Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

Martin came in first, Butters, stamping snow off his sleeves, just behind him.

  “Let’s take a look,” Martin said.

  “You get yours?” LaChaise asked.

  Martin nodded and Butters said, “Yep. How about you?”

  “I got somebody, there were ambulances all over the place . . .”

  They helped him sit up as they talked, and LaChaise told them about making the call, and then Del popping up behind his wife. “And the fucker recognized me . . . careful, there . . .”

  They peeled the parka off, then the vest, then the flannel shirt, each progressively heavier with blood. His undershirt showed two small holes and a bloodstain the size of a dinner plate.

  “Better cut that,” Butters muttered.

  “Yeah.” Martin took out his knife, and the Jockey T-shirt split like tissue paper. “Roll up here, Dick . . .”

  LaChaise tried to roll onto his left side and lift his arm; he was sweating heavily, and groaned again, “Goddamn, that hurts.”

  Martin and Butters were looking at the wound. “Don’t look like too much,” Butters said. “Don’t see no bone.”

  “Yeah, but there’s an in-and-out . . .”

  “What?” LaChaise asked.

  “You just got nicked, but there’s a hole, in-and-out, besides the groove. Maybe cut you down to the ribs, that’s the pain. The holes gotta be cleaned out. They’d be full of threads and shit from the coat.”

  “Get Sandy down here,” LaChaise said. “Call her—no, go get her. I don’t know if she’d come on her own . . . She can do it, she used to be a nurse.”

  Martin looked at Butters and nodded. “That’d be best, she might have some equipment.”

  “Some pills,” Butters said.

  “Get her,” LaChaise moaned.

  9

  THE SANDHURST WAS a yellow-brick semiresidential hotel on the west edge of the business district. The building was three stories higher than anything else for two blocks around, and easily covered. The clients were mostly itinerant actors, directors, artists and museum bureaucrats, in town visiting the Guthrie Theater or the Walker Art Center.

  Lucas and Sloan brought Weather in through the back, down an alley blocked by unmarked cars. Two members of the Emergency Response Team were on the roof with radios and rifles.

  “. . . everything I’ve been trying to do,” Weather was saying. Lucas’s head was going up and down as he half-listened. He scanned each face down the alley. His hand was in his pocket and a .45 was in his hand. Sloan’s wife was already inside.

  “It won’t be long,” Lucas said. “They can’t last more than a couple of days.”

  “Who? Who can’t last?” Weather demanded, looking up at him. “You don’t even know who they are, except this LaChaise.”

  “We’ll find out,” Lucas said. “They’re gonna pay, every fuckin’ one of them.” His voice left little doubt about it, and Weather recoiled, but Lucas had her arm and marched her toward the hotel.

  “Let go of my arm,” she said. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Sorry.” He let go, put his hand in the small of her back, and pushed her along.

  The two hotel entries, front and back, met at the lobby: Franklin and Tom Black, Sherrill’s former partner, sat behind a wide rosewood reception desk, shotguns across their thighs, out of sight. The largest cop on the force, a guy named Loring, read a paperback in one of the lobby’s overstuffed chairs. He was wearing a pearl-gray suit and an ascot, and looked like a pro wrestler who’d made it small.

  In the entry, a uniformed doorman turned and looked at them when he saw movement down the back hall. Andy Stadic raised a hand, and Lucas nodded at him and then they were around a corner and headed down toward the elevators.

  “You know, anybody could find out where we are,” Weather said.

  “They can’t get in,” Lucas said. “And they can’t see you.”

  “You said they were Seed people, and Seed people are supposed to be in these militias,” Weather said. Weather was from northern Wisconsin, and knew about the Seed. “What if they brought one of those big fertilizer bombs outside?”

  “No trucks are coming down this block,” Lucas said. “We got the city digging up the streets right now, both sides.”

  “You can’t hold it, Lucas,” Weather said. “The press’ll be here, television . . .”

  Lucas shook his head: “They’ll know you’re here, but they won’t get inside. If they try, we’ll warn them once, then we’ll put their asses in jail. We’re not fucking around.”

