Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  ‘‘Connie!’’

  ‘‘He is . . .’’ Slightly seductive, intended to tease her mother.

  ‘‘Please! This is Chief Davenport from the Minneapolis Police Department.’’

  ‘‘A cop? You can’t be asking if Aunt Audrey really killed him—she admits it,’’ the teenager said. She dropped her bookbag in the entry. ‘‘I don’t think she killed anyone else.’’

  ‘‘We’re just making routine calls,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘The chief of police makes routine calls?’’

  ‘‘I’m not the chief, I’m a deputy chief,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘And sometimes I make routine calls, if the case is important enough.’’

  ‘‘We were just finishing here,’’ Bell said.

  ‘‘Well, good luck with Aunt Audrey,’’ the girl said. ‘‘The meanest woman alive.’’

  ‘‘Connie!’’ And Bell looked quickly at Lucas: ‘‘Connie and Audrey don’t get along as well as they should.’’

  ‘‘She is such a tiresome little bourgeois,’’ Connie said, rolling her eyes. ‘‘The only interesting thing she ever did was kill Wilson.’’

  ‘‘Which was, when you think about it, pretty interesting,’’ Lucas said.

  Connie nodded: ‘‘Yup. I gotta admit it.’’

  Lucas smiled at her, deciding he liked her. The girl picked it up, and smiled back, a touch of shyness this time. Lucas said to Bell, ‘‘If anything else comes up, I’d like to give you a call.’’

  As Lucas passed Connie, he picked up just the slightest whiff of weed; he glanced at her, and she picked that up too. Smart kid, he thought, as he walked down the sidewalk.

  Thinking: More dead people. Audrey’s parents, dead and buried.

  From his car phone, he called Sherrill: ‘‘I’m gonna run up to the Red River Valley tomorrow, up by Grand Forks. Can you go?’’

  ‘‘Yup: this is my weekend. Can we stay overnight in one of those sleazy little hotels with the thin walls and fuck all night so the people can hear us on the other sides of the walls?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know about all night . . . maybe, you know, once .’’

  ‘‘I’ll start practicing my moaning. Call me tonight.’’

  The phone rang a minute later, and he thought it was Sherrill calling back. It was Lucas’s secretary. Rose Marie wanted to see him.

  ROSE MARIE ROUX WAS WORKING ON THE BUDGET when Lucas stepped in. ‘‘Sit down,’’ she said, without looking up. She worked for another moment, humming to herself without apparently realizing it: she was happy doing budgets.

  ‘‘So,’’ she said eventually, dropping her yellow pencil and linking her fingers. ‘‘Are you sleeping with Marcy Sherrill?’’

  Lucas got frosty: ‘‘We’re seeing each other. I don’t think it’s much of anyone’s business what happens—’’

  ‘‘Lucas, for Christ’s sake—are you living in a goddamn cave?’’ she asked in exasperation. ‘‘A deputy chief of police can get away with sleeping with one of his detectives only if—’’

  ‘‘She’s not one of my detectives,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I don’t have any regular supervisory control . . .’’

  ‘‘Oh, bullshit—she works for you when you need her. And besides, the media won’t give a shit about technicalities. You’re a deputy chief, she’s a sergeant. I don’t care— I really don’t. What I was about to say is, a deputy chief can get away with sleeping with one of his detectives only if he’s very, very careful. Not secretive, but careful. Now:

  You left a message that you were going off to this place . . .’’ She looked at a notepad. ‘‘Oxford. Tomorrow. Up in the Red River Valley? Were you planning to take Sherrill?’’

  ‘‘I thought—’’

  ‘‘If you take her, she’s gonna have to take vacation time. Or she puts in her regular hours, and you go up on her days off and she doesn’t get paid at all.’’

  ‘‘Look . . .’’

  ‘‘No, you look: I’m not trying to save her ass. I’m not trying to save my ass. I’m trying to save your ass. I can guarantee you that if you go up there with her, and she’s paid for it, and the press finds out, you’ll wind up being fired. I’d back you up, but it wouldn’t do any good—you’d get it in the neck anyway.’’

  ‘‘Maybe we just oughta forget the whole thing,’’ he said. ‘‘Me ’n’ Marcy.’’

  She softened a quarter-inch: ‘‘I didn’t say you gotta do that. But you’ve got to be discreet, and you’ve got to be politically careful. She can’t be on the payroll when you’re off together.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘That’s it?’’

