The mayor went on for five minutes, laying out the handling of the press.
Then he turned to Lester and Lucas: ``Lucas, I want you and your people totally off stage. We don't want any arguments about whether the response was provoked by the shootings at the bank.''
``I didn't know that was still a question,'' Lester said.
``There isn't a question,'' the mayor said irritably. ``But the media'll chew on any goddamned bone they can find. You gotta remember we're dealing with the entertainment industry. Die Hard , Oklahoma City, it's all the same. Now it's our turn to make the movie.'' He rapped on the table with his knuckles, still looking at Lester and Lucas: ``We can only bullshit them for so long. We gotta catch these guys.''
``We've got a procedure in emergencies,'' Roux said, and the mayor swiveled back to her. ``We run two parallel investigations. Lucas and his bunch play the angles, and Frank runs the main sweep. Everybody coordinates through Anderson. He puts out a book every day on every little piece we get. Nobody hides anything from anybody.''
``It works?'' asked the mayor.
``So far,'' Lucas said.
``Then let's do that,'' the mayor said. ``Do we have one single thing we can move on now? Anything?''
``Maybe one,'' said Lucas. He was thinking about the laundromat: a place to start.
SANDY DROVE WHILE BUTTERS LEANED AGAINST THE window on the passenger side. Elmore followed in Sandy's truck. Elmore hadn't wanted to go at first, and Butters agreed: Butters wanted Sandy, not her husband.
``I'm not going,'' Sandy had said.
Butters said, ``I ain't got time to argue, Sandy. You're going.'' There was no doubt that she was going: he didn't bother to show her a gun, but it was there. Butters had an affable, southern-boy line of bullshit, but beneath it, he was as cold as Martin. When she went to get her coat, Butters went with her.
``Are you guarding me?'' she asked.
``I'm making sure that you come along,'' Butters said. ``I know you don't want to.''
``You gonna tell me what happened? Who shot him?''
``No,'' Butters said. He'd told them that LaChaise had been shot in a fight. Sandy and Elmore had been feeding the stock, and hadn't seen any television.
When it was clear that Sandy was going, Elmore insisted that he go along too. Butters finally agreed, because he didn't want to waste time arguing: ``But you come down in the van-Sandy goes with me,'' Butters said. ``We're still gonna need both trucks for a while.''
They stopped at the old folks' home, where Sandy still filled in when somebody was sick. A big first-aid kit in the nurse's office gave up bandages, needles and thread, razor blades and antiseptic. A large illegal bottle of Tylenol-3 was kept stashed in the bottom desk drawer, for the miscellaneous aches and pains of old age, and she emptied it. What else? Surgical scissors, a couple of Bic disposable razors, tape. Saline. There was a stock of sterile saline in the storeroom. She took five liters.
The nurses each had a personal drawer in a row of filing cabinets. Nobody bothered to lock them, and Sandy dug around in Marie Admont's drawer and found the bottle of penicillin pills. Marie had gotten them after a crazy old lady had raked her with her fingernails. Marie had only used a fewof the pills, and a half-dozen remained in the bottle. Sandy took them.
THE DRIVE TO ST. PAUL SEEMED TO LAST FOREVER, THE dark strip through Wisconsin, then the winding road out to the interstate on the Minnesota side. Butters said a half-dozen words during the trip, Sandy four or five. Both were caught in their own thoughts.
Once in the Cities, Butters guided them down the interstate, then back into the narrow ice-clogged streets of Frogtown. They parked behind Martin's truck, and got out. Elmore parked behind them, and hurried through the snow, whitefaced, and said, ``I want to talk to Sandy. One minute. Before we go in there.''
Butters said, ``Get your asses in there, goddamnit.''
``I'm going to talk to Elmore,'' Sandy said, her voice like the ice in the streets. ``I'll get to Dick when I get to him.''
``Listen...''
``Are you going to shoot me, Ansel? That'd help Dick a lot.''
