Silent Prey

by John Sandford

  "Can't keep my head down," Smith said. He strode toward them, his golf shoes scuffing over the artificial turf. Smith was a short, barrel-chested, barrel-gutted man with a fuzzy mustache and kinky black hair. He wore a black golf shirt tucked into black pleated slacks, with a woven leather belt circling his waist. A gold chain dangled from his neck, with what looked like a St. Christopher medal. He smiled at Fell and stuck his hand out. "You're the cop who was watching me last year..."

  Fell ignored the hand. "We need to talk to you about this Bekker guy," she said bluntly. "The guy who's chopping up these people..."

  "The freak," Smith said. He took his hand back, couldn't find a place for it, and finally stuck it in his slacks pocket. He was puzzled, his mustache quivering. "Why talk to me?"

  "He needs money and drugs, and he can't get them legitimately," Lucas said. He'd drifted past the driving area to the putting green. The green's surface was knee high, but dished, to provide a variety of contours. He reached down and pressed his fingers against it. Real grass, carefully groomed, cool and slightly damp to the touch.

  "Now that's a hell of a project, right there," Smith said enthusiastically. He picked up a remote control, touched a series of buttons, and the lights over the putting green flickered and came on. "Those are special grow lights," he said, pointing up at the lighting fixture. "Same spectrum as the sun. Joe over there, he knows all about different grasses, he set it up. This is genuine bent grass. It took him a year to get it right."

  Smith stepped up and onto the green, walked lightly across it, then turned to look at Lucas. Back to business: "So this guy needs money and drugs?"

  "Yeah. And we want you to put the word out on your network. Somebody is dealing with him, and we want him. Now."

  Smith picked up a putter that was leaning against the far end. Three balls waited in a rack, and he popped them out, lined up the first one, stroked and missed. The ball rolled past the cup and stopped two feet away.

  "Twenty-two feet. Not bad," he said. "When you've got a long lag like that, you just try to get it within two feet of the cup. You pretend you're shooting for a manhole cover. That's the secret to single-bogey golf. Do cops play golf?"

  "We need you to put out the word," Fell said.

  "Talk into my belly button, said Little Red Riding Hood," Smith said. He lined up another putt, let it go. The ball rolled four feet past the cup. "Fuck it," he said. "Nerves. You guys are putting pressure on me."

  "There's no wire," Lucas said quietly. "Neither one of us is wired. We're looking for a little help."

  "What do I get out of it?" Smith asked.

  "Civic pride," Lucas said. The pitch of his voice had dropped a bit, but Smith pretended not to notice, and lined up the last ball.

  "Civic pride? In fuckin' New York?" He snorted, looked up and said, "Excuse the language, Dr. Fell.... Anyway, I really don't know what you're talking about, this network."

  He walked around the green, squinting at the short putt. The blond man approached with a china platter covered with steaming slices of bread. "Anybody for fresh bread? We've got straight and garlic butter...."

  "Fuck the bread," said Fell. She looked at Lucas. "We're not getting to him. Maybe we ought to have the fire department check his..."

  "Nah, political shit doesn't work with a guy who's really connected," Lucas said. "Mr. Smith sounds like he's connected."

  Smith squinted at him. "Who're you? I don't remember you...."

  "I've been hired as a consultant here," Lucas said. He wandered back to the driving net, speaking so softly that the others could barely pick up the words. He pulled a three iron out of the golf bag and looked at it. "I used to work in Minneapolis, until I got thrown off the force. I caught Bekker the first time, but not before he killed a good friend of mine. Cut her throat. He let her see it coming. Made her wait for it. Then he sawed right through her neck.... She was tied up, couldn't fight back. So later, when I caught Bekker..."

  "His face got all fucked up," Smith said suddenly.

  "That's right," said Lucas. He'd come back, carrying the iron. "His face got all fucked up."

  "Wait a minute," said Fell.

