Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15

by John Sandford

  “What?”

  “Nine, ten years back, there was a double murder—a woman and her divorce attorney were found together in bed, shot to death. Actually, the guy was in bed and the woman was on the floor right beside the bed, and the way it was reconstructed, they’d been screwing. Right in the act. This was at her house. Somebody walked in and shot the attorney twice in the back of the head with a small-caliber weapon. The woman apparently tried to slide out from under and get out, but she was shot in the forehead and then twice in the temple. There was a hideout in the bottom of her dresser, and a bunch of jewelry was taken…worth maybe ten grand? Something like that. The husband was a guy named Levy—I think it was Aaron Levy—but I’ll tell you what: Nobody knew it at the time, but looking back, it sounds exactly like Rinker. Like one of her hits.”

  “Aaron Levy, Andy Levy…could be the same. Or maybe Sellos got it wrong,” Lucas said. “No arrests on the two killings?”

  “Never a smell of one. Levy, this guy—a young guy—was like at some big Jewish convention somewhere, with several thousand witnesses. His wife’s name, I think, was Lucille. Lucy. That’s what I remember. Bender could probably get a file. He’s still tight with the guys in homicide.”

  “See if he can. Ask him if his kid will talk to us,” Lucas said. “Call me back when you know.”

  “Pick me up,” Andreno said.

  “Sure. Call Bender.”

  Lucas dialed the number Sally had given him. She answered with “Yes?”

  “I just talked to a guy who said there was an Aaron Levy, a case nine or ten years ago, whose wife Lucille and her divorce attorney were shot to death in her bed. Execution-style, Rinker-style, small-caliber weapon, close range, head shots. No arrests.”

  “Hang on a minute.”

  He heard her repeating what he’d said, and then Malone came on. “Interesting,” Malone said. “Louis just walked in…. I’m on-line…. Let me get this…Aaron Levy and Lucille? Conventional spellings?”

  “That’s the names I got.”

  He could hear her typing, and then she said, “Here it is. Case still open. Nothing here…let me search.” She hit a few more keys, then said, “Nothing here on Rinker, so nobody attributed it to her. All I get is Aaron—no Andy, no bank job. No job reported here.”

  A male voice in the background said, “That’s him, though. We’ve got a newspaper file from the Post-Dispatch website, a speech for the Chamber of Commerce. He’s listed as Aaron parenthesis Andy parenthesis Levy, vice president at Heartland National Bank. This is five years ago.”

  Then another male voice: “Where is Davenport getting this shit?”

  Malone said, “I’m speeding everything up. We’re putting a screen around Levy right now. We’ve got to talk some tactics here, but I’m going to suggest to Louis that we might go see him. Go see Levy.”

  “Let me know,” Lucas said. They talked for another minute, then he rang off. Five seconds later, before he could put the phone away, another call came in. Andreno.

  “Bender’s going downtown to see if he can get the Levy file. He doesn’t think it’ll be a problem to look at it, but he’ll have to slide around a little to Xerox it. He’ll try to get it.”

  “What about the kid?”

  “He’s calling the kid.”

  “Outstanding.”

  “If it works out. Let me tell you how to get where I am….”

  ANDRENO LIVED IN an aging brick house in a narrow street of older brick houses, all shoulder-to-shoulder, with tiny yards and high porches, and pairs of bedroom windows looking out over the porch roofs toward the street; working-class, 1920, maybe, Lucas thought. A movie set for an Italian neighborhood.

  Lucas pulled up in front, and Andreno banged out through the door a few seconds later. Lucas climbed out of the Porsche and said, “Want to run it?”

  “Sure.”

  Lucas tossed him the keys, got in the passenger side, and located the instruments for the other man. Andreno eased away from the curb. “Now we got to drive around in front of all my ex-girlfriends’ houses. That’s gonna take a while.”

  “Never got married?”

  “Got married twice, loved both of them to death, but they didn’t like me much, I guess,” Andreno said. “I can be an asshole.”

  “Any kids?”

