Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  “It’s a very boring job,” Lucas said mildly.

  “Think about this,” Connell said. “What if women brought porno magazines to work, pictures of men with huge penises? And the women sat there and looked at the pictures, then looked at you, then looked at the picture. Wouldn’t you find that just a little demeaning?”

  “Not me, personally,” Lucas said, face straight. “I’d just see it as another career opportunity.”

  “Goddamn you, Davenport, you always weasel away.”

  “Not always,” Lucas said. “But I do have a well-developed sense of when to weasel.” Then, as they crossed the street, “This is where the woman was killed and the guy fucked up.”

  They climbed the steps and buzzed the manager. A moment later, a door opened in the lobby and a middle-aged woman looked out. Her hair was not quite blue. Lucas held up his badge, and she let him in.

  “I’ll get somebody to let you up on the roof,” the woman said when Lucas explained what they wanted. “That was awful, that poor guy stabbed.”

  “Were you here when those two people were attacked outside?”

  “No, nobody was here. Except tenants, I mean,” she said.

  “I understand the guy was between the inner and outer doors when he was attacked.”

  The woman nodded. “One more second and he would have been inside. His key was in the lock.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Lucas said. To Connell: “If somebody wanted to get a key and cover what they were doing . . . The whole attack didn’t make sense, so they said gang kids did it. Trouble is, the gang unit hasn’t heard a thing from the gangs. And they should have heard.”

  THE JANITOR’S NAME was Clark, and he opened the door to the roof and blocked it with an empty Liquid Plumber bottle. Lucas walked across the gravel-and-tar-paper roof. Greave and O’Brien were standing in Jensen’s apartment, visible from the shoulders up.

  “Can’t see much from here,” Lucas said. He turned to the air-conditioner housing.

  “It looks high enough,” Connell said. They walked around it: it was a gray cube, with three featureless metal faces. A locked steel service hatch, and a warranty sticker with a service number, were the only items on the fourth side. There was no access to the top of the cube.

  “I can get a stepladder,” Clark offered.

  “Why don’t you just give me a boost,” Lucas said. He slipped out of his shoes and jacket, and Clark webbed his fingers together. Lucas put his foot in the other man’s hands and stepped up. When his shoulders were over the edge of the housing, he pushed himself up with his hands.

  The first thing he saw were the cigarette butts, forty or fifty of them, water-stained, filterless. “Oh, Christ.” One butt was fresh, and he duckwalked over to it, peered at it.

  “What?” Connell called.

  “About a million cigarette butts.”

  “Are you serious? What kind?”

  Lucas duckwalked back to the edge, peered down, and said, “Unfiltered Camels, each and every one.”

  Connell looked across the street. “Can you see in the apartment?”

  “I can see O’Brien’s shoes,” Lucas said.

  “The sonofabitch knew,” Connell cried. “He was up here, he looked in, he saw us. We were this fuckin’ close.”

  THE CRIME-SCENE TECH lifted the single fresh Camel with a pair of tweezers, put it in a bag, and passed it down. “We can try,” he said to Lucas, “but I wouldn’t count on much. Sometimes you get a little skin stuck to the butts, sometimes enough to do a DNA or at least get a blood type, but these have been out here awhile.” He shrugged. “We’ll try, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “What’re the chances of DNA?” Connell demanded.

  He shrugged. “Like I said, we’ll try.”

  Connell looked at Lucas. “We’ve had cold matches on DNA.”

  “Yeah—two,” Lucas said.

  “We gotta make a run at it,” she said.

  “Sure.” He looked across the street. Sloan waved. “We’ll put a night-vision scope over there, in case he comes back. Goddamnit. I hope we haven’t scared him completely.”

  “If we haven’t, he’s nuts,” Connell said.

  “We know he’s nuts,” Lucas answered. “But I’m afraid that if he has seen us, we’re frustrating the hell out of him. I hope he doesn’t go for another. I hope he comes in first. . . .”

  25

  JOHN POSEY’S HOUSE was a three-level affair, like a white-brick-and-cedar layer cake, overlooking a backyard duck pond rimmed by weeping willows. From a street that ran at a ninety-degree angle to Posey’s street, Koop could see the back of the house. Two separate balconies overlooked the pond, one above the other, slightly offset.

