Silent Prey ld-4

by John Sandford

  He looked past Whitechurch to an empty tile-walled corridor. "Back inside, just a few minutes. I feel obligated to tell you about this."

  Whitechurch nodded and turned, leading the way. "Did you bring the cash?"

  "Yes." He held out the cash envelope and Whitechurch took it. "Have you got the product?"

  "Yeah." Whitechurch turned as the metal fire door closed behind them. The corridor lights weren't strong, but they were unforgiving blue fluorescents.

  Whitechurch had a plastic baggie in his hand and half stepped toward Bekker when he said, "You're…" He stopped, catching his tongue, and began to back away.

  "The fruitcake killer," Bekker said, smiling. "Just like on I've Got a Secret. You remember that show? Garry Moore, I think."

  Whitechurch's head snapped around, looking for room, then turned back to Bekker, but already his body was moving, trying to run.

  "Listen," he said, half over his shoulder.

  "No." Bekker leveled the gun at Whitechurch's broad back and Whitechurch shouted, "No way," and Bekker shot him in the spine between the shoulder blades. The muzzle blast was deafening, and Whitechurch pitched forward, tried to catch himself on the slick tile walls, bounced and turned. Bekker pointed the pistol at him, from two feet.

  "No way…"

  Bekker pulled the trigger again, firing into Whitechurch's forehead. Then he pushed the gun into his pocket, hurrying, took out a scalpel, stooped, and ruined Whitechurch's dead eyes. Good.

  Down the hall, a door banged open. "Hey." Somebody yelling.

  Bekker looked down the corridor: empty. He grabbed the baggie full of pills, stood, remembered the money, saw it half trapped under Whitechurch. Down the hall, the door banged open again and Bekker jerked at the money envelope. The envelope ripped, but he got most of it, just a bill or two still trapped under the body.

  "Hey…" He looked back as he went through the door, but there was nothing in the corridor but the voice. Outside, he gathered himself and hurried, but didn't run, down the alley, turning left on the sidewalk to the parking ramp. He went inside to the stairs, heard footsteps behind, and half turned.

  A young woman was hurrying after him. He started up the steps and she caught up with him, a few steps behind. "Wait up…" Breathless. "I hate to go up here alone. If there were somebody… You know."

  "Yes." The woman was worried about being attacked. There was only one open entrance to the ramp, but anyone could get in over the low walls. Judging from the graffiti spray-painted on the concrete walls, several people had.

  "God, what a day," the woman said. "I hate to work when it's so nice outside, I never see anything but computer terminals."

  Bekker nodded again, not trusting his voice. If he'd had the time, he could have taken her. She'd have been perfect: young, apparently intelligent. A natural observer. Might possibly understand the privilege she was being given. He could take her, he thought. Right now. Hit her in the head…

  Behind her, he balled his hand into a fist, and he thought, Or the gun. I could use the gun. He felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. Empty now, but a threat…

  But if he hurt her, struck her, had to fight, if she was less than a perfect specimen… his results would be impeachable. People were watching him, people who hated him, who would do anything to impeach his results. He fell back a step, his heart beating like a drum.

  "See you," she said, one half-level below his car. She looked out on the open floor before she went through the door. "Nobody here… makes you feel a little stupid, doesn't it?"

  He could, but… wait. No improvisation. Remember the last time… Easy, easy, there are plenty of them.

  Bekker lifted a hand and risked it: "Good-bye," he said, in his careful voice.

  He had to get one. Had to. He didn't realize, until he saw the woman get in the car and lock the doors, how strong the need was now.

  He rolled out of the ramp, straight down the street; there was some commotion in the emergency entrance alley, but he didn't stop to look. Instead, he went straight back to his apartment, almost frantic now, and got out his collector's bag: the stun gun and the anesthetic tank and mask. He flicked the stun gun once, checked the discharge level. Fine. And dug through the bag he'd taken from Whitechurch: just a taste. He snapped one of the angels between his teeth, thinking to take a half, but a half wouldn't do, and he took a whole, waiting for the power to come.

  Cruising, thinking: Infrared. Ultraviolet. Breakthrough.

