Secret Prey

by John Sandford

  ‘‘Have you talked to McDonald?’’

  ‘‘No. He’s out of it . . .’’

  ‘‘I know. But he’s got friends on the board. He can possibly throw them to O’Dell. So you’ve got to talk to McDonald and do it soon. Call Spacek at Midland and find out if they can find some kind of figurehead job for him after the merger. Vice chairman of the merged banks, or something . . .’’

  Bone nodded: ‘‘Good idea. I’ll do that.’’ He looked at her, gauging the change in their relationship, then took the step: ‘‘What else?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I’ve only got one more thing—well, two more things. First, your old pal Marcus Kent works for O’Dell.

  Everything you tell him goes to her.’’

  Bone’s eyebrows went up. ‘‘Since when?’’

  ‘‘Since he decided he wanted your job, which was about two minutes after you hired him.’’

  ‘‘Little asshole,’’ Bone grumbled, not particularly surprised. ‘‘I’ll take care of him later. You said two things. What’s the other one?’’

  ‘‘I want you to do me a favor.’’

  ‘‘Sure. What?’’

  ‘‘I’ll tell you when you’re given the job. All you have to do now is promise to do me a favor.’’

  ‘‘You mean . . . blind? You won’t tell me what favor?’’

  She nodded. She was so serious, so cool, so remote, that he nodded in return. ‘‘All right. I hate to do it blind, but if it’s anything like rational, I’ll do you a favor.’’

  She nodded once again, quickly, ticking the commitment off some mental list.

  ‘‘I mean, money? A title?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I’ll tell you later,’’ she said. And for a fraction of a second, he thought she almost smiled. ‘‘Now: I can get a graphics guy to actually put our presentation together, but we might also want some kind of short video presentation from Midland, from Spacek himself, probably. That means we’ll need to check the VCR up in The Room.’’

  Bone slapped his forehead: ‘‘That’s great. I’ll talk to Spacek as soon as we’re done here.’’ He looked at his watch: ‘‘Plenty of time.’’

  ‘‘What else?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘I need to talk to a guy named Gerry Nicolas. Today. He runs the state pension fund, I don’t know the formal name.’’

  ‘‘I’ll get it,’’ she said. ‘‘May I ask why? Just so I can stay current and see how you’re thinking?’’

  Oddly enough, Bone thought, he trusted her: ‘‘Because his constituents don’t know anything about the stock market, but they know he hasn’t gotten them fifteen percent on their money this year, and they want to know why. He’s feeling a little shaky, and he also happens to own almost six million shares of our stock which, until the merger talk started, had been sitting in his portfolio like a brick. He’s now up sixty million, and due to go up quite a few more if the merger goes through. If it doesn’t, he’s sucking wind again.’’

  ‘‘So if you tell him the board is thinking about backing out . . .’’

  ‘‘He’ll be on the phone to the board. And he’s got some serious clout when it comes to electing board members.’’

  ‘‘Good. That’s exactly how we’ve got to think.’’ She stood up. ‘‘I know this changes our relationship somewhat, Mr. Bone, but I really think you’ll have a much better chance at this job if you listen seriously to my proposals. And I’ll critique yours.’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Don’t dismiss me like that,’’ she snapped. ‘‘I’m as smart as you are. I might not know as much about investments, but I know a lot more about the way this place really works. If I’m going to save my job, you’ve got to listen to me.’’

  He laughed despite himself, and again, was somewhat shocked: ‘‘Is that what this is all about? Saving your job?’’

  ‘‘That’s half of it,’’ she said.

  ‘‘What’s the other half?’’

  ‘‘The favor you’re going to do me—that’s the other half.’’

  As she was going out the door, he said, ‘‘Maybe you better start calling me Jim.’’

  She stopped, seemed to think for a minute, pushed her glasses up her nose, and said, ‘‘Not yet.’’

  ‘‘THEY’RE GONNA SCREW YOU,’’ AUDREY MCDONALD shouted. Wilson was in the den, staring at a yellow pad. Audrey had gone to the kitchen to get a bowl of nacho chips and a glass of water; she snuck the vodka bottle out of the lazy Susan, poured two ounces into the glass, gulped it down, took a pull at the bottle, screwed the top back on, put it back on the lazy Susan, turned it halfway around, and shut the cupboard door. Then she stuffed a half-dozen nachos in her mouth to cover any scent of alcohol, got a full glass of water and the bowl of chips, and carried them back to the den.

