Lucas Davenport Collection: Books 11-15

by John Sandford

  “Pie chart and restructure,” Rose Marie said, moving around behind her desk. She had just turned sixty. Her hair was flyaway, and she was wearing a loose gray skirt and white blouse. A gray jacket hung in a niche in the corner. “These days, you don’t know PowerPoint, you ain’t shit. What’re you up to?”

  Lucas shrugged. “Got that thing down in Worthington. It’s ninety-nine percent that the Carter kid did it, but his family covered him with an attorney. We can’t even talk to him. Unless we come up with a witness, we’re not going anywhere.”

  A wrinkle appeared in her forehead. “But he did it?”

  “Yup. Michelle told a girlfriend that she thought she was pregnant, and that she’d told him so. He didn’t want to deal with it, so he strangled her and threw her body off the bridge. But he was smart about it. He wasn’t supposed to see her that night. He snuck out of the ball game and picked her up. All kinds of people saw him at the game, in the stands, under the stands, before, during, and after. Nobody can pin down any time that he was gone, and nobody saw him pick her up. She probably slipped out to meet him. So . . .”

  “We’re toast.”

  “Unless he has a conscience or somebody in his family does,” Lucas said. “To tell you the truth, I think he’s a little psychopath. Maybe even the family is fooled.”

  Rose Marie sighed. “Shoot. I would have liked to have gotten that one.”

  “If she really had been pregnant, we could have done a DNA on the fetus, and that would have given us some kind of motive, but . . .” He spread his hands, a gesture of frustration. “We can’t even prove the pregnancy angle.”

  “What’re you gonna do?” Rose Marie lit up—an illegal act—and blew smoke toward the ceiling, relaxing with the nicotine. “Maybe something will happen.”

  Lucas nodded. Sometimes, something did. A witness wanders in, the killer blurts out a confession to a friend, who goes to the cops.

  “What else?” Rose Marie asked. She had a can of pencils on her desk, chose an unsharpened yellow one, and gave it an experimental twiddle.

  Lucas continued: “Del is working the McDonald’s thing. He hates it, he’s running a forklift all day. We still don’t know what the fuck is going on. The Bruins’ auditors claim another thousand bucks went out the door last week, right under Del’s nose, and he says it didn’t, and they put him on the night shift, but there are only a few guys on the night shift and they’d all have to be in on it . . .”

  “That could be,” Rose Marie said.

  “I don’t know,” Lucas said. “Anyway, we’re working it. And Dannie’s trawling for that pimp in the Brainerd festival killing.”

  “How’s Del’s leg?” Del Capslock, one of Lucas’s investigators, had been shot in the leg a few months earlier, and a bone had been broken.

  “Still hurts, still goes to rehab,” Lucas said.

  “Maybe he came back too soon,” Rose Marie suggested.

  “Nah, he’s okay. He was going nuts, sitting on the couch.”

  Rose Marie twiddled the pencil for a few more seconds, then tried a tentative drumbeat with the eraser end. “I don’t care about Brainerd so much,” she said finally. “We’ll get the guy, it’s just a matter of time. But the Bruin family and their employees put thirty thousand dollars into the governor’s campaign last cycle. If Del can break that . . .”

  “He will, sooner or later. If there’s anything really going on. I gotta wonder, what are the chances it’s some kind of tax scam by the Bruins?”

  “Ah, Jesus, don’t go there,” she said. “Besides, I talked to Elroy Bruin, and this is no tax scam. He was pissed.”

  “Okay.”

  “So what are you doing?” The pencil drumbeat picked up.

  Lucas shrugged. “Spent some time down in Worthington, trying to figure out the Carter kid. Then, the feds are worried about stuff coming across the border from Manitoba; I’ve been talking to Lapham up in Kittson County about it. He doesn’t want to spend a dime out of his budget. He wants to set up a task force, so we’d have to pay for it. I’ve been trying to put it off.”

  “Keep putting it off. We got no money for nothin’.”

  “Absolutely speaking, or relatively speaking?”

