“What for? She ain’t doing me no good,” Harp said. “She been weepin’ around about this finger.”
“You need a witness. There’s some heavy shit coming down. You might want to prove that you weren’t here. Take a credit card, and buy some stuff down there. Keep the receipts, so you can prove it.”
“Yeah, okay. Good idea,” Harp said.
“Stay in touch. Call my place, leave a hotel name on the tape. Nothing else, just the hotel name.”
“We’re outa here,” Harp said, and he hung up.
Harp’s disappearance would simplify things, Stadic thought: one less problem to worry about. LaChaise would be gone in a week, and in two weeks, nobody would be coming back to Harp.
LUCAS CALLED A meeting for ten o’clock: at nine-fifteen he shut himself in his office and closed his eyes, feet up on the desk, and worked parts of it out. At nine-thirty, he started going through LaChaise’s file, everything that Harmon Anderson had managed to put together from Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois and the FBI.
LaChaise’s criminal career had begun when he was a teenager, with game-law violations in Wisconsin, followed by timber rustling off state forestlands—cutting and selling walnut trees out of the hardwood forests in the southern part of the state. He’d been convicted twice of taking deer out of season, and twice on the tree rustling.
Somewhere along the line he’d joined the Seed—called the Bad Seed at the time—a motorcycle club with ties to drug smuggling, pornography and prostitution. Then he’d apparently gone into business: he’d been convicted of failing to remit sales taxes to the state of Wisconsin, and the contents of a motorcycle shop had been seized.
A year later, operating another shop, he’d been closed again, and again, his motorcycle stock was seized, apparently to cover the remaining principal and outstanding interest on the late sales taxes from the first shop.
Two months after that, he was charged with underreporting his income for three years, but was acquitted. The next charges, illegal dumping of industrial waste, were filed in Michigan. Then there were charges of threatening a game warden, trespassing, two assaults that were apparently bar fights and two drunken driving convictions.
The murder count was weak, as Sandy Darling had said it was.
When Sandy Darling’s name popped into his head, Lucas dropped the file folder against his chest, thinking: if nothing turned up, he should make a quick run up to Darling’s place. She wasn’t all that far, and she knew LaChaise about as well as anyone alive. He had to be hiding somewhere . . .
He went back to the file: there was a sheaf of newspaper accounts of LaChaise’s arrest and trial, and the reporters noted the difficulty of conviction—and the jubilation of the prosecutors and local lawmen when the guilty verdict came in.
A county sheriff was quoted as saying, “Sooner or later he was going to kill an honest citizen or a law enforcement officer. Putting Dick LaChaise in prison is a public service.”
But the conviction smelled—and he thought of Sandy Darling again.
At nine-fifty, Del showed up; and in the next few minutes, Sloan, Franklin and Sherrill. Kupicek was out of it, for the time being: lost his shit, as Franklin put it, but he said the words with sympathy.
Sherrill was holding tighter than Lucas expected.
“I didn’t think there was any feeling left, until I saw him dead,” Sherrill said, slumped in her chair. Her face was dead-pale against her dark hair and eyes. “I served the papers on him two months ago, but Jesus, I didn’t want him dead.”
“You can handle it?” Lucas asked.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. She was ten years older in five hours, Lucas thought. She had a little harsh wrinkle running from the left side of her nose to the corner of her mouth, and it was not a smile line. “Yeah, I’ll tell you what: I’m in on this.”
Lucas looked at her for a moment, then nodded and looked at the others. “I don’t know what Del and Sloan have told you, but we think LaChaise and friends of LaChaise might be involved somehow with Daymon Harp, a dealer around town. We’re gonna start pushing him. But what we need is to start working through Harmon’s paper on LaChaise, and all the paper we can find on Daymon Harp, and see if we get any crossover. LaChaise had to have a good contact here, because they got a list of our relatives. And it’s possible that the contact is a cop.”
“A cop,” Sherrill said. She looked at Franklin, who shook his head once, as though he couldn’t believe it.
“Could be,” said Sloan.
