Silent Prey

by John Sandford

  "I know you are-or somebody is. O'Dell for sure, and you're with O'Dell...."

  "Tell me about it," she said, sitting back again.

  Lucas looked her over and said, "First of all, Fell's not involved."

  "Why not?"

  "I just know, and I'm not wrong," Lucas said.

  "Lucas, instincts or no instincts, the goddamn records aren't lying about this," Lily said. "She's all over the place."

  "I know. She's an alarm."

  "What?"

  "She's a trip wire," Lucas said. "Working the jobs she has, in Burglary, and as a decoy, she knows half the assholes in Midtown. So Robin Hood used her as a reference and picked on assholes that she knew. Then they watched her. If anybody got close, they'd get close to her first...."

  "I don't know." Lily was shaking her head. She didn't believe it.

  "It'd have to be a tough sonofabitch to set that up," Lucas continued. "As soon as you pulled her off her regular job and put me next to her, the alarm went off. Petty's been killed, the official investigation seems to be dead in the water-and here comes Lily Rothenburg and the department's Svengali, towing me along behind. And you stick me next to Fell. They never bought the Bekker thing: they've been reading us like a book."

  "Who?"

  Lucas hesitated. "I'm tempted to say Kennett."

  "Bullshit." Lily shook her head. "I'd know. In fact, I asked him. He doesn't even think there is such a group."

  "But we know there is. And I'm still tempted to say Kennett. O'Dell put me right up against Fell and he put me right up against Kennett. It's possible that O'Dell knows it's Kennett, but doesn't have the proof."

  Lily thought it over, staring at him. "That's..."

  "Bizarre. I agree. And of course, there're other possibilities, too."

  "That it's me?" She smiled a small and frosty smile.

  "Yeah." Lucas nodded. "That's one of them."

  "And what do you think?"

  He shook his head. "It's not you, so..."

  "How do you know it's not me?" she asked.

  "Same way I know it's not Fell-I've seen you operate."

  "Thanks for that," Lily said.

  "Yeah... which brings us to the last possibility."

  "O'Dell?"

  "O'Dell. He has access to everything he needs to organize the group. He knows everybody on the force, and he probably could pick out likely candidates for his hit teams. He has the computer files to pick out the assholes, and to set up Fell as an alarm...."

  "There's a hole," Lily said quickly. "He's so high up he wouldn't need an alarm...."

  "Internal Affairs-he might not know about Internal Affairs investigations."

  She bit her lip. "Okay. Go ahead."

  "Since Petty was a computer maven too, maybe computers led him to O'Dell. Whatever it was, for whatever reason Petty got hit, O'Dell was right there to manage the investigation. Kept it out of Internal Affairs..."

  "Said it was too political," Lily said thoughtfully.

  "Yeah. Then he pulls me into it, produces Fell, and he puts me up against Kennett. And you know what? Fell and Kennett are all I've got-all that paper you gave me, the regular investigation, the reports. It's all bullshit. It's all a stone wall. It looks impressive, but there's nothing in it."

  "Why would O'Dell pick on Kennett?"

  "Because Kennett's going to die," Lucas said bluntly. "Suppose he gets everything pointed at Kennett, and then Kennett... dies. Natural causes, a heart attack. If there was an agreement that Kennett was it, the investigation would die and the real organizer would be clear."

  Lily, pale as notebook paper: "He couldn't have... I don't think."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't think... I don't think he's brave enough. Physically. He'd be thinking about prison."

  "That all depends on how he's set it up. Maybe his shooters don't know him."

  "Yeah, but remember-if O'Dell is it, he wouldn't have to give you Fell. If Fell's an alarm, I mean, he'd know what you were here for."

  "Yeah. And he'd know that Fell would get me exactly where she has: nowhere. And at the same time, lend a touch of truth to the whole business. Fell did know all those dead guys. Besides, with Petty talking to both of you, and Fell popping out of the computer, there was no way to get her back inside...."

  "Maybe," she said.

  "How'd you meet Kennett?" Lucas asked abruptly.

  "In the intraconference meetings."

  "As O'Dell's assistant?"

  "Yes."

  "Did O'Dell feed you to him?" Lucas asked.

  "Jesus, Lucas," she said.

  "Did he? I mean, he knows both of you. Could he have figured..."

  "I don't know. They don't like each other, you know." Lily stood and turned in place, like a dog trying to make a bed more comfortable. "You know, you've put this whole tissue together without a single goddamned fact...."

  "I've got one interesting, surprising, generally unknown fact," he said; and it was his turn to produce a wintry smile.

  "What?"

  "I know that O'Dell's trying to frame Kennett. I know that for sure. The question is, is he doing it because Kennett's guilty and it's the only way to get him? Or because he's looking for a scapegoat?"

  "Bullshit," she said, but he could see the shock in her eyes.

