. He asked, “Have you heard any more about the Macks?”

  Cappy scratched his chin, his eyes wandering away for a moment. “I talked to Lyle,” he said. “I might know where Joe is. Lyle sent Shooter and Mikey out to his bartender’s house. The bartender’s like his girl, but I think Joe might be fuckin’ her, too. Anyway, I think that’s probably where he is. It’s way out in the country. Nobody would ever find him out there, unless they were told about it. That’s where we took Mikey and Shooter.”

  The waitress came with their shakes, burgers, and fries, and when she was gone again, Cappy asked, “So what do you think?”

  “I think we go after Joe,” Barakat said.

  “If we take Joe, we might have to take Lyle. They’re pretty tight.”

  Barakat said, “So?”

  The coke was on top of both of them now, and they were stuffing the fries into their mouths, eyes bright, fac
es animated. “Do that, we gotta figure out where they put that dope,” Cappy mumbled through the potatoes.

  They snarled through the rest of the meal, and when wiping their hands and faces with paper napkins, Barakat asked, “Why didn’t you take Joe when you could have? At the airport?”

  Cappy raised his eyebrows, shook his head. “Hell, you know, I wasn’t thinking about it. I was there to do the chick. I had a contract, you know, with the brothers: so I went and did it. I only got to thinking about it later, when you brought it up. If it wasn’t for the doctor chick, and then the kidnapping, I’d let it go. Trust that they’d keep their mouths shut, and that we could ride it out. That’s not going to happen, now. If they catch Joe without killing him ...”

  “We better get him,” Barakat said.

  Cappy suggested that they would have to wait until the next day: “Honey Bee usually goes home about seven o’clock. If she’s there, she adds to the problem.”

  “All right, but tomorrow ...” He stopped, and looked around. “We should talk about this somewhere else. My place is two minutes from here.”

  THEY WENT to Barakat’s and Barakat brought out the cocaine again, still far enough from a shortage that he didn’t worry about it. The coke helped with that attitude, steadied him with its cold clearheadedness, its chemical confidence, the sense of potency.

  They started to argue.

  “You go in there with a gun, you can’t pussy out,” Cappy told him. “The second that Joe figures out what you’re doing, he’ll be all over you. He’s a tough guy, you know. A little stupid, but he can fight. Strong as an ox. You gotta put the gun on him and keep it there.”

  “No worry,” Barakat said. “I’m no pussy.”

  “You know what does it? It’s that accent, you know?” Cappy said, his eyes glowing. “It’s kind of a pussy accent. What kind of accent is that, anyway?”