Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  Roux took an old-fashioned silver cigarette case out of her pocket, popped it open. “I’m not talking politics here, Lucas. I’m a little worried about what happened.” She fumbled a cigarette out of the case, snapped the case shut. “There’s a feel of . . . setup. Of taking the law in our own hands. We’re okay, because Farris was shot and you made that call for a stop. But there were six or seven holes in Candy LaChaise. It’s not like you weren’t ready to do it.”

  “We were ready,” Lucas agreed.

  “. . . So there could be another stink when the medical examiner’s report comes out.”

  “Tell them to take their time writing the report,” Lucas said. “You know the way things are: In a week or so, nobody’ll care. And we’re still a couple of months from the midwinter sweeps.”

  “Yeah, yeah. And the ME’s cooperating. Still.”

  “The LaChaises started it,” Lucas persisted. “And they were sport killers. Candy LaChaise shot people to see them die. Fuck ’em.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Roux said. She waved at him and started back toward the chief’s office, shoulders slumped. “Send everybody home. We’ll get the shooting board going tomorrow.”

  “You really pissed?” Lucas called after her.

  “No. I’m just sorta . . . depressed. There’ve been too many bodies this year,” she said. She stopped, flicked a lighter, touched off the fresh cigarette. The tip glowed like a firefly in the semidark. “Too many people are getting killed. You oughta think about that.”

  WEATHER KARKINNEN WAS doing paperwork in the study when Lucas got home. She heard him in the kitchen, and called down the hall, “In the study.”

  A moment later, he leaned in the door, a bottle of beer in his hand. “Hey.”

  “I tried to call you,” she said.

  Weather was a small, athletic woman with wide shoulders and close-cut blond hair. She had high cheekbones and eyes that were dark blue and slightly slanted in the Lapp-Finnish way. Her nose was a bit too large and a little crooked, as if she’d once lost a close fight. Not a pretty woman, exactly, but men tended to drift toward her at parties. “I saw a TV story on the shooting.”

  “What’d they say?” He unscrewed the beer cap and took a sip.

  “Two women were shot and killed after a robbery. They say it’s a controversial shooting.” She was anxious, brushing hair out of her eyes.

  Lucas shook his head. “You can’t pay any attention to TV.”

  He was angry.

  “Lucas . . .”

  “What?” He was defensive, and didn’t like it.

  “You’re really steamed,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Ah, I’m taking heat from the media. Everybody seems to worry about whether it was a fair fight. Why should the fight be fair? This isn’t a game, it’s law enforcement.”

  “Could you have taken them? Arrested them? Gone to trial, with the people at the other banks in Wisconsin?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “They were always masked, and always used stolen cars. There was a case down in River Falls, two years ago, where Candy LaChaise was busted for armed robbery. The guy she robbed, the car dealer, was mugged and killed two weeks later, before the trial. There weren’t any witnesses and she had an alibi. The River Falls cops think her old nutcake pals helped her out.”

  “But it’s not your job to kill them,” Weather said.

  “Hey,” Lucas said. “I just showed up with a gun. What happened after that, that was their choice. Not mine.”

  She shook her head, still distressed. “I don’t know,” she said. “What you do frightens me, but not the way I thought it would.” She crossed her arms and hugged herself, as she would if she were cold. “I’m not so worried about what somebody else might do to you, as what you might be doing to yourself.”

  “I told you . . .” Getting angrier now.

  “Lucas,” she interrupted. “I know how your mind works. TV said these people had been under surveillance for nine days. I can feel you manipulating them into a robbery. I don’t know if you know, but I know it.”

  “Bullshit,” he snapped, and he turned out of the doorway.

  “Lucas . . .”

  Halfway down the hall, the paperwork registered with him. She was doing wedding invitations. He turned around, went back.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m not mad at you,” he said. “Sometimes . . . I don’t know, my grip is getting slippery.”

  She stood up and said, “Come here. Sit in the chair.”

  He sat, and she climbed on his lap. He was always amazed with how small she was, how small all the parts were. Small head, small hands, little fingers.

  “You need something to lower your blood pressure,” she said.

