Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15

by John Sandford

  They waited in the hall, listening to the murmur of voices, Lucas pacing, until Weather came out. “I don’t think it’s too bad,” she said. “I think it’s that one leak.”

  “They said she was pretty strong,” Del said.

  “Well . . .” Weather’s eyes slid away from Lucas. “She was in a lot better physical condition than most people who come in.”

  “Aw, man, you’re saying she wasn’t that strong.”

  “Lucas, this had to be done. If they’d waited, she would have gotten weaker, and that would have been worse. Hirschfeld thought he had to go in now.”

  “Is she gonna make it?”

  Weather nodded once, quickly. “Yes.” This time her eyes held on to his.

  SALLANCE HANSON KNEW Rodriguez only slightly. “He’s quite a respected real estate investor, but he’s not part of the usual . . . group. The group that comes to my parties. Do you think he’s the one? Who killed Alie’e?”

  “We’re just doing a second round on everybody,” Lucas lied. He went back to Rodriguez. “I’m curious about the investor part. Our preliminary workup showed him as an employee . . . an apartment manager, not an investor.”

  “Well, like I said, I don’t know him that well, but that’s not the way he talks. That’s not the way he dresses, either. He’s a coarse man, but he has a nice taste in clothes. So do you, by the way.” She reached out, folded back the lapel on Lucas’s jacket, read the label, and asked, “Where’d you get this?”

  “Barneys.”

  “Really. Nice material. You went to New York?”

  “I have a friend there. I visit sometimes,” Lucas said. He pushed the topic back to Rodriguez. “Why is he coarse? What makes you think that?”

  “He’s just . . . Every once in a while, something slips out. He’ll say, ‘twat,’ or something. A lot of guys say ‘twat,’ you know, when they’re looking for an effect, or they’re trying to shock you or piss you off. I even know one guy who tried to tell me it was a variation of twit.”

  Lucas grinned. “He had to be a moron.”

  “Yes, well . . . yes. But with Richie . . . I’ve heard—overheard—Richard say it sort of casually. Like that was the word he’d normally use in that place, and if he said ‘woman,’ it was because he was trying to be polite. He’s a coarse man, with a layer of politeness that he learned somewhere. Maybe a book or something.”

  “Do you know anything about his financial dealings?”

  “No, no. Nothing. Although every time I talked to him, that’s what he wanted to talk about. He was always complaining about his tenants—late with the rent, or skipping out, or whatever.”

  Del chipped in. “You never saw him with Sandy Lansing?”

  “I just don’t remember.”

  “You know Lansing was dealing drugs.”

  She looked at Del for a moment, then at Lucas, then back to Del. “Look, I know . . . I’ve talked to my lawyer, and he says telling you this is no crime. . . . I know some people at the party were using drugs. And I’d heard that you could sometimes get something from Sandy. But I didn’t want to slander a dead woman.”

  Del leaned back on the couch. He was wearing a black leather jacket, jeans, and a ragged thirty-year-old political T-shirt on which the words “Lick Dick in ’72” were barely legible. He grinned, showing his yellow teeth. “You oughta tell that to Derrick Deal.”

  “Derrick . . . ?” She was puzzled.

  “A guy we know,” Del said. “He’s in the icebox down at the morgue.”

  “RIGHT UP TO that point, I was trying to make nice with her,” Lucas said when they were out on the sidewalk.

  “Fuck the bitch. She’s one of those people who’ll drive you to communism,” Del said. He scratched the side of his face; he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. “After we see about Marcy, maybe you oughta talk to your friend Bone.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Lucas said. “But first . . .” He took out his cell phone, turned it on, and punched in a number.

  Lane answered. “Yo.”

  “This is Lucas. You find him?”

  “I’ve seen him. I took Hendrix along, Hendrix interviewed him after the party. He’s got an office in St. Paul, on the street level down from a Skyway, and we can see him in his office.”

  “You can see him now?”

  “No, but I can see the door he’s gotta come out. I’m with him.”