  A security-system warning sign was stuck in the front yard, by the door. Koop knew the system: typically magneto-offset doors, usually with motion detectors sweeping the first floor.

  If the detectors were tripped, they’d automatically dial out to an alarm service after a delay of a minute to two minutes. The alarm service would make a phone check, and if not satisfied, would call the cops. If the phone wires were cut, an alarm would go off at the monitoring service. If other phones in the neighborhood weren’t out, the cops would be on their way.

  Which didn’t make the place impossible. Not at all. For one thing, Posey had a dog, an old Irish setter. The setter was often in the front window, even when Posey wasn’t home. If there was a motion detector, it was either turned off or it only guarded the parts of the house that the dog couldn’t get to.

  He would wait until Posey left and then go straight in, Koop decided. No hiding, nothing subtle. Smash and grab.

  Koop was in no condition for subtlety. He thought about Sara Jensen all the time. Reran his mental tapes. He would see her in another woman—with a gesture or a certain step, a turn of the head.

  Jensen was a sliver under the skin. He could try to ignore her, but she wouldn’t go away. Sooner or later, he’d have to deal with her. Bodyguards or no bodyguards.

  But Koop knew something about the ways of cops. They’d watch her for a while, and then, when nothing happened, they’d be off chasing something else.

  The only question was, could he wait?

  AT EIGHT-THIRTY, KOOP stopped at a downtown parking garage. He followed a Nissan Maxima up the ramp, parked a few slots away from it, got slowly out of the truck. The Maxima’s owners took the elevator; Koop took the plates off the Maxima.

  He carried them back to the truck, stepped out of sight for a moment when another car came up the ramp, then clipped the stolen plates on top of his own with steel snap-fasteners. A matter of two minutes.

  Posey had an active social life and went out almost every night, mostly to sports bars. Koop checked by calling, calling again, calling a third time, never getting an answer, before heading back to the house.

  The night was warm, humid, and smelled like cut grass. The whole neighborhood hummed with the air conditioners tucked in at the sides of the houses. Windows and doors would be closed, and he could get away with a little more noise, if he had to.

  Four blocks from Posey’s, a group of teenagers, three girls, two boys, stood on a street corner smoking, long hair, long shirts hung out over their jeans, looking at him with narrowed eyes as he passed in the truck.

  A few porch lights were still on, yellow and white, and the sound of easy-listening music seeped from an open, lit garage. There were cars—not many—parked on the street; the neighborhood was too affluent for that.

  He cruised the house. It looked right—Posey usually left two lights on when he was out. Koop had an eight-ball with him: he did a hit, then another, got his tools from under the passenger seat, and drove back to the house. Pulled into the driveway. Waited a second, watching the curtains, checking the street, picked up his tools and got out, walked up to the front door, and rang the doorbell.

  The dog barked; the bark was loud, audible in the street. Nobody came to the door. The dog kept barking. Koop walked back down
the front of the house, checked the neighborhood one last time, then walked down the side of the garage.

  The side of the garage was windowless, and faced the windowless garage next door. Between them, he couldn’t be seen. The backyard, though, was different, potentially dangerous. He stopped at the corner of the garage and scanned the houses on the next street, facing Posey’s. There were lights, and a man reading a newspaper behind a picture window two houses down. Okay. . . .

  KOOP WORE A jogging suit, the jacket open over a white T-shirt. In the hand-warmer pocket he carried a pair of driving gloves. A sailing compass, called a “hockey puck,” was stuffed in one glove, a small plastic flashlight in the other. He carried an eighteen-inch crowbar down his pants’ leg, the hook over the waistline of the pants.

  He waited two minutes, three, his heartbeat holding up, then zipped the jacket and pulled on the gloves. Nearly invisible, he edged around the corner of the house until he was standing behind a dwarf spruce, looking up at the first balcony.

