by Shadow Prey
She skipped past him, eluding his arm, and took a cotton nightgown off the dresser. “I can’t decide whether you’re just naturally full of shit or unnaturally horny,” she said as she slipped it over her head.
Lucas shrugged, grinned and leaned back on the oversize pillow. “Whichever it is, it works. I get laid a lot.”
“I should kick you out of here, Davenport,” Jennifer said. “I . . . Is that the baby?”
He listened and heard the baby’s low crying from the next room. “Yup.”
“Time to eat,” Jennifer said.
They had never married, but Lucas and Jennifer Carey had an infant daughter. Lucas pressed for a wedding. Jennifer said maybe—sometime. Not now. She lived with the baby in a suburban townhouse south of Minneapolis, fifteen minutes from Lucas’ house in St. Paul.
Lucas rolled off the bed and followed Jennifer into the baby’s room. The moment the door opened, Sarah stopped crying and began to gurgle.
“She’s wet,” Jennifer said when she picked her up. She handed Sarah to Lucas. “You change her. I’ll go heat up the glop.”
Lucas carried Sarah to the changing table, pulled the tape-tabs loose from the diaper and tossed the diaper in a disposal can. He whistled while he worked, and the baby peered at him in fascination, once or twice pursing her lips as though she were about to start whistling herself. Lucas cleaned her bottom with wet-wipes, tossed the wipes after the diaper, powdered her and put a new diaper on her. By the time he finished, Sarah was bubbling with delight.
“Jesus Christ, you are positively dangerous around anything female,” Jennifer said from the doorway.
Lucas laughed, picked up Sarah and bounced her on the palm of one hand. The baby chortled and grabbed his nose with surprising power.
“Whoa, whoa, wet go ub Daddy’s nose . . . .” Jennifer said he sounded like Elmer Fudd when he spoke in baby talk. Sarah whacked him in the eye with her other hand.
“Jesus, I’m getting mugged,” Lucas said. “What do you think you’re doing, kid, whopping on your old man . . . ?”
The phone rang. Lucas glanced at his wrist, but he’d taken his watch off. It was late, though, after midnight. Jennifer stepped down the hall to the phone. A second later, she was back.
“It’s for you.”
“Nobody knew I was here,” Lucas said, puzzled.
“It’s the shift commander, what’s-his-name . . . Meany. Daniel told him to try here.”
“I wonder what’s going on?” Lucas padded down the hall to the phone, picked it up and said, “Davenport.”
“This is Harry Meany,” said an old man’s voice. “The chief said to track you down and get your ass in here. He’ll see you in his office in half an hour.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Lester and Anderson are already here and Sloan’s on his way.”
“You’ve got nothing going?” Lucas asked.
“Not a thing,” Meany said. “A 7-Eleven got knocked off over on University, but that’s nothing new. Nobody hurt.”
“Hmph.” Lucas scratched his chin, considering. “All right, I’ll be down.”
Lucas hung up and stood with his hand on the phone, staring blankly at the picture hung above it, a hand-colored print of an English cottage. Jennifer said, “What?”
“I don’t know. There’s a meeting. Daniel, Lester, Anderson, Sloan. Me.”
“Huh.” She posed with her hands on her hips. “What are you working?”
“Not much,” Lucas said. “We’re still getting rumors about guns going out of here, but nothing we can pin down. There’s been a lot of crack action. That’s about it.”
Jennifer nodded. She had been TV3’s top street reporter for ten years. After Sarah had arrived, she’d taken a partial leave of absence and begun working as a producer. But the years on the street were still with her: she had both an eye and a taste for breaking news.
“You know what it sounds like?” she asked, a calculating look on her face. “It sounds like the team Daniel set up last year. The Maddog group.”
“But there’s nothing going on,” Lucas said. He shook his head again and walked to the bathroom.
“You’ll let me know?” she called after him.
“If I can.”
• • •
Lucas suspected that early city fathers had built the Minneapolis City Hall as an elaborate practical joke on their progeny. A liverish pile of granite, it managed to be both hot in the summer and cold in winter. In the spring and fall, in the basement, where his office was, the walls sweated a substance that looked like tree sap. Another detective, a lapsed Catholic like Lucas, had suggested that they wait for a good bout of sweating, carefully crack his office wall in a likeness of Jesus and claim a holy stigmata.