  “Let’s get some pictures of him—we might want to take them around.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if he gets closer to Minneapolis, call me. I’ll leave the phone on. I’m probably gonna want to look at him this afternoon, wherever he is.”

  MARCY WAS OUT of the operating room and back in the recovery room. Tom Black was standing in the corridor outside the operating suite with a nurse; when Lucas and Del walked in, Black stepped toward them. “She came through it okay. They had a pretty good leak, but they stopped it, and everything else seems to be holding.”

  “But she’s not awake.”

  “They’re keeping her asleep. They want everything tying together before she wakes up and starts moving around.”

  They talked about that for a minute: the way Lucas had been tied down once when he got shot in the throat, and hadn’t been able to move his head for three days; and about the pinking-shears incident, when Del’s hips had been immobilized for two days. Then Del said, “I’m gonna go see this gal over at the BCA. See if the state’s got anything on Rodriguez. What’re you gonna do?”

  Lucas looked at his watch. “I’ve got a date, God help me.”

  CATRIN WAS SITTING in a back booth, facing the door, when Lucas arrived. He smiled when he saw her, and she nodded and then paid a lot of attention to picking up a cup of coffee and taking a sip.

  “Hey.” He slid into the booth on the opposite side and waved at a waitress.

  “I hope I’m not tearing your day apart,” she said. She’d dressed down this time, in jeans and a cornflower blue shirt that didn’t seem to have a button—a subtle, outdoorsy peek-a-boo blouse. “I was watching the Alie’e thing on television, and it seems like people are going crazy.”

  Lucas nodded and tried to keep his eyes on her face. “It’s worse than I’ve ever seen it. We’ve had some bad ones before, but this is nuts.”

  “Are you making any progress? Or can’t you tell me?”

  “If we were making progress, I might not be able to tell you, but since we aren’t, I can tell you. We aren’t.”

  The waitress came by, and they both ordered salads and coffee. Then they spent a couple of minutes in dragging chitchat until Catrin said, “I called you up because you’re the only person I can call up and talk to. I’m in pretty bad shape.”

  “You look . . . terrific. You even look happy.”

  “More like anesthetized,” she said. Then she shook her head. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t even tell you that. I mean, I would tell you if I knew.”

  “Have a little trouble sleeping? Can’t stop your head going around, big dark dreams keeping you up?”

  She tilted her head to one side and looked at him curiously. “I’m not suffering from depression, if that’s what you’re asking. But you did, huh? I recognize the description.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had a friend with the problem. We were worried about her. She eventually got straightened out.”

  “Chemicals.”

  “Of course. What’d you do?”

  “I had this superstition about chemicals, so I just . . . waited until it went away. I knew what was going on, and I read about it, and in most cases, it’ll go away. So I waited. I hope to Jesus it doesn’t happen again, but if it does, I’ll do the chemicals. I’m not going through it again.”

  “Good call,” she said. “But my problem . . . it’s the good old midlife crisis, Lucas.”

  “Haven’t really had mine yet,” he said.

  “Knowing you, you probably won’t. Not until
you’re about sixty-five, and realize that you’re not married and you don’t have any grandchildren, and then you’ll wonder what happened.”

  “I could have grandchildren,” Lucas said, a little truculently. “I’ve got a kid.”

  “Who you don’t see much.”

  “What are we talking about here?” he asked, suddenly irritated.

  “Maybe I’m dragging you into your midlife crisis with mine,” she said. The waitress came with the salads and nobody said anything until she was gone, and then Catrin said, “Way back when, after I left you, and you didn’t call--”

  “I called.”

  “Yeah. Twice. If you’d have called four times, I would’ve come back. The next time I saw you, you were walking around with some skinny blonde with a terrific ass and these little bell-bottoms, and you stopped on a street corner and she tried to stick her tongue down to your tonsils.”

  Now Lucas blushed. “I don’t even remember,” he said.

