Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  “You’ve got a phone call . . .”

  Lucas shook himself awake, heaved himself out of the chair. “Who is it?” he asked, yawning. He saw the beer. “Is that for me?”

  “I don’t know who it is. And get your own,” she said.

  “We sound like a TV commercial.”

  “You’re the one who was snoring in the chair after dinner,” she said.

  “I was thinking,” he said. He picked up the phone, ignoring her dainty snort. “Yeah?”

  The man’s voice was oily, a man who gave and took confidences like one-dollar poker chips. “This is Earl. Stupella. Down at the Blue Bull?”

  “Yeah, Earl. What’s happening?”

  “You was in that shoot-out a week or so ago, in the papers. The credit union.” He wasn’t asking a question.

  “Yeah?”

  “So this chick came in here tonight and said she’d seen the husband of one of these girls, who like supposedly busted out of prison and killed somebody. It was like La Chase?”

  Lucas was listening now. “LaChaise,” he said. “That’s right. Where’d she see him?”

  “A laundromat down on Eleventh. She said she saw him going in and he talked to a guy in the window for a minute and then he left.”

  “Huh. Who’s the chick?” Lucas asked.

  “Don’t tell her I talked to you,” Stupella said.

  “No problem.”

  “Sally O’Donald. She lives somewhere up the line, by the cemetery, I think, but I don’t know.”

  “I know Sally,” Lucas said. “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Sally said she didn’t want to have nothing to do with LaChaise, so when she saw him, she turned right around and walked away.”

  “When was all this?”

  “Sally was in about an hour ago,” Stupella said. “She saw the guy this morning.”

  “Good stuff, Earl. You’ll get a note in the mail.”

  “Thanks, dude.”

  LUCAS DROPPED THE phone on the hook: LaChaise. So he was here. And out in the open. Lucas stood staring at the phone for a second, then picked it up again.

  “Going out?” Weather asked from the hallway.

  “Mmm, yeah. I think.” He pushed a speed-dial button, listened to the beep-beep-boop of the phone.

  Del answered on the second ring. “What?”

  “I hope that’s not a bedside phone you’re talking on.”

  “What happened?” Del asked.

  “Nothing much. I thought we might go for a ride, if you’re not doing anything.”

  “You mean, go for a ride and get an ice cream? Or go for a ride and bring your gun?”

  “The latter,” Lucas said, glancing at Weather. She had a little rim of beer foam on her upper lip.

  “Latter, my ass,” Del said. “Give me ten minutes.”

  THE BACK STREETS were ruts of gnarled ice. The Explorer’s heater barely kept up, and Del, who didn’t like gloves, sat with his hands in his armpits. The good part was, the assholes and freaks got as cold as anyone else. On nights like this, there was no crime, except the odd domestic murder that probably would have happened anyway.

  When the radio burped, Del picked it up: “Yeah.”

  “O’Donald is the third house on the left, right after you make the turn off Lake,” the dispatcher said.

  “All right. We’ll get back.”

  Lucas cruised the house once, rattling the white Explorer down the ruts. The house showed lights in the back, where the kitchen usually was, and the dim blue glow of a television from a side window. “The thing is,” Lucas said, “she has a terrible temper.”

  “And she’s about the size of a fuckin’ two-car garage,” said Del. “Maybe we should shoot her before we talk to her.”

  “Just a flesh wound, to slow her down,” Lucas agreed. “Or shoot her in the kneecap.”

  “We shot the last one in the kneecap.”

  “Oh yeah; well, that’s out, then.” Lucas parked and said, “Don’t piss her off, huh? I don’t want to be rolling around in the yard with her.”

  SALLY O’DONALD WAS in a mood.

  She stood on the other side of a locked glass storm door, her hair in pink curlers, her ample lips turned down in a scowl, her fists on her hips. She was wearing a thread-bare plaid bathrobe and fuzzy beige slippers that looked like squashed rabbits.

  “What do you assholes want, in the middle of the night?”

  “Just talk, no problem,” Lucas said. He was standing on the second step of the stoop, looking up at her.

