Buried Prey

21

Del walked up the sidewalk to Lucas’s house, saw Shrake’s Cadillac pull to the curb. He waited, hands thrust in the pockets of his jean jacket, until Shrake and Jenkins had caught up with him.

“What’s going on?” Shrake asked, as he came up.

“I don’t know,” Del said. “Weather called, but I just talked to Lucas, and he’s still three hours out.”

“Let’s find out,” Jenkins said, leading the way to the door.

Weather let them in and said, “We need to talk in a hurry, before Letty gets back. I don’t want her to see you.”

“What’s up?” Del asked.

“You want a beer? We’ve got Leinie’s and Negra Modelo.”

They took two Leinie’s and a Negra Modelo, and she went and got them, and brought them back to the living room, where the three cops were still standing, looking uneasy. Weather wasn’t exactly a friend, except that she was married to Lucas: she was a little too smart, a little too commanding, a little too tight.

In other words, a surgeon. She said, “Sit down, everyone. You look like you’re getting ready to stampede.”

When they were sitting, she said, “The thing is, Lucas is going to kill whoever it was that killed Marcy. About five minutes later, people will start talking about how he and Marcy had a relationship back when they were both working for Minneapolis. Some people will say that Lucas murdered this man, whoever he is-”

“I already sorta mentioned it to him,” Del said. “He didn’t want to talk about it.”

“And you might be a little early on getting concerned,” Jenkins said. “Nobody has any idea of who the killer is.”

“You have any doubt that Lucas will find him?” Weather asked.

Shrake, Jenkins, and Del exchanged quick glances, and then Del said, “I wouldn’t bet against him. And when I talked to him, I got the feeling he’s got a sniff of the guy. Something’s going on, I could hear it in his voice.”

“I could, too,” Weather said.

They all looked around, and took nervous hits on their beers, and Shrake finally said, “So what?”

“He’s going to find the guy, and then he’s going to kill him. Even if what he does is legitimate, he’ll be in a lot of trouble,” Weather said. “Somebody will come up with the fact that they had this relationship, and it’ll get in the papers and on television, and then the politicians will get involved, and the prosecutors will be talking

… And Lucas is so angry, I don’t think he’ll be careful enough. I’m afraid he’s so angry that he’ll simply walk up and plug him. That’s what I’m saying.”

Jenkins shook his head. “He’s too smart to do that out in public.”

Weather interrupted: “But you see, it’d almost be better if he did it in public. But he can’t. But if he does it where there are no witnesses but you cops, that’s when all the speculation will begin. People will imagine what he did…”

Shrake said, “Ah, shit… sorry.”

Weather: “He feels terrible about the Jones girls, like he could have done more back then. And he thinks that letting this man go then probably got more girls killed. And now Marcy, and he sees it all going back to the beginning: he thinks it’s his fault.”

“That’s nuts,” Del said. “I worked with him on that case, and he was the only guy who did anything. Quentin Daniel was running the show, and Lucas freaked him out. He couldn’t get Lucas into plainclothes fast enough. Lucas was the only guy who did anything.”

“That’s not the way Lucas thinks, though,” Weather said. “And you know it. He blames himself when things go bad and he’s involved-he thinks he should be able to control everything.”

Del said, “Okay.”

“What I wanted to talk about,” Weather said, “is the possibility that you guys could kind of push him around. Make sure he’s not there when this man is caught. Get him out of the way, somehow, so he never has a chance to kill the guy.”

“So the guy can while away his old age playing checkers in Stillwater?” Jenkins asked.

“Oh, no. I don’t particularly care if somebody kills him,” Weather said. “I’ve got no problem with that at all. As long as it’s not Lucas who does it. If somebody has to shoot the guy, I think one of you should do it. Or some other cop. If one of you shot him, especially Jenkins or Shrake, because you never worked with Marcy… I don’t think anybody would question it, especially if the guy was carrying a gun.”

“What if he isn’t?” Jenkins asked.

“Let’s not go there,” Weather said. “But it would be convenient if he were.”

Nobody said anything for a few seconds, taking it in, and then Shrake said, “We shouldn’t talk about this anymore. The word ‘conspiracy’ comes to mind.”

“Had to come out,” Weather said. “We don’t have to talk about what happens to this guy, because I’m just not worried about what happens to him. Thirty years in Stillwater would be okay with me. I’m concerned about Lucas.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Del said.

“You think I’m right, don’t you?” Weather asked.

Del nodded, looked at Shrake and Jenkins, and they both nodded. Shrake said, “I figured that Lucas would waste the guy. The rest of it never occurred to me-the way it would look. You’re right, there’s gonna be a hell of a stink… if we don’t do something.”

