And the dispatcher said, “We’ve got another car coming east on I-94. Where do you want him, where do you want him?”
“I don’t know yet, I don’t know. . . .”
They were traveling at a hundred and ten miles an hour through sixty-mile-an-hour traffic, through a big snarly intersection downtown, and Lucas saw flashing lights ahead to the right, then Alyssa’s taillights flared and she cut left and Lucas shouted, “Headed east on 94 . . .” then he saw the curb coming up and went left and shouted, “Wait, wait, she’s headed toward the Lafayette, she’s coming up on the bridge, she’s turning onto the bridge.”
She crossed the Mississippi, speed climbing again, then, with more cop lights coming toward her, dropped off the exit onto the riverside Plato Avenue, and around the corner to the right, Lucas shouting into the phone all the time, bringing in more patrol cars.
Plato was an industrial street: not much traffic, and no homes. Lucas was on her bumper now, or nearly so, pushing her. If he pushed her hard enough, in the big car, she’d lose it, and instead of killing somebody else in another car, she’d take it into a phone pole or a fence or a concrete abutment.
She slashed a cross street without slowing, running the red light, and Lucas was forced to stand on his brakes, to avoid a pickup, and then he was across and behind her, dodging left, and up the river bluff, higher, higher, and there were more lights up ahead, flashers, and he saw her dodge right, slide through the intersection, bump over a sidewalk, cut a piece of lawn and then back on the street, Smith Avenue, onto the High Bridge, Lucas fifty yards behind her . . . and he saw her taillights come up.
At the bottom of the bridge, a few hundred yards away, a St. Paul cruiser pulled up, flashers going, and then, behind it, another. They backed into a blocking V and the cops got out, and then another cop turned onto the bridge. . . .
Fairy stopped the car on the bridge, looked back over her shoulder. She felt . . . exhilarated. All the boring stuff was over. The race through town had been the coolest thing she’d done forever. . . .
Davenport was back there. Another cop turned onto the bridge behind the Porsche. Then Davenport got out of the car and was calling something to her, but she couldn’t hear it.
She was still on the top part of the High Bridge, so cleverly named because it was high. From up there, she had a gorgeous view of downtown St. Paul, the buildings on the bluff over the river.
Loren was standing in the middle of the roadway, in one of his nineteenth-century ruffle-neck costumes. “Look there,” Loren said, his voice coarse with stress. “Look there—the boat. The boat’s there.”
She looked, and down the river, an all-white riverboat with a big red stern wheel.
Loren said, “Frances is on it. I can feel her.”
Fairy got out of the car, walked to the railing, looked over. A long way down; and the riverboat was there, coming toward her. Davenport was shouting at her—he was out of his car, walking down the bridge.
Carefully.
She smiled: Was he dead? He should be dead. But if he was dead, how’d the Porsche get there?
She slipped the gun—she had the gun in her hand—into the top of her pants, and did a two-handed push-up, and clambered onto the bridge railing, hanging on tight with her hands until she got her balance.
Then she stood up: a woman who’d spent some time on a balance beam. Now walking slightly uphill, toward Davenport, who was getting closer now, shouting, but she paid no attention.
If she jumped, she’d die. Then she’d be on the boat, with Frances.
Better than scrubbing floors in the women’s prison, pushed around by a bunch of hard-eyed women guards.
Davenport was thirty feet away, and stopped, his voice clear now, and she listened for a moment. “. . . off there, Alyssa, for Christ’s sakes, you’re sick. You need medical help. They’ve got pills now, medication, get off the railing, for Christ’s sakes . . .”
Loren had worked his way around behind Davenport, hovered there, smiling, and he shook his head and said, “Don’t believe him. Better to go now.”
Fairy could feel the hard edges of the rail under her feet, and as she stood there, she began to slip away; and Alyssa came up, the hard-edged executive, and she looked at Davenport and listened for a few more seconds and knew it was all lies.
Damnit, no way out. No way to explain Loren and Fairy. She’d killed Frances’s three friends, all part of the silliness of Fairy and the ghost.