  He took her up to the top floor, and down the hall to a small two-room suite with walls the color of cigar smoke; the rooms smelled like disinfectant and spray deodorant. Weather looked around and said, “This is awful.”

  “Two days. Three days, max,” Lucas said. “I’d send you up to the cabin but they know about us, somehow, and I can’t take the chance.”

  “I don’t want to go to the cabin,” she said. “I want to work.”

  “Yeah,” Lucas said distractedly. “I gotta run . . .”

  FOR TWO HOURS after the killings, Rose Marie Roux’s office was like an airport waiting room, fifty people rolling through, all of them weighed down with their own importance, most looking for a shot on national television. The governor stopped, wanted a briefing; a dozen state legislators demanded time with her, along with all the city councilmen.

  Lucas spent a half hour watching Sloan and another cop interrogate Duane Cale, who didn’t know much about anything.

  “But if Dick is here, I’d get my ass out of town,” Cale said.

  The interrogation wouldn’t produce much, Lucas thought. He locked himself in his office with Franklin, away from the media and cops who wanted to talk about it. Sloan came in after a while, and started making calls. Then Del wandered in, his clothes still dappled with his wife’s blood.

  “How’s Cheryl?” Lucas asked.

  Del shook his head: “She’s out of the operating room, asleep. They put her in intensive care, and won’t let me in. She’ll be there until tomorrow morning, at least.”

  “You oughta get some rest,” Lucas said.

  “Fuck that. What’re you guys doing?”

  “Talking to assholes . . .”

  Between them, they called everyone they knew on the street who had a phone. Lucas tried Sally O’Donald a half-dozen times, and left word for her at bars along Lake Street.

  A little more than two hours after the killings, Roux called:

  “We’re meeting with the mayor at his office. Ten minutes.”

  “Is this real?” Lucas asked.

  “Yeah. This is the real one,” Roux said.

  A minute later, O’Donald called back.

  “Can you come down and look at some pictures?” Lucas asked. “The guy you thought might be a cop?”

  “I can’t even remember in my head what he looked like,” O’Donald said. “But I’ll come down if you want.”

  “Talk to Ed O’Meara in Identification.”

  “Okay—but listen. I talked to my agent . . .”

  “Your what?”

  “My agent,” O’Donald said, mildly embarrassed. “She said she might get five thousand dollars if I talked to Hard Copy.”

  “Goddamnit, Sally,” Lucas said. “If you screw me and Del . . .”

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” O’Donald said. “I’m not going to screw anybody. What I want to know is, are you gonna take LaChaise off the street?”

  “Yeah. Sooner or later.”

  “So if I talk, he won’t be able to get at me?”

  Lucas hesitated, then said, “Look, I’ll be honest. If you talk, and then you bag outa here for a few days, he’ll be gone. He won’t last a week.”

  “That’s what I wanted to know,” O’Donald said.

  “But you gotta tell me when you’re going on,” Lucas said. “We’ll put a guy on your house—in your house, maybe—just in case LaChaise comes looking.”

  “Jeez,” she said. There was a minute
’s silence. “You put it that way . . . maybe I won’t. I don’t want to fuck with Dick.”

  “Either way, let me know,” Lucas said. He glanced at his watch. The meeting was about to start. “Come in, talk to Ed . . .”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. I thought of something else you might want to know.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You ought to look at the ownership of that laundromat.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me?” Lucas asked.

  “I understand that it belongs to Daymon Harp.” The name hung there, but Lucas didn’t recognize it.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Jeez, Davenport, you gotta get back on the streets a little more. He’s a dealer. Pretty big time . . .”

  “A Seed guy?”

  “No, no, never. He’s a black guy; good-looking guy. Ask Del. Del’ll know who he is.”

  “Thanks, Sally.”

  “You talk to sex?”

  “I’ll talk to them tonight.”

  When he got off the phone, he said to Del, “Daymon Harp?”

  “Dealer—semi-small-time. Careful. Reasonably smart. Came over from Milwaukee a few years back. Why?”

  “Sally O’Donald says he owns the laundromat where she saw LaChaise.”