“We need to chain LaChaise’s known associates into the Cities, looking for their associates. There must be some. And we start busting ass. And I mean, like, tonight. One more thing: I want everybody to call each and every street contact you’ve got, and you tell them that there’s big money for anyone who calls me with a location. Big money—ten grand. Ten grand, no questions asked, any way they want it.”
“Where’s that coming from?” Franklin asked.
“Outa my pocket,” Lucas said, looking across the desk at him. Lucas had the money, all right: they never talked about it, but they all knew it.
“Way to go,” Del said. He looked at the others: “That’s what’ll get them. We’ll buy the motherfuckers out.”
The phone rang on Lucas’s desk.
ALTHOUGH COPS WERE everywhere around the hotel, there were still a few working the neighborhoods, doing the routine.
Barney’s Old Time Malt Shoppe pulled in a lot of cops because Barney used to be one, before he retired, and because he rolled free coffee to any cops who stopped in, and always had a booth open. A single patrol car sat in Barney’s lot. Stadic noted the number, 603, then cruised the place, peering through the windows. A tall, slender, pink-cheeked sergeant with pale hair and a much darker mustache: Arne Palin, two years behind Stadic at Central High.
Stadic pulled to the curb, kept an eye on the cops through the window. Harp had written down the plates on the truck LaChaise had taken to the laundromat for the meeting. Stadic took the piece of notepaper out of his pocket and called Dispatch on his handset: “Yeah, six-oh-three, run a Chevy S-10, Wisconsin Q-dash-H-O-R-S-E.”
“Hang on . . .”
A moment later it came back: the truck was registered to an Elmore Darling, on a rural route in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin.
“Thanks for that . . .”
He looked through the window into Barney’s. The cops inside hadn’t heard their car number going out. He moved down the street, to a stop signal.
Now. One more call.
He brooded about the idea through the green light: the streets were empty, and he sat staring at nothing, the red-yellow-green bouncing unseen across his face. He knew the phone number, all right. If he had the guts . . . but then, it was hardly a matter of guts anymore. It was a matter of urgent necessity. And he’d already set it up.
If Davenport thought LaChaise was going after his daughter, LaChaise was a dead man: and that’s what he needed. Dead men. Stadic pulled himself together and punched in the number. Christ, if they recognized his voice . . .
The phone rang once, then Davenport’s voice said, “Yeah?”
“I don’t want to say who this is—I don’t want to get involved—but you gave me your card, once.” He pitched his voice up, made it smooth, syrupy.
“OKAY,” LUCAS SAID, an edge of impatience in his tone. He was staring at Sherrill, who was chewing on a cuticle. Lucas didn’t need tips about loan sharks, cigarette smuggling, credit-card-dealing, dope factories.
“I live down by Richard Small and Jennifer Carey.” The voice was curiously soft. “That’s your little girl with Jennifer, right?”
There was a hard moment of silence, then Davenport said, “Jesus.”
“There’s been a truck driving around. I saw him twice when I was out walking my dog. Wisconsin plates. I thought I should call.”
And the caller was gone.
Lucas exploded out of the chair and ran from the office and through the building to Dispatch. The other four,
not understanding, went after him.
A PATROL CAR squatted in front of the house, exhaust curling up into the falling snow. Another was parked across the street, and the two cops from the car waited in the back of the house. Lucas arrived fifteen minutes after his dash to Dispatch, carrying his black wool overcoat and a briefcase. Del trailed a few steps behind, like a destitute bodyguard, watching the windows up and down the street. A cop met them at the door.
“We kept everybody away from the windows,” the cop said. “There’s been nothin’ on the street. Nothin’ moving.”
“Good. And thanks. Keep an eye out,” Lucas said.
Jennifer Carey and Richard Small waited for him in the dining room, the blinds pulled.
“Where’s Sarah?” Lucas asked, without preamble.
“Upstairs, in bed,” Jennifer said. She was still the willowy blonde, but with a few more wrinkles than when Sarah had been conceived. Lucas had wanted—had offered, in any case—to marry her, but though she’d wanted the baby, she hadn’t cared for the prospects of marriage to Lucas. Now she and Small, a vice-president at TV3’s parent corporation, had put together a family: Jennifer’s daughter, his son. Jennifer looked past Lucas at Del, and a tiny smile caught her lips. “How’re you doing, Del?”