  ‘‘If they were gonna give you the job . . .’’

  ‘‘I heard you, I heard you,’’ Wilson McDonald snarled. ‘‘I heard you a dozen fuckin’ times. You’re so full of shit sometimes, Audrey, that you don’t even know you’re full of shit. I’m running the board—I chaired the meeting today—I can handle them.’’

  ‘‘Yeah? How many board members have you talked to, who were willing to commit?’’

  He was shoving a fistful of chips into his mouth, chewed once, and said, ‘‘Eirich and Goff and Brandt . . .’’

  ‘‘You told me that Brandt—’’

  ‘‘I know what I said,’’ he shouted. ‘‘I’ll get the fucker. That sonofabitch.’’ Brandt had equivocated.

  ‘‘You can’t count on—’’

  The phone rang, and they both turned to look at it. ‘‘Did you talk to your father?’’ Audrey asked.

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Huh.’’ She stood up, took two steps, picked up the phone. ‘‘Hello? . . . Yes, this is Audrey.’’ She turned to look at Wilson. ‘‘Why yes, he’s here, somewhere. Let me call him.’’

  She pressed the receiver to her chest and said, ‘‘It’s Susan O’Dell. She said she needs to talk to you right away.’’

  ‘‘Okay. Jesus, I wonder what she wants, right away?’’

  ‘‘It won’t be good news,’’ Audrey said. She was seized by a sudden dread, looking at her husband’s querulousness. This wasn’t going right.

  Wilson took the phone. ‘‘Hello?’’ He listened for a moment, then said, ‘‘Sure, that’ll be okay. Give us an hour . . . Okay, see you then.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘She’s coming over. She wants to cut a deal.’’

  Audrey brightened: ‘‘If we can cut a deal, we knock Bone right out of contention. For that, we could offer her quite a bit.’’

  ‘‘That’s right. And we basically agree on—’’ The phone rang again, and he turned and picked it up, expecting to hear O’Dell’s voice again. ‘‘Hello?’’

  Again he listened, and finally: ‘‘Really can’t until about, say, ten o’clock. We’ve got guests . . . Okay, we stay up late anyway. See you then.’’

  He hung up and Audrey raised her eyebrows.

  ‘‘Bone,’’ he said. ‘‘And he wants to cut a deal.’’

  Audrey smiled, almost chortled: ‘‘My my. Aren’t we popular tonight. Aren’t we popular . . .’’ The half a glass of vodka was brightening the world, right along with the phone calls. ‘‘We’ve got some planning to do.’’

  O’DELL CAME AND WENT.

  Bone came and went.

  McDonald went up to the bedroom, found a bottle of scotch he’d hidden in the closet, ripped off the top and took a long pull. ‘‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ,’’ he bellowed. ‘‘What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong?’’

  Audrey cowered in the doorway. ‘‘Are they right? Are they right, Wilson?’’ She’d been back to the lazy Susan, this time for a full glass of the vodka.

  ‘‘That motherfucking Brandt, that traitor,’’ McDonald screamed. He took another long pull at the bottle, two swallows, three, four. When he took the bottle down, he seeme
d stunned. ‘‘How could the fuckers do that?’’

  And suddenly he was blubbering, his face red as a stop sign, the bottle hanging by his side.

  ‘‘Call your father,’’ Audrey offered. ‘‘Maybe he—’’

  ‘‘Fuck that old asshole,’’ McDonald screamed. ‘‘I’m dying. I’m fucking dying.’’ He began pulling at his shirt and when it came off, threw it in a wad on the floor. Audrey retreated to the hall, saw him trot into the bathroom, heard the water start in the oversized tub. A moment later, his trousers flew out the door, followed by his shorts.

  ‘‘Wilson, we really don’t have time for this. We’ve got to get ourselves together. Just because they said—’’

  ‘‘They were right, you stupid fuckin’ cow,’’ McDonald screamed. And he ran out of the bathroom, nude now, his penis bobbing up and down like a crab apple on a windy day. ‘‘I’m gone. I’m out of it. I’m dead in the fuckin’ water . . .’’