She looked down and shuddered.
Alyssa Austin wasn’t going to jump. She wasn’t even sure she was over water—as far as she knew, she might hit a concrete abutment and be torn to pieces, or she might hit the water and be paralyzed and drown, and the water would be freezing. . . .
She said, to Davenport, very clearly, “Fuck it.”
Lucas stood there with his gun in his hand, heart thumping, thought he had talked her off the rail, was aware of every little thing, of the flashing red lights, of the cops running up the bridge, of the cop behind him, walking down, of more sirens, coming in, and then she said, “Fuck it,” and hopped down off the rail. He thought he had her and then she stepped toward him and pulled the pistol out of her pants and whipped the muzzle at him and pulled the trigger and there was a flash and simultaneous crack as the slug went past his face.
Lucas shot her in the heart.
She knew she was hit; knew she was dying; could see the rail and the starless sky and then Davenport’s face, looming above her, and she tried to smile and say to him, “Going with Frances.”
But lucas couldn’t make out any words.
All he heard as he crouched over her was a dying moan. Her eyes rolled away, and she breathed a final time, leaving on her full lips a thin foam of bloody bubbles.
28
Thinking about it a week later, when he had time, Lucas realized that there had been two key moments in his life, in that one day, the day of the big Siggy shoot-out, the day that he killed Alyssa Austin.
The first had come when he’d driven home to get his bulletproof vest, before the Siggy shoot-out. He’d jumped out of the Porsche, run into the garage, grabbed the duffel bag that contained the vest, and then had run back to the Porsche. He could have punched up the garage door, driven the Porsche inside, parked it, and taken the truck.
But he hadn’t.
If he had taken the truck, he would have tossed the vest in the back after the Siggy gunfight. As it was, when he came out of the BCA building, the vest was sitting on the passenger seat of the Porsche. The duffel bag was still in the apartment across the street from Heather’s. Anyway, the vest, with its armor plates, was right there.
The second key moment came when Weather dropped the bottle of milk. If she hadn’t, he would have driven home, and he would have gotten out of the driver’s side of the car, in the garage, and he would have been helpless, assuming that Alyssa was still following him.
He believed that she would have been. If she’d picked him up at the office, she had either been planning to kill him there, in the parking lot, or had been planning to follow him home.
So, he thought, he owed his life to an unconscious choice, and a slippery plastic bottle of yellow-capped one-percent.
Weather preferred to lay things out in terms of cause and effect. Lucas thought all of the happenstances that day were exactly that: happenstances. He was alive because he was lucky, because he rolled a seven instead of snake eyes. Weather saw some kind of controlling hand; the victory of good over evil. Though she thought of herself as a scientist, she also had a healthy slice of faith.
Not that she wasn’t horrified by what had happened.
Lucas normally wouldn’t have left the site of the bridge shooting in less than a couple of hours: the crime-scene people would have wanted to get everything nailed down, the St. Paul homicide guys would have wanted to dot some I’s and cross some T’s before he got out of their sight. But after talking for a while—and watching the TV trucks arrive—he pulled rank and told th
em that he was going home, at least long enough to talk to his wife.
Weather was not going to see this on TV.
After he shot Austin, and the bureaucratic stuff began, he’d neglected to call home. Weather had called him, wondering why he was so late.
He lied: told her he’d run into a problem, he’d be a while. When she pressed, he snapped at her, said he’d call.
He talked to St. Paul, then pulled rank.
Weather was in the kitchen when he got home, wearing her ankle-length flannel nightshirt, one hand on her hip, irritated until she saw his eyes. Then her hands went to her face: “Ohmigod, what happened now?”
He gave it to her straight, as though he were reading a newspaper report, in declarative sentences and short paragraphs, from the time he pulled into the SA store until the shoot-out on the bridge.
She was reeling when he finished: “The whole family is gone. The whole family is dead,” she said. “How could this happen? How could this happen?”