“We could make a buck,” he said enthusiastically.
“I’m not real big in the Church anymore,” Lucas said dryly, “But I’d just as soon not be excommunicated.”
“Chickenshit.”
Lucas circled the building, dumped the Porsche in a cops-only space. The chief’s corner office was lit. As he walked around the nose of the car and stepped onto the curb, a Chevy station wagon pulled up behind the Porsche and the driver tapped the horn. A moment later, Harrison Sloan climbed out of the wagon.
“What’s happening?” Lucas asked.
Sloan shrugged. He was a thin man with soft brown puppy eyes and a thin mustache. He might have played an RAF fighter pilot in a World War II movie, a pilot named Dicky. He was wearing a sweatsuit and tennis shoes. “I don’t know. I was asleep. Meany called and told me to get my ass down here.”
“Same with me,” Lucas said. “Big mystery.”
As they pushed through the outer doors, Sloan asked, “How’s the hand?”
Lucas looked down at the back of his hand and flexed it. The Maddog had broken several of the bones between his wrist and knuckles. When he squeezed hard, it still hurt. The doctors said it might always hurt. “Pretty good. The strength is back. I’ve been squeezing a rubber ball.”
“Ten years ago, if you’d been hurt like that, you’d have been a cripple,” Sloan said.
“Ten years ago I might have been quick enough to shoot the sonofabitch before he got to me,” Lucas said.
City Hall was quiet, smelling of janitor’s wax and disinfectant. The soles of their shoes made a rubbery flap-flap-flap as they walked down the dim hallways, and their voices rattled off the marble as they speculated about Daniel’s call. Sloan thought the hurried meeting involved a political problem.
“That’s why the rush in the middle of the night. They’re trying to sort it out before the newspapers get it,” he said.
“So why Lester and Anderson? Why bring Robbery-Homicide into it?”
“Huh.” Sloan nibbled at his mustache. “I don’t know.”
“It’s something else,” said Lucas. “Somebody’s dead.”
The outer door of the chief’s office was open. Lucas and Sloan stepped inside and found Quentin Daniel in the dark outer office, poking at his secretary’s desk. Daniel was a broad man with the open, affable face of a neighborhood butcher. Only his eyes, small, quick, probing, betrayed the brain behind the friendly face.
“Stealing paper clips?” Sloan asked.
“You can never find any goddamn matches when you need them, and nobody smokes anymore,” Daniel grumbled. He was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, but he looked alert and almost happy. “Come on in.”
Frank Lester, the deputy chief for investigations, and slat-thin Harmon Anderson, a computer savant and Lester’s assistant, were perched on side chairs opposite Daniel’s desk. Lucas and Sloan took empty chairs and Daniel settled behind the desk.
“I’ve been on the phone all evening. Frank and Harmon have been here for most of it,” Daniel told Lucas and Sloan. “There’s been a killing in New York City. A commissioner of welfare. A little after five o’clock this evening, their time. He was a prize Italian named John Andretti. Either of you guys hea
r of him?”
Lucas and Sloan both shook their heads. “Nope,” said Sloan. “Should we?”
“He’s been in the Times quite a bit,” said Daniel, with a shrug. “He was a businessman who was getting into politics. Had some different ideas about welfare . . . Anyway, he’s got big family money. Construction, banking, all that. Went to Choate. Went to Harvard. Went to Yale Law. He had these great teeth and this great-looking old lady with great-looking tits and four great-looking kids and nobody in the family pushes dope or drinks too much or fucks anybody else’s husband or wife, and they all go to church on Sunday. His old man had him set to run for Congress this fall and then maybe the Senate in four years. You know, the New York media were starting to call him the Italian John Kennedy . . . .”
“So what happened?” Lucas asked.
“He got himself killed. In his office. There were three witnesses. This guy comes in, he’s got a pistol. He backs everybody off, then steps around behind Andretti. Before anybody can say ‘Boo,’ this guy—he’s an Indian, by the way—he grabs Andretti, pulls his head back and slits his throat with a weird-looking stone knife.”
