Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15

by John Sandford

  Singleton got into his car and headed for the fire. Halfway there, a new thought occurred to him: Mom was gonna be pissed.

  16

  THE FIRE WAS out, and a couple of the firemen were gingerly working through the blackened jumble of burnt wood and plaster in the now-open basement; it looked like a bomb crater. Lucas and Del took turns watching the work, and getting warm in the car. Ray Zahn showed up in his Highway Patrol cruiser, and they chatted for a while. “The comm center called the sheriff. He told them to handle it, and to coordinate with you guys, and then he went back to bed. I guess this isn’t important enough.”

  “We’re not being fair to him,” Del observed.

  “No, we’re not,” Zahn said. “I’m sure we don’t know all the problems and contingencies he has to deal with. The miserable twat.”

  Zahn left on a drag-racing call, and Lucas and Del lingered, watching. More sheriff’s deputies came in, apparently working on their own time. Zahn came back, and wanted to talk about how Rose Marie Roux might change the Highway Patrol.

  They’d been back at the fire site for an hour, when a gray Toyota Land Cruiser pulled off to the side of the highway and two women got out. Lucas recognized one of them as the woman he’d talked to at the church. He dug around in the back of his mind for a moment, then came up with her name—Ruth Lewis.

  Ruth walked down to a cluster of the firemen, as the other woman popped open the back of the Land Cruiser. Lewis talked to the firemen for a moment, then two of them broke away and followed her back to the truck. The second woman was doing something in the back, then produced a carton of white paper cups, and the firemen who came back with Lewis took the cups and stepped out of sight, behind the truck.

  “Coffee,” Del said.

  “Like to talk to that woman,” Lucas said. “Want some coffee?”

  “Take a cup,” Del said. They got out of the Acura and walked over to the Toyota. More firemen and cops were clustering around the back of it, taking cups, and Lucas and Del edged into the line. When they got their coffee, Lucas took a sip and stepped over next to Lewis.

  “You heard what happened? You heard about Letty?”

  “Some of it. I heard she was at the hospital, that you took her in,” Lewis said.

  “She’s hurt,” Lucas said. “She was shot, not too bad, but when she was getting away, she had to jump out her window. She slashed her hand open, really bad—we’re flying her down to the Cities so a hand guy can look at her. Her ankle is either busted or twisted so bad that she can’t walk.”

  “That’s terrible. I heard her mom . . . ” Lewis’s eyes went to the house, “ . . . might still be in there.”

  “We’re waiting, but Letty thinks she was shot to death. Right at the beginning of it. She apparently fought the guy long enough for Letty to get away.”

  “This doesn’t happen in Custer County,” Lewis said. “Somebody told me that the last murder here was fifteen years ago.”

  “Our operating theory is that Deon Cash, Jane Warr, and probably Joe Kelly kidnapped the Sorrell girl and killed her, and probably another girl named Burke.”

  “Two of them?”

  “Yes. We think that Hale Sorrell somehow grabbed Joe Kelly and tortured him and got the names of Cash and Warr. We think he found out that his daughter was already dead. We think he then waited until their guard might be down a little, then he came up here, took them and hanged them for the murder of his daughter. But we think there was at least one more person involved, and that person is afraid that somebody will give him away. It’s a him, by the way, not a her—he spoke to Letty.”

  She smiled quickly, a flitting smile that was gone as quickly as it came. “Thanks for the briefing.”

  “I’m not just chatting,” Lucas said. “Something complicated is going on around Broderick, and I don’t know what it is. But it’s the cause of all these deaths. And people in Broderick are evading us, they’re not telling us what they know. I don’t know why they’re doing that, but they are.”

  “I more or less know everybody in Broderick. Some of the men from the body shop keep to themselves, but nobody I know well would have done this. Kidnapped those girls or . . . ” She gestured at the burned-out hole in the ground.

  Three firemen were standing in the ruins of the basement, and as Lewis gestured and they looked that way, one of them called up to another man, who was standing outside the hole, and he turned and trotted toward one of the fire trucks. Two more firemen dropped into the basement.

