Lucas Davenport Collection

by John Sandford

  But it had been the lack of any denial that had hung him up.

  At the sentencing, he made a little speech apologizing to the victim’s family, but still maintained that he couldn’t remember the crime.

  The judge, who must have been running for reelection, if they reelected judges in Iowa, said in a sentencing statement that he rejected Child’s memory loss, believed that he did remember, and condemned him as a coward for not admitting it. Child got life.

  CAROL STUCK her head in, said, “I forgot to tell you, Weather got done early and she was heading home. She wants to take the kids out to the Italian place.”

  “I’ll call her…”

  THE ITALIAN place at six, Weather said; she’d load the kids up, and meet him there. Lucas looked at his watch. Four-twenty. He could get to the Italian place in ten minutes, so he had an hour and a half to read. It’d be quiet. People were headed out of the building, Carol was getting her purse together, checking her face.

  He heard the phone ring, and then Carol called, “You got Flowers on one. Flowers the person.”

  Lucas picked up: “Yeah.”

  “We got another problem.”

  “Ah, shit. What is it?” Lucas asked.

  “Jesse didn’t come home from school,” Flowers said.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t come home. She left school on time, Kathy checked with her last class and some friends of hers, they saw her on the street, but she never showed up at home. Kathy might be bullshitting us, but she seems pretty stressed. Conoway doesn’t know whether to be pissed or worried. The grand jury’s been put on hold for a while, but if we don’t find her in the next hour or so, they’re gonna send them home. I’m headed up that way, but it’s gonna take a while. If you’ve got a minute, you could run over to their house…”

  “Goddamnit,” Lucas said. “If they’re fucking with us, I’m gonna break that woman’s neck.”

  “Hope that’s what it is, but Kathy…I don’t know, Lucas. Didn’t sound like bullshit,” Flowers said. “Of course, it could be something that Jesse thought up on her own. But she was set to go, she seemed ready…”

  “I’m on my way,” Lucas said. “Call me when you get close.”

  12

  KATHY BARTH WAS STANDING in front of her house talking to a uniformed St. Paul cop and a woman in a green turban. Lucas parked at the curb and cut across the small front lawn. They all turned to look at him. Barth called, “Did you find her?” and Lucas knew from the tone of her voice that she wasn’t involved in whatever had happened to her daughter; wherever she’d gone.

  “I just heard,” Lucas said. “Virgil Flowers was down at the grand jury, he’s on his way up.” To the cop: “You guys looking?”

  The cop shrugged, “Yeah, we’re looking, but she’s only a couple hours late. We don’t usually even look this soon, for a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Get everybody looking,” Lucas said. “She was supposed to be talking to a grand jury about now. If there’s a problem, I’ll talk to the chief. We need everybody you can spare.” To Barth: “We need to know what she was wearing…the names of all her friends. I need to talk to her best friend right now.”

  The woman in the turban hadn’t said anything, but now spoke to Barth: “Kelly McGuire.”

  “I called, but she’s not home yet,” Barth said. Her face was taut with anxiety. She’d seen it all before, on TV, the missing girl, the frantic mother. “She’s at a dance place and the phone’s off the hook. She won’t be home until five-thirty.”

  “You know what dance place?” Lucas asked.

  “Over on Snelling, by the college,” Barth said. “Just south of Grand.”

  “I know it,” Lucas said to the cop, “I’m going over there. Let me give you my cell number…” The cop wrote the number on a pad. “If you need any more authority, call me. I’ll call the governor if I have to. Talk to whoever you need to, and tell them that this could be serious. You want everybody out there looking, because the press is gonna get on top of this and by tomorrow, if we don’t have this kid, the shit is gonna hit the fan.”

  “All right, all right,” the cop said. And to Barth: “You said she had a yellow vest…”

  Lucas hustled back to his car, cranked it, and took off. The dance studio was called Aphrodite, the name in red neon with green streaks around it. The windows were covered by venetian blinds, but through the slots between the blinds and the window posts, you could see the hardwood floor and an occasional dancer in tights.