  “Relatively. I’m not nearly stupid enough to be absolutely broke.” More twiddling, and a couple of more drumbeats, then, “So I could get you free for a week or two—you personally?”

  “For the spy?”

  “We’ve got a Russian coming in,” she began. “The State Department called the governor . . .”

  THE DEAD RUSSIAN, she said, had been named Oleg Moshalov, according to his seaman’s papers, but FBI counterintelligence had identified him as a Rodion Oleshev, once an agent for the Russian KGB. They’d spotted and printed him when he’d been stationed in Washington as a junior attaché in the late 1980s.

  “The feds don’t know what he was doing in Duluth, or why he was doing it. The Russians say he was fired during the big government layoffs in the nineties and he joined the merchant marine. He was supposedly the first officer on this ship,” Rose Marie said. She snubbed out her cigarette, went to the window, opened it, fanned some smoke toward the opening. “The feds say that’s bullshit. They say he was on an intelligence mission and somebody murdered him. They interviewed the ship’s captain and crew, and they all said he really was the first officer . . . Well. Read the report.” She stepped back to her desk and touched a file folder, and nudged it an inch closer to Lucas.

  He didn’t move. “Okay. What then?”

  “Nothing much, for a while,” she sat down again, heavily. “The Russians denied everything, and the case was being handled by some Joe Blow at their consulate as a routine misadventure. The investigation was a dead end. Then, out of the blue, two days ago, the Russians call up the FBI and start screaming for action. Turns out that the dead guy’s father is a big shot in the oil ministry—it took them that long to figure out who Oleshev really was. The father talked to Putin and now their embassy is jumping up and down and the State Department’s got the vapors. The Russians are sending an observer to see what the FBI and the Duluth cops have been doing. He’s scheduled into Duluth on Monday afternoon.”

  “What’s everybody been doing?”

  “The usual workup, but the case isn’t going anywhere,” Rose Marie said. “It looks like a planned ambush. The feds, the local guys in Duluth, think it’s Russian on Russian. And they don’t care about the State Department. Not much, anyway.”

  “A cluster fuck.”

  “Exactly. Nobody knows who’s doing what to whom. Mitford and I thought you could go up there. When this Russian arrives, take him on a tour of the crime scene and fill him in on what everybody’s done.”

  “Mitford wants it fixed.” Mitford was the governor’s top aide, what the newspaper called his go-to guy.

  “He wants everything made nice,” Rose Marie said. “He wants people to cooperate with each other, and to shake hands and agree that this was a tragedy, and that what could be done, was done.”

  Rose Marie stopped talking, and for a moment, they examined each other across her desk: the years really were piling up, Lucas thought. Rose Marie had crossed the physical border that comes in the late fifties or early sixties, when people begin to look old. Not that she’d particularly worry about it. Like Lucas and Weather, she worked all the time.

  “So you want me to do PR,” Lucas said into the silence.

  “Do me a favor,” Rose Marie said. She nudged the file another inch closer to Lucas. “Go up and look around. See if you can figure something out. If you can, that’s fine. If not, fuck it—just make us look good. Right now, we look bad and everybody’s annoyed. And we’ve got this budget thing on our back. The goddamned legislature . . .”

  THERE WAS NO big hurry to the job. Lucas called Duluth from Rose Marie’s outer office, talked to the cop who was covering the homicide, and made arrangements to meet him on Monday morning. Then he called the Minneapolis office of the FBI, left a message for t
he special agent in charge, who was, he was told, “in Kenora, discussing border problems with his opposite number in the RCMP.”

  “In an office or out in a boat?” Lucas asked. The SAC had been in the newspaper for taking a fly-fishing record for northern pike on one-pound tippet.

  “I have no information about boats, nor would I rule boats out,” said the fed who’d answered the phone. “I am simply designated to answer phone calls on a weekend when the temperature is eighty-four degrees, the skies are partly cloudy, and there is little or no wind to influence the flight of a golf ball. He’ll be in the office Monday.”

  LUCAS AND WEATHER spent a quiet Saturday at home. The missing garage door was a constant irritant. The house looked as though somebody had punched out one of its teeth.

