Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  ‘‘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.’’

  ‘‘Snakepit,’’ Sloan said.

  ‘‘Yeah, they’re setting up for a fight over there,’’ Lucas said. He pushed the paper back to Sloan and picked up a menu. Everything featured grease. ‘‘I bet Susan O’Dell is the unidentified executive.’’

  ‘‘Whatever. But this sounds like pretty heavy pressure to keep the merger going; which would piss off the killer if he was trying to stop it.’’

  Lucas had been preoccupied by the firebombing, but now looked up from the diner menu and said, ‘‘Bone’s the main guy behind keeping it moving . . . which is sort of odd, when you think about it.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Because most of those kinds of guys dream about being at the top. Running something. If this goes the way the papers have it outlined, the Bone gets the job, he’ll be putting himself out in the cold in a few months.’’

  ‘‘With about a zillion dollars,’’ Del said.

  ‘‘Yeah, there’s that . . . The thing is, should we put a watch on him? If some goofball is roaming around out there, trying to stop the merger, he’d be the next target.’’

  ‘‘Maybe talk to him, anyway,’’ Sloan said.

  LUCAS TOOK A CALL ON THE CAR PHONE, TRANSFERRED in from Dispatch: ‘‘Why haven’t you arrested Wilson McDonald?’’ A woman’s voice, angry, but under tight control.

  He said, ‘‘Who are you? Who is this?’’ and in the passenger seat beside him, Del took a phone out of his coat pocket and started punching in a number.

  ‘‘A person who is trying to help,’’ the woman said. ‘‘He almost beat his wife
to death last night. You’ve got to arrest him before he kills someone.’’

  Click. She was gone. Del was talking to Dispatch, but Lucas said, ‘‘She’s off,’’ and Del said into the phone, ‘‘So do you have a number?’’

  They did. ‘‘Find out where it came from.’’

  Pay phone. Up north, off I-694. Nothing there.

  ‘‘Who is it?’’ Lucas asked Del. ‘‘She knows everything.’’

  ‘‘Who’d know that Wilson McDonald beat up his wife last night? Especially if they both try to keep it quiet?’’

  Lucas thought about it, then said, ‘‘Somebody in the family, maybe—and then there’s Mrs. McDonald herself.’’

  ‘‘Anonymous calls—she doesn’t take the rap if her old man finds out about them.’’

  ‘‘Yeah . . . you remember Annette what’s-her-name?’’

  ‘‘Honegger: I was thinking the same thing. And what happened to her.’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’ Lucas bit his lip. ‘‘They ever find her hands and feet?’’

  ‘‘Not as far as I know.’’

  SHIRLEY KNOX WASN’T A PARTICULARLY GOOD RECEPTIONIST, but she did know a cop when she saw one. As Lucas and Del climbed out of Lucas’s Porsche, she muttered, ‘‘Oh, shit,’’ picked up the telephone, pushed the intercom button, and said, ‘‘Mr. Knox—Mr. Johnson is here to see you.’’

  Out in the warehouse, Carl Knox was standing next to a foot-tall pile of illegally imported Iranian rugs. He looked up at the speaker as his daughter’s voice died away, said, as she had, ‘‘Oh, shit,’’ and then, ‘‘Wonder what they want?’’ To the man standing next to him, he said, ‘‘I’ll slow them down, you throw the rugs back in the box. If you got time, put a couple nails in the lid. Hurry.’’

  Carl Knox didn’t know exactly how it had happened, but over the years he’d become the Twin Cities’ answer to the Mafia—or to organized crime, at any rate. He’d gotten his start twenty-five years earlier, stealing Caterpillar earthmoving equipment, a line which he still pursued with enthusiasm. Half of the Caterpillar gear north of the 55th parallel had gone through his hands, as well as most of the repair parts when they broke down.

  He’d done well stealing Caterpillar. So well, in fact, that he’d piled up a couple hundred thousand unexplainable dollars, which inflation—this was back in the late seventies— began eating alive. Then he’d met a man named Merchant, who explained to him the street need for quick untraceable cash, which led Knox to becoming the Cities’ largest primelending loan shark. He didn’t actually shark himself, he simply loaned to sharks . . .

  And that led to his introduction to gambling, and it occurred to him that you could run a pretty sizable book with the computer equipment he was using to locate the Caterpillar equipment he was planning to steal . . . and pretty soon one of his subsidiary partners was running the Cities’ largest sports book. But he’d never put any hits out on anyone, and while the occasional broken bone didn’t necessarily make him queasy—especially when the bone wasn’t his own—his Twin Cities attitude toward violence was, ‘‘Damn it, that sort of thing shouldn’t be necessary.’’

  Carl Knox hustled his skinny butt into the showroom. A nice rehabbed Caterpillar 966 wheel loader was on display, with a fresh yellow paint job, just outside through the big front windows where he could admire it. As he walked in, he saw Del Capslock slouching toward the reception desk, where Shirley was concentrating on her gum chewing. Capslock was followed by another man, bigger and darker. Knox knew both the face and the name, though he’d never met him.

  ‘‘Mr. Capslock,’’ he called, a smile on his face. The smile was almost genuine, because Capslock usually wanted nothing more than information. Del spotted him, and drifted over, in that odd street-boy sidle of his.

  ‘‘Mr. Knox,’’ he said. He lifted a thumb over his shoulder to the dark man behind him. ‘‘This is Mr. Davenport.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Davenport—Chief Davenport—I’ve heard much about you.’’ Knox beamed.

  ‘‘And I’ve heard about you,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’’ Knox asked. ‘‘A D9 for that gold mine, maybe?’’

  ‘‘We need you to call up your assholes and have them ask about a firebomb thrown through the window of Weather Karkinnen over in Edina,’’ Lucas said. His voice was friendly enough, and Knox presumed.

