Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  Lucas’s and Sherrill’s eyes locked: they’d both killed people in gunfights. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Lucas said finally. ‘‘Maybe.’’

  Sherrill said, ‘‘What do you mean, plays with guns?’’ ‘‘He’s always out shooting. You know, rifles and pistols and sometimes he goes out to Wyoming and shoots prairie dogs. He calls them prairie rats. Or prairie pups. And he does that whole paintball thing. You know, runs around in the woods in camouflage clothes with other guys and they shoot each other.’’

  ‘‘Robles,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Yeah. He doesn’t come off that way, does he?’’

  ‘‘Have you ever done the paintball thing with him?’’

  ‘‘No—he doesn’t even know that I know about it. But I know a friend of his, and he saw us together, and he told me. I thought it was weird.’’

  ‘‘Huh.’’ Lucas rubbed his chin, then looked at Sherrill. ‘‘What do you think?’’

  ‘‘I think I should check with Amoco,’’ Sherrill said. ‘‘And maybe start talking to people about Robles.’’

  Lucas pointed a finger at Bonet: ‘‘If this checks out, we’ll forget about it. But you keep your mouth shut about what happened. And what you told us. You don’t talk to Robles about it, or anyone else. And remember what’s at stake here. I’m talking about mom.’’

  ‘‘Okay,’’ she said, solemnly. A tear started in one eye.

  ‘‘Okay,’’ Lucas said. And to Sherrill: ‘‘Call Amoco.’’

  ON THE WAY BACK TO HIS OFFICE, LUCAS BUMPED into an assistant public defender heading toward Homicide. She was carrying two briefcases, apparently full of briefs, which bumped alternately against her thighs as she walked. Her hair stood out from her round face in an electrocution halo. Her face was drawn with lack of sleep.

  ‘‘on your way to see marcy sherrill?’’ lucas asked.

  She stopped and said, ‘‘Yeah. But if you’re not done with the rubber hoses, I could wait. Maybe catch a nap.’’

  ‘‘We’re all done. We beat the truth out of her and she’s innocent,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘We’re turning her loose in a few minutes.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ The lawyer yawned and said, ‘‘God, I’ve gone to bed with men who’ve said less pleasant things to me.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, well . . . sleep tight.’’

  ‘‘Won’t let the bedbugs bite,’’ she said with another yawn, and humped the briefcases on down the hall toward Homicide. Had to see for herself.

  LUCAS SAT IN HIS OFFICE, HIS FEET ON HIS DESK, AND added up the accusations. After a while he picked up the phone and called Sherrill. ‘‘All done?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. She checked out with Amoco. She’s gotta do some paperwork, then she’s outa here.’’

  ‘‘Who’s loose? Besides you.’’

  ‘‘Tom Black is sitting in a corner, reading Playgirl ,’’ she said. From somewhere behind her, her regular partner shouted, ‘‘I am not.’’ Black was gay, but still mostly in the closet.

  ‘‘Why don’t you guys come on down? I’ll tell you about it,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Almost time to quit.’’

  ‘‘It’ll take ten minutes, and we won’t do anything until tomorrow.’’

  BLACK, PRETENDING TO BE DISGRUNTLED, SLUMPED in one of Lucas’s two visitor’s chairs, while Sherrill looked out the window at the street.

  Lucas was saying, ‘‘. . . if somebody accused, say, Sloan of deliberately setting out to murder somebody, and actually doing it, I’d say, ‘Nope, he couldn’t do that.’ The idea might occur to him, but someplace along the way, he just wouldn’t do it.’’

  ‘‘So?’’ Sherrill asked.

  ‘‘We’ve got too many people to worry about, all of them with motives. So what we do is, we go around to people who know them well, and ask for a confidential assessment. Could they do it? Would they do it? What would have to be on the line for them to do it?’’

  Black cocked his head to one side and thought about it for a moment: ‘‘That’s weird.’’

  ‘‘And it could ship us off in a completely wrong direction,’’ Sherrill said. ‘‘You’ve already decided Bone didn’t do it, because you like him.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Lucas said, shaking his head. ‘‘I do like him, but I haven’t decided anything about him.’’

  ‘‘But if you like him, you’re sort of predisposed not to believe bad stuff.’’