Butters backed off, and Sandy took Elmore twenty yards down the street. ``What?''
Elmore was visibly trembling.
``I been listening to the radio,'' he rasped. ``They been down here killing cops' families. That's all they're talking about on the radio, every station I could get. They killed two people and there's a third one might die. Everybody in the goddamned world is looking for them, Sandy.''
Sandy looked at him, then turned and looked at Butters, who stood silently waiting. ``Oh my God,'' she said.
``We got to get out,'' Elmore said.
``Let's go see Dick,'' Sandy said. ``I'll work us out of here. But you're right. We've got to see John.''
They walked down the driveway together, Butters lingering just out of earshot. Martin waited at the door.
``Come on in,'' he said to Sandy. He looked at Elmore and nodded, and Elmore looked away.
The house had one couch, a broken-down wreck in the living room. Martin had pulled the cushions off and thrown them on the floor, and LaChaise was lying on them, his head propped up with a pillow. Martin had covered him with a blanket, and LaChaise grinned at Sandy when she came in.
``How bad?'' she asked.
``Not too bad,'' LaChaise said. ``It's more like... it's gotta be cleaned up.''
``Let me see,'' Sandy said. ``I need a light.''
They peeled the blanket off and LaChaise rolled onto his side. The pain had subsided somewhat, and he lifted his arm so she could see more clearly. At the same time, Butters took the shade off a table lamp, and held it like a torch over LaChaise.
Sandy looked at the wound for a moment. An open gash, at the back, became a bluish streak where the bullet had gone beneath the skin. A small round exit wound showed four inches below his nipple and over to the side. A trailing gash showed some rib meat. Sandy looked up at LaChaise. ``You gotta go to a hospital,'' she said.
``Can't do that. You gotta fix it.''
She looked at it again. In fact, she could fix it. ``It'll hurt,'' she said.
``Atta girl,'' LaChaise said, and to Butters: ``Told you so.''
``I believed you,'' Butters said.
``What happened?'' she asked. ``How'd you get shot?''
``Argument over traveling money,'' LaChaise said. ``The guy owed me...''
``Did you kill him?''
``No, I didn't kill him,'' LaChaise said, smiling faintly.``Now, you want to fix me? This hurts like hell.''
``You lying sonofabitch,'' Sandy said evenly. ``You killed some cops' families. I oughta...''
Before she could finish, Martin backhanded her. His hand was like a leg of beef, and knocked her flat. For a second, she didn't know what had happened, and then dazed, ears ringing, heard LaChaise say, ``Whoa, whoa...'' Behind him, Elmore: ``Goddamnit...''
She rolled, tried to sit up, and Martin was there, his face inches from hers: ``Stop the bullshit. You fix him or I'll cut you into fuckin' fish bait.'' Across the room, Butters was smiling at Elmore, half expecting him to make a move, but Elmore swallowed and shut up.
Sandy got back to her feet, turned away from Martin without a word and said to LaChaise, ``I brought you some pills. You should take a few before we start.''
LaChaise looked at her, then at Martin, and grinned at Martin: ``I wouldn't turn your back on her,'' he said.
LACHAISE TOOK THE PILLS WITH A SWALLOW OF water, and looked past Sandy at Elmore. ``El, I hate to say this, but you better get back. I was recognized, and the cops'll probably be coming by again.''
``I thought it'd be best if Sandy come back tonight,'' Elmore said.
``She's staying,'' Martin said bluntly. ``Overnight, anyway. Until Dick's okay.''
``What the hell am I supposed to tell the cops if they come?'' Elmore demanded. ``They'll want to know where she is.''
``Tell 'em she went out to the store, then call us on my cell phone. She can be back in an hour,''
LaChaise said.
``Sandy...'' Elmore couldn't say it, but she knew what he was thinking.