Del shrugged. “Cheryl’s gonna make it.”
“What’s the threat level?” Small asked. He was short, muscular, blunt, a onetime Navy pilot in Vietnam, and Lucas liked him.
“We don’t know,” Lucas said. “The call was weird, but we can’t take any chances. You’re gonna have to move.”
“I can’t quit working,” Jennifer said. “This is too large.”
Lucas said, “That pushes the threat quite a bit higher.”
“We’ll keep her behind security, inside the building,” Small said. “We’ll make sure she doesn’t leave at any expected time. We can use different cars.”
“That’ll all help,” Lucas said. “But we still haven’t figured out their capability. We know there are several of them, and we’ve only got the ID on LaChaise. The other two—we just don’t know.”
Jennifer looked at Small. “Do you think you could get off?”
Small shook his head: “I’m not going anywhere; I gotta be here.” He turned to Lucas. “How safe is this hotel you’re putting people into?”
“Safe,” Lucas said. “That’d be the best place. We don’t really know how much these guys know about us. I don’t know how they found out about Jen and Sarah . . .”
“Sloan’s wife,” Jennifer said.
Small and Lucas looked at her, and she said, “Sloan’s wife. She’d take care of the kids—she loves kids. And she’s in the hotel, right?”
Lucas nodded. “Give her a call.”
Jen headed for the phone, and Lucas turned to Small: “If we can get you guys in the hotel tonight, we’d like to put a few guys in here . . . I’d be with them . . .”
“Use the house as a trap,” Small said.
“Yeah.”
Small nodded: “All right. So let’s get the kids out.”
Jennifer came back: “She says she’ll be glad to take them.”
Small said, “Pack a suitcase. You go with the kids for tonight. Lucas is gonna set up an ambush here . . . and I’m going to stick around. Make sure the cops don’t steal anything.”
Del looked him over. “You gotta gun someplace?”
Small nodded: “Yeah. I do. I don’t like people fucking with my kids.”
My kids . . .
Lucas never flinched, but as he stepped over to a telephone, he caught Jennifer’s reflection in a windowpane. Behind his back, she’d brought a finger to her lips, and Small nodded. Lucas picked up the phone and called downtown: “Sherrill and Franklin are around somewhere,” he said. “Get them on the line.”
A high-pitched voice said something from back in the house, and Jennifer hurried that way. Lucas stepped into the hall, and saw Sarah standing halfway down the stairs in her fuzzy pink pajamas, rubbing her sleepy eyes. Lucas cleared his voice and said into the phone, “We’re making some changes down here.”
SARAH WOULD GROW up to be tall and willowy and blond like her mother—like Lucas’s mother—but with her father’s tough smile and deep eyes. Jennifer let her go and she wandered over to Lucas and took his index finger in her hand, and when he dropped the phone back on the hook, said, “What’s going on?”
Lucas squatted, so he could look straight into her eyes. “We have some problems. You have to stay at a hotel tonight. With Mom. And Mrs. Sloan will be there.”
“What kind of problems?”
“There are some really bad men . . .” he was explaining when the phone rang. Small picked it up, then handed it to Lucas: “It’s Chief Roux. I’ll take Sarah,” he said.
Lucas nodded. “Yeah,” he said into the phone.
“Nightline’s coming on: watch it,” Roux said. Her words came in a spate. “We picked up a thumbprint off that door in Roseville and damned if the FBI didn’t come up with a name that fits. A man named Ansel Butters, from Tennessee, an old friend of LaChaise’s. We’ve got a photo from Washington and we’ve released it, and it oughta be on Nightline in about a minute.”
“Anything on Butters? Local contacts?”
“Not as far as I know, but Anderson’s working the computers,” Roux said. “Nothing happening down there?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ll go turn on the TV.”
“The word’s out about the money you put on the street, the ten thousand,” Roux said. “Channel Three has it, and if they’ve got it, everybody else will in an hour. I’m not sure it’s a good precedent.”