“Oh, fuck,” said Lucas. Sloan was sitting in his chair with his mouth open. Anderson watched them in amusement, while Lester looked worried.
“That’s exactly right,” said Daniel. He leaned forward, took a cigar from a brand-new humidor, held it under his nose, sniffed, then put the cigar back in the humidor. “ ‘Oh, fuck.’ The Indian also shot one of Andretti’s aides, but he’ll be okay.”
Anderson picked up the story. “The Andretti family went berserk and started calling in debts. The governor, the mayor, everybody is getting in on the act.” Anderson was wearing plaid pants, a striped shirt and shiny yellow-brown vinyl shoes. “The New York cops are running around like chickens with their heads cut off.”
“Andretti was one of the best-connected guys in New York City,” Daniel added. “He’s got twenty brothers and sisters and cousins and his old man and his old lady. They got an ocean of money and two oceans of political clout. They want blood.”
“And they think whoever killed Andretti was working with this Bluebird guy?” asked Lucas.
“Look at the killings,” Daniel said, spreading his arms. “It’s obvious. And there’s more to it. Andretti’s office building had a videotape monitor on a continuous loop. The witnesses picked out the killer. It’s a horseshit picture and they’ve only got him for about ten seconds, walking through the lobby, but they released it to the television stations an hour ago. A few minutes after they put it on TV, a motel owner from Jersey called up and said the guy might have been at his motel. The Jersey cops checked and they think he’s right. They’ve got no license-plate number—it wasn’t that kind of motel—but the owner remembers the guy had Minnesota plates. He remembers that when the guy was checking out, he said he was heading back home. The motel owner said there was no question about him being an Indian. And then there was the other thing.”
“What’s that?” Sloan asked.
“The New York cops held back the part about the stone knife,” Daniel said. “They told the media that Andretti had been stabbed, but nothing about the knife. So this motel owner asked the Jersey cops, ‘Did he stab him with that big fucking stone knife?’ The cops say, ‘What?’ And this motel owner, he says his Indian wore a stone knife around his neck, on a leather thong. He saw him at the Coke machine, wearing an undershirt with the knife hanging down.”
“So we know for sure,” Sloan said.
“Yeah. And he seems to be coming this way.” Daniel leaned back in his chair, put his hands on his stomach and twiddled his thumbs.
Lucas pulled his lip, thinking about it. After a moment of silence, he looked up at the chief. “This guy have braids?”
“The killer? Didn’t say anything about braids . . .” He hunted around his desktop for a moment, picked up a piece of computer printout, read it and said, “Nope. Hair down over the tops of his ears and just over his shirt collar. Longish, but not long enough for braids.”
“Shit.”
“Why?”
“Because the guy who did Cuervo had braids.”
The others glanced at each other and Daniel said, “He could have cut it.”
“I said the same thing about Bluebird, when we took him down,” Lucas said.
“Oh, boy,” Lester rasped, rubbing the back of his neck. He was the department’s front man on cases that drew media attention. “That’d make three. If there are two, the media’s gonna go nuts. If there’s three . . . I’ve been burned before, I don’t need this shit.”
Sloan grinned at him. “It’s gonna be bad, Frank,” he said, teasing. “This guy sounds like big headlines. When the networks and the big papers get a whiff of conspiracy, they’ll be on you like white on rice. Especially with the part about the stone knives. They’ll love the stone knives.”
“The local papers already figured it out. Five minutes after the news came across on the Indian angle, we were getting calls on Bluebird. StarTribune, Pioneer Press, all the stations. AP’s got it on the wire,” said Anderson.
“Like flies on a dead cat,” Sloan said to Lester.
“So we’re setting up a team, just like we did with the Maddog. I’ll announce it at a press conference tomorrow morning,” said Daniel. “Frank will run the out-front investigation and handle the press on a daily basis. Harmon will get the database going again. Just like with the Maddog. Every goddamn scrap of information, okay? Notebooks for everybody.”
“I’ll set it up tonight,” Anderson said. “I’ll get somebody to duplicate copies of the Bluebird mug shot.”
