by Night Prey
She didn't. But a while later, as they escorted Koop across the Lake Street bridge, Connell said, "That TV person, Jan Reed. You guys seem pretty friendly."
"I'm friendly with a lot of media," Lucas said uncomfortably.
mean friendly-friendly," she said.
"Oh, not really."
"Mmm," she said.
"Mmm, what?" Lucas asked.
"I'd think a very long time. This is one of those things where, you knowþI suspect you're just a suit."
"Not quite bright," he said.
"Took the words out of my mouth," Connell said.
Koop stopped at a Firestone store but just sat in the truck. The surveillance van, watching him from a Best Buy store parking lot, said he seemed to be looking at a Denny's restaurant across the street.
"He ate less than an hour ago," Lucas said. They were a block away, parked in front of a used-car lot, a bit conspicuous. "Let's go look at some cars."
They got out and walked into the lot, where they could watch Koop through the windows of a used Buick. After ten minutes in the Firestone lot, Koop started the truck, rolled it across the street to the Denny's and went inside.
"He's looking for surveillance," Lucas said. On the radio: "Del, could you get in there?"
"On my way..." Then, a few seconds later, "Shit, he's coming back out. I'm turning around."
Koop walked out with a cup of coffee. Lucas caught Connell's arm as she started toward the car, and brought the radio to his face. "We're gonna stay here a minute, you guys tag him. Hey, Harvey?"
Harvey ran the surveillance van. "Yeah?"
"Could you put a video on the front of that Denny's see who else comes out?"
"You got it."
"He wasn't in there long enough," Lucas said to Connell. "He talked to somebody. Not long enough for a friend, so it must have been business."
"Unless his friend wasn't there," Connell said.
"He was too long for that...." A moment later he said, "Here we go.
Oh, shit, Harvey, cover that guy, you remember him?"
don't..." "Just Plain Schultz," Lucas said.
Del, on the radio, from tracking Koop: "Our Just Plain Schultz?"
"Absolutely," Lucas said.
Schultz got in a red Camaro and carefully backed out of his parking slot. "C'mon," Lucas said to Connell, hustling her down to the car.
"Who is he?"
"Fence. Very careful."
In the car, Lucas tagged a half-block behind Schultz and called in a squad. "Just pull him over to the curb," he told the squad. "And stand by."
The squad picked Schultz up at the corner, stopped him halfway down the block, under a bright-green maple. Lucas and Connell passed them, pulled to the curb. A kid on a tricycle watched from the sidewalk, the flashing lights, the cop standing inside his open door. Schultz was watching the cop in his rearview mirror and didn't see Lucas coming from the front, until Lucas was right on top of him.
"Schultzie," Lucas said, leaning over the window, his hands on the roof. "How you been, my man?"
"Aw, fuck, what do you want, Davenport?" Schultz, shocked, tried to cover.
"Whatever you just bought from Koop," Lucas said.
Schultz was a small man with a round, blemished face. He had dark whiskers a razor couldn't quite control. His eyes were slightly protuberant, and when Lucas said "Koop," they seemed to bug out a bit farther.
can't believe that crazy motherfucker belongs to you," Schultz said after a moment, popping the door to get out of the car.
"He doesn't, actually," Lucas said. Connell was standing on the other side of the car, her hand in her purse.
"Who's the puss?" Schultz asked, tipping his head toward her.
"State cop," Lucas said. "And is that any way to talk about the government?"
"Fuck you, Davenport," Schultz said, leaning back against the car's front fender. "So what're we doing? Do I call a lawyer, or what?"
"Schultzie...." Lucas said, spreading his arms wide.
"That's just plain Schultz," Schultz said.
Thomas Troy wore a blue military sweater over jeans. He looked neat but tough, like a lieutenant colonel in the paratroops. He was shaking his head.
"We don't have enough on the killings, by themselves, even with him cruising Jensen's place. We could fake it, though, and put him away."
"Like how?" Roux asked. "What do you suggest?"
"We take him on the burglary charges. We've got enough from Schultz to get a conviction on those. And we've got enough on the burglary charges to get search warrants for the truck and the house. If we don't find anything on the murders or his stalking Jensen, wellþwe got him on the burglaries, and in the presentencing report, we let the judge know we think he's tied in to the murders. If we get the right judge, we can get an upward departure on the sentence and keep him inside for five or six years."
"Five or six years?" Connell came up out of her chair.
"Sit down," Troy snapped. She sat down. "If you get anything in the search, then there're more possibilities. If we find evidence of more burglaries, we'll get a couple of more years. If we get evidence that he's stalking Jensen, then we get another trial and go for a few more.
And if there's anything that would suggest the murdersþany tiny little thing more than what you've gotþwe could set up the murder trials to go at the end of the sequence, and maybe the publicity from the first two will put him away on the others."
"We're really betting on the come," Lucas said.