  He spun around, looking for booze, found it in his hand. He was already drunk: he’d finished half a fifth downstairs before he ran up to get the new bottle. Audrey, desperate, tried to rein him in. O’Dell and Bone couldn’t be right. The job couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t be out of it.

  ‘‘Maybe O’Dell’s offer, the chairmanship . . .’’

  ‘‘I’d be out of there in a month,’’ he shouted. ‘‘I’d be nothing . . .’’

  ‘‘Wilson, I think if we—’’

  ‘‘And you, you bitch.’’ McDonald turned, his small eyes going flat as he moved toward her. ‘‘You sure as shit didn’t do anything to help. We’ve got some planning to do ,’’ he mimicked, quoting her from early in the evening. ‘‘ We’ve got yellow pads to fill up . . . And then they waltz in and tell me I’m done.’’

  ‘‘They’re wrong.’’

  ‘‘Shut up,’’ he bellowed, and he hit her, open-handed. The blow picked her up, smashed her head against the doorjamb, and she went down, dazed, tried to crawl away. ‘‘You fuckin’ come back here, you’re gonna answer for this.’’ He kicked her in the buttock, and she went down on her stomach. He stopped, nearly fell, caught himself, grabbed one of her feet and dragged her toward the bedroom.

  ‘‘Wilson,’’ she screamed. She rolled and tried to hold on to the carpet, then the doorjamb. ‘‘Don’t, please don’t.’’ Tried to distract him ‘‘Wilson, we’ve got to work.’’

  ‘‘Shut up,’’ he screamed again, and he dropped her foot and grabbed the front of her blouse. Made powerful by the booze, he picked her bodily off the floor and hurled her at a wall. She hit with a flat smack and went down again. ‘‘Crazy fuckin’ bitch . . .’’ he mumbled, and he took another pull at the bottle. ‘‘When I get fuckin’ finished with you, you won’t be able to fuckin’ crawl . . .’’

  TWELVE

  VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING. COLD, DAMP, WITH THE sense that frost was sparkling off exposed skin.

  Loring wore a suit that was almost exactly lime green, with a yellow silk shirt and tan alligator shoes, and a beige ankle-length plains duster, worn open. On someone else, the outfit might have looked strange. On Loring, who was slightly larger than a Buick, it was frightening.

  ‘‘Now just take it easy in there,’’ Loring rasped. ‘‘ Everything is cool with everybody.’’

  They were in an alley on the south side, walking toward a clapboard garage with silvered windows. ‘‘Whose garage?’’ Lucas asked.

  ‘‘A friend of Cotina’s. The guy’s straight, they rode together before Cotina got wild. He’s the only guy in Minneapolis that Cotina knew who’d loan them a spot to meet with the cops.’’

  ‘‘Could’ve fuckin’ done it downtown,’’ Lucas grumbled. Loring shook his head: ‘‘He’s got those warrants out and he’s paranoid. He says he’s gonna turn himself in.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘But he’s got some shit to do first.’’

  ‘‘Like peddling a ton of Ice to make bail and pay legal fees.’’

  ‘‘Probably; but it ain’t like the warrants are any big deal. Assault and shit like that.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ Lucas said. They walked up to the garage and Loring banged on an access door. A man opened it, peered out.

  ‘‘Just the two of you?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, just the two,’’ Loring said.

  The man let them in: he was thin, wore a T-shirt with bare arms, despite the chilly weather. A leather jacket hung on a single chair that sat in the middle of the garage, while a jet-black Harley softtail squatted against the overhead door, ready to run.

  Lucas looked around: ‘‘So where is he?’’

  ‘‘Be here in a minute,’’ the man said.

  ‘‘Who’re you?’’

  ‘‘Bob,’’ the man said. He’d taken a cell phone out of the jacket pocket, punched in a number, waited a minute, and spoke: ‘‘Yeah, they’re here. Yeah. Okay.’’ He punched off and said, ‘‘They’re just gonna cruise the neighborhood for a minute, then they’ll be here.’’

  Lucas turned and looked out the windows—the silver film was one-way, so anyone inside could see out, but people outside would see only their own reflection—and after a few seconds of silence, Bob asked Loring, ‘‘You still ride?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, when I can. My old lady’s kind of gone off it, though.’’

  ‘‘You been to Sturgis lately?’’

  ‘‘Went this year,’’ Loring said. ‘‘Pretty decent.’’

  ‘‘Not like the old days, though.’’