  Black ticked a finger at her: ‘‘Psychobabble,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Sorry,’’ she said. Then, ‘‘What about O’Dell and the kaffiyeh? Who’s gonna check that?’’

  ‘‘I’ll ask her,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Tomorrow?’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’ He yawned. ‘‘Tomorrow.’’

  NINE

  MARY WASHINGTON CALLED AT NINE-THIRTY, AND when Weather Karkinnen picked up the phone, Mary said, ‘‘Oh good, you’re still up,’’ and Weather rolled her eyes and lied: ‘‘Just barely.’’

  ‘‘Henri asked about you again today. He’s interested,’’ Washington said.

  ‘‘Oh, my God, Mary, why don’t you go after him?’’ Exasperation, but also a little tingle of pleasure?

  ‘‘ ’Cause I’m ‘Let’s have a couple beers and go bowling,’ and Henri’s ‘Let’s have a couple of glasses of champagne and talk about monoclonal antibodies.’ ’’

  ‘‘Well, thanks for the news,’’ Weather said.

  ‘‘Would you go out with him if he called?’’

  Henri was six three and had big eyes and long black eyelashes, was thin as a beanpole, balding, and spoke with a French accent. People who knew him well said he was almost too smart: Weather liked him. ‘‘I don’t know, Mary,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m still pretty messed up.’’

  ‘‘I think I’m gonna suggest he give you a ring,’’ Washington said.

  ‘‘Mary . . .’’ Like being trapped in a high school locker room.

  ‘‘Then maybe you can introduce me to one of those cops you know; somebody who bowls.’’

  WEATHER HADBEEN READING THE WALL STREET JOURNAL when Mary called. When she got off the phone, she yawned, tossed the paper in the recycling pile, and headed for the bedroom.

  Weather was sleeping again, finally. Her problem had been no less difficult than Lucas’s, but hers had less to do with errant brain chemicals. Her problem was plain old post-traumatic shock. She’d pulled the academic studies up on MedLine, knew all the symptoms and lines of treatment, recognized the symptoms in herself—and was powerless to do anything about them.

  The unbreakable barrier was Lucas Davenport.

  She’d never really been in love with anyone before Lucas. But she’d been in love with him, all right—she’d recognized all those symptoms too. Then the shooting . . .

  There’d always been something in Lucas that was hard, brutal, and remote. She’d been sure she could reach it, smooth it out. He needed that as much as she did: he didn’t know it, but his taste for the street, his taste for violence, was killing him, in ways that weren’t obvious to him. But she’d been wrong about reaching him: the violence was essential to him, she now believed.

  The shooting in the hallway, which Lucas had set up, had all the earmarks of that immutable trait. He’d risked his own life, he’d risked hers, and he’d absolutely condemned Dick LaChaise to death, all on his own hook, without consulting anyone, without even much thinking about it. He’d just done it. When the Lucas Davenport machine was in gear, nobody had a way out—and when LaChaise had agreed to walk down the hall with Weather, he was dead no matter what else happened.

  Weather could never quite put her finger on exactly how she objected to the killing of Dick LaChaise. Intellectually, she knew that she might easily have been killed by La-Chaise if Lucas hadn’t done what he’d done. Further, LaChaise was an undoubted killer, who deserved anything he got. She could say to herself—intellectually— All right. It worked .

  Which had nothing to do with her emotional state.

  Somet
hing had turned in her, the instant the bullet tore through LaChaise’s skull. She couldn’t talk to Lucas without experiencing the flash of terror when the gun went off, followed by the horror of the death. There, in the hallway, with LaChaise slumping to the floor, with the pistol spinning down the hallway . . . she was actually wearing La-Chaise, the dead and dying remnants of the part of LaChaise that actually made him human . . .

  SHE’D GOTTEN PAST THE PILLS NOW. SHE WAS STILL talking to her shrink, Andi Manette, and Manette was pushing her to consider and reconsider Lucas.

  But Weather wasn’t doing that anymore. She’d realized that however deeply she loved him before the shooting, that feeling was dead. And the psychological flashes that carried her back to the killing were no longer tolerable. Lucas brought them on. The sight of his face, the sound of his voice.

