Lucas Davenport Novels 16-20

by John Sandford

  “And if you were looking for somebody who might dream up a deal like robbing a hospital, it’d be Lyle Mack,” Donna Howard said. “He’s always thought he was a big operator.”

  “How about Joe Mack?” Shrake asked.

  “Joe ... is a little simple. He pretty much does what he’s told. But he’s not a mean guy. He wouldn’t kick anybody to death,” she said.

  Now IT WAS LATE and bitterly cold and getting colder, but because Anthony Melicek lived only ten minutes from Lucas’s house, across the river in Minneapolis, they decided to drop in, see what was what. See if another finger pointed at the Macks.

  Melicek lived in an apartment in an old house not far from the Metrodome; the navigation system in the Lexus was pretty good, but the addresses were so cut up that Lucas took them down the street at ten miles an hour, looking for street numbers. They were getting close when Shrake said, suddenly, “Hey. Whoa. Stop. Back up.”

  “What?” Lucas looked over at him. Shrake was looking out the passenger-side window, back behind the truck.

  “This guy we just passed. I want to look at him. He’s right over there. Back up.”

  Lucas backed up a hundred feet, and Shrake popped the door and hurried across the street. There was little light, but Lucas saw him talking to a black man in what looked like jeans and a tight black jacket. There was a staggering tussle for a moment, and Lucas popped his door, ready to run over, but then Shrake yelled, “Open the back door. Open the back door.”

  He had the guy in an arm-bar and was hustling him across the street. As they came up, Lucas realized the man was not wearing a tight black jacket. He wasn’t wearing anything at all above his waist.

  “Jesus.”

  “Better get him to the ER,” Shrake said. “He’s fucked up.”

  Shrake was in the backseat with the man, who began shaking violently, and Lucas did a U-turn and Shrake took off his coat and put it on the man and said, “We need to move right along.” And he said, “Sit up, take a deep breath, take a deep breath, come on, man, deep breath, now don’t do that . . .”

  “Ah, jeez, don’t let him barf,” Lucas said.

  “Better hurry.”

  Hennepin General was ten or twelve blocks away, and Lucas ran all the lights going in, piled up to the ER and ran inside. A nurse looked up and asked, “What?” and Lucas said, “I’m with the BCA. We need a gurney in a hurry, we got a guy in bad shape out in my truck.”

  The ER people piled out and put the man on the gurney and a couple of docs came and took him away. Lucas left his name and office number, and told the nurse where he’d picked the guy up. Shrake added, “He’s got some bad shit inside him. He didn’t even know he wasn’t wearing a coat.”

  THEY WERE BACK outside and Lucas said, “That’s your good deed for the year.”

  “If he hadn’t walked under that light ... he walked under that light and I thought, Man, that’s skin,” Shrake said. “I kind of didn’t believe it, but I had to look.”

  “I’ll put you in for something. A medal, or something. Or we could get the guys to chip in, buy you one of those family packs of Cheetos.”

  “I’m countin’ on ya,” Shrake said.

  MELICEK CAME to the door in a pair of yellowed Jockey shorts, a brown T-shirt, and red velvet bedroom slippers. He was a short, fat man with a receding hairline and a brush mustache. A cigarette hung from his lower lip, and he was scratching his stomach. He looked at Lucas and Shrake and said, “Just what I needed. Makes my day complete.”

  He stepped back, a mute invitation, and Lucas followed him in, Shrake a step behind. Melicek had one room, plus a bathroom with an old cast-iron tub visible through an open door. A bed was stuck along one wall, an easy chair next to it, facing a flat-panel TV There were two kitchen chairs at a table next to a refrigerator; there was no stove, but a microwave sat on a sink counter. The place smelled like pizza, tobacco, marijuana, bananas, and wallpaper mold. A single window looked out over a porch roof to the street.

  “Mike Haines and Shooter Chapman,” Lucas said.

  “That figures. The dumb shits finally got themselves shot by somebody, huh?” He took the easy chair, and pointed the cops at the kitchen chairs.

  “Smoke a little dope, there, Mr. Melicek?” Shrake asked.