``Come on, El, let's get my stuff out of the truck,'' Sandy said. She nodded at LaChaise. ``I'll get my stuff and kiss El good-bye.''
``I'll help,'' Butters said.
``You can stand on the porch,'' said Sandy.
Outside, at the truck, Elmore whispered, ``I'm sorry about that in there. I was gonna say something...'' He scuffled at the snow with the toe of his boot. ``We gotta get out.''
``I know.'' She looked back at the house, at Butters standing there on the dark porch. ``But I've got to get clear. If they killed cops' families, then they're dead men. I'll be back home tomorrow, and we'll figure something out.''
``Sandy...'' He stepped up to her, maybe to kiss her. She moved just an inch sideways and pecked him on the cheek.
``You go on; I'll be okay. Just wait 'til I get there, before you call John.''
He didn't want to go, but he couldn't stay. He shifted his feet, looked up at the sky, shook his head, then started the low moaning that she'd seen earlier: he was weeping again.
``El, El, hold on,'' she said. ``Come on, El...''
``Ah, Jesus,'' he said.
``I'll see you in the morning,'' she said.
As Elmore was starting the truck, Sandy walked back toward the house; Butters suddenly dropped off the porch and hurried past her, waving at Elmore. Elmore rolled down the driver's-side window and Butters came up, leaned close to Elmore, grinned and said, ``You call the cops, we'll cut off her head.''
THE BULLET HAD SIMPLY SLIPPED BENEATH THE SKIN and back out again, but the wound had to be opened and cleaned. Sandy cut through the skin, carefully, with a razor blade. Fresh blood trickled into the gash, but as soon as she had the entire pathway open, she flushed it with saline, thensoaked a sterile gauze pad with more saline and dabbed it clean. At the bottom of the wound, there was a flash of white. Rib bone.
``Just touched a rib,'' she said to Martin.
``I see,'' he said, peering into the hole. He was interested in bullet wounds.
After a final wash, she repaired the razor cut with a long series of rolling stitches with black nylon thread, then painted the area around the wound with antiseptic. LaChaise wiggled a few times, but kept his mouth shut.
When she'd finished the stitching, Sandy's hands were red with blood. She went to the kitchen, washed, then returned to LaChaise and put a heavy bandage over the wound. She fixed the bandage in place with round-the-chest wraps of gauze, and then tape.
At the end of it, LaChaise sat up.
``Maybe you shouldn't move,'' she said.
He was feeling the pills, and smiled weakly and said, ``Shit, I been hurt worse than this by sissies.''
``That's the codeine. You're gonna hurt later on,'' Sandy said.
``I can live with it,'' he said. He got shakily to his feet and looked down at the bandaging job. ``Jesus, good job. Really good job. You're a little honey,'' he said.
DEL AND LUCAS WERE ON THE WAY OUT OF THE BUILDING when Sloan caught up: ``I'm coming,'' he said. ``Keep you out of trouble.''
All the way out to the laundromat, they argued about the shootings, and the response. Del said the season was open.
``Wouldn't be murder,'' Del said stubbornly. ``I wouldn't just shoot them cold.''
``... and the thing is,'' Lucas continued, ``you'd take allof us down with you. We'd all go out to Stillwater together. Nobody'd believe it was just you.''
An unwanted grin popped up on Del's face: ``Hell, we know half the guys out there. Be like old home week.''
Sloan said, ``Lucas is right. I don't even think you should be riding with us. If you pop somebody now, after Cheryl, the media'd crucify us, and the grand jury'd be on us like a hot sweat: the politics would kill us.''
``Well, who in the hell's side is everybody on?'' Del asked. ``What about Cheryl?''
``Don't ask that question,'' Lucas said. ``The answer'll piss you off.''
They were in Lucas's Explorer, Lucas driving, beating through the desolate streets to the near south side. Lights showed on the laundromat's second floor. Below them, behind the storefront windows of the laundromat, five women, all of them black, folded clothes, read magazines or sat and stared at the dirty pink plaster walls.