  ‘‘Elle Kruger seems to be doing okay.’’

  ‘‘I was just talking to her, and her doctor. She’s gonna have a lot of pain for a long time,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘But her brain wasn’t affected. At least, not as far as they can tell. Motor is all right, memory, language.’’

  ‘‘Nothing on it?’’

  ‘‘Nothing yet. But that’s why I’m going up to the Red River. There’s a question about whether Audrey McDonald might be involved.’’

  Roux’s genetically enabled left eyebrow went up: ‘‘ Seriously?’’

  ‘‘Seriously. We might have the edge of something pretty interesting,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Okay. But remember what I said about Sherrill.’’

  ‘‘She’s off the next couple of days. We should be all right.’’

  ‘‘No expense accounts, no meals, no nothin’ . . .’’ ‘‘Nothing,’’ he said. ‘‘Not a nickel. For either of us.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ she said. ‘‘Good luck.’’

  ‘‘With Marcy? Or the case?’’

  ‘‘Whatever,’’ she said.

  LUCAS, BACK IN HIS OFFICE, CALLED THE COUNTY ATTORNEY’S office and asked for Richard Kirk, the head of the criminal division. He waited for a moment, and Kirk came on: ‘‘What’s up?’’

  ‘‘How long can you hold off on a decision about Audrey McDonald?’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ Just like a lawyer.

  ‘‘ ’Cause.’’

  ‘‘Just like a fuckin’ cop: ’Cause,’’ Kirk said. ‘‘Anyway— we’re gonna take McDonald’s story to the grand jury and let them decide. That’s the democratic way, and also lets our beloved county attorney off the hook if something goes wrong.’’

  ‘‘So when do you go to the jury?’’

  ‘‘Next Wednesday, but it’d be no problem to hold off for a while. We could present the basic case Wednesday and hold the decision for the meeting one after that.’’

  ‘‘That’d be good,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Some odd stuff has come up.’’

  ‘‘So we’ll do that—and don’t surprise us at the last minute.’’

  ‘‘Okay. And tell your boss to hold off any speeches to the Feminist Fife and Drum Club, about it being an obvious case of self-defense.’’

  ‘‘Okay. But if something happens, call me, so we know which way to lean,’’ Kirk said.

  ‘‘I’ll call.’’

  ‘‘Goddamnit, Davenport, you’re old enough to know . . .’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘That too much investigation will screw up a perfectly good case.’’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  MORGAN BITE HAD SUCH A BEATIFIC LOOK ON HIS face as he stood at the edge of the Bite Brothers parking lot, at the end of the line of black Cadillac limousines, still holding the check, that Audrey McDonald actually thought of killing him; actually thought that after she received all the money she was due, after all the legal matters were cleared away, after all the police were gone, she might come back some night and murder the man, for the simple pleasure of doing it.

  Bite was speaking in cliche

  ´s: ‘‘. . . able to achieve such a natural appearance that the loved one seems to be undoubtedly present among us . . .’’

  She wanted to say, ‘‘Yes-yes-yes,’’ and run away down the sidewalk; she limped instead, putting on a stunned ex
pression, as though she might at any moment suffer a relapse. Though, now that she thought of it, Bite might find a relapse attractive, given his profession.

  ‘‘. . . not regret this in any way, and do not hesitate for a moment to call me at any time, day or night, with any concerns . . .’’

  She’d just given him a blank check to handle Wilson’s funeral—well, blank to the tune of twenty-five thousand dollars, which he thought would be adequate to protect Wilson’s image in the business community. Whenever she’d mentioned anything having to do with Wilson’s death, Bite had seemed intimately aware of every detail, while somehow remaining unaware that she’d had anything to do with it. Come to think of it, she sort of liked that. Maybe she wouldn’t kill him.

  Well: She could decide that some other time.

  Audrey McDonald came with a full set of the negative emotions: hate, anguish and anger, pain, fear, dread and loathing were her daily bread, illuminated by an active imagination. Love and pleasure were not quite a mystery. She thought she might have loved Wilson, and her parents, and even Helen. She felt pleasure with the prospect of money—not with what it could buy, but the lucre itself; she loved handling it, reading account statements. She had talked Wilson into buying a hundred gold coins, American Eagles, which she kept in a box in a cubbyhole in the kitchen. Once a week she would take them out and handle them, so smooth, so beautiful and cool to the touch.