  She maneuvered a lettuce leaf into her mouth and crunched on it, watching him. He pushed his salad bowl away and waited. “Anyway,” she said, “About two days after I saw you with the blonde, I met Jack and we started dating and I liked him a lot and I liked his parents and they liked me, and my parents were delighted, he was one year away from his M.D. So we . . . just got married and he did his hitch in the Army and then we went down to Lake City and bought a house and had kids and dogs and sailboats and goddamnit”—testing the word, goddamnit—“here I am, twenty-five years later. What happened to me? I thought I was gonna have a movie, but all I’ve ever been is the woman in the background of somebody else’s movie.”

  She thought about that, and poked her salad fork at Lucas and said, “That’s what we’re talking about. Metaphors. The other day when we met, I used that movie metaphor. It just jumped up and I said it. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. When’s my movie?”

  Lucas sat looking at her for a long moment, and Catrin said, “Say something,” and Lucas sighed and said, “If I could only figure out a way to run for the door without freakin’ out the restaurant.”

  She sat back and didn’t quite snarl at him, “You’d run for the door?”

  “Catrin . . . I know women who run businesses and make a zillion dollars a year and drive around in Mercedes-Benzes and every night they go home and wonder what the hell happened, how they could’ve forgotten to have kids. They’re forty-five years old and have everything but kids, and that’s all they think about: no kids. Then I meet people like you who have these great kids and they’re all messed up because they’re not running General Mills.”

  She’d wiped her mouth with a napkin, and now tossed the napkin into the middle of her unfinished salad. Her eyes were bright and a little too wide, and he started to remember her temper. He thought, Uh-oh, and she said, her voice rising a notch, “So all I’m going through is some kind of routine female bullshit that I’ll get over.”

  He shook his head. “No. You see women thinking along these lines, and about half the time it ends in disaster. They walk on their old man and their kids and they get their freedom and they wind up living in a crummy apartment and selling cupcakes in the local froufrou dessert bar. If you ask them if they’d go back, they think a long time and most of them say, ‘There’s no way to go back,’ but if they could, on some kind of negotiated terms, they would.”

  “What about the other half, the ones who don’t walk?”

  “Then, they come to some kind of accommodation, but . . . I’m not sure how happy they ever are, not having tried it.”

  “So you’re saying I’m fucked,” she said.

  “Well, you’ve got a problem. You’ve got to think about it a long time.”

  She looked away and said, “I’m thinking about moving out. I didn’t tell you that the other day. I wanted to impress you with how wonderful I was, after all these years.”

  “Does your husband know?” Lucas asked.

  “At some level, maybe—but he wouldn’t want to think about it. I mean, he seems happy enough. He’s got all the prestige and his patients like him and he’s delivered half the kids in town and we’ve got a sailing club and he’s got a hunting shack across the river in Wisconsin, and all his buddies.”

  “You’ve got friends, too, don’t you?”

  “Housewives. Waiting for death. Three or four of them have actually taken off.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They’re selling cupcakes in froufrou dessert bars,” she said, and grinned at him.

  “Not really.”

  “One sells real estate and not very well. One works in a decorating business and doesn’t make much. One went back to school and became a social worker and got a job in St. Paul, and she’s okay. One’s a waitress who’s trying to paint.”

  “And you’d take pictures. Photographs.”

  “Maybe. You think I couldn’t?”

  “I don’t even know how you’d go about it.”

  “It’s not like I’d be broke. Like I said the other day, we’ve got money.”

  “So why don’t you just go ahead and do what you want, without walking? Just tell him, ‘Look, I’m gonna be busy for the next couple of years. Remind me to stop by once in a while.’”

  “’Cause he’s in the way,” she said. “Anything I’d do, it’d be a hobby. We’d have to go to London for shows and someplace for family medical conventions, and I’d have to cook at Thanksgiving and Christmas for the kids and we’d have to keep up with our friends. . . . I couldn’t think. I just need to think.”

  “And what happens to Jack?”

  “You know what I think?” She looked at him steadily. “I think if we got divorced in January, he’d be married again by December.”