  “That’s what the beer’s for,” he said.

  “As your doctor, I’m saying the beer’s not enough,” she said, snuggling in his lap.

  “Yeah? What exactly would you prescribe . . . ?”

  3

  CRAZY ANSEL BUTTERS waited for the rush and when it came, he said, “Here it comes.”

  Dexter Lamb was lying on the couch, one arm trailing on the floor: he was looking up at the spiderweb pattern of cracks on the pink plaster ceiling, and he said, “I told you, dude.”

  Lamb’s old lady was in the kitchen, staring at the top of the plastic table, her voice low, slow, clogged, coming down: “Wish I was going . . . Goddamnit, Dexter, where’d you put the bag? I know you got some.”

  Ansel didn’t hear her, didn’t hear the complaints, the whining. Ansel was flying over a cocaine landscape, all the potentialities in his head—green hills, pretty women, red Mustangs, Labrador retrievers—were compressed into a ball of pleasure. His head lay on his shoulder, his long hair falling to the side, like lines of rain outside a window. Twenty minutes later, the dream was all gone, except for the crack afterburn that would arrive like a sack of Christmas coal.

  But he had a few minutes yet, and he mumbled, “Dex, I got something to talk about.” Lamb was working up another pipe, stopped, his eyes hazy from too many hits, too many days without sleep. “What chu want?”

  His wife came out of the back into the kitchen, scratched her crotch through her thin cotton underpants and said, “Where’d you put the bag, Dex?”

  “I need to find a guy,” Ansel said, talking over her. “It’s worth real money. A month’s worth of smoke. And I need a crib somewhere close. TV, couple beds, like that.”

  “I can get you the crib,” Lamb said. He jerked a thumb at his wife. “My brother-in-law’s got some houses, sorta shitty, but you can live in one of them. You’d have to buy your own furniture, though. I know where you could get some, real cheap.”

  “That’d be okay, I guess.”

  Dex finished with the pipe and flicked his Bic, and just before hitting on the mouthpiece, asked, “Who’s this guy you’re lookin’ for?”

  “A cop. I’m looking for a cop.”

  Lamb’s old lady, eyes big and black, cheeks sunken, a pale white scar, scratched her crotch again and asked, “What’s his name?”

  Butters looked at her. “That’s what I need to know,” he said.

  BILL MARTIN CAME down from the upper peninsula, driving a Ford extended cab with rusted-out fenders and a fat V-8 tuned to perfection. He took the country roads across Wisconsin, stopped at a roadhouse for a beer and a couple of boiled eggs, stopped again for gasoline, talked to a gun dealer in Ashland.

  The countryside was still iced in. Old snow showed the sheen of hard crust through the inky-green pines and bare gray broadleafs. Martin stopped often to get out and tramp around, to peer down from bridges, to check tracks in the snow. He didn’t like this winter: there’d been good snow, followed by a sleet storm that covered everything with a quarter-inch of ice. The ice could kill off the grouse, just when the population was finally turning back up.

  He looked for grouse sign, didn’t find any. The season was too new for bear sign, but in another six weeks or eight weeks they’d be out, he thought, s
leek and quick and powerful. A young male black bear could run down a horse from a standing start. Nothing quite cleared the sinuses like bumping into a big old hungry bear when you were out on snowshoes, armed with nothing but a plastic canteen and a plug of Copenhagen.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon, heading south, he saw a coyote ripping at something in the foot-high yellow grass that broke through the snow beside a creek. Voles, maybe. He pulled the truck over, got out a Bausch and Lomb laser rangefinder and the AR-15. The rangefinder said 305 yards. He figured a nine-inch drop, maybe two inches of right-to-left drift. Using the front fender as a rest, he held a couple of inches over the coyote’s shoulder and let go. The .223 caught the mutt a little low, and it jumped straight up into the air and then came down in a heap, unmoving.

  “Gotcha,” Martin muttered, baring his teeth. The shot felt good.