  "I found Red Reed in Charleston, South Carolina," he said. "He's a friend of O'Dell's, from Columbia...."

  And then he told her most of the rest of it, except for the curious thing Mrs. Logan had said, when they interviewed her in the apartment below Petty's.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Lily listened as Lucas called Fell, watched his face, watched him smiling, turning away, setting up a date. Lucas left, hurrying, and she stood at the window with her purse, watching him. He flagged a cab, and just before he got in, looked up and saw, pointed at her purse, waved.

  Then he was gone.

  She walked through the apartment, touching things, with the sense of something ending, with a sense of dread.

  Kennett? No. But O'Dell was unthinkable too. Could O'Dell have coldly executed his own man...

  Finally, she picked up the phone and punched in the number for Kennett's boat. He picked it up and said, "Lily."

  Pleased, she said, "How'd you know it was me?"

  "I think it might be love," he said. "Are you feeling lonely?"

  "You're reading my mind."

  "The river's beautiful tonight...."

  The river was quiet, smelling of mud and oil and salt. Halyard hardware tinkled against the aluminum masts. A late-night squall was rolling off the coast far to the northeast, and they could see the lightning in the sky far beyond the lights of Manhattan.

  As Lily and Kennett made love, she had a moment of absolute clarity, could hear the Crash Test Dummies' song "Superman" roll mournfully out of a nearby boat, muted by the ten thousand unidentifiable cheeps and knocks of the marina.

  Later, in the cockpit...

  "Jesus, I'm sitting here bullshitting and you're sitting there crying," Kennett said quietly. He reached across and thumbed a tear off her cheek. "What's all this about?"

  "I was just looking across the river, thinking how pretty it was, how good it feels. Then I thought about Walt, about how he'd never see it again."

  "Petty?"

  "Yeah. God damn it."

  "The guy has a strange hold on you, m'dear," Kennett said, trying to keep his voice light: an invitation to talk.

  "You know why?" she asked, taking up the invitation.

  "Why?"

  "Because we were so goddamn mean to him, that's why. Us girls, in school. Lucas got me thinking about it...."

  "It's hard to see you as mean," Kennett said.

  "I didn't think about it at the time. The thing about Walt was, he'd do anything for you. He was always so eager. And when we were in school-and even after that, on the force-we paid him back by laughing about the way he dressed, and the way he acted, and all those pens he used to carry arou
nd. We made him be a clown and he wasn't a clown; but whenever he tried to be serious, we wouldn't let him. We hurt him. That's what I was thinking about, the times I know we hurt him-girls, in high school-that hurt look on his face when he'd try to do something, try an approach and we'd laugh in his face. He never really understood.... Oh, God."

  Suddenly, she was sobbing and Kennett patted her on the back, helplessly. "Jesus, Lily..."

  A moment later she said, her voice clearing, "You're a Catholic. Do you believe in visions? You know, like the Virgin Mary and all of that, talking to shepherds?"

  "I'd want to see it myself," Kennett said wryly.

  "The thing is, I keep seeing Petty...." She laughed, a short, sad laugh, and poked him. "No, no, no, I don't see him floating around my room, I see him in my mind...."

  "Whew."

  "But the thing is, it's so clear. Walt running down the street, and his hair plastered down and his ears sticking out... Jesus Christ. Walt was the only guy who ever loved me and didn't want anything from me. No sex, no kids, no favors, just me being there and he was happy."

  Kennett found nothing to say, and they sat there, their feet up, watching the dark river. After a while, Lily began to cry again.

  CHAPTER

  25

  Lucas called Fell from Lily's, apologizing for the late hour.

  "I was going down to the tavern," she said. "Why don't you meet me...."

  He flagged a cab, Lily watching from her window, smiling down at him. He waved, and she lifted her purse in her left hand, slipped her right inside the gun tote. Remember the last time?

  At the tavern, Lucas pulled a twenty out of his Muskies Inc. money clip and tipped the driver two dollars for the eight-dollar ride. Fell was in the back booth, a beer on the table with a bowl of peanuts. She was reading a free newspaper.

  "Hey," he said, slipping into the booth.

  "Hi. Any developments at Rothenburg's?"

  "No..."

  "Good," she said.

  Lucas shook his head. "Jesus." And then: "I gotta get a beer." He waved at a waitress, pointed at Fell's glass and gave her a victory/two sign. While they waited, a swarthy man in a light-blue sport coat and khaki slacks, a glass of dark beer in his hand, wandered up to the table and said to Fell in a bad imitation Bogart, "Howdy, shweet-heart. Sheen your name in the public prints."

  "Hey, Tommy. Sit down." Fell patted the seat beside her, then pointed her trigger finger at Lucas. "That's Lucas Davenport, who's a cop."

  "I know who he is," Kantor said, dropping into the booth. "But somehow I got left off the invitation list for the Welcome to New York interviews."