  She’d learned that she could live without him. She was going to do that. And she was beginning to suspect that sooner or later, she’d even start enjoying herself again. If she could keep him away . . .

  She hadn’t yet told this to Manette, much less to Lucas. She dreaded the idea: but the time was coming. Time to get on with her life.

  WEATHER WENT TO BED EARLY, AS MOST SURGEONS did: she was on staff at three separate hospitals now, and the workload was increasing. She was operating five or six times a week, starting at seven in the morning. She’d be in bed by ten-thirty, up by six in the morning, walking into the women’s locker room by six forty-five.

  Went to bed every night feeling cool and lonely. But sleeping again.

  She was in the very pit of the night when her subconscious picked up the sound of a car rolling to a stop outside the house, a subtle change from those few cars that simply tolled on by. In her dreams she thought, Lucas? though when awake she’d never remember the thought. But she was there, just rising to the cusp of consciousness, when the front window blew out.

  SKEEEEEEEEEEEE.

  The explosion shook her out of bed: she was up in an instant, not quite awake, but on her feet and moving; and as she moved, the smoke alarm in the living room went SKEEEEEEE.

  She lurched into the hallway toward the living room; she was first aware of the light, then the heat, then the realization that she was staring into a fireball.

  ‘‘No! No!’’

  And all the time: SKEEEEEEEEEE.

  Weather moaned, registered her own moan as though she were standing out-of-body, then ran back down the hall to the bedroom, snatched up the bedside telephone and punched in 911. She got an immediate answer, and said, ‘‘My house just blew up. It’s burning, I’m at . . .’’ And she dictated the address and said, ‘‘I’ve got to get out.’’

  ‘‘Get outside immediately,’’ the cool voice said. ‘‘Just drop the phone and—’’

  And the kitchen smoke alarm triggered, a slightly lower, less energetic note than the first, but just as loud: SKAAAAAAAAAAA.

  She’d dropped the phone, almost stumbled over a pair of loafers on the dark floor, slipped them on, hit a light switch, was rewarded with lights. She padded back down the hall. The fireball seemed to have receded, or to have pulled back within itself: the flames were confined to the front room, to an area not much longer than her couch. There wasn’t yet much smoke, although the fire was roaring ferociously.

  Weather moved in three quick steps to the kitchen, pulled a fat semiprofessional fire extinguisher from under the sink, pulled the pin as she walked back to the living room, aimed the nozzle at the flames, and squeezed the trigger. Whatever kinds of chemical were in the extinguisher blew out in a fog, and the fire seemed to cave in, but just for a second, and then it was back: no matter how much of the chemical estinguisher she poured on, the fire would only retreat and spring up on another perimeter.

  SKEEEEEEE, SKAAAAAAAA . . .

  She stepped closer, working the chemical, felt it slackening in force. To her right, she felt the photo of her parents and grandparents staring down from the walls, black-andwhite and hand-tinted photos she’d grown up with, memories she’d imported from her former home in the North Woods. With the extinguisher chemical almost gone, she tossed the container behind her, turned to the wall, and started pulling down the photos. Behind her, the fire burned with new authority, and she could feel the heat on her back and legs. She ran with the photos to the kitchen, fought her way back into the living room, tore open the low buffet, and took out a half-dozen photo albums and a box of photos she’d always meant to put in more albums.

  And that was all she could do. The fire was growing quickly now, and she ran through the kitchen, well out onto the back lawn, dropped the albums, ran back inside—the smoke was heavy now, and she coughed, staggered—found the framed photos, and carried them through the smoke out back.

  SKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, AAAAAAAAA.

  She could hear sirens: the nearest fire station was no more than three quarters of a mile away. She started back inside one last time, unaware that she was panting, that her hair was frizzing and uncurling with the heat, that she’d taken spark burns on her hands and arms, that she’d walked on broken glass and cut her feet. She felt it all as discomfort, but she wanted to save the last things, some dishes her mother gave her . . .

  She couldn’t reach them. The rug in the living room had ignited, and thick gray smoke was rolling through the house. She staggered back through the door just as the first of the fire engines arrived. She ran around the house as the firemen hopped off the truck, and yelled, ‘‘The front room . . .’’

