Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15

by John Sandford

  “Workin’ on it,” Malone said. “If we can figure out these other accounts, we may have something to squeeze him with.”

  “Huh.”

  TWO MINUTES OF silence, then another thought: “She probably crossed the border illegally. I mean, you know, wetbacked it across. She can’t know the level of surveillance at the border, she wouldn’t want to take a chance of a random check on faked or stolen documents.” “So?”

  “So, if she crossed the border illegally, that means she probably crossed in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, or California.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I drove out to California last year, and there aren’t that many ways to get from those places to the Midwest, in a hurry. She could fly, but she never flew much when you guys were tracking her before, because there’s always a record and they want ID to get on the planes…. I bet she crossed out of Mexico and bought a car. She’d need one when she got here. And I think she’d stick to interstate highways, because there’s more volume of traffic and she’d be less conspicuous. And she’d probably pay cash for everything….”

  “Where’s this going?”

  “You’d only have to backtrack down a couple of interstates…Seventy, Forty-four.”

  “Maybe Fifty-five,” Malone said, getting interested now.

  “Ever since gas theft became a deal, most of the interstate stations have surveillance cameras snapping photos of the cars as they gas up. What if you gave the ID photos to all the local sheriff’s departments and had them paper the gas stations along the interstates? If somebody recognizes her…”

  “If we could even find out what day or even week that she was at a particular place, we could run all of the plates and check the anomalies.”

  “Long shot,” Lucas said.

  “But it’s a shot,” she said.

  THEY WERE STILL talking about it when Mallard arrived, looking harassed. Lucas’s eyes met Malone’s across the table, and she gave a tiny negative shake of her head: not now. Lucas turned to Mallard and asked, “You all meetinged out yet?”

  “Meetings are the water we swim in,” Mallard said. He fussed with some paper. “But now we all agree who’s running this particular investigation.” He paused. “Me.”

  “What about the net on Levy?”

  “We’re all over him. He’s in his office, and if he walks down the hall to the rest room, we’ll know.” He looked at Malone. “When I was listening to all that bullshit from Lewis, I was thinking about Levy. I want to contact him now. This afternoon. Get everything we can on him, go over there, tell him he’s on Rinker’s list, and ask him why. Find out if he knows her, or knows where her money is. At least get him cooperating with the net.”

  “What if he runs?” Malone asked.

  “What if she kills him?” Mallard said.

  They all thought about that for a moment, then Malone asked, “If you make the call, I can put it together in an hour.”

  Mallard looked at Lucas. “What do you think?”

  Lucas shrugged. “If he decides to run, can you stop him? Running would be the safest thing for him—and he wouldn’t even have to talk to you. If you have something—anything—that would keep him from leaving, I’d put it on him. Because if he has money ditched offshore somewhere, and he splits, it could be a long time before any of us see him again.”

  Mallard nodded. “We’ll find something. You can’t live in this country for two days without breaking some law, somewhere.”

  “You want me to put it together?” Malone asked.

  Mallard nodded. “Yes. Do it.”

  10

  RINKER HAD SPENT THE EARLY MORNING watching the outside of Andy Levy’s mansion—mansion was the only word she had for the place. She was parked a block and a half away, across a busy street, waiting for any kind of movement. She needed to know that he was home, and not hiding out somewhere else. She’d been waiting for an hour when the front door opened, and Levy, in a robe and slippers, stepped out on the stoop and picked up the newspaper, opening and turning it in his hands as he stepped back inside. He was reading the follow-up on the Dichter killing, she thought. If the story was anything like what she’d been watching on television, it should spook him even further. Before he closed the door, he looked carefully up and down the street. Even from a block away, he looked worried.

  She grinned as she tossed the glasses on the passenger seat and put the car in gear. She needed him worried. She needed him eager to make a deal, eager to explain, eager to talk.

