[Prey 11] - Easy Prey

by John Sandford

  "I'll tell Philip," she said.

  "Who's he?"

  "The manager?"

  "Honest to God? Philip?"

  Del called when Lucas was on the way back to the hospital.

  "I got the game. Started last night, continues until five A.M. tomorrow. Twenty-five grand to get in." That was good. They had Bloom's name now, but there was no guarantee that Bloom was their guy. They still needed Trick—and Al-Balah.

  "Where at?"

  "Pat Kelly. Remember him?"

  "Yeah… Where's he at now?"

  "Bought a place down on the south end, right on Minnehaha Creek. He's got a brand-new two-story fully-heated triple garage in his backyard. The word is, it's upstairs in the garage."

  "Going on now?" Lucas asked.

  "Yup. Want to meet me?"

  "Absolutely. Let's get… uh, what's Franklin doing?"

  "He's still with Corbeau," Del said. "How about Loring?"

  "I saw him early today, so he's probably off—but he's always up for overtime."

  "Give him a ring. I'll meet you at Pasties in an hour."

  Rose Marie had gone home, but a night nurse at the hospital let Lucas look in on Marcy. She was half propped up in a bed, a breathing tube in her nose, more tube in her arms, wires scrambled around the top of the bed, running to monitors. She smelled of disinfectant and something else: corruption, or cut flesh. Lucas knew the odor, but had never been able to put a name to it.

  He sat down on a chair next to the bed, watched her breathe for five minutes, then said, "We got a couple of things going, couple of leads. You're gonna make it. We talked to the docs. But you gotta keep sleeping for now." Maybe she could understand it, somewhere down in her brain. He backed out of the room, turned, and nearly ran over a woman who'd been standing by the door.

  "Lucas," she said, and showed a tiny smile.

  "Weather." His heart thumped. That hardly ever happened anymore; now, three times in three days, with Catrin, with Jael Corbeau. "I was just… Marcy… you know."

  "I heard. I was coming down to take a look," Weather said. She was a small woman, with wide athletic shoulders and a slightly crooked nose that might have been just a shade too large. Her eyes were dark blue, her short hair just touched with white. She'd be thirty-eight, Lucas thought. And, God, she looked good. "I talked to Hirschfeld—he did the surgery—and he said she's got a good chance. She was pretty torn up when she first came in, and he was worried, but they got it together."

  "She was hit hard."

  "Another nutcase, Lucas. They keep coming." She was a surgeon. She saw the victims, especially the children.

  "Four times a year, about," Lucas said. "Crime's down. Burglary's down, rape's down, robbery's down, even murders down, except for nutcases."

  "Everybody's getting too old for crime," she said.

  "Everybody's got a job," Lucas said. "Jobs cure everything. And crack's going away…"

  She looked up at him—she was a small woman, with shoulders that were slightly too broad, like an acrobat's—and asked, "What're we talking about?"

  "I don't know."

  "Want a cup of coffee?"

  "I've gotta go. I'm running down south, I've got a door to kick down," Lucas said.

  Now she did smile. "Lucas. So see you around, huh?"

  He didn't say anything for a few seconds, then: "Really?"

  "If you've got the time… sometime."

  "Anytime," he said. "Anytime but now. I just gotta, I just gotta… go." He backed away from her as he'd backed out of the room, backed up almost to the outer door, then turned and pushed through.

  Behind him, Weathers smile softened; she'd heard him talking to Marcy. In that few seconds, she thought, something had changed. Maybe…

  Lucas drove south through town, replaying the talk with Weather. Played it once, played it again. What she looked like, what she sounded like. She'd once owned a dress that she planned to wear for her wedding to Lucas; that hadn't happened. The relationship had dissolved in blood, in the very hospital where they'd talked, where Marcy had gone under the knife; another nutcase who'd died for his efforts. Weather Karkinnen. She'd wanted lads, two or three…

  Pasties was an all-night greasy spoon off Lyndale Avenue. When it first opened, it sold indigestible meat pies, but now it was all fried bacon, fried sausage, and fried hamburger, with home fries or french fries and catsup, and suspicious-looking pecan pie. Lettuce was not in demand; the coffee was mediocre. On the other hand, it was open all night, had racks of free papers inside the front door, and nobody cared if a customer spent an hour drinking a cup of coffee.