  “Two. One with each. They seem to like me all right.”

  “Got one myself, with another one in the oven,” Lucas said.

  “Gotta have kids,” Andreno said. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  THEY WERE HALFWAY downtown, the old courthouse on the horizon with the Gateway Arch behind it, when Bender called. Andreno answered, then handed the phone to Lucas: “I can’t talk and shift.”

  Lucas took the phone. “What’s up?”

  “My daughter’s name is Jill. She’s got a friend in the computer systems department over at Heartland, and he can get you a list of Levy’s private clients. Take about twenty minutes.”

  “Can he do it without anybody knowing that he’s the one who printed it? We don’t want Levy pissed at anybody, in case…you know, in case Rinker’s a friend of his.”

  “We talked about that: He can get it without anybody knowing. Turns out he pipes stuff out to a business guy at the Post-Dispatch, so he’s done it before. Jill’s gonna get it, she’ll meet you at Tony’s Coffee.”

  Lucas looked at Andreno. “Tony’s Coffee?”

  “Sure. Right downtown. Ten minutes.”

  “We’ll be at Tony’s,” Lucas told Bender.

  “How’re we doing?”

  Lucas laughed. “Everything that’s broken on the case was broken by us. We’re rolling.”

  “Hang around Tony’s. I’ll see you there myself in a half hour,” Bender said.

  JILL BENDER WAS a thin redhead with a big nose and wide smile. She found them two-thirds of the way back in Tony’s, huddled over cups of coffee. She slid in beside Andreno and asked, “Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

  “Playing golf,” Andreno said. He introduced Lucas and then asked her, “How’s your mom?”

  “She still hurts. They say they replace both knees at the same time, because if you only do one, you’ll never do the other, because of the pain.”

  “Better than being crippled,” Andreno said. To Lucas: “Arthritis.”

  “I heard that about the knee thing,” Lucas said. “My fiancée’s a surgeon.”

  Bender was digging in her purse, and came up with a plain white business envelope. “You never heard of me,” she said.

  “If they really busted their asses, could they figure out how it got to us?” Lucas asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t see how. Nobody knows about me and Dave, and even if they did, it’d be a long train. And dad sounded excited about the whole thing…so take it.”

  Lucas took the envelope and put it in his pocket. “I’d like to buy you something: a cup of coffee or a diamond necklace or something—but it’d probably be better if you got out of here.”

  She bobbed her head. “Yup. You guys be careful. Make Dad be careful.”

  They said they would, and she patted Andreno on the thigh in a niece-like way and left. Lucas took the envelope out of his pocket and spread the four sheets of paper on the table. On the left side of the paper was a list of names and addresses, and on the right, a bank balance and account number. He scanned them, but nothing in particular caught his eye. As he finished each page, he pushed it across the table to Andreno. When Andreno had read the last page, Lucas asked, “See anything?”

  “I know a couple of the companies, the names,” Andreno said. “Nothing out of line. But did you see the balances? Nothing under four mil. Bronze Industries at thirty-two million? What the hell is Bronze Industries?”

  “I don’t know. Some kind of metal deal? I never heard of it.”

  “Only four individuals, never heard of any of them. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “I gotta get this back to the feds,” Lucas said
. “This is what they’re good at.”

  “There’s a copy place down the street—they probably got a fax.”

  ANDRENO WAITED AT Tony’s for Bender, while Lucas walked down the street. On the way, he punched Sally’s number into the cell phone, got her, and asked for a fax number. She came back with it, and he scribbled it on the palm of his hand.

  “What is it?”

  “Andy Levy’s private client list, with addresses, account numbers, and current balances. You need to look at them and see what they lead back to. Most of them are companies.”

  “Where’d you get it? This might not be legal.”

  He heard somebody else in the room ask, “What?”

  Lucas said, “Look, I’m gonna fax these things to you. If you don’t want them, shred them. As far as legal is concerned, I’m not a lawyer. I just got them from a guy.”