  “Aw, shit,” Lucas said. “I think they found her.”

  THEY HAD. LUCAS and Del hung around for another hour, watching as the medical examiner crawled down into the basement. Ten minutes later, he climbed back out.

  “Martha West?” Lucas asked.

  “I assume so, from what I’ve been told. No way to tell by looking at the body. We’ll have to do DNA on the body and on her daughter, and make some comparisons. But—it’s her.”

  “All right.” They lingered a few more minutes, then headed back to Armstrong. There was actually traffic on the highway, cop cars and fire department vehicles, and maybe rubberneckers running up to see what had happened.

  On the way back, Del asked, “What’d you tell Ruth Lewis?”

  “I gave her something to be guilty about. Those kind of women, they guilt-trip pretty easily.”

  “Just gonna let it percolate?”

  “Yeah, overnight. Then I’m gonna go up there tomorrow and ask Lewis if she’ll go down to the Cities and tell Letty that her mother is dead.”

  “Mmm,” Del said. Then after a minute, “Hitting her with a hammer.”

  “Maybe she’ll break,” Lucas said.

  They stopped at the hospital, found it quiet. The duty nurse told them that the resident had gone back to bed, and that Letty was in the air. “They got here really quickly,” she said. She glanced at a wall clock. “She should be at Hennepin in a half-hour.”

  After leaving the hospital, they drove over to the Law Enforcement Center, where two people were sitting in the comm center eating microwave pizza. Lucas borrowed a computer and wrote a memo to the sheriff, outlining what had happened, and what had been done about it. He made two copies, put one in the sheriff’s mailbox, and kept one himself.

  AT THE MOTEL, they went to their separate rooms, and though he was tired, Lucas turned on the television, found a movie channel, and watched James Woods, Bruce Dern, and Lou Gossett get wry with each other in Diggstown. Forty-five minutes later, Weather called.

  “We’ve got her on the ground,” she said. “The hand is not good, but it’s fixable. Gonna take a while to heal. Do you know if she has insurance? She doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “She doesn’t,” Lucas said. “I’m buying.”

  “Is this a Roman Catholic guilt thing that I’ve got to be psychologically careful about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Call me tomorrow. I want all the details. She seems like an interesting child. She’s scared.”

  “She jumped out a window, got shot, got stalked in the dark, shot a guy, saw her house burned down, and her mother’s dead. She doesn’t know about her mother for sure, yet. I’m going to try to get somebody up here to fly down and tell her. Somebody she knows.”

  “Aw, jeez . . . All right. I’ll stay with her. Call me.”

  SLEEP WOULD BE tough—coming up to five o’clock in the morning, but he was still too cranked. He clicked around the TV channels, found nothing that he wanted to watch. Eventually, he put on his shoes and walked down to the motel office.

  “That black guy from Chicago still here?” he asked the clerk.

  “Yup. Said he’s checking out tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s the room?”

  “Two-oh-eight. Is he gonna be a problem?”

  “Naw. I called Chicago, and they say he’s gonna win the Nobel Prize for reporting. I just wanted to shake his hand.”

  WAY TOO EARLY for this, he thought, but what the hell, reporters fuc
ked with him often enough. He knocked on 208, waited, knocked again, and then a man croaked, “What time is it?”

  “Five in the morning,” Lucas said. “Check-out time.”

  “What?”

  A crack of light appeared between the curtains in the room window, and a moment later, Mark Johnson peered out the door over the safety chain. “Davenport?”

  “So, what’re you doing?” Lucas asked.

  “Trying to sleep.”

  “You’re so young, too,” Lucas said.

  Johnson took the chain off and opened the door and yawned and asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Somebody just burned down the West house, murdered Martha West, and shot and wounded Letty. She’s been taken to the Twin Cities for surgery.”

  Johnson stared, then looked back at his bed, then back to Lucas. “You’re shitting me.”

  “I shit you not.”

  “Come on in. Let me get my pants on. Jesus . . . What happened?”