  WHEN SHE GOT back to Pollock’s, she found a copy of the Post-Dispatch on the kitchen table with a piece of typing paper on it; Dorothy had scrawled, “READ THIS.” Rinker picked up the paper, didn’t take in the headline at all, but saw the man in the orange suit and the chains, and there was a click of recognition but she couldn’t place him, and then she thought, No, no…

  They had Gene, and they were dragging him.

  RINKER READ THE story through. An FBI agent, a woman named Malone—Rinker recognized the name from Minneapolis—was dragging Gene. Gene, she said, might provide clues to Clara Rinker’s whereabouts, and was inclined to be cooperative because he’d been arrested for possession of drugs. This was his fourth arrest on drug charges, and this time, Malone said, he could be going away for a long time.

  Rinker put the paper down, sprawled on the couch, and stared at the ceiling and thought about it. She thought for ten minutes, then rolled off the couch, still uncertain, walked out to the car, climbed inside. She needed someplace reasonably far away, like in Illinois….

  She drove north, crossed the river, drove across East St. Louis without looking down, and on the outskirts found a truck stop with a half-dozen pay-phone booths designed for truckers. She got five dollars in quarters, checked the phone book, called 612 information, got the number, and called the Minneapolis police department and asked for Lucas Davenport.

  The phone rang once, and a woman answered: “Marcy Sherrill.”

  “Is this Chief Davenport’s office?” she asked.

  “Yes, it is, how can I help you?”

  “Can I speak to Chief Davenport, please?”

  “I’m afraid he’s not here right now…. I’m not exactly sure when he’ll be back. Could I help you, or have him call you?”

  Rinker thought again, then frowned and asked, “Is he still in St. Louis?”

  “Yes, I think so. Who is this, please?”

  “Um…Charlotte. Could you tell him Charlotte called?”

  Now the woman on the other end of the line sounded pissed. “Charlotte? Charlotte who?”

  “Just…Charlotte. Thanks a lot.” She hung up, then grinned to herself. Sounded like she had gotten Davenport in trouble.

  She thought about crossing back to St. Louis, since Davenport was there. But the pile of quarters was right in front of her, with a couple of phone books, so she turned to the yellow pages, found “Hotels,” and started calling those with the biggest advertisements. She found him on the fifth call. Nobody in his room. Thought another minute, looked around, found a white pages for St. Louis, looked up the FBI.

  What was the name of the woman in Minneapolis? Marcy? Or Cheryl? Marcy, she thought.

  She got a central switchboard at the FBI office and said, “My name is Marcy, and I’m with the Minneapolis Police Department. I work for Chief Lucas Davenport. Chief Davenport is there in St. Louis, working with Special Agent Malone. I really need to talk to him—it’s an emergency with a case he’s on.”

  “Please hold.”

  AND THEN, after a minute and a half on hold, like magic, after a click or two, Davenport was on the line. “Marcy?”

  “Lucas?”

  “Yeah…Is this Marcy?”

  “No, actually it’s not, Lucas.”

  A long silence, then, his voice gone suddenly deeper: “How’ve you been?”

  “Not so good—but you should know about that.” She could imagine the ferocious gesturing and waving on the other end of the line.

  “Y
eah, I heard you were hit pretty bad.” He sounded calm enough. “I’m really sorry about the baby. My fiancée is pregnant…. I’m doing that whole trip myself. Gonna get married in the fall.”

  “Your fiancée—anybody I’d know?”

  “No. She’s a doctor. Pretty tough girl. You’d probably like her.”

  “Maybe…but to cut the b.s., I just wanted to call you and to tell you to keep Gene out of this. I knew the federales were going to get involved, I wasn’t surprised when I saw that woman Malone in the paper, but we all know that Gene isn’t quite right. Putting him in jail won’t help anything. I’m not going to come in—you can’t blackmail me. But you can tell whoever’s running that show over there that I take Gene real personally, and if they mess him up, if they put him in prison, or hurt him, or do any of that, then they better look to their families. I won’t try to blow up the president. I’ll start killing agents’ husbands and wives, and you know I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll try to get him cut loose. But I’m not a fed.” In the background, faint but clear, she heard a man’s voice say, “She’s not on her cell.”