  Lucas ignored her, hopped up on the putting green, and walked toward Smith. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fell's hand sliding into the fold of her shoulder bag. "And I didn't worry about fucking him up. You know why? Because I've got a lot of money of my own and I didn't need the job. I don't need any job."

  "What the fuck are you talking..." Smith backed away, looked quickly at the blond.

  "... And Bekker got me really pissed," Lucas said to Smith, his voice riding over the other man's. His eyes were wide, the tendons in his neck straining at his shirt collar. "I mean really fuckin' pissed. And I had this pistol, with this big sharp front sight on it, and when I caught him, I pounded his face with the sight until you couldn't tell it was a face. Before that, Bekker'd been really pretty, just like this fuckin' green...."

  Lucas pivoted and swung the three iron, a long sweeping swing into the perfect turf. A two-pound divot of dirt and grass sprayed off the platform across the pool table.

  "Wait, wait..." Smith was waving his hands, trying to stop it.

  The blond had set the china tray aside and his hand went toward the small of his back and Fell had a pistol out, pointed at his head, and she was yelling, "No, no, no..."

  Lucas rolled on, swinging the club like a scythe, screaming, walking around Smith, saliva spraying on Smith's black shirt. "Pounded his face, pounded his motherfuckin' face, you believe the way we pounded his fuckin' face."

  When he stopped, breathing hard, a dozen ragged furrows slashed the surface of the green. Lucas turned and looked at the blond man. Hopped down off the platform, walked toward him.

  "You were going to pull out a gun," he said.

  The blond man shrugged. He had heavy shoulders, like a weight lifter, and he shifted, setting his feet.

  "That really pisses me off," Lucas shouted at him.

  "Hold it, for Christ's sake," said Fell, her voice low and urgent.

  Lucas swung the iron again, quickly, violently, overhead, then down. The blond flinched, but the iron smashed through the freshly baked bread and the platter beneath it. Pieces of china skittered across the floor, and he shouted, "And tried to fuckin' bribe us..."

  Then he ran down, staggered, turned back to Smith and pointed the club like a saber.

  "I don't want to be your friend. I don't want to deal. You're a goddamned dirtbag, and it makes me feel nasty to be here. What I'm telling you is, I want you to put the word out on your network. And I want you to call me. Lucas Davenport. Midtown South. If you don't, I will fuck you up six different ways. I'll talk to the New York Times and I'll talk to the News and I'll talk to Eye Witness News and I'll give them pictures of you and tell them you're working with Bekker. How'd that help business? And I might just come back and fuck you up personally, because this is a serious matter with me, this Bekker thing."

  He turned in a half-circle, his breath slowing, took a step toward the door, then suddenly whipped the club into the kitchen like a helicopter blade. It knocked a copper tureen off a wall peg, bounced off the stove, and clattered to the floor with the tureen. "Never was any fucking good with the long irons," he said.

  On the way out of the building, Fell watched him until Lucas began to grin.

  "Nuttier'n shit, huh?" he said, glancing at her.

  "I believed it," she said seriously.

  "Thanks for the backup. I don't think blondie would've done much...."

  She shook her head. "That was funny; I mean, funny-strange. I didn't know Jackie Smith was gay until I saw this guy. That's like dealing with spouses, only worse. You whack one and the other's liable to come after you with a knife...."

  "Are you sure they're gay?"

  "Does Raggedy Ann have a cotton crotch?"

  "I don't know what that means," Lucas said, laughing.

  "It means yes, I'm sure they're gay," she said.


  "How come he called you Dr. Fell?" Lucas asked. "Are you a doctor?"

  "No. It's from the nursery rhyme: `I do not love thee, Dr. Fell; the reason why I cannot tell; but this I know, and know full well: I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.' "

  "Huh. I'm impressed," Lucas said.

  "I know several nursery rhymes," Fell said, digging in her purse for the pack of Luckys. "Want to hear `Old King Cole'?"

  "I mean with Smith. Knowing the rhyme."

  "I don't impress you, huh?" She flipped the cigarette into her mouth, her eyes slanting up at him.

