Lucas nodded, and a moment later, leaned back a few inches and glanced to his right. Looking at the bartender again, he said quietly, “The guy I’m looking for is big as you.”
“You mean fat,” the bartender said.
“Hefty.”
The bartender tilted his head. “Randy had a tumor. They took out most of his gut. He can’t keep the weight on no more. They say he eats a pork chop, he shits sausages. They don’t digest.”
Lucas looked down the bar again, said, “Give me a draw, whatever.”
The bartender nodded, stepped away. Lucas took a business card out of his pocket, rolled out a twenty and the business card. “Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Earl. Stupella.”
“Carl’s…”
“Brother.”
“Maybe you hear something serious sometime, you call me,” Lucas said. “Keep the change.”
Lucas picked up the glass of beer and wandered down the bar. Stopped, did a double take. The thin man on the stool turned his head: loose skin hung around his face and neck like a basset hound’s, but Randy Leski’s mean little pig-eyes peered out of it.
“Randy,” Lucas said. “As I live and breathe.”
Leski shook his head once, as though annoyed by a fly in a kitchen. Leski ran repair scams, specializing in the elderly. Lucas had made him a hobby. “Go away. Please.”
“Jesus. Old friends,” Lucas said, spreading his arms. The other talk in the bar died. “You’re looking great, man. You been on a diet?”
“Kiss my ass, Davenport. Whatever you want, I don’t got it.”
“I’m looking for Junky Doog.”
Leski sat a little straighter. “Junky? He cut on somebody?”
“I just need to talk to him.”
Leski suddenly giggled. “Christ, old Junky.” He made a gesture as if wiping a tear away from his eyes. “I tell you, the last I heard of him, he was working out at a landfill in Dakota County.”
“Landfill?”
“Yeah. The dump. I don’t know which one, I just hear this from some guys. Christ, born in a junkyard, the guy gets sent to the nuthouse. When they kick him out of there, he winds up in a dump. Some people got all the luck, huh?” Leski started laughing, great phlegm-sucking wheezes.
Lucas looked at him for a while, waiting for the wheezing to subside, then nodded.
Leski said, “I hear you’re back.”
“Yeah.”
Leski took a sip of his beer, grimaced, looked down at it, and said, “I heard when you got shot last winter. First time I been in a Catholic church since we were kids.”
“A church?”
“I was praying my ass off that you’d fuckin’ croak,” Leski said. “After a lot of pain.”
“Thanks for thinking of me,” Lucas said. “You still run deals on old people?”
“Go hump yourself.”
“You’re a breath of fresh air, Randy… Hey.” Leski’s old sport coat had an odd crinkle, a lump. Lucas touched his side. “Are you carrying?”
“C’mon, leave me alone, Davenport.”
Randy Leski never carried: it was like an article of his religion. “What the hell happened?”
Leski was a felon. Carrying could put him inside. He looked down at his beer. “You seen my neighborhood?”
“Not lately.”
“Bad news. Bad news, Davenport. Glad my mother didn’t live to see it. These kids, Davenport, they’ll kill you for bumping into them,” Leski said, tilting his head sideways to look at Lucas. His eyes were the color of water. “I swear to God, I was in Pansy’s the other night, and this asshole kid starts giving some shit to this girl, and her boyfriend stands up-Bill McGuane’s boy-and says to her, ‘C’mon, let’s go.’ And they go. And I sees Bill, and I mention it, and he says, ‘I told that kid, don’t fight, ever. He’s no chickenshit, but it’s worth your life to fight.’ And he’s right, Davenport. You can’t walk down the street without worrying that somebody’s gonna knock you in the head. For nothin’. For not a fuckin’ thing. It used to be, if somebody was looking for you, they had a reason you could understand. Now? For nothing.”
“Well, take it easy with the piece, huh?”
“Yeah.” Leski turned back to the bar and Lucas stepped away and turned. Then Leski suddenly giggled, his flaps of facial flesh trembling with the effort, and said, “Junky Doog.” And giggled some more.