  The bottom of the balcony was eight feet overhead. He bent the spruce, found a branch two feet above the ground that would bear his weight. He stepped up, feeling the spruce sag, but hooked the lower bar of the railing with one hand, then the other. He swarmed up like a monkey, scuffing his kneecap on the concrete edge of the balcony. He waited a few seconds, ignoring the pain in his knee, listening, hearing nothing, then tested the balcony railing for rigidity.

  Solid. He stood on it, balancing carefully, reached around the edge of the upper balcony, grabbed the railing, and let himself swing free. When his swinging motion slowed, he pulled himself up and clambered over the railing onto the higher balcony.

  Again he stopped to listen. The dog had stopped barking. Good. He was now on the third floor, outside a room he believed was unused. He’d spotted Posey’s bedroom in a second-floor corner. This should be a guest room, if the moving man’s map was correct. And it wouldn’t be rigged for an alarm, unless Posey was truly paranoid.

  Hearing nothing, he stood up and looked at the sliding glass doors. The track was not blocked: that made things easier. He tried the door itself, on the chance that it was unlocked. It was not. He took the crowbar out of his pants, pressed the point of it against the glass, and slowly, carefully put his weight against it. The glass cracked, almost silently. He started again, just above the first point, bearing down . . . and got another crack.

  The third time, the glass suddenly collapsed, leaving a hole the size of his palm. He hadn’t made a sound louder than a careful cough. He reached through the hole, flipped up the lock and pulled the latch, and slid the door back. Stopped. Listened. Inside, he turned on the flashlight. Yes. A bedroom, with a feel of disuse.

  He crossed the room to the bedroom door, which was closed, took out the compass, waited until the needle settled, then ran it along the edge of the door. The needle remained steady, except at the handle, where it deflected. The door was not protected; he hadn’t expected it to be, but it took only a moment to check.

  He opened the door, half expecting the dog to be there, but found an empty hall, dimly lit from the lights downstairs.

  Down the stairs, slowly, listening. Nothing. Through the hall.

  Then: the dog’s nails on the kitchen’s vinyl floor, with a tentative woof. A few woofs were okay, but if the dog got out of hand . . . He reversed his grip on the crowbar, holding it by the flat end.

  The dog came around the corner of the kitchen, saw him standing there, barked. Old dog, his legs stiff, his muzzle hair going white . . .

  “Here, boy, c’mere,” Koop said, his voice soft. “C’mere, boy . . .” He walked toward the dog, his left hand out, cupped, right hand behind him. The dog backed away, upright, barking, but let Koop get closer. . . .

  “Here, boy.” One more step, one more.

  “Woof.” Sensing danger, trying to back away . . .

  Koop swatted the dog like a fly. The crowbar caught it in the center of the skull, and the dog went down without a whimper, just a final woof. Dead when it hit the floor, its legs jerked, running spasmodically on the vinyl.

  Koop turned away. No need to be quiet anymore. He checked the front door. There was a keypad next to it showing an alarm light: the system was armed, but he wasn’t sure what that meant. At the basement door, he again checked with the compass. Again, nothing. Must only be the outer doors.

  He eased the door open, took a step. Okay. Walked down to the bottom of the stairs, into the basement—and the moment he stepped into the basement, heard the rapid beep-beep-beep of the alarm system’s warning, a bit louder than an alarm clock.

  “Shit,” he said.

  One minute. He started a running count at the back of his head. Sixty, fifty-nine . . .

  The safe was there, just as the moving man said. He worked the combination the first time and looked inside. Two sacks, two jewelry boxes. He took them out. One sack was cash. The other was as heavy as a car battery. Gold, probably. No time to think.

  Thirty. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .

  He ran back up the stairs, to the front door, the alarm making its urgent beep-beep-beep warning. He hit it with the crowbar, silencing it. The call would be made anyway, but if someone was passing in the street, he wouldn’t hear the beeping.

  Koop walked out the front door, back to the truck. Tossed the tools and the money bags on the front seat, started the truck, backed into the street.

  Thinking: Fourteen, thirteen, twelve . . .

  At zero, he’d turned the corner and was heading down the hill to West Seventh Street. Fifteen seconds later, he was in heavy traffic. He never did see a cop.