  "Don't know yet," he said. "Maybe..."

  Barbara Fell lived on the Upper West Side. They dropped her city car at Midtown South, found a cab, and she said, "I've got a decent neighborhood bar. Why don't you come up and get a drink, chill out, and you can catch a cab from there."

  "All right." He nodded. He needed some more time with her.

  They went north on Sixth, the sidewalk traffic picking up as they got closer to Central Park, tourists walking arm in arm along the sidewalks.

  "It's too big," Lucas said, finally, watching through the window as the city went by. "In the Twin Cities, you can pretty much get a line on every asshole in town. Here..." He looked out and shook his head. "Here, you'd never know where it was coming from. You got assholes like other places got raindrops. This is the armpit of the universe."

  "Yeah, but it can be pretty nice," she said. "Got the theaters, the art museums..."

  "When was the last time you went to a theater?"

  "I don't know-I really can't afford it. But I mean, if I could."

  "Right."

  In the front seat, the taxi driver was humming to himself. There was no tune, only variations in volume and intensity as the driver stared blank-eyed through the windshield, bobbing his head to some unheard rhythm. His hands gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. Lucas looked at the driver, looked at Fell and shook his head. She laughed, and he grinned and went back to the window.

  The bar was small, carefully lit, convivial. The bartender called Fell by her first name, pointed her at a back booth. Lucas took the seat facing the entrance. A waitress came over, looked at him, looked at Fell, said, "Ooo."

  Fell said, "Strictly business."

  "Ain't it always," the waitress said. "Didja hear Louise had her kid, baby girl, six pounds four ounces?"

  Lucas watched Fell as she chatted with the waitress. She looked a little tired, a little lonesome, with that uncertain smile.

  "So," she said, coming back to Lucas. "Do you really freeze your ass off in Minnesota? Or is that just..."

  Small talk, bar talk. A second drink. Lucas waiting for a break, waiting....

  Getting it. A slender man walked in, touched a woman on the cheek, got a quick peck in return. He was blond, carefully dressed, and after a moment, looked at the back of Fell's head, said something to the woman he'd touched, then looked carefully at Lucas.

  "There's a guy," Lucas said, leaning across the table, talking in a low voice. "And I think he's looking at you. By the bar..."

  She turned her head and lit up. "Mica," she called. To Lucas she said, "He used to be my hairdresser. He's, like, moved downtown." She slid out of the booth, walked up to the bar. "When did you get back... ?"

  "I thought that was you..." Mica said.

  Mica had been to Europe; he started a story. Lucas sipped the beer, lifted his feet to the opposite seat, caught Fell's purse between his ankles, pulled it in. Fumbled with it, out of sight, watching. The waitress glanced his way, lifted her eyebrows. He shook his head. If she came over, if Mica's story ended too soon, if Fell hurried back to get a cigarette...

  There. Keys. He'd been waiting all day for a shot at them....

  He glanced at the key ring in his hand, six keys. Three good candidates. He had a flat plastic box in his pocket that had once held push pins. He'd dumped the pins and filled both the bottom and the lid with a thin layer of modeling clay. He pressed the first key in the clay, turned it, pressed again. Then the second key. The third key he did in the lid; if he made the impressions too close together, the clay tended to distort.... He glanced into the box. Good, clean impressions, six of them.

  Fell was still talking. He slipped the keys back into her purse, gripped it with his ankles, lifted it back to her seat....

  Pulse pounding like an amateur shoplifter's.

  Jesus.

  Got them.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Lily called the next morning, "Got them," she said. "We're going to breakfast...."

  Lucas called Fell, catching her just before she left her apartment.

  "O'Dell called," he said. "He wants me to have breakfast with him. I probably won't make it down until ten o'clock or so."

  "All right. I'll run the guy Lonnie told us about, the guy with the Cadillac in Atlantic City. It won't be much...."

  "Unless the guy's into medical supplies. Maybe the syringes weren't his only item."