“There aren’t any precedents for this,” Lucas said.
“All right. I hope it dredges something up,” Roux said. “By the way, this Butters—his nickname is ‘Crazy.’ Crazy Ansel Butters.”
“That’s what I want to hear,” Lucas said.
LUCAS, DEL AND Small stood around the television while Jennifer packed the kids: The regular Nightline host was on vacation, and an anonymous ABC newsman fronted the show. He started with “a significant bit of breaking news,” and a black-and-white photograph of Ansel Butters filled the screen.
“If you have seen this man . . .”
A moment later, he launched into his prepared introduction, and said, “Minneapolis, a city crouched in shock and terror this wintry night,” and all three of them—Lucas, Del and Small—said “Jesus” at the same time.
JENNIFER LEFT WITH the kids in a three-car convoy. Neighbors were wakened, and cops installed in corner houses. The snow stopped at midnight, and Lucas, Small and Del, trying to keep the house looking awake, watched on the weather radar as the snow squalls drifted off to the northeast and into Wisconsin.
At 12:30, which Small said was their usual time, they began turning off lights and killed the television. Moving cars were scarce. They sat behind the darkened windows and grew sleepy.
“Maybe it was just a bullshit call,” Small said.
“Maybe, but we’ve got nothing else working,” Lucas said. “Whoever it was had my card and my direct line. That says something.”
“Maybe somebody’s jerking you around,” Del said.
Lucas yawned. “I don’t think so. The guy knew something.”
“I hope they come in,” Del said fervently, in the dark. “I hope they come.”
10
WHILE LUCAS DASHED to Small’s home, Stadic crossed the St. Croix at Taylors Falls and headed into the Wisconsin night on Highway 8. The going was slow: there were no lights, and at times, as he passed through the intermittent snow squalls, the highway virtually disappeared. A green sign—Turtle Lake 17—flicked past; and much later a John Deere sign, and then lights.
He was running on adrenaline now: only five hours since the attacks, and it seemed like a lifetime.
At Turtle Lake, he passed a hotel with a No Vacancy sign, and then the casino loomed out of the snow like an alcoholic hallucination. He turned into the lot
and had to drive halfway to the back to find a parking space. The casinos were always full, even at midnight, even in a blizzard.
A uniformed security officer stood just inside the doors, eyes watchful. Stadic asked, “Where’s the phone?” and the security man pointed down the length of the casino. “Outside any of the restrooms,” he said.
The first phone, mounted on the wall between the men’s and women’s restrooms, was occupied by a woman who appeared to be in crisis: she had a handkerchief in her hand and she twisted it and untwisted it as she cried into the phone. Stadic moved on, found another one. The noise from the slots might be a problem, he thought, but he needed the phone. He cupped his hand around the receiver and dialed the fire station.
A sleepy man answered. Stadic, watching the casino traffic, said, “This is Sergeant Manfred Hamm with the Minnesota Highway Patrol out of Taylors Falls, Minnesota. To whom am I speaking?”
The sleepy man said, “Uh, this is Jack, uh, Lane.”
“Mr. Lane, you’re with the Turtle Lake Fire Department?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Would you by any chance cover a rural fire route, Mr. and Mrs. Elmore Darling?”
“Uh, yeah.” Lane was waking up.
“Mr. Lane, we’ve got a problem here. Mrs. Darling has been involved in an automobile accident outside of Taylors Falls, and we need to send a man to speak to Mr. Darling. We don’t know exactly where his house is, as all we have is a rural route address. Would you have a location on the Darling house?”
“Well, uh . . . Just a minute there.”
Stadic heard the fireman talking to somebody, and a moment later he came back: “Sergeant Baker?”
“Sergeant Hamm,” Stadic said.
“Oh, yeah, Hamm, sorry. The Darlings live at fire number twelve-eighty-nine. You stay on Highway 8, and you go a little more than a mile past the Highway 63 turnoff, and you’ll see Kk going to the south. They’re about a mile down that road . . . You’ll see a red sign by the driveway, says, Township Almena and the number. Twelve-eighty-nine. Got that?”
Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10 Page 77