  And she certainly felt pleasure with the prospect of killing.

  Killing was the most interesting thing she’d ever done, and that alone was a powerful attraction. Added to the attraction was the simple reality that a killing was always done to decrease her own fear—fear of poverty, fear of helplessness, fear of low status—and to increase the amount of money she would someday have. So far, she hadn’t killed idly: so far, she’d always made a profit on her killings.

  But it was dread that hung over her fifteen minutes after she left Bite Brothers, as she pulled the car to the curb in front of her sister’s house. Helen had been talking to Davenport again: she’d called to confess it, and to admit that she’d written to Davenport that Wilson had killed people.

  But Wilson hadn’t. She had. And if Davenport was still sniffing around, he might trip over something inconvenient. She was beginning to fear the man, not because he seemed to be particularly bright, or especially hard-driving, or even mean, but because he simply wouldn’t go away. Now he was visiting Helen. This was all supposed to be done with. What did he want?

  Helen was standing in the doorway as she limped up the sidewalk. Putting on the limp.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Helen said. ‘‘He was hurting you so badly that I don’t think I had a choice.’’

  Audrey nodded abruptly and let Helen take her coat at the door. ‘‘Still hurt,’’ she mumbled. And she looked terrible. The bruises were going yellow, and her hair, unwashed since the attack, looked like sticky pieces of dirty brown kite string.

  ‘‘Let me get you a coffee,’’ Helen said, bustling around.

  ‘‘Why aren’t you working?’’ Audrey asked. Audrey hadn’t worked since Wilson’s second promotion, the one that carried him into mortgages. She’d always talked about Helen’s having a ‘‘career’’ in a way that made both Helen and her ex-husband feel like rag-pickers.

  ‘‘I had personal time coming, and since the fight with Wilson, I thought . . . I just thought I ought to be around,’’ Helen said from the kitchen. She appeared a moment later with the coffee. ‘‘How are you?’’

  Audrey shook her head: ‘‘I still hurt. I still feel like I’ve been in an auto accident . . . and Wilson . . .’’ She sniffed.

  ‘‘When’s the funeral?’’

  ‘‘They released him today. His father’s secretary called and said his father wanted to handle the funeral, but I said no, I would handle it. It’s at Bite Brothers, day after tomorrow, at two o’clock.’’

  ‘‘I’ll take you,’’ Helen said.

  ‘‘Thank you. I think we should go in Wilson’s Lexus, though.’’

  ‘‘No problem; I’ll come over to your place with Connie, and we’ll all go together in the Lexus.’’

  They talked for a few minutes about the funeral, sipping the coffee as they talked. Then Audrey asked, ‘‘What all did Detective Davenport want to talk about?’’

  ‘‘Oh, he just figured out that I was the one who wrote the letter about Wilson,’’ Helen said. ‘‘And he wanted to know why I thought Wilson did it.’’

  ‘‘You know, I’m not sure Wilson did all those things,’’ Audrey said tentatively.

  Helen looked away, flushing just a bit; this embarrassed her. ‘‘Oh, Audrey . . . I know you loved him.’’

  ‘‘Yes. And sometimes . . . I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ Helen asked. Audrey almost never opened up. Now she seemed about to.

  ‘‘I sometimes wondered myself. Something you don’t know—and please don’t tell Detective Davenport this, I mean, Wilson is gone—but I began to wonder myself. And after Andy Ingall disappeared on his boat, well, Wilson was gone the night before. He came home at three o’clock in the morning, and he’d been drinking, and we had an awful fight. And the next day, Andy sailed away. That’s when I began to wonder.’’

  ‘‘You should have said something,’’ Helen said.

  ‘‘I . . . really did love him,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘And he loved me. Nobody ever loved me before, no man did. I’m not so good-looking as you are . . .’’

  ‘‘Oh, shut up, Audrey,’’ Helen said. ‘‘As soon as this is all over with, we’ll take you to a friend of mine for a makeover, and you’ll be amazed. You’ll have guys coming around. You’ve got the whole rest of your life to look forward to.’’

  ‘‘Unless they send me to jail,’’ Audrey said piteously.

  ‘‘No way,’’ Helen declared. ‘‘I asked Detective Davenport about that, and he said that the county attorney was ready to declare that it was self-defense. Which it obviously was . . .’’