  He punched off and, five minutes later, started dropping the sheets into the fax machine; the machine on the other end was running, and accepted them.

  BENDER AND ANDRENO were drinking coffee when Lucas got back. As Lucas sat down, Bender pushed a neat stack of paper across the table. Lucas thumbed through them: xeroxes of a police file.

  “I read some of the crime-scene reports while I was xeroxing them,” Bender said. He was pleased with himself. “Rinker killed them. Look at the pages I marked with the red pen.”

  Lucas started pulling out paper: reports from a crime-scene team, from a pathologist, from a cop who ran the case. The killer got in without breaking anything, and there were no signs of tools used around the door—the killer almost certainly had a key, which didn’t mean much. There were ways to get keys.

  The killer also knew where to find a jewelry hideout box—a concealed vertical slat on the side of a dresser in the master bedroom. The investigating cop described it as “built-in and invisible. In my opinion, the perpetrator must have had prior knowledge of its location.”

  Further along was a note that Levy had receipts and appraisals for the missing jewelry, setting its value at about sixty thousand dollars.

  “Sixty thousand on the jewelry,” Lucas told Andreno.

  “My memory’s getting bad…or maybe it’s just the inflation.”

  Some of the jewelry Levy had purchased for his wife, but most she’d inherited from her grandmother and a great-aunt. The Levys’ insurance covered only a small fraction of the valuation, no more than five thousand dollars, because they’d neglected to get a jewelry rider on their home insurance policy. There was also a later note, by a second investigator, made when the active investigation was suspended, that much of the value of the inherited jewelry was not in the stones but in the maker’s mark—early Tiffany gold and diamonds—and that value would be lost if the pieces were melted down or broken up. Though a knowledgeable thief might try to sell them intact, nothing had been recovered.

  “Typical Mafia greed-head would have been insured up to the nuts,” Bender said.

  “Maybe he thought that’d be too much of a tip-off,” Lucas said. “Like pulling the family pictures out of the house before you torch it.”

  Andreno said, “Might even consider it a nice touch—losing the jewelry.”

  The victims had been sexually engaged when they were killed. The man was shot in the back of the head. There were no exit wounds, and according to the pathologist, the .22 hollowpoints had made mush out of his brains. Because there were no exit wounds, there were no spatter marks to indicate his exact position when shot. The woman had tried to push him away, but was shot herself before she could get entirely from beneath him; she was draped over the bed onto the floor, with one leg under the man’s body.

  Lucas tapped the papers back together into a neat stack. “Somebody comes in after a lot of research, gets very close, kills with a .22 that none of the neighbors hear—maybe a silencer—provides Levy with a nice touch on the jewelry, and is long gone before the bodies are found. Very efficient.”

  “Rinker,” said Bender, finishing his coffee.

  BENDER OFFERED TO drop Andreno. Lucas took the Porsche back to the FBI building, went through the identification rigamarole, and found Malone sitting in the conference room by herself. She looked up from her laptop, blinked a few times to refocus, and said, “Lucas.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Most of them are working Levy. Louis is down talking to the AIC, and the two computer guys went to lunch. Got anything new?”

  “You get the faxes?”

  “We’re running them now. Davy Mathews, the organized-crime guy—we introduced you, the guy with the blue suit and white shirt?—thinks he remembers three of the names from references back in Washington. If he can remember three off the top of his head, then there are probably more. Levy could be a serious matter.” Her eyes drifted back to the laptop.

  “Okay. When is Mallard getting back?” Lucas pulled out a chair and sat down, dug a legal pad out of his briefcase.

  “A few minutes. He’s just trying to get straight on who’s doing what.”

  “You want to see the St. Louis file on the Levy murder?”

  Now she turned to him, one eyebrow raised. Lucas had heard that the one-eyebrow ability was genetic, like the ability to curl your tongue. “You have access?”

  “I got the file,” Lucas said. “Not the original, but a complete xerox.” He took it out and pushed it across the table, and Malone walked her office chair over and thumbed quickly through it. “I’ll have somebody check it and cross-reference the names. Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Sit back, close my eyes, and think,” he said. He put his feet and calves on the table, tilted the chair back and closed his eyes.