  “Last time I talked to that fuckin’ Capslock, I thought I was gonna have to pull his nuts off,” she said, not moving toward the door lock. She stared over Lucas’s shoulder at Del.

  Del shivered and said, “Sally, open the goddamn door, will you? We’re freezing out here. Honest to God, all we want to do is talk.”

  She let them in after a while, and led them back to a television room so choked with smoke that it might have been a bowling alley. She moved a TV dinner tray out of the way, pointed at a corduroy-covered chair for Lucas and sat down in another. Del stood.

  “We know you saw Dick LaChaise—you only told about a hundred people,” Lucas said.

  “I didn’t tell no hundred people, I told about three,” she said, squinting at him from her piggy eyes. “I’ll figure out who it was, sooner or later. Pull his nuts off.”

  “Jesus, Sally,” Del said. “Take it easy on the nuts stuff.”

  “We just want to know where you saw him, who he was with and what you know about him,” Lucas said. “Our source says you used to hang out with him.”

  “Who is it? The source? I talk to you, you oughta give me something.”

  “You know I can’t tell you that. I could ask sex to give your place a pass for a couple of months,” Lucas said, adding, “if the information is decent.”

  She nodded, calculating. A two-month pass from sex added up. She said, “All right. I hung with the Seed, off and on, for maybe ten years? Up until—let’s see—four or five years ago. They got me in the business to begin with, turned me out in Milwaukee. Dick was one of the bigger shots in the Seeds when I first met him. He was maybe twenty-five back then, so he’d be what, forty?”

  “Thirty-eight,” Lucas said. “That’s a long time ago.”

  “Yeah. I remember him especially because he thought he was Marlon Brando. He liked to wear those squashed fisherman hats, and gold chains and shit. I caught him practicing his smile once, in the can at this bar in Milwaukee.”

  “Practicing . . . ?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not getting a picture of a big leader, here,” Lucas said.

  “Oh, he was. Maybe a little too nuts, though. You know, most of the Seeds were sort of . . . criminal businessmen. A little dope, a little porn, a few whores. Bad, but not necessarily crazy. Dick . . . you heard about the sleeping on the yellow line?”

  “Yeah, heard the story,” Lucas said.

  “I was there. He did. And he was asleep. And I once saw him try to ride a Harley up an oak tree . . .”

  Lucas looked at Del and they both shrugged. “He killed this guard, cut his throat, pretty cold,” Lucas said to O’Donald. “Does that sound like LaChaise?”

  She thought for a moment, cocking her head, then said, “Well, ten years ago, he would’ve had to be pissed. But just cold like that . . .” She snapped her fingers. “I don’t know.”

  “His old lady and Georgie LaChaise—they had a rep for stealing money and giving it to nut groups,” Lucas said. “He had to have help in the escape. We thought maybe some of the nuts helped out.”

  “I didn’t know his wife or his sister. The Seed had some serious goofballs around, though. Just before I left it was the blacks this and the Jews that and the politicians and media and cops and feminists and television and banks and insurance companies and welfare and food stamps . . . the whole pizza pie.”

  “Sounds like talk radio,” Lucas said.

  She laughed, an unplea
sant gurgling sound, and her stomach bounced up and down. She pointed her finger at him. “That’s good.”

  “What was he doing at the laundromat?” Del asked.

  “Talking to some guy,” O’Donald said. “They was standing up, arguing with each other—that’s when I came down the street and saw him. He has a beard and he had a beard when I knew him, but he didn’t have a beard in the newspaper picture.”

  “That was the last picture they had of him,” Lucas said. “He started growing the beard two or three months ago.”

  “How’d it look?” Del asked. He’d propped himself against a chest of drawers. “Short and smooth? Special cut?”

  “Bible prophet,” she said. “Long and scraggly.”

  Lucas said, “Then what? After he was arguing with the guy?”

  “I didn’t hang around. I don’t need Dick LaChaise seeing me and asking for a favor, if you know what I mean.”

  “You worried about freebies?” Del asked.

  “I don’t care about freebies,” she said. She looked away, her lips still moving, then she shook her head and said, “If Dick is here, some of his old Seed buddies are probably around, too. You really don’t want to fuck with them.”