  Del frowned, shook his head. “I don’t know what that means. I can’t see Harp running with the Seed guys. That’s the last combination I could imagine.”

  “Might be worth checking . . .”

  Del looked at Sloan. “Want to run it down?”

  Lucas interrupted. “Why don’t you get cleaned up first? Sloan and Franklin can stay with the phones. When I get back, we’ll all go down.”

  LUCAS WAS THE last one in the door. The meeting included Roux, the mayor and a deputy mayor; Frank Lester, head of investigations; Barney Kittleson, head of patrol; Anita Segundo, the press liaison; and Lucas.

  Rose Marie was talking to Segundo when Lucas eased through the door. She asked, “How bad?”

  “CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN and one or two of the Fox cop shows all have people on the way. Nightline is doing a segment tonight. They’re talking about LaChaise and his group being militia. Ever since the federal building was blown up in Oklahoma City, that’s a hot topic.”

  “Are they militia?” the mayor asked. “Do these media guys know something?”

  “The FBI says LaChaise was on the edge of things, but they don’t show him really involved,” Lester said. “He knew some of the Order people back in the eighties . . .”

  “Didn’t the Order kill that radio guy in Denver?” the mayor asked.

  Lester nodded: “Yes. But the feds took them out a little while later. LaChaise was a big guy in the Seed, and some of the militia people from Michigan were involved in the Seed back when it was a biker gang. And later on, some of the Seed people got involved with Christian Identity—that’s sort of an umbrella group. And we know LaChaise used to sell neo-Nazi stuff in his bike shop: The Turner Diaries, and all that. Some people think the Seed got its name from a right-winger who went on the radio and said it was too late to stop the movement, because there were Seeds everywhere. But that could be bullshit.”

  “We gotta nail that down,” the mayor said, jabbing a finger at Roux. “If these are militia, we gotta start thinking in terms of bombs and heavy weapons.”

  Roux glanced at Lucas, scratched her head and said, “I don’t think . . .”

  She stopped, and the mayor’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t think that’s much of a possibility, Stan. I think we’re basically dealing with some goofs, with guns. Three guys, psychos, who maybe rode together in a biker gang. And maybe messed around on the edge of the Nazi stuff.”

  “Well, you’re probably right,” the mayor said. “But if they blow up the fuckin’ First Bank, I don’t want to be standing there with my dick in my hand, trying to explain why we didn’t know what was coming.”

  Roux nodded. “That’s one thing: we’re gonna need a very tight public relations operation, or we’re gonna get run over,” she said. “We’ll have cops gettin’ paid off, we’ll have reporters chasing witnesses . . .”

  “The guy at Rosedale—the other clerk with Kupicek’s wife, in the TV store—he’s already signed up for Nightline ,” Segundo said.

  The mayor was an olive-complected, bull-shouldered man, with fine curly black hair just starting to recede. He looked at his deputy, then at Roux: “Rose Marie, it’s gonna be you and me.”

  “Sounds like a hit song from the fifties,” the deputy said, “Rose Marie, it’s you and me.”

  Everyone ignored him.

  “We lay down the law about cops talking to the press: if you do it, you better get a lot of money, ’cause you won’t be working here anymore,” the mayor said. “We have four major press briefings every day: one early, to catch the morning shows; one just before noon; one just before five; and one at eight forty-five, to catch the late news. You’ll have to coordinate with your investigators—we should have a bone to throw them at every press conference. Doesn’t have to be real, but it has to be satisfying . . . ”

  The mayor went on for five minutes, laying out the handling of the press.

  Then he turned to Lester and Lucas: “Lucas, I want you and your people totally off stage. We don’t want any arguments about whether the response was provoked by the shootings at the bank.”

  “I didn’t know that was still a question,” Lester said.

  “There isn’t a question,” the mayor said irritably. “But the media’ll chew on any goddamned bone they can find. You gotta remember we’re dealing with the entertainment industry. Die Hard, Oklahoma City, it’s all the same. Now it’s our turn to make the movie.” He rapped on the table with his knuckles, still looking at Lester and Lucas: “We can only bullshit them for so long. We gotta catch these guys.”