  He knew this bar…

  Later. He saw the woman slouch out of the back of the bar, lean against the brick exterior, and light a cigarette with what looked like an old-fashioned Zippo. Not many men around, lots of women coming and going, many of them alone. Easy targets.

  The woman was leaning against the outside wall, wearing jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, with a wide leather belt. She had short black hair, with gold hoop earrings.

  Bekker came up, stepping carefully around the Volkswagen as though he didn't own it. Not too aggressive. Stun gun in his hand, tank under his arm, hand on mask.

  "Terrific night," he said to the woman.

  She smiled. "You're looking pretty good," she said.

  Bekker smiled back and stopped next to the nose of the Volkswagen.

  Come to the gingerbread house, little girl…

  CHAPTER

  13

  "What's wrong?" Lily asked.

  Kennett rolled toward her and put an arm under her head. "I feel like an invalid when we do that. I mean, nothing but that."

  The forward double berth was wedge-shaped, shoved into the bow of the boat. Kennett was lying on his side. He reached toward her face in the near-darkness, touched her at the hairline with the pad of his index finger, drew it down her nose, gently over her lips, between her breasts, then up to gently tap each nipple, then down around her navel, over her hipbone and down the inside of her thigh to her knee. She was still warm, sweating.

  "We're not… compelled… to do it," Lily said.

  "Maybe you're not, but I am," Kennett grumbled. "If I couldn't make love anymore, I'd feel like a goddamn vegetable."

  "You just wanna be on top," she said, trying to make a joke out of it. When he didn't respond, she said, "You've got to listen to Fermut."

  "Fuckin' doctors…" Fermut, the cardiologist, had reluctantly agreed that Kennett could resume his sex life "as long as your partner does the hard work."

  "Listen to him," Lily said, gently but urgently. "He's trying to save your life, you dope."

  "Yeah." Kennett turned his head away from her, his hand scratching at his chest.

  "You want a cigarette, right?"

  "No, that's not it. I was just thinking… it's not the doctors. It's me. When I get turned on and my heart starts thumping, I start listening to it…"

  "Then we oughta quit. Maybe only for a few weeks…" Lily said.

  "No. That'd be worse. It's just… Christ, I wish one thing-just one goddamn thing in this world-was simple. Just one thing. I gotta get laid, but if I get laid, I can't help thinking about my heart, and that can mess up getting laid. Then with you on top all the time, and me just laying there like a dead man with a hard-on, I start thinking, what's it like for her? It must be like necrophilia, screwing me."

  "Richard, you idiot…"

  "Christ, I'm glad I met you," he said after a while. "I couldn't believe you were in there, working for O'Dell. I kept thinking, she can't be just working for him, a woman like that, there's gotta be something else going on here."

  "Oh, God…" Lily giggled, an odd, pleasant sound with her husky voice.

  "Sorry 'bout that," Kennett said, touching her again. "I wonder what O'Dell does for sex? Fly out to Vegas and get a couple-three fat ones in the sack? I wonder how long it's been since he's seen his dick? He's so fat I don't think he can even reach it anymore…"

  "C'mon…" Lily said, but she giggled again, a big woman giggling, and that set Kennett off, laughing.

  And then: " 'Course, things must've
been different with Davenport."

  Lily cut him off: "Shut up. I don't want to hear it."

  "Probably hung like a Shetland pony…"

  "You wanna get bit?"

  "Is that a clear offer?"

  "Dick…"

  "Hey. I'm not jealous. Well, maybe a little. But I really like the guy. This whole business of bringing him to dance with the media, that's pretty bizarre, and it's working. You think he'll get in the sack with Barbara Fell?"

  "I don't know," she said, crisply.

  "He seems like the kind of guy who'd be looking around," he offered.

  "Pot and kettle."

  "Hey-I didn't say it was bad. I just wondered about him and Fell. That's a match made in hell."

  "She's very attractive."

  "I guess, if you like the type," Kennett said. "She looks like a biker chick who fell off the Harley one too many times. Why'd you put him with her? Some kind of psychological compulsion to bury your sexual history?"

  "No, no, no. We just needed somebody who knew Midtown fences…"

  "Yeah, but Davenport's supposed to be a talking head."