  “We did,” Del said.

  O’Donald nodded: “I read about it—that thing where you guys killed his old lady and his sister.”

  “Yeah?” Del nodded.

  “He’s here to even the score on that,” O’Donald said. “If I were you guys, I’d move to another state.”

  Lucas looked at her. “You think he’d come after cops?”

  “Davenport, have you been listening?” she asked impatiently. “Dick is a fuckin’ fruitcake. You killed his woman and his sister. He’s coming after you, all right. Eye for an eye.”

  She frowned suddenly, then said, “That guy he was talking to—at the laundromat. I think he was a cop.”

  Lucas said, “What?”

  “I don’t know who, but I recognized the attitude. You know how you can always tell a cop? I mean, except for Capslock here, he looks like a wino . . . Well, this guy was like that. A cop-cop.”

  “Would you recognize a mug shot?”

  She shrugged: “Probably not. I didn’t really look at him, I was sort of looking past him, at Dick. It was the way he stood that made me think cop.”

  Del looked down at Lucas and said, “That’s not good.”

  “No. That’s not good.” Lucas looked back through the dark house, the smoke-browned wallpaper, the crumpled Chee-tos bags on the floor, the stink of a cat, and he said, half to himself, “Eye for an eye.”

  7

  MARTIN HAD BROUGHT a foam target with him, a two-foot-square chunk of dense white plastic with concentric black circles around the bull’s-eye. He’d nailed it to a wall beside the refrigerator, and was shooting arrows diagonally across the living room, into the kitchen. The shooting made a steady THUMM-whack from the bow-string vibration and the arrows punching into the target.

  Form practice, he called it; he didn’t care where the arrow went, if the form was correct. As it happened, the arrow always went into the bull’s-eye.

  LaChaise had been watching a game show. When it ended, he yawned, got to his feet and went to a window. The light had died. He looked out into the gloom, then let the curtains fall back and turned to the room. He cracked a smile and said, “Let’s saddle up.”

  Martin was at full draw, and might not have heard. He held, released: THUMM-whack.

  Butters had been playing with their new cell phone. They’d bought it from a dealer friend of Butters’s, who’d bought it from one of his customers, a kid with a nose for cocaine.

  “Good for two weeks,” the dealer had promised. Butters had given him a thousand dollars for the phone, and the dealer had put the money in his jeans without counting it. “The kid’s ma is a Realtor. She’s in Barbados on vacation, left him just enough money to buy food. The kid said his ma made fifty calls a day, so you can use it as much as you want; I wouldn’t go calling Russia or nothing.”

  They’d used it twice, once to call Stadic, once to call a used-car salesman.

  When LaChaise said “Saddle up,” Butters put the phone down, opened the duffel by his foot, and took out two pistols. One was a tiny .380, the other a larger nine-millimeter. He popped the magazines on both of them, thumbed the shells out and restacked them. Then he took a long, thin hand-machined silencer out of the duffel and screwed it into the nine-millimeter: excellent. He unscrewed the silencer, picked up his camo jacket and dropped the silencer in the side pocket.

  “Ready,” he said simply. Butters had a thick blue vein that ran down his temple to his cheekbone: the vein was standing out in the thin light, like a scar.

  “How about you?” LaChaise asked Martin.

  Martin was at full draw again, focused on form: THUMM-whack. “Been ready,” he said.

  LaChaise parted the drapes with two fingers, looked out again. The streetlights were on and it was snowing. The snow had started at noon, just a few flakes at first, the weather forecasters saying it wasn’t much. Now it was getting heavier. The closest streetlight looked like a candle.

  LaChaise turned back into the room, stepped to a chair, and picked up three sheets of paper. The papers were Xerox copies of a newspaper article from the Star Tribune. He’d outlined the relevant copy with a pen:

  Officers Sherrill, Capslock, Franklin and Kupicek were removed from active duty pending a hearing before a weapons review board, a routine action always taken after a line-of-duty shooting incident. Deputy Chief Davenport and Officer Sloan did not discharge their weapons and will continue on active duty.