  “Yeah, but not enough to worry guys like you,” he said. “I don’t know anything about what Mike and Shooter were doing. I talked to them last week, we had a couple beers.”

  “You still run with the Seed?”

  “Not right at the moment. Me and my ex-wife used our home equity loan to buy new bikes. Then everything went in the toilet, and U.S. Bank got the house and the bikes, and my ex-best friend got the wife. Maybe U.S. Bank is starting a gang. They got enough bikes.”

  “What do you do for a living?” Shrake asked.

  Melicek snorted. “What does it look like? Nothin’. I was doing assembly until that shut down, then the unemployment ran out, so now I’m on welfare.”

  They thought about the perils of negotiating a capitalist economy for a moment, then Lucas said, “Three guys went into the University Hospitals and robbed the pharmacy, got away with maybe a half-million in drugs. Mike and Shooter were two of them. What we’re asking around is, who is smart enough to figure out how to do that, and also mean enough to shoot his own pals?”

  Melicek tilted his head and said, “The same guy who is smart enough to figure out I talked to you guys, and mean enough to come over here and kill my ass.”

  “We’re talking to a lot of people—in fact, we got your name from other members of the Seed, who said you were friendly with Haines and Chapman.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it,” Melicek said. “If I had a half-million in drugs, you think I’d live in a shithole like this for one more minute?”

  “Maybe ... if you were being smart about it,” Shrake said.

  “If I was that smart, I wouldn’t be living in a shithole like this in the first place,” Melicek said. He squinted at Lucas: “Who’d you talk to about me?”

  Lucas shook his head.

  “It was that fucker Lincoln, wasn’t it?”

  Lucas took out his notebook, wrote, “Lincoln,” and said, “Thank you.”

  “Hey, I didn’t tell you anything . . .”

  They pushed him, not getting much more than “Lincoln,” and finally Lucas asked, “What exactly is your relationship to the Macks?”

  “I’m one of their beer drinkers,” he said.

  “You think the Macks could have had anything to do with the robbery?”

  Melicek opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it, and shut his mouth again.

  “I take that as a big ‘yes,’” Lucas said.

  “I’m a little pissed about Mikey and Shooter. They weren’t bad guys, you know, under it all,” Melicek said. He was leading up to something.

  “Come on, spit it out,” Lucas said. “You know you want to.”

  “You know that picture the cops put out on the robbery? To the TV stations?” Melicek asked. “They say the witness saw him?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It sorta looks ... not exactly, but if you talked to them, you oughta know as good as I do ... it sorta looks like Joe Mack. At least, to me it does.”

  Shrake and Lucas looked at each other, then Lucas said, “The guy we met, who said he was Joe Mack, had a skinhead cut and a clean shave.”

  “What?”

  “Just about bald,” Lucas said.

  “Then he got that way since the weekend,” Melicek said. “Last time I saw him, he, well, he looked like that drawing.”

  Shrake said, “If you weren’t short, fat, and male, I’d kiss you on the lips.”

  “Hey, that’s okay,” Melicek said. “I can live without it.”

  7

  BACK AT LUCAS’S OFFICE, late now, they went to the computers, looking for Joe Mack mug shots, found his driver’s license ID photo—and Melicek had been telling the truth. When the ID photo was taken, Joe Mack had a full head of
hair and a curly reddish-blond beard. Lucas pulled the photo up as a .jpg, called Letty, his daughter, a night owl, on her cell phone, and said, “I’m going to e-mail you a .jpg. Get your mom to look at it. Get her on the phone.”

  “I think she’s in bed.”

  “Ah, poop.”

  “But she says she’s not working early tomorrow. I could get her up.”

  “See if she’s sound asleep. If she’s not, get her up.”

  He sent the photo along and then Letty came back and said, “She wasn’t asleep. She’s coming.”

  “You got the photo . . .”

  She said, “Not yet,” and then yelled, “Mom? Mom! Come here.”

  A minute later Weather came on, sounding sleepy, and asked, “What photo?”

  “A guy who could be your robber,” and in the background, he heard Letty say, “Got it.”

  Weather said, “Hang on,” and then, a moment later, “Jeez, Lucas, that could be him. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but it looks like him. I mean, I’m sixty percent.”