  THE NOISE NEVER STOPPED: SKEEEEEEEEEE, SKAAAAAAAAA.

  Weather sat on the curb and watched the fireman knock down the front door.

  And after a minute, she began to cry.

  TEN

  TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING WAS AN EARLY HOUR for a man to be recalcitrant, Lucas thought, especially if he wasn’t a cop, but Stephen Jones was recalcitrant.

  ‘‘Of course I’d like to help, but I have the damnedest feeling that if I talk to you, it’s going to find its way into a gossip column.’’

  ‘‘Not from me it won’t,’’ Lucas said.

  A piece of art hung from the wall behind Jones’s desk. The print was colorful and maybe even beautiful, though it resembled a woman hacked up with a pizza cutter. Lucas, who knew almost nothing about fine art, suspected it was a Picasso.

  ‘‘And the thing is, if it does, I’d be severely damaged . . .’’

  ‘‘I can assure you it won’t happen,’’ Lucas said patiently.

  Jones rubbed the back of his neck and said, ‘‘All right. If somebody absolutely pushed T-Bone up against the wall, when the only option was kill or be killed, he’d kill. But this situation isn’t like that. He’s already got a lot of money, and he’s good enough that he could go somewhere else in a top job. So I don’t see it.’’

  ‘‘Assume that somehow, we don’t know how, he was pushed to the wall. Emotionally, psychologically, or maybe he gambles and we don’t know it.’’

  Jones shook his head. ‘‘Even then . . . he’s the kind of guy who’d always figure he could recover. Always get back. The thing is, he grew up poor. Did you know that?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, some cracker family down south somewhere, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama. He made it all on his own. He’s a guy who figures he can always do it again. I don’t think he’d . . .’’

  His voice died away.

  ‘‘What?’’ Lucas asked.

  ‘‘You know . . . If you come at this from another angle . . . We’re talking about whether he’d cold-bloodedly kill someone because he’d lose money or his job; and I don’t think he would. But I can see him killing somebody if the other person had something on him,’’ Jones said. ‘‘ Blackmail, for instance. If Kresge had something really serious on him, and threatened to use it, for some reason, I can see Bone killing him for that reason. Not to keep it from being used, but because the threat, or the extortion, would . . . besmirch his honor.’’ He mused over the thought, then jerked his head in
a nod: ‘‘Yep. That would do it. That’s the only way I see Bone deliberately killing somebody. But it would have to be deadly serious, and it would have to be deadly personal.’’

  ‘‘What about Terrance Robles?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know him well enough to answer. I really don’t.’’

  ‘‘Susan O’Dell?’’

  ‘‘Susan couldn’t do it. She’s crusty and calculating and all that, but she’s got a soft interior.’’

  ‘‘I’ve seen a deer that would disagree with you,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘You mean the hunting? That’s cultural,’’ Jones said. ‘‘People from out there, out on the prairie, farmers, have a whole different attitude toward the life and death of animals than they do the life and death of people. I really don’t think she could kill anyone. I’m not even sure she could do it in self-defense, to be honest with you. Nope. You’re barking up the wrong tree with Susan.’’

  ‘‘Wilson McDonald.’’

  Jones frowned. ‘‘I can see him killing somebody, but it’d be in hot blood, not cold blood. If he was drunk and angry, he might strike out. He’s got a violent streak, and he can be sneaky about it. But as for pulling off a calculated killing . . . I don’t think so. Actually, I think he’d be chicken. He’d start imagining all the things that could go wrong, and, you know, being thrown in prison with a bunch of sodomites. I don’t think so.’’

  ‘‘What about the moral equation—would it be . . .’’

  ‘‘Oh, it wouldn’t be a moral problem for him. He’d just be chicken. Wilson McDonald’s a classic bully, with all the classic characteristics of a bully: he’s a coward at heart.’’

  LUCAS MET SHERRILL IN THE SKYWAY OFF CITY CENTER, and she was shaking her head as she came up. ‘‘They’re all innocent,’’ she said. ‘‘What happened with Louise Freeman?’’

  Louise Freeman was the gossip mentioned by Bone’s attorney friend Sandra Ollsen. ‘‘She and her old man went to New York,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘She’s back on Friday. I talked to Jones instead.’’