  Martin crossed the St. Croix at Grantsburg, stopped to look at the river—the surface was beaten down with snowmobile trails—then made his way reluctantly out to I-35. The interstate highways were scars across the country, he thought: you couldn’t get close enough to see anything. But they were good when you had to move. He paused a final time at an I-35 rest stop just north of the Cities, made a call and then drove the rest of the way in.

  BUTTERS WAS WAITING outside an Amoco station off I-94, an olive-drab duffel at his feet. Martin eased to the curb and Butters climbed in and said, “Straight ahead, back down the ramp.”

  Martin caught the traffic light and said, “How you been?”

  “Tired,” Butters said. His small eyes looked sleepy.

  “You was tired last fall,” said Martin. Martin had passed through Tennessee on one of his gun-selling trips, stopped and done some squirrel-hunting with Butters.

  “I’m more tired now,” Butters said. He looked into the back of the truck. “What’d you bring?”

  “Three cold pistols, three Chinese AK semis, two modified AR-15s, a bow, a couple dozen arrows and my knife,” Martin said.

  “I don’t think you’ll need the bow,” Butters said dryly.

  “It’s a comfort to me,” Martin said. He was a roughmuscled, knob-headed outdoorsman with a dark reddish beard over a red-pocked face. “Where’s this guy we gotta see?”

  “Over in Minneapolis. Just outa downtown. By the dome.”

  Martin grinned his thin coyote-killing smile: “You been studying up on him?”

  “Yeah, I have been.”

  They took I-94 to Minneapolis, got off at the Fifth Street exit, got a pizza downtown, then went back to Eleventh Avenue. Butters directed Martin to a stand-alone two-story brick building with a laundromat on the ground level and apartment above. The building was old, but well-kept: probably a neighborhood mom-and-pop grocery in the forties. Lights showed in the apartment windows.

  “He owns the laundromat,” Butters said. “The upstairs is one big apartment. He lives up there with his girlfriend.” Butters looked up at the lights. “She must be there now, ’cause he’s downtown. He runs his boys right to closing time. He got back here last night about two, and he brought a pizza with him.”

  Martin looked at his watch, a black military-style Chronosport with luminescent hands. “Got us about an hour, then.” He looked back out the window at the building. There was just one door going up to the apartments. “Where’s the garage you were talking about?”

  “ ’Round the side. There’s a fire escape on the back, one of them drop-down ones, too high to get to. What he did last night was, he pulled into the garage—he’s got a garage-door opener in his car—and the door come down. Then, a minute later, this light went on in the back of the apartment, so there must be an inside stairs. Then he come down through the back again, out through the garage, around the corner and into the laundromat. He was in the back, probably countin’ out the machines.”

  Martin nodded. “Huh. Didn’t use them front stairs?”

  “Nope. Could be something goin’ on there, so I didn’t look.”

  “All right. We take him at the garage?”

  “Yeah. And we might as well eat the pizza. We only need the box, and Harp ain’t gonna want any.”

  They chatted easily, comfortable in the pickup smells of gasoline, straw, rust and oil. Then Martin, dabbing at his beard with a paper napkin, asked, “What do you hear from Dick?”

  “Ain’t heard dick from Dick,” Butters said. He didn’t wait for Martin to laugh, because he wouldn’t, although Butters had a sense that Martin sometimes enjoyed a little joshing. He said, “Last time I talked to him direct, he sounded like he was . . . getting out there.”

  Martin chewed, swallowed and said, “Nothing wrong with being out there.”

  “No, there ain’t,” Butters agreed. He was as far out there as anyone. “But if we’re gonna be killing cops, we want the guy to have his feet on the ground.”

  “Why? You planning to walk away from this thing?”

  Butters thought for a minute, then laughed, almost sadly, and shook his head. “I guess not.”

  “I thought about goin’ up to Alaska, moving out in the woods,” Martin said, after a moment of silence. “You know, when I got the call. But they’ll get you even in Alaska. They’ll track you down anywhere. I’m tired of it. I figure, it’s time to do something. So when I heard from Dick, I thought I might as well come on down.”

  “I don’t know about that, the politics,” Butters said. “But I owe Dick. And I got to pay him now, ’cause I am gettin’ awful tired.”