  “We’ve got a procedure in emergencies,” Roux said, and the mayor swiveled back to her. “We run two parallel investigations. Lucas and his bunch play the angles, and Frank runs the main sweep. Everybody coordinates through Anderson. He puts out a book every day on every little piece we get. Nobody hides anything from anybody.”

  “It works?” asked the mayor.

  “So far,” Lucas said.

  “Then let’s do that,” the mayor said. “Do we have one single thing we can move on now? Anything?”

  “Maybe one,” said Lucas. He was thinking about the laundromat: a place to start.

  SANDY DROVE WHILE Butters leaned against the window on the passenger side. Elmore followed in Sandy’s truck. Elmore hadn’t wanted to go at first, and Butters agreed: Butters wanted Sandy, not her husband.

  “I’m not going,” Sandy had said.

  Butters said, “I ain’t got time to argue, Sandy. You’re going.” There was no doubt that she was going: he didn’t bother to show her a gun, but it was there. Butters had an affable, southern-boy line of bullshit, but beneath it, he was as cold as Martin. When she went to get her coat, Butters went with her.

  “Are you guarding me?” she asked.

  “I’m making sure that you come along,” Butters said. “I know you don’t want to.”

  “You gonna tell me what happened? Who shot him?”

  “No,” Butters said. He’d told them that LaChaise had been shot in a fight. Sandy and Elmore had been feeding the stock, and hadn’t seen any television.

  When it was clear that Sandy was going, Elmore insisted that he go along too. Butters finally agreed, because he didn’t want to waste time arguing: “But you come down in the van—Sandy goes with me,” Butters said. “We’re still gonna need both trucks for a while.”

  They stopped at the old folks’ home, where Sandy still filled in when somebody was sick. A big first-aid kit in the nurse’s office gave up bandages, needles and thread, razor blades and antiseptic. A large illegal bottle of Tylenol-3 was kept stashed in the bottom desk drawer, for the miscellaneous aches and pains of old age, and she emptied it. What else? Surgical scissors, a co
uple of Bic disposable razors, tape. Saline. There was a stock of sterile saline in the storeroom. She took five liters.

  The nurses each had a personal drawer in a row of filing cabinets. Nobody bothered to lock them, and Sandy dug around in Marie Admont’s drawer and found the bottle of penicillin pills. Marie had gotten them after a crazy old lady had raked her with her fingernails. Marie had only used a few of the pills, and a half-dozen remained in the bottle. Sandy took them.

  THE DRIVE TO St. Paul seemed to last forever, the dark strip through Wisconsin, then the winding road out to the interstate on the Minnesota side. Butters said a half-dozen words during the trip, Sandy four or five. Both were caught in their own thoughts.

  Once in the Cities, Butters guided them down the interstate, then back into the narrow ice-clogged streets of Frogtown. They parked behind Martin’s truck, and got out. Elmore parked behind them, and hurried through the snow, white-faced, and said, “I want to talk to Sandy. One minute. Before we go in there.”

  Butters said, “Get your asses in there, goddamnit.”

  “I’m going to talk to Elmore,” Sandy said, her voice like the ice in the streets. “I’ll get to Dick when I get to him.”

  “Listen . . .”

  “Are you going to shoot me, Ansel? That’d help Dick a lot.”

  Butters backed off, and Sandy took Elmore twenty yards down the street. “What?”

  Elmore was visibly trembling.

  “I been listening to the radio,” he rasped. “They been down here killing cops’ families. That’s all they’re talking about on the radio, every station I could get. They killed two people and there’s a third one might die. Everybody in the goddamned world is looking for them, Sandy.”

  Sandy looked at him, then turned and looked at Butters, who stood silently waiting. “Oh my God,” she said.

  “We got to get out,” Elmore said.

  “Let’s go see Dick,” Sandy said. “I’ll work us out of here. But you’re right. We’ve got to see John.”

  They walked down the driveway together, Butters lingering just out of earshot. Martin waited at the door.