  KOOP CHECKED THE bags in a Burger King parking lot. The first contained forty-five hundred dollars in cash: twenties, fifties, and hundreds. The second bag held fifty gold coins, Krugerrands. Already, one of the best scores he’d ever had. The first box held a gold chain with a ten-diamond cross. The diamonds were small but not tiny. He had no idea what they were worth. A lot, he thought, if they were real. In the second box, earrings to go with the necklace.

  A wave of pleasure ran through him. The best score; the best he’d ever done. Then he thought of Jensen, and the pleasure began to fade.

  Shit. He looked at the gold in his lap. He really didn’t want this. He could get money anytime.

  He knew what he wanted.

  He saw her every time he closed his eyes.

  KOOP CRUISED JENSEN’S apartment. The apartment was lit up. He slowed, and thought he might have seen a shadow on the window. Was she naked? Or was the place full of cops?

  He couldn’t loiter. The cops might be watching.

  He thought about the dog, the feet scratching on the vinyl floor. He wondered why they did that. . . .

  The night had pushed him into a frenzy: exhilaration over the take at Posey’s, frustration over the lights at Jensen’s. He drove down to Lake Street, locked up the truck, and started drinking. He hit Flower’s Bar, Lippy’s Lounge, the Bank Shot, and Skeeter’s. Shot some pool with a biker at Skeeter’s. Scored another eight-ball at Lippy’s and snorted most of it sitting on the toilet in the Lippy’s men’s room.

  The coke gave him a ferocious headache after a while, tightening up his neck muscles until they felt like a suspension spring. He bought a pint of bourbon, went out to his truck and drank it, and started doing exercises: bridges, marine push-ups.

  At one o’clock, Koop started back downtown, drunk. At five after one, drunk, he saw the woman walking back toward the hotel off Lyndale. A little tentative, a little scared. Her high heels going clackety-clack on the street. . . .

  “Fuck her,” he said aloud. He didn’t have his ether, but had muscle and his knife. He passed the woman, going in the same direction, pulled the truck to the curb, put it in neutral. He popped the passenger seat, groped beneath it until he found the bag, stripped out the knife, and threw the keys back in the box. Did a quick pinch of cocaine, then another. Groped behind the seat until he found his baseball hat, put it on.
r />   “Fuck her,” he said. She was walking up to the back of the truck, on the sidewalk. The night was warm for Minnesota, but she wore a light three-quarters trench coat. Koop wore a T-shirt that said “Coors.”

  Out of the truck, around the nose, a gorilla, running.

  The woman saw him coming. Screamed, “Don’t!”

  Dropped her purse.

  Everything cocaine sharp, cocaine powerful.

  Plenty of fuel, plenty of hate: “FUCK YOU.”

  Koop screamed it, and the knife blade snicked out, and she backed frantically away. He grabbed her, got the shoulder of her coat. “Get in the fuckin’ truck.”

  He could see the whites of her eyes, turning up in terror, pulled at her. The coat came away, the woman thrashing, slipping out of it, trying to run. She went through a sidewalk flower garden, crushing pink petunias, lost one of her shoes, backed against the building and began to scream; the odor of urine rode out on the night air.

  And she screamed. A high, piercing, loud scream, a scream that seemed to echo down the sidewalks.

  Koop, drunk, stoned, teeth as large as tombstones, on top of her: “Shut the fuck up.” He hit her backhanded, knocked her off her feet. The woman sobbing, trying to crawl.

  Koop caught her by the foot, dragged her out of the flower garden, the woman trying to hold on to petunias. Petunias . . .

  She began screaming again; no more words, screaming, and Koop, angrier and angrier, dragged her toward the truck.

  Then, from above:

  “You stop that.” A woman’s voice, shrill, as angry as Koop was. “You stop that, you asshole, I’m calling the police.”

  Then a man’s voice: “Get away from her. . . .”

  From the apartment across the street, two people yelling down at him, one, two or three floors up, the other five or six. Koop looked up, and the woman began to sob.

  “Fuck you!” Koop screamed back.

  Then a flash: the woman had taken a picture of him. Koop panicked, turned to run. The woman on the sidewalk looked at him, still screaming, pulling away.