  “I talked to Deke, and he said you’d be marginally okay to talk to.”

  “Yeah, margin my ass.”

  “So the deal is, I tell you what you want to know, and you got it from an informed source. And I’ve got a lot of stuff that nobody else has picked up.”

  “Like what?”

  LUCAS TOLD HIM, and when he was done, Johnson stared down at his laptop and said, “I can see this as a story. It’ll take some work.”

  “Christ, the best story of his life is handed to him on a platter, and he says it’ll take some work,” Lucas said.

  “The no-attribution is the hard part,” Johnson said.

  “That’s the deal—but I’ll tell you what. You come around tomorrow, wearing your sport jacket, and I’ll talk for attribution, but I’ll also refuse to comment on some of the other stuff, like the locket. You can ask the FBI about that. They’ll be up here tomorrow, looking for the kids’ bodies.”

  “That’s great. They’re like the world’s worst media connections. They won’t tell me anything.”

  “They might. Their media training’s improved a lot, the last two or three years. And I’ll put in a word for you.”

  “Appreciate it . . . Look, on my side of the deal, I sorta got a name for you.” He slapped a group of keys on the laptop, saving his notes and changing programs, then reached into his briefcase for a pen and paper, scribbled on it, and handed it to Lucas.

  A name, Tom Block, and a phone number in an unfamiliar area code.

  “This is another guy Deke put me onto, maybe a year ago, down in Kansas City. He’s sort of Kansas City’s Lucas Davenport, although he’s younger and better-looking.”

  “Could be younger,” Lucas admitted. “What’s he do?”

  “Wanders around town. But he knows a lot about the Cash family and what that whole group does down there. You might want to chat. He told me a couple of things that I can’t use, because of libel problems, but it wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  “Like tell me one thing.”

  “Like the whole Cash family—it’s really more like a clan, with aunts and uncles and nephews and all that—they started out in drugs, and then, when crack came in and all the killing started, they got out. Went into other stuff. Tom says some of the brothers down there went to business school at the University of Missouri, then came back to KC and diversified.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. One of their things now is that they steal a lot of cars. That’s the rumor. Low risk, high profit. And since Calb’s body shop up there is involved in this thing . . . ”

  “You think Calb’s is a chop shop?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t make sense, really. They could chop cars down there, no problem. I don’t know what Calb could do out here that they couldn’t do.”

  “Hmmp.” Lucas stood up and stretched. He thought he might be able to sleep. “All right. I’ll probably see you around tomorrow, one place or another. You still checking out?”

  “Shit, no.”

  “The desk clerk thinks you’re up to something. Being black, and all.”

  “I encourage him to think that,” Johnson said. “Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

  LUCAS SLEPT LIKE a baby.

  For almost five hours, until Del called. Lucas rolled over and picked up the phone, and Del said, “I can’t lay down anymore.”

  “Try harder,” Lucas said. Then: “I’ll get up.”

  “I’ll come over in fifteen minutes. We’ll go down to the Bird and get breakfast.”

  LUCAS BRUSHED HIS teeth and skipped shaving so he could stand in the shower for a few extra minutes. He was just pulling on a shirt when Del knocked. He let Del in, then sat on the bed and put on his shoes and socks, got his coat, tossed the car keys to Del. “You drive. I’ve got some calls to make.”

  He started by calling the sheriff’s comm center, where he got the phone number for the church in Broderick. He called the church, and asked for Ruth Lewis.

  “I’m calling to ask you to do something for me,” he said, when she came on.

  Wary: “What?”

  “I would like you to go down to the Cities and tell Letty that her mother’s dead. She knows it, but nobody’s come right out and said it, yet. You know her, and she likes you. It would be good if you could tell her.”

  “Oh, God,” Lewis said. Then, after a moment, “I could go this afternoon.”

  “Thanks. She’s at Hennepin General, and I’ll call down to make sure they let you through. If you go pretty soon, you could talk to her this evening.”

  THE NEXT CALL went to Weather’s cell phone. She answered, after a moment: “I’m in the locker room cleaning up. I sat in on the operation—pretty neat stuff. The guy knows how to tie a square knot.”