  Lucas parked at a hydrant and pushed through the studio’s outer door. An office was straight ahead, the floor to the right, with a door in the back leading to the locker rooms; it smelled like a gym. An instructor had a half-dozen girls working from a barre, the girls all identically dressed in black. Another woman, older, sat behind a desk in the office, and peered at Lucas over a pair of reading glasses. Lucas stepped over and she said, “Can I help you?”

  Lucas held out his ID. “I’m with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. We have a missing girl, and I need to talk to one of your students. A Kelly McGuire?”

  “Who’s missing?” the woman asked.

  “One of her classmates. Is Kelly still here?”

  “Yes…Just a minute.” She got up, stepped onto the floor, and called, “Kelly? Could you come over here for a moment?”

  McGuire was a short, slender, dark-haired girl who actually looked like professional dancers Lucas had met. She frowned as she stepped away from the barre and walked across the floor: “Did something happen?”

  Everybody paused to listen. Lucas said, “Ah, I’m a police officer, I need to talk to you for a second about a friend of yours. Could you step outside, maybe?”

  “I’ll have to get my shoes…Or, it’s nice, I could go barefoot…” She took off her dance shoes and followed Lucas outside. “What happened?”

  “Have you seen Jesse Barth today?” Lucas asked.

  “Yes. When school got out.” Her eyes were wide; she’d see it all on TV, too. “I talked to her, we usually walk home, but I had a band practice and then my dance lesson…Is she hurt?”

  “We can’t locate her at the moment,” Lucas said. “She was…”

  “She was going to testify to a jury today, tonight,” McGuire said. “She was pretty nervous about it.”

  “If she decided to chicken out, where would she go?” Lucas asked. “Does she have any special friends, a boyfriend?”

  McGuire was troubled: “Jeez, I don’t know…”

  “Look, Kelly: if she doesn’t want to testify, she doesn’t have to. But. We can’t find her. That’s what we’re worried about,” Lucas said. “Somebody saw her on the street, walking home, but she never showed up. We’ve got to know where she might’ve gone. If she’s okay, we can work it out. But if she’s not…”

  “Ah…” She stared at Lucas for a moment, then turned and looked at a bus, and then said, “Okay. If she hid out, it’d be either Mike Sochich’s house, or she might have gone to Katy Carlson’s—or she might have taken a bus to Har Mar, to go to a movie. Sometimes she goes up to Har Mar and sits there for hours.”

  “Where can I find these people…?”

  MCGUIRE WAS an assertive sort: She said, “Give me two minutes to change. I’ll show you. That’d be fastest.”

  She took five minutes, and hustled out with a bag of clothes. In the car, she said, “Turn around, we want to go over to the other side of Ninety-four, into Frogtown. Mike would be the best possibility…Best to go down Ninety-four to Lexington, then up Lexington. I’ll show you where to turn…”

  He did a U-turn on Snelling, caught a string of greens, accelerated down the ramp onto I-94, then up at Lexington, left, and north to Thomas, right, down the street a few blocks until McGuire pointed at a gray-shingled house behind a waist-high chain-link fence. Lucas pulled over and McGuire slumped down in her seat and said, “I’ll wait here.”

  Lucas said, with a grin, “If she’s here, she’s gonna know you ratted her o
ut. Might as well face the music.” He popped the door to get out, and heard her door pop a second later. She followed him across the parking strip to the gate. There was a bare spot in the yard with a chain and a stake, and on the end of the chain, the same yellow-white dog he’d seen at the Barth’s.

  “Jesse’s dog,” Lucas said.

  “Naw, that’s Mike’s dog,” McGuire said. “Sometimes Jesse walks home with it. Dog likes her better than Mike.”

  Again, they stepped carefully. The dog barked twice and snarled, but knew where the end of the chain was. And a good thing, Lucas thought. All he needed this afternoon was a pitbull-wannabe hanging on his ass.

  Mike’s house had a low shaky porch, with soft floorboards going to rot. The aluminum storm door was canted a bit, and didn’t close completely. Lucas rang the doorbell, then knocked on the door. He heard a thump from inside, and a minute later, saw the curtain move in a window on the left side of the porch.