  Audrey perked up a bit at that. ‘‘Maybe I could do a makeover,’’ she said, brushing some of her sticky hair away from her face. ‘‘That would be good . . .’’

  ‘‘So you’ll be okay?’’

  ‘‘I think so. I have to go now, there’s more funeral things to be done. I talked to Wilson’s father; he seemed to think the whole thing was like a bad business deal. I was afraid he’d hate me. But he didn’t seem any different.’’

  ‘‘Well, you know the old man,’’ Helen said. She’d met him two or three times at the McDonalds’ house; he was, she thought, a spectacular horse’s ass. ‘‘Though usually, they say, having a child die is the worst thing that can happen to a person.’’

  ‘‘Not for that old man; he is a monster,’’ Audrey said.

  ‘‘I was just talking about our folks with Detective Davenport,’’ Helen said. She’d gone to get Audrey’s coat from a chair, and didn’t see her sister jerk around toward her.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Oh, you know, we were just talking, nothing serious,’’ Helen said, as she held the coat.

  ‘‘I mean, about them dying, or just that they were gone?’’

  ‘‘Nothing, really—just something that came up in passing.’’

  He was sniffing around. Audrey didn’t push it, because it seemed unlikely to produce much, and she didn’t want Helen wondering about the conversation. But she would have to think about this. Go after Davenport directly? That was one possibility, as long as it wouldn’t push more investigators her way. As for Helen, she had to do something to interrupt this relationship with Davenport, which was altogether too cozy.

  All this was going through her head as she went through the forms of departure, ending with, ‘‘So you’ll be at the house at noon?’’

  ‘‘Noon,’’ Helen said. ‘‘And if you need anything before then, call me. Please. This is the reason I took the time off.’’

  When Audrey pulled away from the curb, Helen was
still at the door. Audrey touched the horn, emitting a polite Japanese tone, and thought, ‘‘Connie.’’

  AND NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT.

  She drove to a Rainbow supermarket, looked up Child Protection in the phone book. ‘‘I don’t want to give you my name—I’m a teacher at South High and I’m going out of channels here—but there’s a student named Connie Bell who has been smoking a great deal of marijuana and I’ve heard from another student that she gets it from her mother; and I’ve heard that she and her mother have been fighting, and that Connie has been beaten up several times by the men who hang around with her mother. Thank you.’’

  She hung up.

  Connie smoked marijuana—Helen had confessed that; she had told Audrey weeks before that she’d slapped Connie after an argument over marijuana. There was just enough truth in her call to cause Helen some inconvenience. That was all Audrey needed for now: for Helen to look away from Davenport.

  TWENTY-SIX

  MARCY SHERRILL WAS BANGING ON LUCAS’S DOOR AT seven o’clock. He stumbled out to open up, his hair still a mess from the night, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, one sock on, one sock off; his alarm had gone off ten minutes earlier.

  ‘‘You look terrible,’’ she said cheerfully. ‘‘I got up early and went for a run.’’

  ‘‘God will someday strike you dead for that kind of behavior,’’ he said. He was not a morning person. ‘‘If I could only get the glue out of my eyes.’’

  ‘‘Quit pissing around; let’s get going,’’ Sherrill said. ‘‘I’ll drive. You can sleep, if you want.’’

  He perked up, but just slightly. ‘‘If you drive, I might survive.’’

  ‘‘So, I’ll drive,’’ she said. ‘‘C’mon, c’mon. Go.’’ He turned back to the bedroom and she slapped him on the butt.

  ‘‘Christ, it’s like having a coach,’’ he grumbled, but he tried to hurry.

  MINNESOTA IS A TALL STATE; AUDREY MCDONALD’S hometown, Oxford, was in the Red River Valley in the northwest corner, on land as flat as the Everglades. They took Lucas’s Porsche out I-94, Sherrill driving the first two hours, giving it to Lucas, then taking the car back four hours out. Sherrill was a cheerful companion, not given to long stretches of silence. As she chattered away about the landscape, the various road signs and small towns, the river crossings, animals dead on the road, Lucas began to wonder what, exactly, he was doing with her. He began to check her from the corner of his eye, little peeks at her profile, at her face as she talked. Over the years, he’d had relationships, longer or shorter, with a number of women, and in the transition zone between them, had often felt ties to the last woman even as the ties to the new woman were forming.