"All you need is a few hairs from Wannemaker or Marcy Lane, and with the circumstantial stuff you've got, that'd be enough," Troy said.
"If you can give me anythinpa weapon, a hair, a couple drops of blood, a printþwe'd go with it."
Connell looked at Lucas, then Roux. "If we stay with him, we might see him approach somebody."
"What if he kills her the second they're in the truck?" Roux asked.
Lucas shook his head. "He doesn't always do that. Wannemaker had ligature marks on her wrists. He kept her a while, maybe a day, and messed with her."
"Didn't mess with Marcy Lane. He couldn't have had her more than an hour," Connell said grimly.
"We can't take that chance," Roux said. "We'd be crazy to take that chance."
don't know," Troy said. "If he even showed a knifeþthat'd be the ballgame."
_ _ _ _ take him."
"So we should wait?"
T.llcaR looked at Connell. then shook his head. "I think we should "Why?" Connell asked. "Getting him for five or six years, if we're lucky?"
"We've only been watching him for two days and a night. What if he's got somebody down his basement right now? What if he goes in the house and kills her while we're sitting outside? We know that he kept at least one of them for a while."
Connell swallowed, and Roux straightened and said, "If that's a possibility..."
"It's a very remote possibility," Lucas said.
don't care how remote," Roux said. "Take him now."
Koop was in Modigliani's Wine & Spirits off Lyndale Avenue when the cops got him. His arm was actually in the cold box, pulling out a six-pack of Budweiser, when a red-faced man in a cheap gray suit said, "Mr. Koop?"
Koop realized a large black man had stepped to his elbow, and a uniformed cop was standing by the door. They'd appeared as if by magic, as if they had a talent for it, popping out of nowhere.
Koop said, "Yeah?" And straightened up. His heart beat a little faster.
"Mr. Koop, we're Minneapolis police officers," the red-faced man said.
"We're placing you under arrest."
"What for?"
Koop stood flat-footed, hands in front of him, forcing himself to be still. But his back and arm muscles were twitching, ready to go.
He'd thought about this possibility, at night, when he was waiting to go to sleep, or watching television. He'd thought about it a lot, a favorite nightmare.
Resisting a cop could bring a heavier charge than anything else they
might have on you. In the joint, they warned you that if the cops really wanted you, and you gave them a chance, they just might blow you away.
Of course, it was mostly the spooks that said that. White guys didn't see it the same way. But everybody agreed on one thing: your best shot was a decent defense attorney.
The red-faced cop said, "I think you know."
don't know," Koop protested. "You're making a mistake. You've got the wrong guy." He glanced toward the door. Maybe he should make a run for it. The red-faced guy didn't look like that much.
The black guy he could outrun, and he'd take the guy at the door likea bowling pin. He had the power... but he didn't know what was outside.
And these guys were armed. He sensed the cops were waiting for something, were looking at him for a decision. Everything in the store was needle-sharp, the rows of brown liquor bottles and green plastic jugs of mix, stacks of beer cans, the tops of potato chip bags, the black-and-white checkered tiles on the floor. Koop tensed, felt the cops pull into themselves. They were ready for him, and not particularly scared.
"Turn around, please, and place your hands on the top of the cooler," Red-face said. Koop heard him as though from a distance. But there was a hardness in the guy's voice. Maybe he couldn't take them. Maybe they'd beat the shit out of him. And he didn't know yet what he was being arrested for. If it wasn't too serious, if it was buying cocaine, then resisting would bring him more trouble than the charge.
"Turn around...." Peremptory this time. Koop gave the door a last look, then let out a breath and turned.
The cop patted him down, quickly but thoroughly. Koop had done it often enough at Stillwater to appreciate the professionalism.
"Drop your hands behind you, please. We're going to put handcuffs on, Mr. Koop, just as a precaution." The red-faced man was crisp and polite, the prefight tension gone now.
The black cop said, "You have the right to see an attorney...."
want a lawyer," Koop said, interrupting the Miranda. The cuffs closed over his wrists and he instinctively flexed against them, pushing down a spasm of what felt like claustrophobia, not being able to move.
The red-faced cop took him by the elbow and pivoted him, while the other finished the Miranda.
want a lawyer," Koop said. "Right now. You're making a mistake, and I'm gonna sue your butts."
"Sure. Step over this way, we'll go out to the car," the red-faced cop said.
They walked down a row of potato chips and bean dip and the black cop said, "Jesus, you sound like some kind of parrot. Polly want a lawyer?" but he grinned, friendly. His hand was hard on Koop's triceps.
want a lawyer." In the joint they said that after they warn you, the cops'll get friendly, try to get you talking about anything. After they get you rolling, when you're trying to make them happyþbecause you're a little scared, you don't want to get whacked aroundþthen you'll start talking. Don't talk, they said in the joint. Don't say shit except "I want a lawyer."