Outside, Lucas looked around, couldn’t think of anything else to do. Far away, he could hear sirens-lots of them. Something going on, but he didn’t know where. He thought about calling in, finding out where the action was; but that many sirens, it was probably a fire or an auto accident. He sighed, a little tired now, and headed back to the car.
Weather was asleep. She’d be up at six, moving quietly not to wake him; by seven, she’d be in the OR; Lucas would sleep for three hours after that. Now, he undressed in the main bath down the hall from the bedroom, took a quick shower to get the bar smoke off his skin, and then slipped in beside her. He let himself roll against her, her leg smooth against his. Weather slept in an old-fashioned man’s T-shirt and bikini pants, which left something-not much-to the imagination.
He lay on his back and got a quick mental snapshot of her in the shirt and underpants, bouncing around the bedroom. Sometimes, when she wasn’t operating the next morning, he’d get the same snapshot, couldn’t escape it, and his hand would creep up under the T-shirt…
Not tonight. Too late. He turned his head, kissed her goodnight. He should always do that, she’d told him: her subconscious would know.
What seemed like a long time later, Lucas felt her hand on him and opened his eyes. The room was dimly lit, daylight filtering around the curtains. Weather, sitting fully dressed on the bed beside him, gave him another tantalizing twitch. “It’s nice that men have handles,” she said. “It makes them easy to wake up.”
“Huh?” He was barely conscious.
“You better come out and look at the TV,” she said, letting go of him. “The Openers program is talking about you.”
“Me?” He struggled to sit up.
“What’s that quaint phrase you police officers use? ‘The fuckin’ shit has hit the fan?’ I think that’s it.”
CHAPTER
7
Anderson was waiting in the corridor outside Lucas’s office, reading through a handful of computer printouts. He pushed away from the wall when he saw Lucas.
“Chief wants to see us now.”
“I know, I got a call. I saw TV3,” Lucas said.
“Paper for you,” Anderson said, handing Lucas a manila file. “The overnights on Wannemaker. Nothing in the galleries. The Camel’s confirmed, the tobacco on her body matched the tobacco in the cigarette. There were ligature marks on her wrists, but no ties; her ankles were tied with a piece of yellow polypropylene rope. The rope was old, partially degraded by exposure to sunlight, so if we can find any more of it, they could probably make a match.”
“Anything else? Any skin, semen, anything?”
“Not so far… And here’s the Bey file.”
“Jesus.” Lucas took the file, flipped it open. Most of the paper inside had been Xeroxed for Connell’s report; a few minor things he hadn’t seen before. Mercedes Bey, thirty-seven, killed in 1984, file still open. The first of Connell’s list, the centerpiece of the TV3 story.
“Have you heard about the lakes?” Anderson asked, his voice pitching lower, as though he were about to tell a particularly dirty joke.
“What happened?” Lucas looked up from the Bey file.
“We’ve got a bad one over by the lakes. Too late to make morning TV. Guy and his girlfriend, maybe his girlfriend. Guy’s in a coma, could be a veggie. The woman’s dead. Her head was crushed, probably by a pipe or a steel bar. Or a rifle barrel or a long-barreled pistol, maybe a Redhawk. Small-time robbery, looks like. Really ugly. Really ugly.”
“They’re freaking out in homicide?”
“Everybody’s freaking out,” Ander
son said. “Everybody went over there. Roux just got back. And then this TV3 thing-the chief is hot. Really hot.”
Roux was furious. She jabbed her cigarette at Lucas. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Lucas shrugged, looked at the others, and sat down. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Roux nodded, took a long drag on her cigarette; her office smelled like a bowling alley on league night. Lester sat in a corner with his legs crossed, unhappy. Anderson perched on a chair, peering owlishly at Roux through his thick-lensed glasses. “I didn’t think so,” Roux said. “But we all know who did.”
“Mmm.” Lucas didn’t want to say it.
“Don’t want to say it?” Roux asked. “I’ll say it. That fuckin’ Connell.”