Lucas stopped in a bus zone on the corner, twenty yards up the street from the windows. ``When I talked to Lonnie, he said if you go up the main stairway, you get to the top and there's a bunch of junk, cardboard boxes and stuff, all piled up. You can't get through to the door, not in a hurry, anyway,'' Del said, peering up at the second-story windows. ``There's a back stairs that comes down inside the garage. But the garage door's locked, and you can't get through that.''
``So you go up the stairs and make a lot of noise-kick the boxes out of the way, bang away on the door,'' Sloan said to Del. ``We'll wait out back. If he opens up the front door, you call us; and if he runs, we'll be the net.''
``All right,'' Del said, ``but I think we might be barking up the wrong tree. I can't see Harp having anything to do with a bunch of...'' He stopped in midsentence, pointed through the windshield. ``Hey-look there.''
A woman was walking toward them, half skating on the slippery sidewalk, holding what appeared to be a small white bakery sack. She passed under a streetlight and then into the brighter lights from the laundromat window.
``That's Jas Smith, Daymon's old lady,'' Del said.
Lucas said, ``Let's take her. Maybe she'll invite us up.''
``Yeah.'' Del and Sloan hopped out of the right side, while Lucas walked around the nose of the truck, converging on Jasmine. She was wearing a brimmed hat, and her head was down against the snow: she didn't see them coming until they were on top of her.
Then she jumped, and put her hand across her heart: `` Goddamn, Capslock, give me some warning.''
``Sorry...''
``If I was carrying a little piece or something, I might of shot you outa self-defense, popping out like that.''
She looked at Lucas and Sloan, worried, and Del said, ``This is Chief Davenport and Detective Sloan. We got something we need to talk to Daymon about. Not bust him; just talk.''
``Whyn't you call him up?''
``Because we didn't want him hanging up on us,'' Sloan said pleasantly. ``You hear about all those cops' husbands and wives getting shot today?''
``Everybody heard,'' she said.
``My wife was one of them,'' Del said. ``She's in the hospital now, and she's hurting. We want you to know how serious this is-so why don't you just open up the garage and we'll go on up and talk to Daymon.''
She looked from Del to Sloan to Lucas, and said, ``He'd kick my ass if I done that. I mean, he'd kick me so bad.''
Del looked at Lucas and nodded: he would.
``What happened to your hand?'' Lucas asked. Jasminewasn't carrying a bakery sack; her hand was professionally wrapped in a huge white bandage.
She looked down at it, and her lip trembled: ``Paper cutter,'' she said. ``Cut my finger right off.'' She started to blubber. ``It was just layin' there, and I knew it was off, and then the blood squirted out...''
Lucas said, ``Jeez, that's too bad. Look, Daymon must have an unlisted number, right? Of course he does.''
He nodded, and she nodded. He took a cellular phone out of his pocket.
``So why don't you dial him up, and tell him we're down here by the garage, and then he can go brush his teeth or whatever, and we can go on up.''
``I'll try,'' she said, after a moment.
HARP LET THEM UP, UNHAPPY ABOUT IT. THE APARTMENT smelled of marijuana, but nothing fresh, just old curtainandrug contacts, enough to get you started if you'd gone to college in the sixties. Harp was waiting for them in the kitchen, his butt against the edge of the table, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at Jasmine as if she were at fault, and she said, ``Honey, they snatched me right off the street, they knew you was up here...''
Del said, ``That's right, Day; we were coming up, one
way or another.''
``What you want?'' Harp grunted.
``You heard about the killings?''
``Didn't do it,'' Harp said.
Lucas felt a tingle: Harp was a little too tough. ``We know you didn't do it personally, but we think you might have a connection,'' Lucas said. ``Two of the people involved met down in your laundromat. We have a witness. We want to know why these two white assholes would come halfway across the country to meet in Daymon Harp's laundromat.''
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