  Del was deep in conversation with the counterman when Lucas showed up. He broke off the conversation and they took a booth, and the counterman followed him over with a plastic carafe of coffee and two cups. The counterman was tubercularly thin, with round John Lennon glasses and shaggy hair; he was rolling an unlit, unfiltered cigarette between his dry lips. "Anyway, that's what happened," he told Del. He shook his head. "Shoulda known better. He said he only wanted to stay a couple of days."

  "I'll tell you what—those accordion guys are sneakier than they look," Del said. "Some of that music is pretty damn romantic. The Blue Skirt Waltz? You know that one? And you know women like to dance."

  "I wouldn't have no more suspected him than I would've suspected a… a… banjo player or something."

  "Coulda been worse," Del said.

  "Yeah? How?"

  "She could've run off with one of the Eagles." The bartender didn't laugh. He shook his head and shuffled back to the counter. Del looked at Lucas and said, "Love problems."

  Lucas didn't want to hear that. He said, "Did you find Loring?"

  "Yeah, he'll be here anytime. Did you stop at the hospital?"

  "She looks like shit, Del. Her skin's the color of a piece of paper."

  "She's gonna make it," Del said.

  "She had about a million units of blood. It was running out of her as fast as they could put it in."

  "Look, they stopped the bleeding, right? That's most of it with that kind of wound. Stop the bleeding."

  "Yeah." Suddenly Lucas felt tired. He hadn't gotten much sleep since he'd left his cabin three days before, and now it jumped him. And he felt greasy, he thought. Literally greasy, like he needed to shower, right now. He took a sip of the coffee. It lived up to its billing: mediocre. "This isn't fun anymore."

  "Was it ever?"

  "Of course it was," Lucas said. "When all we had was Alie'e and Lansing—all the goddamn media pouring in, all the attention, everybody running around—that was kind of fun."

  "I'd pick a different word."

  "Fuck it—it was fun. You were enjoying yourself, Del. So was I. So were the mayor and Rose Marie. Right up to when Marcy was shot."

  "Yeah, well…"

  They were talking aimlessly, pointlessly, when Loring came in. Loring was a very large man; nature had given him square teeth and a naturally mean expression. He was wearing a black raincoat over jeans and brown penny loafers. He got a coffee cup from the counterman, slid in next to Del, poured a cup of coffee, and stirred in a couple of ounces of sugar.

  "Pat Kelly," Lucas said.

  "Yeah. He's got that three-stall garage. He's been doing a game or two every month. Supposed to be a nice layout," Loring said.

  "You been inside?" Lucas asked.

  "No, but I heard about it. There's a back door, then some stairs, and a door at the top of the stairs. There's a toilet up there, and a refrigerator and a Coke machine full of cold drinks and beer. Big table. Kelly deals."

  "Security?"

  "Depends. I asked, but the guy I asked said he didn't see any," Loring said. "That was small stakes, two or three grand. If Del's right about this one, and they got seven guys playing, then there's a hundred and seventy-five thousand in cash on the table. So—probably security."

  "Don't want to go walking into some asshole with an AK," Del said. He yawned, and poured out the last of the coffee.


  "Kelly's too smart for that," Loring said. "His security would be good."

  "Hate bad security," Del said. "Some goddamned workout fag with a baseball hat and a gun."

  "That's why I wanted Loring," Lucas said. "We can stand behind him."

  "I thought it was my brains, and it was my body all the time," Loring said.

  Pat Kelly's house was on a narrow tree-lined street where the cheapest hovel went for a half-million dollars. His house was shingled with cedar; the cedar had turned old and dark over the years. One yellow light was visible through the front-room curtains, a lamp with a white shade and fringe. A double driveway led toward the back, where a hulking garage peeked out from behind the house. The garage had been built in the same style as the house, but the shingles were paler, redder. New. The only light near the garage was on the house's back porch—a yellow light, the kind that's supposed to discourage insects.