  ‘‘My assholes? What—’’

  ‘‘Don’t pull my weenie, Knox,’’ Lucas said, and the friendliness was gone—snap—without transition. ‘‘This is a serious matter, and if I have to pull down this fuckin’ warehouse with a crowbar to convince you it’s serious, I’ll call up and get some crowbars.’’

  The hail-fellow disappeared from Knox’s face: ‘‘How the fuck am I supposed to know about somebody gets a bomb?’’

  ‘‘You saw it on TV?’’ Del asked.

  ‘‘Saw it on Channel Three, they were talking about the Seed coming after your asses again. I got nothin’ to do with the Seed . . .’’

  ‘‘We’re off the Seed,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘We’re looking for a new angle. So we want you to call up all your particular jerk-offs and tell them to start asking around. You can call me at my office in say . . . four hours. Four hours ought to be enough time.’’

  ‘‘Jesus Christ, I’d need more time than that,’’ Knox said. ‘‘I can’t do nothing in four hours . . .’’

  ‘‘We don’t have any time. We want to know where this is coming from, and why,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘So I can ask—’’

  ‘‘Ask,’’ Lucas said. He held out a business card, and Knox took it. ‘‘Four hours.’’

  ‘‘WE’RE SPINNING OUR WHEELS,’’ LUCAS SAID, AS HE settled behind the wheel of the Porsche.

  ‘‘You know what you gotta do?’’ Del asked.

  Lucas shook his head and started the car.

  ‘‘You gotta talk to Weather,’’ Del said. ‘‘We gotta know that it’s not coming from her direction, instead of ours.’’

  ‘‘Can’t do it,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Get Sherrill to do it,’’ Del said. ‘‘Another woman, that oughta be okay.’’

  ‘‘I’ll think about it,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Gotta do it, unless something comes up,’’ Del said. ‘‘I told the old lady to hang out at her mom’s tonight. Until we find out.’’

  Del had an improbably good marriage, and Lucas nodded. ‘‘Good . . . Goddamnit, I can’t go see Weather.’’

  Del didn’t answer. He simply stared out the passengerside window, watching the darkening fall landscape go by. ‘‘Hate this time of year, waiting for winter,’’ he said finally. ‘‘Cold coming. Wish it was August.’’

  COPS WERE WANDERING IN AND OUT OF LUCAS’S office—nobody had anything—when Knox called back.

  ‘‘You owe me,’’ Knox said. ‘‘I came down on everybody, hard.’’

  ‘‘I said four hours, it’s been six,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Fuck four hours,’’ Knox said. ‘‘I had to take six, because in four I wasn’t getting anything.’’

  Lucas sat up: ‘‘So what’d you get in six?’’

  ‘‘Same thing: nothing,’’ Knox said. ‘‘And that makes me think that whoever did it is nuts. This isn’t a guy , this is some freak. Bet it was a neighborhood kid has the hots for her, or something like that. ’Cause it’s coming out of nowhere.’’

  ‘‘Thanks for nothing,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Hey: I didn’t give you nothing,’’ Knox objected. ‘‘I’m telling you serious: There’s nothing on the street. Nothing. Zippo. This was not a pro job, not a gang job, not bikers. This had to be one guy, for his own reasons. Or we woulda heard.’’

  Lucas thought about it for a minute, said, ‘‘Okay,’’ and dropped the phone on the hook.

  ‘‘What?’’ Sherrill asked. She was parked in a chair across the desk and looked dead tired.

  ‘‘Knox got nothing, says there’s nothing on the stre
et.’’

  ‘‘He’s right.’’

  ‘‘Damn it.’’ He turned in his chair, staring out the window at the early darkness.

  ‘‘Want me to talk to Weather? Del mentioned something . . .’’

  ‘‘Damn it . . .’’ He didn’t answer for a moment, then sighed and said, ‘‘I’m gonna do it.’’

  ‘‘Want me to come along?’’

  ‘‘No . . . well, maybe. Let me talk to her shrink.’’

  ANDI MANETTE WAS ANGRY ABOUT THE INTERVIEW: ‘‘You’re not helping anything.’’

  Lucas’s anger flashed right back: ‘‘Not everything can be resolved by counseling, Dr. Manette. We’ve got somebody throwing firebombs, and I’ve got cops hiding their wives and kids. They’re afraid it’s another comeback from the crazies. I gotta talk to her.’’

  After a moment: ‘‘I can understand that. Weather’s probably at her house right now, salvaging what she can— there’s smoke in everything. It’d be better if you talked to her here, at my place.’’

  ‘‘All right. When? But it’s gotta be soon.’’

  ‘‘I’ll call her. How about . . . Give us two hours.’’

  ‘‘Do you want me to bring another cop? I can bring Marcy Sherrill if that’d help—maybe it’d make it seem more official and less personal. If that’d be good.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know if it’d make any difference, but bring her along. Maybe it’ll help.’’

  HE HADN’T SEEN WEATHER IN ALMOST AMONTH; AND when Lucas walked in the door of Andi Manette’s house, trailed by Sherrill, the sight of her stopped him cold. She was curled in a living room chair, a physical gesture that he knew too well. She was a small woman, and often curled in chairs like a cat, her feet pulled up, her nose in a book— and when she turned toward him, she smiled reflexively and it was almost like everything was . . . okay.

  Then the smile faded, and Sherrill bumped him from the back. He stepped forward and nothing was okay.

  ‘‘How’ve you been?’’ he mumbled.

  ‘‘Well: the firebomb . . .’’

  ‘‘Sorry; stupid question. But you know.’’

  ‘‘I know: I’ve been okay.’’ The smile was long gone now, and her face was tense, her voice controlled. ‘‘But the firebomb—do you think it might be the Seed?’’