  “You’d lie to me anyway,” she said.

  “Hey, Clara—I’d put your butt under the jail if I got my hands on you, but I’m not fuckin’ with Gene. I think Gene is a bad idea, and I’ll try to get him cut loose. I’m just not sure how much clout I’ve got.”

  “Okay.” She looked at her watch. They’d been talking for exactly one minute. “I gotta go now. They’re probably pretty close to busting this line. Give me your cell phone number.”

  “I don’t have—”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Wait, wait, wait…I was just trying to stall you.” He read off the number, and Rinker jotted it down. Without saying goodbye again, she hung up, moved quickly out to her car, and put it on the highway back to St. Louis. Six miles out, an Illinois Highway Patrol car went by in a hurry, going east, all lights and no siren.

  Maybe a train wreck, she thought.

  SHE WAS RESTLESS, and though she wasn’t inclined to move around in the daylight, she headed back downtown. Maybe, she thought, another little probe on Andy Levy. Maybe she should call Levy, to sweat him a little, to get him used to the idea of talking. And she thought about that: Davenport was in town.

  She’d been told that he was not only ruthless but lucky, which really frightened her. Ruthless she could deal with. Lucky was a problem. When she’d been stalking people, she’d always been so careful, but always so aware that at any moment, luck could turn and strike at her like a rattlesnake. In her disastrous visit to Minneapolis, she and her client had twisted and turned and worked and struggled and never had been able to pull the last piece of sticky-tape bad luck off their backs. Luck had beaten them, not intelligence, skill, or bad planning.

  But maybe she’d had a piece of luck this time. She’d heard that man’s voice talking about a cell phone. They must have the number on the cell phone that Dichter had called: They would have traced the number he was calling when he was shot, and when it came up with a stolen phone, must have known it was her. What if they’d traced it to John Sellos? She’d asked Sellos about both Dichter and Levy.

  BEFORE SHE WENT to look at Levy again, she might as well ask Sellos about it. She saw a sign for a BP station coming up, took the off-ramp, rolled in to a drive-up phone, found Sellos’s number in her phone book, and punched it in. Sellos answered—Sellos, who was always home. Rinker said, “If you tell me why you talked to them, if you tell me honestly, I won’t hurt you.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  After a pause, and then in what was almost a groan, Sellos said, “They knew all about it. I didn’t have a choice. They said if I didn’t talk to them, they’d bust me on the Dichter murder, as an accessory, and send me to death row. They said they could trace the guy who stole the phone. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You gave them Levy’s name.”

  “Clara, what could I do? I figured I could either tell them to screw themselves, and maybe wind up on death row, or maybe sneak it past you.”

  He was honest enough, anyway. “Goddamnit, John. Was Davenport there? A guy from Minneapolis? Big, dark hair, good-looking guy?”

  “Yeah. Guy from Minneapolis. Tough guy. He came in with a local ex-cop, another tough guy. I don’t know how they found me, exactly.”

  “All right.”

  “You gonna kill me?”

  “No. But I’ll tell you, John, the feds are cutting a wide swath with this one. If they really think you’re involved, you could be in deep shit.”

  “Ah, you don’t know half of it….”

  “What?”

  “Clara, you know that guy Troy who works for Ross? Muscle guy with a flattop who always puts that tanning stuff all over himself?”

  “No. He must’ve been after me.”

  “Well, he’s a real mean asshole, and he’s going around to everybody, asking if they’ve seen you, or heard where you might be. Guess who he’s traveling with?”

  “I don’t know, John. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Honus Johnson.” Again, it came out almost as a groan. “I know you know Honus.”

  “I know Honus.”

  “Honus said that if they find out I’m lying about you, that he’d spend some time with me. He said it in that real queer way, and he touched me on the cheek. I’ve been washing my cheek every five minutes.”