  "Yeah..." She knew that was bullshit, and Lucas grinned at the telephone.

  "Hey, we're driving nails. I'll buy you lunch later on."

  The Lakota Hotel was old, but well-kept for New York. It was close to the publishing company that produced Lucas' board games, convenient to restaurants, and had beds that his feet didn't hang off of. From this particular room, he had a view over the roof below into the windows of a glass-sided office building. Not wonderful, but not bad, either. He had two nightstands, a writing table, a chest of drawers, a window seat, a color television with a working remote, and a closet with a light that came on automatically when he opened it.

  He went to the closet, pulled out a briefcase and opened it on the bed. Inside was a monocular, a cassette recorder with a phone clip, and a Polaroid Spectra camera with a half-dozen rolls of film. Excellent. He closed the briefcase, made a quick trip to the bathroom, and rode back down to the street. A bellhop, loitering in the phone-booth-sized lobby, said, "Cab, Mr. Davenport?"

  "No. I've got a car coming," he said. Outside, he hurried down the street to a breakfast bar, got a pint of orange juice in a wax carton, and went back outside.

  After leaving Fell the night before, he'd gone to Lily's apartment and given her the key impressions. Lily knew an intelligence officer who could get them made overnight, discreetly.

  "Old friend?" Lucas asked.

  "Go home, Lucas," she'd said, pushing him out the door.

  And now she called his name again: a black town car slid to the curb, a cluster of antennas sticking out of the trunk lid, and when the back window slid down, he saw her face. "Lucas..."

  O'Dell's driver was a broad man with a Korean War crew cut, his hair the color of rolled steel. A hatchet nose split basalt eyes, and his lips were dry and thick; a Gila monster's. Lucas got in the passenger seat.

  "Avery's?" the driver asked. The front seat was separated from the back by an electric window, which had been run down.

  "Yeah," O'Dell said. He was reading the Times editorial page. A pristine copy of the Wall Street Journal lay between his right leg and Lily's left. As he looked over the paper, he asked Lucas, "Did you eat yet?"

  "A carton of orange juice."

  "We'll get you something solid," O'Dell said. He'd not stopped reading the paper, and the question and comment were perfunctory. After a moment, he muttered, "Morons."

  Lily said to the driver, "This is Lucas Davenport next to you, Aaron-Lucas, that's Aaron Copland driving."

  "Not the fuckin' piano player, either," Copland said. His eyes went to Lucas. "How are ya?"

  "Nice to meet you," Lucas said.

  At Avery's, Copland got out first and held the door for O'Dell. Copland had a wide, solid gut, but the easy moves of an athlete. He wore a pistol clipped to his belt, just to the left of his navel, and though his golf shirt covered it, he made no particular attempt to conceal it.

  A heavy automatic, Lucas thought. Most of the New York cops he'd seen were carrying ancient.38 Specials, rev
olvers that looked as though they'd been issued at the turn of the century. Copland, whatever else he might be, was living in the present. He never looked directly at Lucas or Lily or O'Dell as they were getting out of the car, but around them, into the corners and doorways and window wells.

  In the closest doorway was a solid oak door with a narrow window at eye height, and below that, a gleaming brass plaque that said AVERY' S. Behind the door was a restaurant full of politicians: they had places like this in Minneapolis and St. Paul, but Lucas had never seen one in New York. It was twenty feet wide, a hundred feet deep, with a long dark mahogany bar to the right side of the entrance. Overhead, wooden racks held hundreds of baseball bats, lying side by side, all of them autographed. A dozen flat Plexiglas cases marched down the left-hand wall opposite the bar, like stations of the cross, and each case held a half-dozen more bats, autographed. Lucas knew most of the names-Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Maris, Mays, Snider, Mantle. Others, like Nick Etten, Bill Terry, George Stirnweiss, Monte Irvin, rang only faint bells in his memory. At the end of the bar, a double row of booths extended to the back of the restaurant; almost all of the booths were occupied.