  So Sherrill, Capslock, Franklin and Kupicek were the shooters.

  “What?” asked Martin. He opened his eyes and looked up at LaChaise.

  “Eye for an eye,” LaChaise said.

  “Absolutely,” Martin said. He was pulling on his coat. “So let’s go.”

  MARTIN DROVE HIS truck to West End Buick-Oldsmobile. He’d called earlier, and asked for the salesman by name: “I talked to you a couple of days ago about a ’91 Pontiac, that black one . . .”

  “The Firebird?” The salesman had sounded uncertain, since he hadn’t talked to anyone about the Firebird.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. You still got it?”

  “Still looking for an owner,” the salesman had said. “There’s a guy coming around tonight, but nobody’s signed anything yet.”

  Martin had grinned at the car-sales bullshit. “I’ll come by in an hour or so.”

  “I’ll be looking for you,” the salesman had promised.

  Martin carried a Marine Corps combat knife with a five-inch serrated blade. He’d bought it as a Christmas gift for himself, through a U.S. Cavalry catalog, and carried it in a sheath, on his belt. The knife was the only gift he’d gotten in the past few years, except that LaChaise had given him a bottle of Jim Beam the year before he went to prison.

  Martin was thinking about the Jim Beam when he got to the Buick store. He parked across the street: he could see light from the windows, but the snow had continued to thicken, and the people on the other side of the glass were no more than occasional shadows.

  He had ten minutes. He closed his eyes, settled in and thought about the other men he’d killed. Martin didn’t worry about killing: he simply did it. When he was a kid, there was always something around the farm to be killed. Chickens, hogs, usually a heifer in the fall. And there was the hunting: squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, doves, grouse, deer, bear.

  By the time he killed his first man, he didn’t much think about it. The man, Harold Carter, was owed money by LaChaise, that LaChaise had borrowed to set up his motorcycle parts store. Carter was talking about going to court. LaChaise wanted him to go away.

  Martin killed Carter with a knife on the back steps of his own home, carried the body out to his truck and buried the man in the woods. Nothing to it; certainly not as hard as taking down a pig. A pig always knew what was coming, and fought i
t. Went squealing and twisting. Carter simply dropped.

  His second killing had been no more trouble than the first. His third, if he did it right, should be the easiest yet, because he wouldn’t have to deal with the body. Martin closed his eyes; if he were the type to sleep, he might have.

  LACHAISE, DRIVING ELMORE’S truck, dropped Butters at the Rosedale Mall. Butters carried both pistols, the short .380 in his left jacket pocket, and the nine-millimeter, with the silencer already attached, in a Velcroed flap under his arm.

  He cruised past TV Toys. A tall woman talked to a lone customer, and a thin balding man in a white shirt stood behind the counter. Butters stepped to a phone kiosk, found the paper in his pocket, and dialed the number of the store. He watched as the man in the white shirt picked up the phone.

  “TV Toys, this is Walt.”

  “Yes, is Elaine there?”

  “Just a moment.”

  The man in the white shirt called over to the tall woman, who smiled and said something to her customer and started toward the counter. Butters hung up and glanced at his watch.

  Five-twenty. LaChaise should be getting to Capslock’s place.

  CAPSLOCK’S WIFE WAS a nurse at Ramsey General Hospital, according to her insurance file. She finished her shift at three o’clock.

  LaChaise stopped at a Tom Thumb store, bent his head against the storm, punched in her phone number—the insurance forms had everything: address, employer, home and office phones—and waited for an answer.

  Like Butters, LaChaise carried two pistols with him, but revolvers rather than automatics. He didn’t care about the noise he made, so he didn’t have to worry about a silencer; and he liked the simplicity of a revolver. No safeties or feed problems to think about, no cocking anything, just point and shoot.

  Cheryl Capslock answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Uh, Mrs. Capslock?” LaChaise tried to pitch his voice up, to sound boyish, cheerful. “Is Del in?”

  “Not yet. Who is this?”

  “Terry—I’m at the Amoco station on Snelling. Del wanted, uh, he wanted to talk to me and left a number. Could you tell him I’m around?”