  "And Lucas," Fell continued, "this is Tommy Kantor, who's a columnist for the Village Voice...."

  They talked about the case for a while, and Kantor attracted the attention of a free-lance magazine writer and his girlfriend. They pulled up a chair and ordered a pitcher of beer. Then a TV producer stopped by and began talking to Fell.

  "You'd make a good piece," she told Fell.

  "I'd certainly agree with that," Lucas said, straight-faced.

  "Fuckin' Davenport..." Fell said.

  They got back to Fell's apartment at two o'clock, spent ten soapy minutes in the shower, dropped into her bed.

  "That was fun, talking to those people," Lucas said. "As long as your friend Kantor doesn't get us in trouble."

  "He takes care of sources," Fell said. "It'll be okay. I'm surprised you get along so well with media people...."

  "I like them, mostly," he said. "Some are a little stupid and half of them would kill for two dollars, but the good ones I like."

  "You like this ?" she asked.

  "Ooo, I think I do," he said. Then: "I'm sure of it."

  He came out of the shower the next morning, rubbing his hair dry with a terry-cloth towel, and heard Fell's voice from the living room. She came down the hall to the bedroom as he was pulling on his underwear. She was still naked and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

  "I just talked to Carter. Not a thing, nada."

  "All right. Did you bring those files?"

  "In the front room, on the floor," she said.

  "I'd like to sit around and read for a while, then maybe go back and change clothes. I don't know, I'd like to be there when they get him...."

  "Bullshit. You'd give your left nut to get him yourself. So would I."

  "You'd give my left nut?" he asked, appalled.

  "Well... you want a bagel with chive cream cheese and some juice?"

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact."

  They read the files and talked, and sometime after one o'clock Lucas chased her back into the bedroom, and they didn't make it back out until two.

  "I'm going back to the hotel to change," he said, pulling on his jacket. "Why don't we get together at Midtown. Like four-thirty, for the daily roundup."

  "All right..."

  He looked at the floor by his feet, at a Xerox copy of the crime-scene photograph of Whitechurch, dead in the hospital. The few pitiful twenties stuck out from under his body like a comment on greed.

  "Change oxen in midstream and you'll come to a bad end," he said.

  "What?"

  "An old English proverb my mom used to tell me," Lucas said.

  "Bullshit," she said.

  "You're calling my mom a liar?"

  "Get out of here, Davenport. See you at four-thirty."

  He took the elevator to the lobby, nodded at a guard who knew a one-night stand when he saw one, spotted a cab pulling up to the curb to drop a passenger, stopped and slapped his coat pocket where his wallet was.

  "Dammit," he said.

  "Hub?" The guard looked up from his desk.

  "Sorry. Not you... I forgot something upstairs."

  He went back up, knocked on the door. Fell, wrapped in a robe, let him in. "You got twenty bucks you can loan me?" he asked. "I got like two dollars left after last night. All the traveler's checks are at the hotel."

  "Oh, jeez..." She went to her purse, opened it, took out a billfold. "I've got six bucks," she announced. Then she brightened and dug further. "And a cash card. There's a machine down the block. I'll trust you with my code and change it when you skip on me."

  He looked at the cash card, looked down past it to the floor, at the Xerox of Whitechurch, the twenties under his body. The money, the money. Bekker.

  "Get dressed," Lucas snapped. "Hurry the fuck up."

  Three twenty-dollar bills had been found around and under Whitechurch's body. They drew the money from the evidence locker, under the watchful eye of the custodian.

  "Consecutive?" Fell whispered. She was excited, barely controlled.

  Lucas scanned the numbers, rearranged the bills on the countertop. "Two of them," he said. He took the numbers down on a notepad. "Let's go talk to the feds."

  Terrell Scopes of the Federal Reserve had a procedure for everything, including the dispensing of information about serial numbers. "I can't just have people come in here..." He waved, a wave that seemed to suggest that they didn't quite meet a standard. Lucas was rumpled. Fell's hair was beginning to go haywire, standing around her head in a halo.

  "If we take several hours to get the data and Bekker cuts the heart out of somebody, your picture'll be on the front page of the New York Times right along with his," Fell snarled, leaning across his desk.

  Scopes, naturally pale, went a shade paler. "Just a minute," he said. "I'll have to make some inquiries."

  After a while he came back and said, "Citibank..."

  Citibank was more cooperative, but the process was a long one. "The money came out of a machine on Prince, all right, but exactly when, or where it went, that'll take a while to figure out," said a round-faced banker named Alice Buonocare.

  "We need it in a hurry," said Lucas.

  "We're running it as fast as we can," Buonocare said cheerfully. "There's a lot of subtraction to do-we have to go back to a known number and then start working through the returns, and there's a lot of stuff
we have to do by hand. We're not set up for this kind of sorting... and there are something like twenty thousand items...."

  "How about the pictures?"