  “Big New House looks hurt,” Weather said, as they went out for croissants in the morning, leaving Sam with the housekeeper. Later, they spent an hour at a pottery show given by one of Lucas’s old flames—Weather only cared what he was doing now, she claimed. So they looked at pots and had a nice chat with Jael, the flame, who was looking very good, and who made goo-goo noises at Sam. Sometime during the tour, it occurred to Lucas that maybe he was being shown off with a baby on his back . . . then he thought, nah, Weather wouldn’t do that.

  That afternoon, Lucas took Sam for a stroll. Actually, he took him for a five-mile run on the bike path that ran along the top of the river valley. Sam was tucked in a high-tech, big-wheeled, three-hundred-dollar tricycle stroller, designed, Weather said, expressly for yuppies. A few minutes after he got back, Letty called from canoe camp. Her school had an introductory week, involving four days of consciousness-raising in canoes, which is what you get from Episcopalian private schools, and said that her group was headed into the Boundary Waters the next morning, right after church.

  LATE IN THE afternoon, Lucas read the file that Rose Marie had given him. The file had been compiled by the FBI, and included findings both by local FBI agents and the Duluth police. There was a narrative on the discovery of the body, and the search of the area around the dock, as well as interviews with the elevator worker who’d discovered the body and with members of the ship’s crew. There were photos of the victim both at the scene and at the medical examiner’s office.

  The dead man had been shot three times and fragments of two hollow-point slugs had been recovered from the body, enough to establish the killer’s weapon as a nine millimeter. The fragments were too badly damaged to match to a particular gun. One interesting note was that three shells had been found, and the shells were old—1950s vintage. They’d been polished: there were no prints.

  A man was spotted running from the dock area just as the body was discovered by a worker at the grain terminal. The man was reported as wearing a long coat. A scrawled note by the Duluth investigator, on the edge of the typed report, said, “Kid? What was coat? Check temp.”

  The report noted that the dead man’s body apparently had been searched. The Russian’s wallet and papers were missing, and maybe a money belt from around his waist—the man’s pants had been loosened, and the medical examiner found elastic-band marks in the skin around his waist that were not consistent with his underpants, and which might have been consistent with a money belt.

  There were details: the Duluth cops had found a fresh trail through the weeds along the lakeshore, which showed signs of a number of falls, which they thought might represent a chase, which seemed odd, in what otherwise looked like an execution. There was no question that the dead man had been killed where he was found: there were bullet impressions on the concrete under his head.

  LUCAS MULLED IT all over: there was information to work with, which wasn’t always the case. He began to put together a list of questions.

  SATURDAY EVENING, they barbecued: Sloan and his wife came over, and Del and his wife—Del worked in Lucas’s office and was investigating the McDonald’s thefts. Sister Mary Joseph, wearing street clothes, showed up with a post-doc student in psychology, who’d wanted to meet Weather and talk about cranial-facial surgery.

  Earlier in the summer, Lucas had met a white-haired Georgia man on a flight between Chicago and Atlanta. The man was wearing a burgundy-colored baseball cap that said Big Pig Jig on the front, and it turned out that he was a barbecue judge.

  In the ensuing conversation, James Lever of Tifton, Georgia, recommended that Lucas try his special competition Pig Jig spareribs. Getting the ingredients together had been a pain in the ass, cutting the membrane off the bone with a dull knife had been a pain in the ass, marinating the ribs for two hours had been in a pain in the ass, and Weather had insisted that they go the whole route and grind their own spices, which had been interesting in its own way, leaving the kitchen redolent with garlic, fennel, ginger, oregano, basil, and marjoram. And though she’d insisted on going the whole way, Weather quailed at the idea of mixing the two cans of Coca-Cola with a bottle of Chianti, but Lucas, in his turn, had insisted.

  Just before getting off the plane, Lever had said that the ribs should be accompanied by Miller Genuine Draft beer, “because if you drink some fruity Mexican beer with these ribs, you’ll be fart’n’ up a storm.”