  “All right. Is Virgil still there?”

  “Yes. He’s in the front room. Jenkins comes and goes—he’s cruising the neighborhood in his car.”

  “What time do you go in tomorrow?”

  “They’re holding the kids in the Intensive Care. They reevaluate at nine o’clock. I need to be there for that.”

  “Good. We’ll get some sleep. I’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

  He checked the time, decided not to call Marcy. There wouldn’t be much to do in the middle of the night. He’d call her first thing in the morning. To Shrake, he said, “I’ll drop you, you can get some sleep, and meet me back at my place at eight-thirty. Call Jenkins, tell him I’ll be home in fifteen minutes, and he can take off, too. If he wants to come along, we’d appreciate seeing him at eight-thirty.”

  Shrake nodded, pulled his cell phone, and speed-dialed Jenkins. “We’re going after Joe?”

  “I’ll talk to Marcy tomorrow, decide what we want to do. Weather couldn’t give us a hundred percent, based on the photo, but she thinks it looks like him. We’ll have to talk, before we hit him.”

  Shrake nodded, got Jenkins up. “Got a break, big guy. Well, you know, I was doing the investigating. Davenport was backing me up...”

  SNOW WAS SPITTING down the street when they got to Lucas’s place, small nasty hard crystals that ricocheted off the windshield and over the top. Jenkins’s Crown Vic was parked in front of the neighbor’s house, a curl of exhaust coming out the back, and its headlights flicked a couple of times when Lucas turned in the driveway. Lucas blinked his own lights, paused to let Shrake out, said, “See you tomorrow,” eased around Virgil’s 4Runner, and pulled into the garage.

  Inside the house, Virgil was standing by the kitchen arch when Lucas came in the back door; he and Letty had been watching television when they saw the lights in the driveway. “It’s quiet,” Virgil said. “Weather’s in bed. What’s the story on the photo?”

  Lucas peeled off his coat and told Virgil and Letty about the day. When he was done, Virgil said, “It sounds like ninety percent that he’s the guy, forty percent that we could convict him.”

  “Yeah, but these guys aren’t exactly geniuses, either,” Lucas said. “We’ll set up surveillance with the gang guys and the Minneapolis cops, then we go in tomorrow and bust Joe’s chops. See what he does. Maybe we’ll panic him.”

  “I’ll stick with Weather,” Virgil said. “She thinks she’ll be downtown all day.”

  Lucas said, “Don’t forget, there has to be an inside guy. Stick close.”

  “Close as they’ll let me,” Virgil said. “They get antsy about guns.”

  Letty said, “Mom’s pretty worried about the twins. She was talking to Gabriel tonight about which was worse, going slow or going fast. She says if they guess wrong, Sara’s going to die.”

  “She’s a little more involved this time,” Lucas said.

  “A lot more involved,” Letty said, nodding. “She’s not even thinking about somebody trying to kill her. She thinks that’s all over, or that you guys will take care of it. She’s, like, totally focused on the twins.”

  IN THE MORNING, Lucas called Frank Harris, the BCA gang guy, and told him what they’d learned.

  “Pretty interesting,” Harris said. “What do you want to do?”

  “My other guys are either working nights, or are covering Weather,” Lucas said. “I can pull Del Capslock, have him help out, but I won’t be able to get him until later. We could use one more BCA guy. I’ll get Minneapolis to kick in a guy.”

  “I’ll send Dan Martin over. He knows most of the Seed guys by sight.”

  When he was done with Harris, Lucas called Marcy Sherrill at home, filled her in. “Do we have enough for a search warrant?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I went over it with Weather. She says it could be him, but she wouldn’t swear to it in a court.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “Jack him up,” Lucas said.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “I thought you might. Listen, we’re thinking we should leave a team behind, in case we stir something up. If you’ve got a guy...”

  THEY GOT LETTY off to school, and Sam went with the housekeeper to toddler playtime at the Episcopal Church, and Virgil, Lucas, Shrake, and Jenkins did the caravan down to the hospital. Jenkins would stay with Virgil and Weather, they decided, while Shrake and Lucas went over to Minneapolis, where they’d hook up with Marcy and one of her investigators, and Martin, the BCA gang investigator.