And the next stage: “What if I hadn’t asked you to talk to Alyssa? I saw her that one day, after my workout, bumped into her, if I hadn’t seen her, she’d be alive.”
“More people might be dead,” Lucas said. “She killed at least three. Who knows how many were on her list?”
“She tried to kill you,” Weather said. “She could have killed you. She didn’t kill you because . . .”
“I got lucky. I got so fuckin’ lucky.”
“Can’t just be luck, Lucas . . .”
That would go on for a while; for two weeks.
His ward, Letty, when Weather wasn’t around, wanted the details. He gave them to her while she was eating a handful of carrot sticks, and when he finished, she gave him a couple of sticks and said, “That was good shooting. I think maybe . . .”
“What?”
Her eyes were cold as a teenager’s could get: “I might have given her a double-tap. You’re lucky she didn’t get off another shot.”
“You weren’t there, you didn’t see it,” Lucas said.
“That’s true,” Letty said. She crunched on the last stick. “You done good.”
Shrake and jenkins were freaked out, came and stood in his office door and peered at him the next morning. Jenkins asked, “You’re not thinkin’ too much, are you?”
“Nope. Don’t believe so,” Lucas said.
“Man, I looked at the paper,” Jenkins said. “That was as good a shooting as I’ve ever heard of. You had—no—fuckin’—choice.”
Lucas nodded. “I know. It was a good shooting.”
Shrake said, “You’re a brooder, though.”
Lucas asked him, “Did you sleep last night?”
“Like a baby,” Shrake said.
Jenkins snorted. “Your goddamn eyes looked like coal pits this morning. If you got ten minutes, I’ll kiss your ass in Macy’s front window.”
“So we all gotta sit down and take it easy for a few days,” Lucas said.
Shrake nodded. “Take it easy. Hard to stop thinking about it, though.”
Over the next week, the Ricky Davis-Helen Sobotny problem became more complicated. Davis had completely and comprehensively spilled his guts. Wouldn’t stop talking. Wanted to get it off his chest. His story was that Sobotny had killed Frances Austin in an unplanned confrontation in the Austin kitchen.
She’d then called him, as he was driving the wrecker back from a ditch tow job, and told him what she’d done, and pleaded with him to come over. By the time he got there, she’d cleaned up the kitchen and had wrapped Austin up in her coat. Davis argued that they should call the cops. She told him that they’d go to prison forever, that she loved him, that they could get away with it.
He’d wound up getting a sheet of plastic out of the back of the wrecker, had wrapped the body in it, to keep any more blood from leaking out, and had taken off with the body. He dropped it in the ditch. Helen, in the meantime, had driven Austin’s car back to Austin’s apartment, and had then taken a cab back to Odd’s towing service, where she’d picked up Davis’s car to drive home.
Sobotny had heard Lucas talking on the telephone about the fifty thousand, and about going to the A1 that night. Davis had the gun, for home protection. She pressured him into attempting to shoot Lucas outside the bar. “I didn’t want to shoot anybody, but she was all over me,” Davis said. To Lucas: “I didn’t mean to hit you. I was sort of shooting in the dirt.”
His story wrapped up all the details and most of it was confirmed by the lab reports.
Sobotny wasn’t talking, but the representations from her lawyer suggested everything was as Davis said, except that Davis had killed Austin with the knife, and that he’d gone after Lucas on his own account, after Sobotny had told him about the phone conversation. She’d begged him, her attorney said, not to do that, but as a small woman alone in a trailer home with a killer, she’d been afraid to say or do anything that might get her own throat cut.
Her story also wrapped up all the details and was confirmed by the lab reports.
If one of them could cut a deal with the county attorney, he, or she, might spend as little as six or seven years inside. The other would spend thirty.
In either case, Del said, by the time somebody got out, the emus would be long gone—or way too fuckin’ tough to eat.
The problem with the Siggy shooting was that everybody whose name they knew was dead, except Heather, the baby, and her mom. Her mom was out of it. She knew nothin’ about nothin’. Heather also claimed that she didn’t know anything, until it was too late to call anybody. “I had a bunch of goons leaning on me and the baby, for Christ’s sakes. What was I supposed to do, excuse myself while I called nine-one-one?”