“Twelve minutes,” Anderson said. “Longest story TV3’s ever run. They must have had Connell’s file. They had every name and date nailed down. They dug up some file video on the Mercedes Bey killing. They used stuff they’d have never used back then, when they made it. And the stuff on Wannemaker, Jesus Christ, they had video of the body being hoisted out of the Dumpster, no bag, no nothing, just this big fuckin’ lump of guts with a face hanging off it.”
“Shot it from the bridge,” Lucas said. “We saw them up there. I didn’t know the lenses were that good, though.”
“Bey’s still an open file, of course,” Lester said, recrossing his legs from one side to the other. “No statute of limitations on murder.”
“Should have thought of that yesterday,” Roux said, getting up to pace the carpet, flicking ashes with every other step. Her hair, never particularly chic, was standing up in spots, like small horns. “They had Bey’s mother on. She’s this fragile old lady in a nursing-home housecoat, a face like parchment. She said we abandoned her daughter to her killers. She looked like shit, she looked like she was dying. They must’ve dumped her out of bed at three in the morning to get the tape.”
“That video of Connell was pretty weird, if she’s the one who tipped them,” Anderson suggested.
“Aw, they phonied it up,” Roux said, waving her cigarette hand dismissively. “I did the same goddamned thing when I was sourcing off the appropriations committee. They take you out on the street and have you walk into some building so it looks like surveillance film or file stuff. She did it, all right.” Roux looked at Davenport. “I’ve got the press ten minutes from now.”
“Good luck.” He smiled, a very thin, unpleasant smile.
“You were never taken off the case, right?” Her left eyebrow went up and down.
“Of course not,” Lucas said. “Their source was misinformed. I spent the evening working the case and even developed a lead on a new suspect.”
“Is that right?” The eyebrow again.
“More or less,” Lucas said. “Junky Doog may be working at a landfill out in Dakota County.”
“Huh. I’d call that a critical development,” Roux said, showing an inch of satisfaction. “If you can bring him in today, I’ll personally feed it directly and exclusively to the Strib. And anything else you get. Fuck TV3.”
“If Connell’s their source, they’ll know you’re lying about not calling off the case,” Lester said.
“Yeah? So what?” Roux said. “What’re they gonna do, argue? Reveal their source? Fuck ‘em.”
“Is Connell still working with me?” Lucas asked.
“We’ve got no choice,” Roux snapped. “If we didn’t call off the investigation, then she must still be on it, right? I’ll take care of her later.”
“She’s got no later,” Lucas said.
“Jesus,” Roux said, stopping in midpace. “Jesus, I wish you hadn’t said that.”
The TV3 story had been a mйlange of file video, with commentary by a stunning blond reporter with a distinctly erotic overbite. The reporter, street-dressed in expensive grunge, rapped out long, intense accusations based on Connell’s file; behind her, floodlit in the best Addams Family style, was the redbrick slum building where Mercedes Bey had been found slashed to death. She recounted Bey’s and each of the subsequent murders, reading details from the autopsy reports. She said, “With Chief Roux’s controversial decision to sweep the investigation under the rug…” and “With the Minneapolis police abandoning the murder investigation for what appear to be political reasons…” and “Will Mercedes Bey’s cry for justice be crushed by the Minneapolis Police Department’s logrolling? Will other innocent Minneapolis-area women be forced to pay the killer’s brutal toll because of this decision? We shall have to wait and see…”
“Nobody fucks with me like this,” Roux was shouting at her press aide when Lucas left her office with Anderson. “Nobody fucks with me…”
Anderson grinned at Lucas and said, “Connell does.”
Greave caught Lucas in the hall. “I read the file, but it was a waste of time. I could have gotten the executive summary on TV this morning.” He was wearing a loose lavender suit with a blue silk tie.
“Yeah,” Lucas grunted. He unlocked his office door and Greave followed him inside. Lucas checked his phone for voice mail, found a message, and poked in the retrieval code. Meagan Connell’s voice, humble: “I saw the stories on TV this morning. Does this change anything?” Lucas grinned at the impertinence, and scribbled down the number she left.
“What’re we doing?” Greave asked.