  “Yeah, yeah. How is she?”

  “She’s gonna be pretty dopey the rest of the day, and they’re gonna put a cage around her hand.”

  “The hand gonna work?”

  “She’ll probably need more surgery, you know, to release the scar tissue as it builds up, but yes—she should be okay. She won’t be playing the piano for a while.”

  “How about her leg? How about the bullet wound?”

  “The bullet wound isn’t a problem. The guys up there cleaned it up, and should be okay—just took some skin off her rib cage and the inside of her arm. Her ankle is sprained, but it’s not too bad. Since it’s on the other side from the cast, she should be able to use a crutch for a couple of days, if she needs it.”

  “Nothing broken.”

  “Nothing broken.”

  “How’s Sam?”

  “He is just such a cutey. He’s so cheerful. And it’s pretty apparent that he’s really bright . . . no, I’m serious, he’s really bright. I don’t think . . . ”

  She got Lucas laughing, all the more because she was sincere. “Talk to you later.”

  HE TOLD DEL about Letty’s progress as he dialed a third number. A woman answered: “St. Anne’s, Department of Psychology.”

  “My name is Lucas Davenport. I’m a police officer and I need to talk with Sister Mary Joseph.”

  “Just a minute, please.”

  Elle Kruger came on a second later. “How’s the baby?” she asked.

  “Probably the most intelligent kid in the Twin Cities, if not the entire Midwest,” Lucas said. “I’ve got a question for you. Sort of a semiofficial question.”

  “Go ahead,” she said cheerfully. She’d given Lucas advice on other cases.

  “You know a woman named Ruth Lewis, right? Used to be a nun? Sat in on a couple of games with us?”

  He sensed a hesitation, then: “I know Ruth.”

  “What’s going on with her?”

  “What’s going on with you?”

  Lucas was dumbfounded. Elle was his oldest, closest friend, and he was feeling resistance. That hadn’t happened before.

  “I’m trying to figure out the Sorrell kidnapping. A little girl was shot last night, almost had her hand cut off, and her mother was murdered,
and then she had her house burned down around her. Lewis lives just a few blocks down the highway, and she knows something she’s not telling me. I can feel it. This guy, the guy who’s doing the killing—he’s not gonna stop if he thinks he’s in danger.”

  Another moment of hesitation, then: “Lucas, are you on your cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me call you back.”

  “Elle? What the hell’s going on?”

  “I’ll probably tell you, but I want to talk to Ruth first. I want to make sure there’s no possibility that she’s involved with your case. She won’t be involved directly, but I want to make sure that there are no . . . ramifications from her job, that might create some, mmm, involvement.”

  Lucas was getting angry. “Elle, you’re bullshitting me.”

  “No, I’m not. You’ve just got me stuck. If I tell you why, you’ll understand, but I’ve got to talk to Ruth first.”

  “C’mon.”

  “I’ll call you back, Lucas, I promise. I will tell you something about Ruth, though. She wasn’t a very good nun because she was . . . too much. She demanded perfection, and she was the one who’d define what that was. The people she most admired were all martyrs. So . . . ”

  “She’s nuts.”

  “No. She’s not crazy, but she will do what she will do. And you won’t stop her. Nobody will stop her. If she winds up martyred because of it, that wouldn’t faze her. Wouldn’t slow her down. In some ways, she’s a throwback.”

  “To what, the fifties?”

  “I was thinking of the crusades,” Elle said. “Anyway, I’ll call you back.”

  THEY WERE COMING up to the Bird when Lucas got off the phone, now as puzzled as he was angry. Del asked, “What was that all about?”

  “I’m getting stonewalled by Elle. She knows Lewis and she knows what’s going on, but she won’t tell me.”

  “I don’t know, man,” Del said. “That’s weird.”

  “I even told her about Letty,” Lucas said.

  “Now we know one thing—something’s going on and it probably ain’t legal. What are the chances of two big illegal things going on in a town the size of Broderick, that aren’t connected somehow?”