  He felt the tension unwind a notch. He banged on the door, pissed off now. “Jesse. Goddamnit, Jesse, answer the door. Jesse…”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Lucas said to McGuire, “If she comes to the door, yell for me.”

  He stepped off the porch, circled the dog, and hurried around to the back of the house: five seconds later, Jesse Barth came sneaking out the back door, carrying a backpack.

  “Goddamnit, Jesse,” he said.

  Startled, she jerked around, saw him at the corner of the house. Gave up: “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”

  “Come on—I’ve got to call your mom,” Lucas said. “She’s freaked out, half the cops in St. Paul are out looking for you. People thought you were kidnapped.”

  “I was just scared,” Jesse said as he led her through the ankle-deep grass back around the house. “What if I make a mistake?” Her lip trembled. “I don’t want to make a mistake and go to jail.”

  “Did Conoway say she was going to put you in jail?” Lucas asked. “Who said they were gonna put you in jail?”

  “Well, you did, for one.”

  “That’s if you tried to sell your testimony,” Lucas said. “If you just go down and tell the truth, you’re fine. You’re the victim here.”

  “But if I make a mistake…”

  “There’s a difference between lying and making a mistake,” Lucas told her. “They’re not gonna put you in jail for making a mistake. You have to deliberately lie, and know you’re lying, and it’s gotta be an important lie. You talked to Conoway about what you’re going to say. Just say that, and you’re fine.”

  They cleared the front of the house and found McGuire on the porch, talking to a tall, bespectacled kid wearing a Seal T-shirt and jeans: Mike. McGuire said: “Jesse, they were afraid you were kidnapped. I’m sorry, I was so worried, you know, you see on the news all the time…”

  “That’s okay,” Jesse said. “I’m just fucked up.”

  LUCAS CALLED KATHY BARTH: “I got her. She was hiding out with a friend. You’ve still got time to get down to Dakota County.”

  “I’ve got to talk to Jesse,” Barth said.

  “She’s willing to go. You’re holding up a lot of people here,” Lucas said.

  “Oh, God.” Long silence, as though she were catching her breath. “Well, I’ve got to change…”

  Lucas called Flowers, who was just crossing the Mississippi bridge into South St. Paul. He was ten minutes away: “Man, I thought she was gone,” Flowers said. “I was thinking all this shit about the Klines and finding her body under a bridge…”

  “Can you pick her up? That’d be best: I’m here with the Porsche and I got a rider.”

  “Fast as I can get there. If we turn right around, we’ll just about be on time.”

  He told Flowers how to find the house, then called the St. Paul cops and canceled the alert: “Yeah, yeah, so I’ll go kill myself,” he told a cop who was inclined to pull his weenie.

  THE THREE younger people sat on the porch, waiting for Flowers, and Lucas gave Jesse a psychological massage, telling her of various screw-ups with grand juries, and explained the difference between grand juries and trial juries. Jesse unsnapped the dog, whose name, it turned out, was Screw. She put it on a walking leash and the dog rolled over in the dirt and panted and licked its jaws and whimpered when Jesse scratched its stomach. “You’re gonna make him come,” Mike said.

  “No…” Jesse was embarrassed.

  Lucas moved and the dog twitched. “I don’t think he likes me.”

  “Bit a paperboy once,” Mike said. “They were gonna sue us, but Mom said, ‘For what?’ so they didn’t.”

  “That’s great,” Lucas said.

  Flowers arrived, towing a boat. He got out of his car, ambled over, shaking his head, and said to Jesse, “I ought to turn you over my knee.”

  “Oo. Do me, do me,” McGuire said.

  IN THE CAR, McGuire said she might as well go home, since her class would be ending. “Hope the neighbors see me coming home in a Porsche. They’ll think I’m having a fling.”

  “Maybe I oughta put a bag over my head,” Lucas said.

  “That’d be no fun,” she said. “I want people to see it’s a big tough old guy.”