  After a minute, she asked, “You’re just going to sit there?”

  “For a while.”

  Malone watched him for a few more seconds, then shrugged and went back to the laptop. After a minute or two, his eyes still closed, he asked, “Louis make a move on you yet?”

  Heavy silence, then: “No.”

  “Is he going to?”

  “I don’t know. He’s certainly taking his time.”

  “He wants to. But he’s too shy. I tried to get him to grab you in Mexico, and he got in a heavy sweat. He’s sorta that way. You may have to help him along.”

  “Ah, jeez,” she said. And after a while: “I’m not one hundred percent sure I want to. He’s not the most…I don’t know.”

  “Not a paperhanger?”

  “Sheetrocker. The Sheetrocker is like a fantasy. Big arms, big legs, little butt. Dumb as a bowl of mice. He’ll never finish his novel. He only has a novel because he’s just barely smart enough to understand that women aren’t impressed by Sheetrocking. I doubt that he’s faithful; jeez, I know he’s not. I mean, I haven’t caught him running around or anything, but it just isn’t his nature.”

  Lucas cracked his eyelids and looked at her. She was sitting in her chair facing him, shoulders hunched, hands in her lap. She looked lonely. “You guys…Look, try him out. Mallard. Really. Take him out for a cup of coffee, and just…take a meeting, for Christ’s sake. You both know how to do that.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Chief Davenport.”

  “Fuck it. I’m going back to sleep.”

  AFTER A WHILE, he dropped the chair back down, scratched his head, and asked, “I guess you’re monitoring Clara’s cell phone, in case she calls anyone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you think about asking her brother to call her on that number?”

  “Why’d you have to mention Louis?” Malone asked.

  “I thought somebody ought to. Put the poor bastard out of his misery, if nothing else.” She sniffed, and Lucas said, “No, no no…you know the rule: no crying.”

  She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, and he went back to his question. “Anyway, did you think about having her brother call Rinker? Like, early in the morning? If he did, and she answered, and he kept he
r on for a few minutes, maybe we could zero in on the neighborhood where she’s staying. She’s gotta be ditched with a friend.”

  “We’re talking about that,” Malone said. “We don’t have the street contacts here, but we’ve got the brains. We’ve talked through most of the possibilities, based on what we’ve got.”

  “You gonna do it?”

  “Probably—if she doesn’t move on Levy. Or one of the others. We’re doing a full-court press.”

  “You got the budget?”

  “Yes, we did….” She sniffed again and said, “You know, I always thought I was going to grow up and be pretty glamorous, an FBI agent, high up, with a gun and a computer and fly in jets. And all I wind up doing is marrying stupid guys and I get to be a joke. I’m too tall and I’m too thin and I always dress too conservatively. I’m flinty. This isn’t the way it was supposed to be.”

  “Jesus, Malone, you married them. I can’t tell you about that.”

  “It always seemed like such a good idea at the time. You know, one of the guys, the actor, we got married at the courthouse by a judge and we went outside and he asked me if I had enough money for a cab, and I thought, This isn’t going to work. We’d been married exactly seven minutes.”

  “Talk to Louis, for Christ’s sake…. I’m going back to sleep.”

  LUCAS LEANED BACK again. He could hear an occasional flurry of keystrokes from the laptop, as Malone pushed through a file somewhere out in electronic FBI-land.

  His basic personal asset in the investigation was a bunch of guys who knew the town—but that didn’t mean much at the moment, because there was no way to leverage that into more information. If they had even a rough idea of where she was, then some of the FBI data, combined with street information, might get them close. Until then…He’d read in an informational brochure at the hotel that there were more than two and a half million people in the St. Louis metro area.

  Too many.

  Another thought popped up. “Say, did you check Levy’s past account records, to see if Clara’s in there? If we could tell where she’s moved her money, that’d be good. Or maybe Levy would know.”