  "He's never a talking head. Even when he's talking. The guy has more moves than you do, and you're the sneakiest, shiftiest…"

  "… crookedest…"

  "… most underhanded asshole on the force. Besides, he had to do something to get the media to talk to him."

  "I suppose." Kennett's fingertips slipped along her thigh again, her skin soft and slightly cool from evaporating sweat. "We'll either have to get a sheet to cover up or figure out some way to warm up the place again."

  Lily groped for his groin and said, "Oh, Jesus. Are you sure? Dick…"

  He rolled into her, his arm around her, pulling her tight. "That's the word, all right. Dick."

  "Be serious."

  "All right. How's this: I really do need you; it's the thing that keeps my heart going…"

  Much later, when he was sleeping, she thought: They can all make you feel guilty; it's what they do best…

  CHAPTER

  14

  The phone rang early and Lucas rolled out of the blankets, dropped his feet to the floor and sat a moment before he picked up the receiver. "Yeah?"

  "How's your head?" Kennett sounded wide awake and almost chipper.

  "Better," Lucas said. He couldn't seem to focus and noticed that the window shade was bright with low-angle sunshine. "What time is it?"

  "Seven o'clock."

  "Ah, Jesus, man, I don't get up at seven…" His face hurt again, and when he turned toward the bed, he noticed a spot of blood on the pillowcase.

  "Hey, it's a great day, but it's gonna be hot," Kennett said cheerfully.

  "Thanks. If you hadn't called, I woulda had to look out the window…" What's going on?

  "I understand that you and Fell talked to a guy named Whitechurch yesterday, at Bellevue?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Bekker took him off last night."

  "What?" Lucas stood up, trying to understand.

  "Shot him in a hallway. Cut his eyes," Kennett said.

  "The morgue guys said it's gotta be Bekker, 'cause it was done too well to be a copycat. And with you talking to him about Bekker, there's no way it's a coincidence. When they called me, a couple of hours ago now, I shipped Carter over to the hospital. Somebody there finally figured out that cops were talking to Whitechurch yesterday…"

  "Ah, Jesus," Lucas said. "Whitechurch was wrong, too. We knew it. We knew he was bullshitting us."

  "How'd you get onto him?"

  "A fence," Lucas said. "Down on the Lower East Side."

  "Smith?"

  "No, a small-timer, a woman named Arnold. We'll go back and talk to her, but I don't think she has any connection with Whitechurch except to handle occasional shipments from him. But why was Bekker talking to Whitechurch again? More equipment?"

  "Whitechurch was dealing dope," Kennett said.

  "Ah. For sure?"

  "Yeah, we got it from a couple of places. And I'd bet that's where the halothane is from."

  "Telephones?"

  "We sent a subpoena over, and the phone company's mopping up their computers right now. They'll run back all the calls that came into Whitechurch's apartment and his office phone, both, and where they came from, for the last two months."

  "That should do it," Lucas said. "Fell's got a beeper: if you find him, call us. I'd like to see the end of it."

  "Mmm. It doesn't feel that easy," Kennett said.

  "All right. Well: I'll get Fell and get back to the fence. Goddammit, why'd Whitechurch cover for him? That'd be something to figure out."

  Lucas called Fell and told her.

  "Did we mess it up?" she asked anxiously.

  "No. We barely touched the guy-there was no way to know. But Kennett's people are all over him now. Everybody who knew him. We've got to talk to what's-her-name, the fence."

  "Arnold. Rose."

  "Yeah… So what's your status? Are you ready?" Lucas asked.

  "Hey, I'm just sitting here on my bed, buck naked, half asleep."

  "Jesus, if you had a warm croissant and a cup of coffee, I'd come right over," Lucas said. The nude photo of Fell and the other cop popped up in his head.

  "Fuck you, Davenport," Fell said, laughing. "If you're ready, why don't you get a cab? I'll be out front by the time you get here."

  "You come get me," Lucas said. "I'm barely awake, and I gotta shave." He touched his raw cheek.

  "Be ready," she said.

  Fell, when she arrived, was wearing a black tailored cotton dress with small flowers-the kind of dress women wore in Moline, Illinois-black low heels and nylons.