  Marcy showed up in her ass-busting outfit, lady-cop slacks with Spandex panels and shoes that looked like women’s flats, until a closer look revealed the Nike swoosh on the back and a wedge-shaped aluminum toe—pants and shoes that you could run and fight in. She had her gun clipped on her hip, under a green military-style sweater with nylon elbow patches, which complemented her dark hair and eyes.

  After everybody was introduced, with a certain amount of dog-sniffing—Lucas didn’t know Phil Dickens, the detective she’d brought along, and the Minneapolis cops hadn’t known Martin—they agreed that Lucas, Marcy, and Shrake would confront Joe Mack, while Dickens and Martin bracketed the front and back doors, close enough that they could be called for help, far enough away that they could watch the bar after Lucas, Marcy, and Shrake left, in case the Macks did something interesting ... like try to run.

  “We’re not expecting an arrest, unless he blurts something out,” Marcy said. “We’re hoping he reacts somehow. Does something that’ll give us something.”

  “Do we know where he is right now?” Shrake asked.

  “No. The first thing we need to do is nail down his location,” she said. “The bar doesn’t open until three o’clock, but Lucas gets the idea that he’s there quite a bit of the time. We check the bar first, then go on over to his apartment in Woodbury. The cops there know we might be coming.”

  THE SUN was climbing out of the deep well of winter, but it was still brutally cold. Old saying: As the days get longer, the cold gets stronger. Still, if Lucas pretended hard enough, he could smell the early edge of spring. Something, somewhere, was beginning to melt—probably, he thought, in Missouri. Just not here.

  The five of them went in four cars, Lucas and Shrake together, Marcy, Dickens, and Martin in separate cars, out of Minneapolis, through St. Paul, south on I-35E. They’d made the turn south when Lucas’s cell phone burped: Marcy, calling from her car.

  “What’s up?”

  “We got the lab report from your DNA people,” she said. “We got a match on Haines. He was the guy scratched by Peterson.”

  “Excellent. We’re tying it up,” Lucas said.

  “I’m going to use it on Mack,” she said.

  THE BAR in daylight looked like most crappy bars look in daylight: crappy. Purple paint and concrete block and dirty snow piles and neon signs; though it might be possible to believe that you were honky-tonkin’ if you only saw it at night;
in daylight, it was clear that you were actually arm-pittin’.

  Martin and Dickens set up first, one watching the back of the bar, the other the front. Martin called Lucas and said Joe Mack’s van was parked in back, along with an SUV owned by a Harriet B. Brown and a fifteen-year-old Chevrolet owned by a guy named Lenert from Rochester.

  “I’m running Brown and we’re not coming up with much. She’s thirty-nine years old, blue eyes, a hundred twenty, five-six, lives down in Dakota County. Got a couple speeding tickets in three years. Lenert, I’ve got nothing.”

  Lucas passed the word to Marcy. “Good. Let’s go straight in.”

  They went straight in, parking in empty spaces on either side of the front door, and found the door open. A woman behind the bar called, “We’re not open yet,” and Marcy said, “We’re police. We’re here to talk to Joe Mack.”

  “Uh . . .” The woman’s eyes flicked toward the door to the back. Another man, who had been working on one of the game machines, stopped working to watch. Lucas asked, “Who are you?”

  He said, “Uh, Dan Lenert ... Mid-State Vending and Games.”

  “Okay.” Lucas turned back to the bartender. “We were here last night, we know the way.”

  Shrake asked, “Are you Harriet Brown?”

  “Honey Bee Brown,” she said. “I had my name changed. How’d you know that?”

  “Ran the plates on your car,” Shrake said. “You’re the bartender.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s going on?”

  Lucas was already behind the bar, headed for the door, Marcy a step behind him. “We’re investigating the Haines-Chapman murders.”

  “What?”

  No question that she was shocked. Lucas stopped and asked, “Did you know them well?”

  “Well, sure, but the last time I talked to them ... Christ, it was only a couple nights ago. They said they were going to Green Bay. They had a friend over there who had a job for them.”