  They parked their cars down the street, hooked up, and walked toward the drive. "No light in the garage," Lucas said.

  "Made that way," Loring said. "No windows. You drive by, it looks like anything but a casino."

  "Looks like a rich dudes house," Del said.

  They turned up the drive, shoulder to shoulder, and unconsciously began spreading out, and each of them touched his own hip as they walked, feeling for the tender comfort of a gun. They were passing the house when a voice in the dark called, "Can we help you gentlemen?"

  "Police officers," Lucas said toward the voice. How many was "we"? No way to tell. "We're looking for a particular player."

  "Do you have some ID?"

  Lucas still couldn't spot the voice. He could feel Del edging farther away from him on one side, Loring idling away on the other, an inch at a time, so they wouldn't all get taken down with a single burst. A little stress. He grinned and held up his card case. "Lucas Davenport," he said. "And friends."

  The voice spoke softly—into a cell phone, Lucas thought—and two minutes later, a side door opened on the garage. Pat Kelly stepped out, a thin, white-haired man wearing a white dress shirt open at the throat. He looked tentatively down the driveway and said, "Davenport?"

  "Yeah. Me and Loring and Del."

  "Jesus, like old home week. What's going on?"

  "You got Trick Bentoin up there?"

  "What's he done?"

  "You got him?" Lucas asked.

  "Well…"

  "So we'll just run up and get him," Lucas said.

  "You're gonna scare the shit out of my guests," Kelly said. "We're just a bunch of friends."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Lucas said impatiently. "Look, you heard this lady cop got shot this afternoon?"

  "Yeah? What's that got to do with Trick?"

  "Something," Lucas said. "So we're gonna go up."

  "Why don't I just ask him to step down?"

  "Nah. If people knew exactly what was going on, they might start running. We're gonna have to go up, Pat. I guess it's up to you how we do it."

  Kelly shook his head. "Hey, if you wanna go up, you're the cops."

  They found seven guys sitting around an empty green-baize table on a beige carpet. There was no money in sight, no chips, no cards—an air of innocence smudged with cigar smoke. A television in the corner was tuned to ESPN; Trick Bentoin's chair was turned toward the TV. With the exception of Trick, the guys were all beefy, and every one of them wore a dress shirt. Suit jackets and sport coats hung off the back of plain wooden chairs. Trick was thin, and looked a little like a cowboy in a cigarette ad.

  "Trick," Lucas said. "You gotta cash out. We need you downtown."

  "Me?" He was surprised. The other six players looked at him.

  "Yeah, it's that Rashid Al-Balah thing," Lucas said.

  "Man, we're right in the middle of Sports . . ."

  "Sports what?" Del asked.

  "Sports Talk?"

  "Sorry, that's the radio," Del said. "And the only goddamn place you ever watched sports was a book in Las Vegas. Come on along."

  "What if I told you I was on a roll?" Trick asked.

  "You could just ask the guys to wait until you get back," Loring said.

  One of the guys grunted, "Huh," and a couple of them grinned.

  "Sorry. We need you," Lucas said. He looked at the other men—other than the single grunt, none of them had said a single word, or had met his eyes—and said, "We'll wait at the bottom of the stairs."

  Pat Kelly followed them down. "That was relatively civilized," he said.

  "This is a nice place," Lucas said. "But… don't push it."

  "I never push," Kelly said genially. "Never, ever."

  Thick Bentoin appeared a minute later, pulling on a rumpled jacket, shook his head, and said, "Down four."

  "I thought you were on a roll," Lucas said.

  "I was. I'd been down nine. Another two hours, I'd of owned their asses, each and every one." He looked at the three cops and said, "Well, I'm not gonna run. What're we doing?"

  "We need to haul your ass out to Stillwater tomorrow, for a little discussion with Rashid Al-Balah."

  "You could've called," Trick said. "I would've come in."

  "Couldn't find you. Didn't even know you were at the game for sure. And if we'd called, and you'd found it inconvenient…" Lucas let his voice trail away.

  "So you're gonna put me in the fuckin' jail?" Trick asked.

  "Well," Lucas said, "we don't want to take a chance."