  “You’ve got somebody in mind for the job?” Lucas asked.

  “No. He doesn’t fool around. But he needs a wife to hold him up, and if I moved out, there are plenty of women around town who’d sign up as candidates.”

  Lucas shook his head. “You know what? I bet he’d be devastated. I bet he wouldn’t be married in five years. You’d be a little hard to . . . get over.”

  She smiled at him, a sad smile. “Thanks.”

  “You gotta think about it,” Lucas said. “Probably the most important thing you’ve thought about since you got married, or got pregnant.”

  “I didn’t think about those things. I just did them,” she said.

  “So think about this.”

  She nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

  OUTSIDE, ON THE sidewalk, she said, “This whole conversation took a kind of unexpected turn. It was more like therapy than anything. . . . You’ve thought about this more than I expected you would have.”

  “I had a woman I wanted to marry, and didn’t. She wouldn’t. I’m still not over it,” Lucas said. “When I look around City Hall, or the County Courthouse, the place is full of wounded people. I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember this happening to our parents’ generation.”

  “It probably did, but they just never told us,” Catrin said.

  “Yeah.” Lucas took a step back. “So think about it.”

  “One of the things I’m thinking about,” she said, “is sleeping with you. But I’ve got to decide whether to do it before I walk, just to try it out, to see if I’ve got anything left . . . or just go ahead and walk out, and sleep with you later.”

  Lucas was offended. “Like I don’t have a say in it.”

  She regarded him for a minute, then shook her head. “Not much. You already want to sleep with me. If I really wanted to force it, I could press up against you and you’d get all kinds of Catholic guilt and everything, and you’d go raving up and down the house waving your arms, and then you’d do it.”

  “Jesus, I’m a piece of meat.”

  “Not that,” she said. She reached out with an index finger and pushed against his chest. “You’re just one of those guys who likes to sleep with women. You need the comfort. And you’re not seei
ng anyone now. So I could do it, if I wanted to. . . . I just have to think.”

  He took another step back. “Well . . . let me know.”

  Now she laughed, and for a moment she looked like she was nineteen again. “I will.”

  FROM HIS CAR, Lucas used his cell phone to call his friend Bone; fifteen minutes later, Bone’s secretary pushed him past a panel of waiting middle managers in the banker’s outer office.

  Bone was looking at two computer monitors at the same time. He turned away from them when Lucas came in and said, “Sometimes I feel like I’ve got so much radiation going through my skull, you could put a roll of film behind my head and get an X ray.”

  “How’s your ankle?”

  “Hurts. Should be okay by next week.” They played pickup basketball twice a week. Bone had once been a suspect in a case Lucas had worked. Now he was not only a friend, but his banker connections could get Lucas useful financial information. “I got that stuff on your guy.”

  “Confidentially.”

  “Of course. But there wasn’t much.”

  “Would you loan him money?”

  Bone leaned back. “There are two things you look at before you loan a guy money: history and security. He never had much security, but, boy, his history is good.”

  “Too good?”

  “No such thing as too good,” Bone said. “It just can’t be too bad.”

  “What if you depend on a hundred percent tenancy in your apartment buildings to meet your financing? And then make it? Is that too good?”

  “He can’t be doing that,” Bone said. He rocked forward and shuffled through the papers, looked from one to another, punched a few numbers into one of his computers, and pushed a key. Then he said, “Jeez, that’s a little tight, isn’t it?”

  “He’s greasing it with dope money,” Lucas said.

  “Ah.”W

  “What I need to know—this’ll never get to a second person, past me—would the guy who’s making his loan know about this? About the dope?”

  Bone spun his chair around until his back was to Lucas. He was looking at a walnut bookcase full of financial manuals, a few computer guides, the complete works of Joseph Conrad, and a tattered multivolume set of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. A copy of the Oxford Study Bible was jammed sideways on top of the Proust. After a minute, without turning back, Bone said, “He’d have to know something.”