  ‘‘No. Everybody gettin’ old.’’

  ‘‘That’s the truth. Everybody’s got gray hair. We look like the Grateful Dead.’’

  Loring nodded: ‘‘Half the people out there brought their bikes in vans, just rode in the last five miles.’’

  ‘‘Were you there the year we burned the shitters?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, that was good,’’ Loring said.

  Lucas broke in: ‘‘This is them? Two red bikes?’’

  Bob leaned sideways to look out the window. Two bikers in jackets, sunglasses, and gloves were rolling slowly toward the garage. ‘‘That’s them,’’ Bob said.

  The bikers coasted to the side of the alley, killed the engines, climbed off, a little stiff, maybe a little wary. Lucas dropped his hand in his pocket around the stock of his .45, which he’d cocked before they went in. His thumb found the safety and nestled there. Loring’s hand drifted to his hip: Loring carried a Smith .40 in the small of his back. A second later, the door popped open, and Charlie Cotina slouched through the door, pulling off his gloves. He was dressed in a plain black leather jacket and jeans, with black chaps and boots. His escort wore Seed colors with a red bandana. Cotina looked quickly at Loring, nodded, then at Lucas, at Lucas’s hand, and then back to his face.

  ‘‘Is that a gun?’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘Bet you can get it out of there fast,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I took the jacket to a tailor, and had him fix the pockets,’’ Lucas said.

  Cotina nodded, looked at Loring: ‘‘This was supposed to be friendly.’’

  ‘‘This is friendly, if you’ve got anything to say,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘I ain’t got much,’’ Cotina said, looking back to Lucas. ‘‘Just this: We didn’t have nothin’ to do with that firebomb. Nobody in the Seed is looking for the cops. Whatever happened to LaChaise and his friends is their business. They was out of the group when they come after you. None of us have nothin’ against you, and we’re stayin’ away.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you’ve got some crazy in the group,’’ Lucas said.

  But Cotina was shaking his head, again looking at Loring: ‘‘You know this bunch of fuckin’ hosers: if anybody threw a bomb through this broad’s window, it’d be all over town in fifteen minutes. Nobody’s said shit, which means to me that nobody we know did it. And I been askin’.’’

  Lucas looked at him for ten seconds without speaking, and Cotina stared back, eyes small
and black, like a ferdelance. Finally, Lucas nodded, put his free hand in his opposite coat pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Cotina. ‘‘If you hear anything, call us. Might be worth something to you someday . . . if you ever go to court.’’

  ‘‘Do that,’’ Cotina grunted. And he turned and left, his escort pulling the door shut behind them.

  Lucas relaxed a notch, and Bob said, ‘‘It’d be polite to give them a minute to get out of here.’’

  ‘‘Fuck ’em,’’ said Lucas. But he handed a card to Bob as the bikes fired up: ‘‘Same thing applies to you. If you hear anything, it could be worth something in the future.’’

  Bob took it: ‘‘Get out of jail free?’’

  Lucas said, ‘‘Depends on what you’re in for. But could be.’’

  ‘‘Good deal,’’ Bob said. He tucked the card in his hip pocket.

  Lucas nodded and Loring led the way through the door, squinting in the brighter light outside. Cotina and his escort were just disappearing around the corner, leaning into the curve. Lucas bent over and picked up his card where Cotina had dropped it. ‘‘Must not want to get out of jail,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘He had to do it; he’d have to face problems if he kept it,’’ Loring said. As they walked back to the city car, Loring asked, ‘‘What do you think?’’

  ‘‘You’re the expert,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘I think he was telling the truth.’’ Lucas nodded. ‘‘So do I. Which creates some problems. Like, who the fuck bombed Weather?’’

  THEY MET SLOAN AND DEL AT A NORTHSIDE DINER, and Sloan pushed the business section of the Star-Tribune across the table at Lucas.

  ‘‘The bank deal has people freaking out—turns out three or four public pension funds own a big piece of Polaris, and if this merger caves in, so does the stock price,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘I don’t know if that could have anything to do with Kresge.’’

  ‘‘Don’t see how,’’ Lucas said. He took the paper and scanned the article. Bone was quoted as saying the merger was still on track, and the bank was continuing to work toward the merger. Further down in the article, an unidentified executive said that the merger was being ‘‘ reconsidered.’’