“Gonna see if we can find a guy down in Dakota County. Former sex psycho who liked knives.” He’d been punching in Connell’s number as he spoke. The phone rang once, and Connell picked up. “This is Davenport.”
“Jeez,” Connell said, “I’ve been watching TV…”
“Yeah, yeah. There’re three guys in town don’t know who the source is, and none of them are Roux. You better lay low today. She’s smokin’. In the meantime, we’re back on the case.”
“Back on.” She made it a statement, with an overtone of satisfaction. No denials. “Is there anything new?”
He told her about Anderson’s information from the Wisconsin forensic lab.
“Ligatures? If he tied her up, he must’ve taken her somewhere. That’s a first. I bet he took her to his home. He lives here-he didn’t at the other crime scenes, so he couldn’t take them… Hey, and if you read the Mercedes Bey file, I think she was missing awhile, too, before they found her.”
“Could be something,” Lucas agreed. “Greave and I are going after Junky Doog. I’ve got a line on him.”
“I’d like to go.”
“No. I don’t want you around today,” Lucas said. “It’s best, believe me.”
“How about if I make some calls?” she asked.
“To who?”
“The people on the bookstore list.”
“St. Paul should be doing that,” Lucas said.
“Not yet, they aren’t. I’ll get going right now.”
“Talk to Lester first,” Lucas said. “Get them to clear it with St. Paul. That part of the investigation really does belong to them.”
“Are you gonna listen to my story?” Greave asked as they walked out to the Porsche.
“Do I gotta?”
“Unless you want to listen to me whine for a couple hours.”
“Talk,” Lucas said.
A schoolteacher named Charmagne Carter had been found dead in her bed, Greave said. Her apartment was locked from the inside. The apartment was covered by a security system that used motion and infrared detectors with direct dial-out to an alarm-monitoring company.
“Completely locked?”
“Sealed tight.”
“Why do you think she was murdered?”
“Her death was very convenient for some bad people.”
“Say a name.”
“The Joyce brothers, John and George,” Greave said. “Know them?”
Lucas smiled. “Excellent,” he said.
“What?”
“I played hockey against them when I was a kid,” he said. “They were assholes then, they’re assholes now.”<
br />
The Joyces had almost been rich, Greave said. They’d started by leasing slum housing from the owners-mostly defense attorneys, it seemed-and renting out the apartments. When they’d accumulated enough cash, they bought a couple of flophouses. When housing the homeless became fashionable, they brought the flops up to minimum standards and unloaded them on a charitable foundation.
“The foundation director came into a large BMW shortly thereafter,” Greave said.
“Skipped his lunches and saved the money,” Lucas said.
“No doubt,” Greave said. “So the Joyces took the money and started pyramiding apartments. I’m told they controlled like five to six million bucks at one point. Then the economy fell on its ass. Especially apartments.”
“Aww.”
“Anyway, the Joyces saved what they could from the pyramid, and put every buck into this old apartment building on the Southeast Side. Forty units. Wide hallways.”
“Wide hallways?”
“Yeah. Wide. The idea was, they’d throw in some new drywall and a bunch of spackling compound and paint, cut down the cupboards, stick in some new low-rider stoves and refrigerators, and sell the place to the city as public housing for the handicapped. They had somebody juiced: the city council was hot to go. The Joyces figured to turn a million and a half on the deal. But there was a fly in the ointment.”
The teacher, Charmagne Carter, and a dozen other older tenants had been given long-term leases on their apartments by the last manager of the building before the Joyces bought it, Greave said. The manager knew he’d lose his job in the sale, and apparently made the leases as a quirky kind of revenge. The city wouldn’t take the building with the long-term leases in effect. The Joyces bought out a few of the leases, and sued the people who wouldn’t sell. The district court upheld the leases.
“The leases are $500 a month for fifteen years plus a two-percent rent increase per year, and that’s that. They’re great apartments for the price, and the price doesn’t even keep up with inflation,” Greave said. “That’s why these people didn’t want to leave. But they might’ve anyway, because the Joyces gave them a lot of shit. But this old lady wasn’t intimidated, and she held them all together. Then she turned up dead.”
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