  Martin looked at him for a moment, then said, “When you’re that kind of tired, there ain’t no point of being scared of cops. Or anything else.”

  They chewed for another minute and then Butters said, “True.” And a moment later said, “Did I tell you my dog died?”

  “That’ll make a man tired,” Martin said.

  LIKE THE SEVEN dwarves, Daymon Harp whistled while he worked. And while he collected: unlike Snow White and her pals, Harp sold cocaine and speed at the semi-wholesale level, supplying a half-dozen reliable retailers who worked the clubs, bars and bowling alleys in Minneapolis and selected suburbs.

  Harp had seven thousand dollars in his coat pocket and he was whistling a minuet from the “Anna Magdelena Notebook” when he turned the Lincoln onto Eleventh. A pale-haired kid with a pizza box was standing on the corner outside his laundromat, looking up at the apartments. The pizza box was the thing that snared him: Harp never thought to look for the delivery car.

  Daymon turned the corner, pushed the button on the automatic garage door opener, saw the kid look down toward him as he pulled in, then killed the engine and got out. The kid was walking down the sidewalk with the pizza box flat on one hand and Daymon thought, If that fucking Jas has gone and ordered out for a pizza when she’s up there by herself . . .

  He was waiting for the kid, when Martin stepped up behind him and pressed a pistol to his ear: “Back in the garage.”

  Daymon jumped, but controlled it. He held his hands away from his sides and turned back to the garage. “Take it easy,” he said. He didn’t want the guy excited. He’d had a pistol in his ear before, and when caught in that condition, you definitely want to avoid excitement. He tried an implied threat: “You know who I am?”

  “Daymon Harp, a jigaboo drug dealer,” Martin said, and Harp thought, Uh-oh.

  The kid with the pizza followed them inside, spotted the lighted button for the garage door opener, and pushed it. The door came down and Martin prodded Harp toward the stairs at the back.

  “Take the position,” Martin said.

  Harp leaned against the wall, hands and feet spread wide. “Got no gun,” he said. He looked sideways at Martin: “You’re not cops.”

  “We’d be embarrassed if you was lying about the gun,” Martin said. The younger guy patted him down, found the wad of cash and pulled it out. “Ooo,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Harp kept his mouth shut.

  “This is the deal,” Martin said, as Butters tucked the money away. “We
need some information from you. We don’t want to hurt you. We will, if you get stupid, so it’s best for you to go along.”

  “What do you want?” Daymon asked.

  “To go upstairs,” Butters said, in his soft Tennessee accent. Harp looked at him out of the corner of his eye: Butters had three dark-blue tears tattooed at the inner corner of his left eye, and Daymon Harp thought again, Uh-oh.

  THEY CLIMBED THE stairs as a trio, and now the southern boy had a pistol barrel prodding Daymon’s spine, while the other focused on his temple. They all tensed while Daymon unlocked the door. A woman called down an interior hall, “Day? That you?”

  Butters left them, padding silently down the hall, while Martin stayed with Harp. The woman came around a corner just as Butters got to it and she jumped, shocked, as Butters grabbed her by a wrist and showed her the gun. “Shut up,” Butters said.

  She shut up.

  Five minutes later, Harp and the woman were duct-taped to kitchen chairs. The woman’s hands were flat on her thighs, with loops of tape around her upper arms and body. She had a sock stuffed in her mouth, held in place with two or three more wraps of tape. Her terrified dark eyes flicked between Harp and whichever of the white men was in sight.

  Martin and Butters checked the apartment. The landing outside the front door, Martin found when he opened it, was blocked by a pile of brown cardboard appliance boxes. The boxes made a practical burglar alarm and buffer, should the cops come, but still provided an escape route if one were needed.

  Butters checked the two bedrooms and found nothing of interest but a collection of vinyl 33-rpm jazz records.

  “Clear,” Butters said, coming back to the front room.

  Martin sat down in a third chair and, knee-to-knee with Harp, said, “You probably know people like us. Met us in the joint. We don’t much care for black folks and we’d be happy to cut your throats and be done with it. But we can’t, this time, ’cause we need you to introduce us to a friend of yours.”