They established that there had been two runners who had gotten away clean. One they’d seen—the man Del had chased until he got in the gunfight. The other, the man who looked like Siggy, they hadn’t seen after the staged scene in the apartment. There’d been St. Paul guys covering the back of the building, and he hadn’t gone that way. They’d checked every apartment in the building, and he wasn’t hiding there.
One idea was that he’d run through the basement parking ramp to the far end, walked through a garbage pickup area, climbed a concrete-block wall, through some bushes and into a convenience store’s parking lot, and simply walked away from there. There had been other people on the street, and not all had been accounted for.
When pressed about the phone call at the Mall of America, Heather said she’d simply been shopping, heard the phone ringing, and had picked it up. Somebody with a wrong number, she said. Wouldn’t anybody do that?
The county attorney eventually decided that they didn’t have anything they could hold her with—she hadn’t actually had time or space to commit any crimes. So she got the baby back from the social services people, and went back to her apartment.
When the bca people were moving furniture and communications equipment out of the surveillance apartment, Lucas went over to pick up the duffel bag for his armored vest. He noticed that all of Heather’s apartment’s blinds were down.
Del had a theory.
“She knew we were there. She was doing a little stage play for us—holding us here. She got rid of Siggy. Siggy was a big liability— violent, on the run, in love with her. He thinks all the hidden money is his. So Heather let us see every damn thing that she did, that might make us think that Siggy was coming back. So we could nail him. Like we did.”
Lucas and Del took that thought down to the Ramsey County lockup, and talked to Antsy, who had mostly recovered from resisting arrest.
"I ain’t giving you shit,” Antsy said, when they walked into the interview room.
“We don’t need you to give us shit,” Lucas said, pulling up a chair. “You’re going to Stillwater. For a long time. That deal is done. We just want to chat about your sister-in-law. There’s no criminal aspect to it. We just want to chat.”
Antsy’s lawyer looked at him and shrugged.
Antsy said,
“What about?”
“That bump on her tummy, is that Siggy’s work?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Antsy asked.
“Because we happen to know that she was very friendly with another of Siggy’s employees,” Del said. “So: you think the baby was Siggy’s?”
Antsy’s brow beetled. “She was fuckin’ somebody else?”
“That’s an indelicate way of putting it, but, yes,” Lucas said. “She was fuckin’ somebody else. With a lot of enthusiasm. Christ, we thought they were gonna do it on the kitchen table, with the blinds up. We coulda made a porno movie.”
“Ah, shit,” Antsy said. “But—the bump was his. He snuck back here four months ago, they met at the Radisson over in Minneapolis. She said nobody was watching her.” He gnawed at his thumbnail for a while, and then said, “You know what Sig was good at?”
“What?”
“He was good at getting the stuff out of Miami, talking to those assholes,” Antsy said. “He was good at keeping the dealers in line— making sure we got paid, at first. Later, we got the money up front. When one of the dealers had a problem with somebody, Siggy was good at smoothing that out.”
“Yeah.”
Antsy put his elbows on the table. “What Heather was good at, was moving the money. Figuring out how to get it into banks and into investments. That bitch knows where every nickel is. And when I called her up to get some cash for an attorney, she told me to blow it out my ass.”
“She didn’t give you any,” Del said.
“Not that—it’s not that she didn’t give me any,” Antsy said. He seemed deeply offended. “She laughed, and said what I told you. She said, ‘Blow it out your ass, Antsy.’ ”
Later that day, they went over and knocked on Heather’s door. She came to the door with the baby. She said to Lucas, “I know who you are. I saw you on TV. You shot that woman in the heart. You were here when they shot my husband.”
Lucas said, “This is completely unofficial. Everybody is happy that Siggy is dead. We just wondered, for our own selves . . . Did you set him up?”
The Lucas Davenport Collection, Books 11-15 Page 100