  "That's such a pain in the ass. I'll get some psycho up all night screaming. I need some sleep."

  "I got a spare bedroom," Loring said. "If you really won't run."

  "I won't run," Trick said. "You guys know me better than that."

  Lucas thought about it for a minute, then said, "All right. Let's do that. Then we won't have any bullshit, either, checking him in."

  "You want me to bring him over to your place?" Loring asked. , "I'm up early tomorrow."

  "I'll be down at the office about eight. Let's meet there," Lucas said. "I'll make some calls tonight and get the interview set up."

  Del said, "I'll be there, too. I'll come out to Stillwater with you."

  "Marcy's gonna be okay," Loring said.

  "Yeah. I just don't want any early calls tomorrow," Lucas said. "No goddamn early calls."

  Chapter 18

  « ^ »

  Tuesday. Fourth day of the case.

  As beaten up as he was, he hadn't been able to sleep. Hadn't been able to drive Marcy out of his head, or Weather. Or Catrin. And Jael Corbeau was there in a corner, watching. He even thought about standing in the barnyard with Mrs. Clay, the night he delivered the fishing boat, and what might've happened with their lives in other circumstances.

  And he thought about the Olsons, dead together in the hotel, and their son, running toward the highway, pulling his hair out to the sides of his head, as though trying to pull a devil out of his skull.

  He hadn't been able to sleep, but somehow must have, for a while. He might have been asleep, he thought, when the alarm went off, and shook him out of bed—it was one of those nights when he couldn't tell whether he was awake or only dreaming that he was awake, the dreams punctuated by the liquid green light from the clock as he touched it at two, three, four, and five o'clock. He didn't remember touching it at six, and now at seven the alarm went…

  Marcy. He called the hospital and identified himself. She was still listed as critical, in intensive care. Still alive, still asleep. He stood in the shower for ten minutes, slowly waking up. Drove out to a SuperAmerica store for a shot of coffee. Rolled into the parking ramp a few minutes after eight.

  Loring was waiting in homicide with Trick Bentoin. "Del called. He's on the way," Loring said. "He says to turn on your cell phone."

  "Yeah, yeah."

  Del looked as beat up as Lucas felt, grinned when he arrived, said, "Well, you look like shit," and Lucas said, "So that's two of us." Del asked, "Have you been to the hospital?"

  "No. I called. She's still asleep."
<
br />   "Let's go over for a minute," Del said. "You can get more face-to-face."

  They walked over in the cold morning, breathing steam into the air. The streets were crowded with cheerful going-to-work people. Not long, Lucas thought, before Thanksgiving and then Christmas.

  "Christmas coming," Del said, picking up the thought.

  At the hospital, they got almost nothing from the nurses, because the nurses knew almost nothing.

  "Let's go see if Weather's in," Lucas suggested.

  "Yeah?" Dell looked at him curiously. Weather couldn't look at Lucas; not last year, anyway. Had something changed?

  "Yeah. Come on."

  Weather was in the women's locker room. A nurse went in and got her, and she came out in her scrubs and booties. She said, " 'Lo, Del. You're looking like… you look a little tired."

  "Thanks," Del said dryly.

  Lucas asked, "You talk to any of your pals about Marcy? We can't get anything downstairs."

  "Her blood pressure's a little funky," Weather said. "It could be shock, but Hirschfeld's afraid she might've sprung a leak. They're watching her."

  Lucas panicked. "Sprung a leak? What does that mean? Sprung a leak?"

  Weather touched his hand. "Lucas, it can happen. As messed up as she was, it'd be a miracle if they did everything perfectly. If it's a leak, it's not huge. She's just a little funky."

  "Jesus Christ, Weather…"

  Weather said to Del, "You're gonna have to watch our boy here. There's nothing he can do about this, but he's going into full Lucas mode."

  Lucas was still shaken when they left, and Del was more curious than ever. "You've been talking to Weather?"

  "Bumped into her last night. First time we'd talked… forever."

  "She seems different," Del ventured. The unfinished part of the thought was like she didn't hate you anymore.

  "Time passes," Lucas said.