  Lucas refused to drink Miller Genuine Draft on moral grounds, and so they made do with a case of Leinie’s.

  While Lucas was barbecuing, Weather roasted sweet corn, still in the husk, in the oven; at the end of it, the kitchen looked like Anzio Beach, but everybody agreed the food was wonderful.

  SUNDAY WAS EVEN slower than Saturday, but still a great day: blue skies, cool enough to make your face and skin feel good. On Sunday afternoon, Lucas and Weather took a long walk down to a bookstore off Ford Parkway and along the way talked about what he should do.

  “I like working for Rose Marie, but the governor . . . the governor. After a while, it feels a little like prostitution,” Lucas said. “This is the first time I’ve felt sleazy. Chasing people down for political reasons.”

  “You’re putting the same old assholes into jail,” Weather pointed out.

  “Yeah, but not because anybody gives a shit—it’s because the politicians don’t want the TV people talking about crime waves, or because some out-state sheriff fucked it up and we go bail them out so he’ll owe us.”

  “If you go back to school . . .”

  “Jesus, Weather.”

  “Listen, you’ve got a B.A.”

  “Yeah. Not worth the paper it’s printed on.”

  “Sure it is, because it means you don’t have to go through a lot of other shit to study something you’re interested in. I was thinking: you really liked building the Big New House. That’s the happiest I’ve ever seen you, when you were doing that. You drove everybody a little crazy, but look at the house. What a great house.”

  “Not that great. If I find the guy that sold me the front door, I’ll cut his nuts off. And how in the hell . . . ?”

  “Shut up for a minute. You loved doing it. Building the house. Have you ever thought about doing something in construction? Building custom houses or something?”

  They walked along for a few seconds, and then Lucas said, “No, I never thought about it.”

  “You’d be good at it. And I think you’d be interested in it. You’d be . . . building something. Think about driving around town in your old age, looking at the neat houses you’d built.”

  They walked along a bit more and Lucas finally sighed and said, “Something to think about.”

  Weather said, “That’s encouraging.”

  “What?”

  “Ever since you’ve gotten into this mood, you’ve pushed away everything I’ve suggested. This is the first time you said anything remotely positive.”

  “Houses.”

  “Think about it.”

  BY SUNDAY EVENING, Lucas was ready to go. As the evening news ended, the FBI’s special agent in charge called. “Got back from Kenora an hour ago, I just picked up my messages,” he said. “You’re heading up to Duluth?”

  “Yeah. W
hattaya got going up there?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. Could you come by in an hour or so?”

  “I’m leaving tonight . . .”

  “Just need a few minutes. We’ve got a guy in from Washington who wants to hook up with you.”

  “It can’t wait?”

  “Not really.”

  “See you in an hour,” Lucas said.

  LUCAS HAD ALWAYS had an ambiguous relationship with the FBI. They were supposed to be the elite—and they did do some good work—and they acted that way. Even their offices reminded Lucas of their superior status. The offices were like spaceship interiors seen in the movies; sealed airlocks with only the initiated allowed inside.

  The FBI’s attitudes, their separateness, their secrecy, their military ethic, had filtered down to state and local cops, and eventually were taken for granted. Police stations, once relatively open, had become fortresses, places that people feared and that they hurried past.

  But local cops weren’t the FBI, and they didn’t do what the FBI did. FBI agents worked in offices and did intricate investigations; they weren’t on the street. But as cops began to develop FBI-like attitudes, and to build FBI-like fortresses, as they sealed themselves away in patrol cars, as they fended off contact with the public, they began to resemble a paramilitary force, rather than peace officers.

  When Lucas was a kid, cops were part of his neighborhood, with jobs just like the mailman and the teacher. By the time Lucas had joined the Minneapolis cops, that old workaday attitude was disappearing—cops were creating their own bars, holding their own cop parties, picking up privileges that weren’t available to outsiders.

  That all began, Lucas thought, with the spreading influence of the feds, and he didn’t like it. It was bad for the country and bad for cops, he thought. And he thought it again as he checked through the airlock and was buzzed into the FBI offices in Minneapolis.