“Good. Get me a bunch for the press conference.” Daniel turned to Sloan. “I want you to backtrack everybody connected with Bluebird. He’s our hold on this thing. If we get an ID on the New York killer, I want you to track down everybody who knew him. You’ll be pretty much independent, but you report to Anderson every day, every move. Everything you get goes into the database.”
“Sure,” Sloan nodded.
“Lucas, you’re on your own, just like with the Maddog,” Daniel said. “Our contacts with the Indian community are fuckin’ terrible. You’re the only guy who has any.”
“Not many,” said Lucas.
“They’re all we got,” said Daniel.
“What about bringing in Larry Hart? We’ve used him before . . . .”
“Good.” Daniel snapped his fingers and pointed at Lester. “Call Welfare tomorrow and ask them if we can detach Hart as a resource guy. We’ll pick up his salary.”
“What is he?” asked Sloan. “Chippewa?”
“Sioux,” said Lucas.
“He’s strange, is what he is,” said Anderson. “He’s got some genealogical stuff stored away in the city computers. The systems guys would shit if they knew about it.”
Lucas shrugged. “He’s an okay guy.”
“So let’s get him,” said Daniel. He stood up and paced slowly away from his desk, his hands in his pants pockets. “What else?”
Bluebird’s funeral would be monitored. Intelligence would attempt to identify everyone who attended and run histories on them. Sloan would build a list of friends and relatives who might have known about Bluebird’s activities. They would be interviewed by selected Narcotics and Intelligence detectives. Anderson would press the Jersey cops for any available details on the killer’s appearance and his car and run them against known Indian felons from Minnesota, Wisconsin, Nebraska and the Dakotas.
“It’ll be a fuckin’ circus, starting bright and early tomorrow morning,” said Daniel. “And I’ll tell you what: When this New York guy gets here, I want us on top of this thing. I want us to look good, not like a bunch of rube assholes.”
Anderson cleared his throat. “I don’t think it’s a guy, chief. I think it’s a woman,” he said.
Sloan and Lucas glanced at each other. “What are you talking about?” asked Sloan.
“We told you, didn’t we? No? The goddamn And
retti family is putting the screws on the New York cops. They want to send somebody out here to observe our investigation,” said Daniel. He turned to Anderson. “You say it’s a woman?”
“Yeah. That’s what I understood. Unless they got male cops named Lillian. She’s a lieutenant.”
“Huh,” said Daniel. He stroked his chin, as though grooming a goatee. “Whoever it is, I can guarantee she’s heavy-duty.”
“Where’ll we put her?” asked Lester.
“Let her work with Sloan,” Daniel said. “That’ll give her some time on the street. Give her the feeling she’s doing something.”
He looked around the room. “Anything else? No? Let’s do it.”
CHAPTER
5
The barbershop had one chair, a turn-of-the-century model with a cracked black leather seat. A mirror was mounted on the wall behind the chair. Below the mirror, on a shelf, stood a line of bottles with luminescent yellow lotions and ruby-red toilet waters. Sunlight played through them like a visual pipe organ.
When Lucas walked in, William Dooley was pushing a flat broom around the floor, herding snips of black hair into a pile on the flaking brown linoleum.
“Officer Davenport,” Dooley said gravely. Dooley was old and very thin. His temples looked papery, like eggshells.
“Mr. Dooley.” Lucas nodded, matching the old man’s gravity. He climbed into the chair. Dooley moved behind him, tucked a slippery nylon bib into his collar and stood back.
“Just a little around the ears?” he asked. Lucas didn’t need a haircut.
“Around the ears and the back of the neck, Mr. Dooley,” Lucas said. The slanting October sunlight dappled the linoleum below his feet. A sugar wasp bounced against the dusty window.
“Bad business about that Bluebird,” Lucas said after a bit.
Dooley’s snipping scissors had been going chip-chip-chip. They paused just above Lucas’ ear, then resumed. “Bad business,” he agreed.
He snipped for another few seconds before Lucas asked, “Did you know him?”
“Nope,” Dooley said promptly. After another few snips, he added, “Knew his daddy, though. Back in the war. We was in the Pacific together. Not the same unit, but I seen him from time to time.”