They went out the door, a customer and the counterman gawking at them, and the red-faced man said, "My name is Detective Kershaw and the man behind you is Detective Carrigan, the famous Irish dancer. We'll need your keys to tow your truck, or we could just pop the tranny and tow it."
Two squad cars were nosed into the parking lot, one blocking the truck, four more cops standing by. Too many for a routine coke bust, Koop thought. "Keys are in my right side pocket," Koop said. He desperately wanted to know why he'd been arrested. Burglary?
Murder?
Something to do with Jensen?
"Hey, he can talk," the black cop said.
He slapped Koop on the shoulder in a comradely way, and they stopped while the red-faced cop took his keys out and tossed them to a patrolman and said, "Tow truck is on its way." To Koop, Kershaw said, "That black car over there."
While they opened the back door of the car, Koop said, "I don't know why I'm arrested." He couldn't help it, couldn't keep his mouth shut.
The open back door of the car looked like a hungry mouth. "Why?"
Carrigan said, "Watch your head," and he put a hand on top of Koop's head and eased him into the car, and then said, "Why do you think?" and shut the door.
The two detectives spent a few minutes talking to the uniformed cops, letting Koop stew in the backseat of the car. The back doors had no inside handles, no way to get out. With his hands pinned behind him, he couldn't sit easily, had to sit upright on the too-soft seats. And the backseat smelled faintly of disinfectant and urine. Koop felt another spasm of claustrophobic panic, something he hadn't expected.
The damn cuffs: he twisted against them, hard, gritting his teeth, no chance. The cops outside were still not looking at him. He was an insect. Why in the hell....
And then Koop thought, Softening me up.
He'd done the same thing when there was a prison squabble that they had to look into. When the cops got back into the car, one of them would look at him, friendly-like, and ask, "Well, what do you think?"
The plainclothes cops spent another minute talking to the uniforms, then drifted back to the car, talking to each other, as if Koop were the last thing on their minds. A screen divided the front seat from the back. The black guy drove, and after he started the engine he looked at his partner in the passenger seat and said, "Let's stop at a Taco Bell."
"Oooh, good call." When they got going, the red-faced guy turned and grinned and said, "Well, what do you think?"
want a lawyer," Koop said. The red-faced guy pulled back a quarter inch on the other side of the screen, his eyes going dark. He couldn't help it, and Koop almost smiled. He could play this game, he thought.
Lucas and Connell watched the arrest from a Super America station across the street, leaning on Connell's car, eating ice cream sandwiches.
Koop came out, Kershaw a step behind, with one hand on Koop's right elbow. "I wanted to take him," Connell said between bites.
"Not for burglary," Lucas said.
"No." She looked at her watch. "The search warrants should be ready."
Carrigan and Kershaw were pushing Koop into the car. Koop's arms were flexed, and his muscles stood out like ropes. Lucas balled up the ice cream sandwich wrapper and fired it at a trash can, it bounced off onto the pavement.
want to get down to the house," Connell said. "See you there?"
"Yeah. I'll wait until they open the truckþI'll let you know if there's anything good."
Lucas wanted crime-scene people to open the truck. "We might be talking about a couple of hairs," he told the patrolman with the keys.
"Let's wait."
"Okay. Who was that guy?" the patrolman asked.
"Cat burglar," Lucas said. "He sure went nice and easy."
"He scared the shit out of me," the patrolman confessed, his eyes drifting back toward the store. "I was in the door and he looked over toward me, like he was gonna run. He had crazy eyes, man. He was right on the edge of flipping out. Did you see his arms? I wouldn't have wanted to fight the sonofabitch."
Crime scene arrived five minutes later. A half-carton of unfiltered Camels sat on the front seat. A bag of mixed salt and sand, jumper cables, a toolbox, and other junk occupied the back.
Lucas poked carefully through it but found nothing. He pulled the keys Koop had produced. There were two truck keys, what looked like two house keys, and a fifth one. Jensen's maybe. But it didn't look new enough. They'd have to check.
"Got a nice set of burglary tools back here," one of the crime-scene guys said. Lucas walked around to the back of the truck, where they'd carefully opened the toolbox. Unfortunately, burglary tools were nothing more than a slightly unusual selection of ordinary tools. You had to prove the burglary first. The crime-scene guy picked up a small metal-file and looked at it with a magnifying glass, just like Sherlock Holmes.
"Got some brass," he said.
"That'll help," Lucas said. Koop was cutting his own keys, by hand.
"Anything like a knife? Any rope?"
"No."
"Goddamnit. Well, close it up and take it down," Lucas said, disappointed. "We want everythingþprints, hair, skin, fluid.
Every thing."
Koop's house. The front and side doors were open, and two unmarked vans sat in the driveway, along with Connell's anonymous gray Chevy.
Lucas was almost to the front steps when he saw two neighborhood women walking down the street, one of them pushing a baby buggy.