  LUCAS WAS still cranked from Flowers’s original call, and, in the back of his head, couldn’t believe that they’d found Jesse so quickly. He dropped McGuire off at her home in Highland. She waved goodbye going up the walk, and he thought she was a pretty good kid. He looked at his watch. If he took a little time, rolled down Ford Parkway with his arm out the window, enjoying the day and the leafy street, and maybe blowing the doors off the Corvette that had just turned onto the parkway in front of him, he’d just about make dinner with the wife and kids.

  He was done with Kline and the Barths.

  Now he had a motherfucker who was killing old people, and he was going to run him down like a skunk on a highway.

  DINNER WITH the kids was fine; in the evening, he read a Chuck Logan thriller novel. Late at night, Flowers called: “We got an indictment. They’re going to process the paper tomorrow, talk to Kline’s attorney, set up a surrender late tomorrow afternoon, and then make the announcement day after tomorrow. Cole’s set it up so they can arrest and book him before the press finds out, he’ll make bail, then go hide out. Then the announcement.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Lucas said. “You headed back south?”

  “I’m here tonight, I’m heading back tomorrow at the crack of dawn.”

  IN THE MORNING, after a few phone calls, Lucas took a meeting at Bucher’s house. He’d asked Gabriella Coombs to come over, to sit in.

  The Widdlers had almost finished the appraisals of the contents of the house, with negative results. “In other words,” Smith said, “there’s nothing missing.”

  “There are a few things missing, John,” Lucas said. “The Reckless painting, for one. A couple of chairs.”

  “According to a kid, who admitted that he hadn’t been up there for a while, and that maybe Bucher got rid of them herself,” Smith said.

  “The whole thing smells. And we’ve now got a couple of other deals…”

  “Lucas, I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Smith said. “What I’m saying is, you’ve got a killing years ago in Eau Claire where a woman was shot and nothing was taken but some money. An old man was strangled in Des Moines and the case was cleared. Another woman probably fell, according to the medical examiner, with all respect to Miss Coombs here. We’ve got nothing to work with. It’s been a while since you worked at the city level, but I’ll tell you what, it has gotten worse. I’m up to my ass in open investigations, and until we get more to go on…”

  “That’s not right,” Coombs said. “My grandmother was murdered and her house was robbed.”

  “That’s not what…” Smith shook his head.

  Leslie Widdler came in, carrying a white paper bag. He said, “We’ve got a bunch of sticky buns from Frenchy’s. Who wants one?”

  Lucas held up his hand and Leslie handed him the s
ack. Lucas took out a sticky bun and passed the bag to Smith, who took one and passed it to Coombs, who took one, and then they all sat chewing and swallowing and Lucas said, “Thanks, Les…John tells me you haven’t found a single goddamn stick of furniture missing. Is that right?”

  “We’ve gone through the photographs one at a time, and we’ve found two pieces that are not actually here,” Widdler said. “We’ve accounted for both of them. Both were given away.”

  “What about the swoopy chairs that the Lash kid was talking about?”

  Widdler shrugged. “Can’t put our finger on them. ‘Swoopy’ isn’t a good enough description. He can’t even tell us the color of the upholstery, or whether the seats were leather or fabric. All he ever looked at were the legs.”

  “Well…if he’s right, how much would they be worth?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either,” Widdler said. “Everything depends on what they were, and condition. A pristine swoopy chair, of a certain kind, might be worth a thousand dollars. The same chair, in bad shape, might be worth fifty. Or, it might be a knockoff, which is very common, and be worth zero. So—I don’t know. What I do know is, there’s a lot of furniture here that’s worth good money, and they didn’t take it. There are some old, old oriental carpets, especially one up in Mrs. Bucher’s bedroom, that would pull fifty thousand dollars on the open market. There are some other carpets rolled up on the third floor. If these people were really sophisticated, they could have brought one of those carpets down and unrolled it in Mrs. Bucher’s bedroom, taken the good one, and who would have known? Really?”

  They chewed some more, and Smith said, “One more bun. Who wants it? I’m all done…”

  Widdler said, “Me.” Smith passed him the sack and Widdler retrieved the bun, took a bite, and said, “The other thing is, we know for sure that Mrs. Bucher gave things away from time to time. There may have been some swoopy chairs and a Reckless painting. Has anybody talked to her accountants about deductions the last couple of years?”