  "Jesus, you look terrific," Lucas said, climbing into the cab behind her.

  She blushed and said, "We just gonna walk in on Arnold?"

  "You don't want to talk about how terrific you look?"

  "Hey, just shut the fuck up, okay, Davenport?" she said.

  "Anything you want…" Under his breath, he added, "Toots."

  "What? What'd you just say?"

  "Nothing," Lucas said innocently.

  She closed one eye and said, "You're walking on the edge, buddy."

  Arnold was scared. "He maybe got done because he talked to you," she said, sucking her heavy lips in and out.

  "No. He got done because he called this asshole Bekker, who he was protecting, and told him that we'd interviewed him," Lucas said. "Bekker knows me. He didn't want to take any chances."

  "So what do you want from me? I gave you everything."

  "How'd you get in touch with Whitechurch when you needed to?" Lucas asked.

  "I never needed to. When he had something good, he'd bring it over. Otherwise-shit, I don't handle hospital stuff. I handle shit you can sell, cheap. Suits. Neckties. Telephones. I wouldn't know what to do with no hospital stuff."

  Fell pointed a finger at her: "You took down Simpson-McCall, what, two months ago…?"

  Arnold looked away. "No. I don't know nothing about that."

  Fell studied her for a moment, then looked at Lucas. "Brokerage moves to a new building, one of those over-the-weekend moves. Trucks coming and going all night with files, computers, telephones, furniture, putting it in. The only thing is, not all of the trucks were hired by the brokerage. Some assholes rented trucks, drove them up to the loading docks, and disappeared over the horizon… One of them took off six hundred brand-new beige two-button phones. Somebody else got fifty Northgate IBM compatibles, still in the boxes."

  "Really?" said Arnold, faintly distressed. "Computers?"

  Fell nodded, and Lucas looked back at Arnold. "If you had to get to Whitechurch, what'd you do?"

  Arnold shrugged. "Call him at the hospital. Wasn't no big secret where he worked. Nights only, though."

  "Did he have a special number?"

  "I don't know, man, I never called him."

  "Did…"

  Fell's beeper went off. She took it out of her purse, glanced at the readout. "Wh
ere's the phone?" she asked Arnold. To Lucas, she said, "I bet they got him."

  "Over there, at the end of the counter, underneath…" Arnold said, pointing.

  As Fell punched the number into the telephone, Lucas went back to Arnold. "Did he work with anybody?"

  "Man, I bought telephones from him, four dollars apiece," Arnold said impatiently. "Boxes of pens and pencils. Notepads. Cartons of Xerox paper. Cleaning supplies. He once came in with two hundred bottles of ERA, you know, the laundry soap. I don't know where he got it, I didn't ask any questions. And that's all I know about him."

  "Yeah, this is Fell, you beeped?" Fell said into the phone. And then, voice hushed, "Jesus. What's the address. Huh? Okay." She hung up and looked at Lucas. "Bekker did another one, another woman. Ten minutes from here, walking."

  Lucas pointed a finger at Arnold: "Did you hear that? Think about Whitechurch. Anything you think of, call us. Anything."

  "Man, there's nothin'…"

  But Lucas and Fell were out the door.

  The body was in a dead-end alley off Prince. Uniforms blocked the mouth of the alley, kept back the curious. Fell and Lucas flashed their badges and went through. Kennett and two other plainclothesmen were there, staring into a window well. Kennett's hands, gripping the rail around the well, were white with tension.

  "Goddamn maniac," he said as Lucas and Fell walked up. The crime-scene techs had dropped a ladder into the well. Lucas looked over the railing and saw a small woman's body at the bottom of the well, nude, crumpled like a doll, the techs working over her.

  "No question it was Bekker?" Lucas asked.

  "No, but it's different. This doesn't look so scientific. She's pretty slashed up, like he… I don't know. It looks like he was having fun."

  "Eyes?"

  "Yeah, the eyes are cut and the doc says it looks like his work. The eyelids gone, very neat and surgical. The sonofabitch has a signature."

  "How long has she been down there?" Fell asked.

  "Not long. A few hours at the most. Probably went in before dawn, this morning."

  "Got an ID?" asked Lucas.