  “But you lied.”

  “Well, I like you, Clara. But I’m really scared now. Between the cops and you and Honus.”

  “I’m sorry about this,” Rinker said. “If I were you, John, I’d go away for a while. It really would be for the best. For you. In six weeks, it’ll all be over.”

  “What if you’re over. Honus Johnson—”

  “Before I leave, I’ll take care of Honus Johnson,” Rinker said. “So: Go away, John.”

  “I got the club, Clara.”

  “Yes, I know. But you can’t add value to the club if you’re dead. Be very calm, make arrangements with your accountant and the bartenders, and then go.”

  “Oh, man…”

  “That’s my last word, John. Good luck to you. Goodbye.” She hung up, and thought, That answers that. The feds had Levy’s name, and that meant they were probably crawling all over him by now. More to think about. And she had to consider Honus Johnson and his toys. Honus once told her that in his work for Ross, he preferred Craftsman tools from Sears, because of the guarantee. It hadn’t made her laugh, because Honus had been serious.

  Then it occurred to her that luck had been with her this time; Sellos had provided a lot of critical information. And then she thought, As long as the cops weren’t monitoring Sellos’s phone. She looked around for a cop car, a finger of fear touching her heart, then peeled out of the BP lot, and didn’t start breathing again until she was back on the interstate.

  AT POLLOCK’S, she turned on the television, looking for the local news. When you don’t need it, you can’t find anything else. When you do need it, you can never find it. She spent an hour clicking around the local channels, then clicked over to CNN Headline News and, after a twenty-minute wait, saw a short piece of tape of federal marshals taking Gene into what was either a courthouse or a jail. She saw Malone again, apparently supervising. The tape made her so angry that she jumped off the couch and walked around the house, back and forth, punching at the air, talking to herself, “Fucking hurt him, you fuckin’ hurt him,” imagining what she’d do if they fuckin’ hurt him.

  In the tape, Gene had looked utterly forlorn. He couldn’t take much jail time. He was claustrophobic, along with everything else. If Davenport didn’t get him out of there, she’d have to do something. Move on the FBI? That would kill her.

  Maybe she should simply leave. She thought about that. Her money was well hidden, and she had a place to go, a warm place with beaches—if it weren’t for Gene, she could just give it up, make a call to Ross to warn him off again, let Dich
ter stand as a warning. She could leave. Now she couldn’t, not until Gene was taken care of.

  POLLOCK USUALLY GOT home around three o’clock. When she was going out, Rinker liked to go with Pollock, because then Pollock became part of the disguise. By two o’clock, she’d been thinking about Gene for so long, and had looked at the Post-Dispatch article so many times, that she finally said the hell with it and went back out, looking for another phone. In the morning, she’d gone east, so this time she turned west, out I-64. She eventually stopped at an upscale shopping center called Plaza Frontenac to make the call.

  She called the Post-Dispatch, but it wasn’t easy. The Post-Dispatch operator switched her to the reporter who’d written that morning’s story about Gene, but the reporter wasn’t in, and his voice mail handed her to a woman on the city desk. The woman sent her back to the same reporter before Rinker could object, and the voice mail sent her back to the city desk again. This time, she told the desk woman that “I just need to talk to somebody who covers this Clara Rinker thing. I used to know her.”

  The woman on the other end was unimpressed with the information, and said, in as close to a monotone as anyone could manage, “I could switch you to either Fabian Broeder, who’s our organized-crime reporter, or to Sandy White, the metro columnist.”

  “Well, which one do you think? Who’s the most important?”

  “Sandy’s the best known. He’s working on a Rinker column for tomorrow.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  She was on hold for another three seconds, then the phone rang once and a man’s voice said, “White.”

  “Are you reporting on the Rinker case?”

  “I’m writing a column,” White said. “Who is this?”

  “Clara Rinker.”

  A moment of silence. Then: “Bullshit.”

  “Bullshit your own self,” Rinker said. “You got something to take notes with?”