Jenkins, Shrake, and Del were long gone by the time Lucas pulled into the driveway, their beer bottles trashed with the recycling. The house was quiet when he came in through the garage-he turned on the kitchen light, looked in the refrigerator, found a chicken salad sandwich left by the housekeeper, and a bottle of Leinie’s. He sat down to eat in the breakfast nook, and heard bare feet coming down the stairs. A moment later, Letty stuck her head in the kitchen. “Hey.”

“You’re up late,” he said.

“Yeah. Mom’s cutting in the morning, so she went to bed at ten. Gotta be quiet when you go up.”

“Okay. You know what she’s doing?”

“Rhino, and then she’s covering some burns,” Letty said.

She watched him chew until he asked, “What?”

“Mom thinks you’re onto something. You know who killed her?”

Lucas shook his head: “You might blab to Jennifer.” Jennifer Carey worked for Channel Three, where Letty was an unofficial intern.

“Would not,” Letty said. “Not unless you told me I could.”

Lucas said, “All right. I’ve got a couple of ideas.” He told her about Hanson’s mysterious disappearance. “I’m thinking he knew the person who did it, and that person got worried and killed him.”

“When are you going to find out?”

“Pretty soon,” he said.

“So this is the time you gotta be really careful,” Letty said. “If you’re gonna take him out.”

“You worry too much.”

“You’re right. And you’re not worried enough.”

He snuck into bed, quiet and silent as a cat burglar, and then Weather said in the dark, “I hope your daughter gave you a good talking-to.”

“Ah, yeah… she did.”

“Good. I’m going to sleep now, so I don’t cut off poor Mrs. Johnson’s nose.”

Rhino, Lucas thought, as he drifted away, for rhinoplasty. From the Greek rhino for nose, plus plassein, to shape. A nose job, in other words.

But he didn’t dream of rhinos; he dreamed of the mysterious Fell.

I do not like thee, Dr. Fell…

Weather got up at five-thirty, and Lucas at eight, early for him. He hadn’t felt her go; he usually didn’t. He stretched, yawned, did some push-ups and crunches, got cleaned up, got his gun, sat down in his den, and made a call.

Quentin Daniel picked up and in an old man’s voice said, “What?”

“This is Davenport. I need to talk.”

“That was a bad day,” Daniel said. “That was about as bad a day as I’ve had since Carol died. On top of the Jones kids coming up-”

“That’s what I need to talk about.”

“When?”

“How about now?” Lucas suggested.

“You know where that Starbucks is, down the street from me?” Daniel asked.

“Sure.”

“Meet you there in thirty minutes,” Daniel said.

Quentin Daniel had been a ranking detective when Lucas first met him, and later, for eight years, the chief of police. He’d done some bad things in his time, and he knew it, as did Lucas, and they’d never been quite square since.

But Daniel was smart and had been a good investigator, and knew the Jones case and also knew his cops. That, in fact, had been his most serious strength: he knew his investigators so well that he’d match them to cases that he knew would catch their imaginations, and they’d work all the harder for it. He’d also had complete confidence in his own intelligence, and other smart cops didn’t intimidate him. He saw the intelligence of others as simply another weapon in his arsenal.

Lucas had been his finest weapon.

Lucas crossed the street to the Starbucks just as Daniel opened the door to go inside. He’d always been a bigger man, but now had thinned down; his hair was longer, and silvery gray, and he was dressed for golf in a red shirt and white slacks, with athletic shoes. He must be in his middle seventies, Lucas thought.

He held the door for Lucas, said, “You’re looking rich,” and Lucas asked, “What’s your handicap now?” Daniel said, “Same as always: my swing.”

Inside, Daniel ordered a skinny half-caff no-foam latte and Lucas got a bottle of orange juice from the cooler. “Get a table while I’m waiting,” Daniel said.

Lucas found a table in the corner, and when Daniel came over, asked, “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve lost twenty pounds and gotten my cholesterol lower than my IQ. Of course, I’m eating nothing but twigs.”

They chatted for a minute, and Daniel asked about Lucas’s kids, and Lucas filled him in, and then Lucas said, “You remember, way back when, on the Jones case, I was running after a guy named Fell?”

“I remember you were running after a guy,” Daniel said. “There was something unusual about him.”

Lucas filled him in and Daniel started nodding. “I got it now,” he said. Then Lucas told him about the weird death of Brian Hanson, and the timing, and his thoughts about the possibility that somebody on the force had been talking to the killer.

“So what I want to ask you-you knew these people better than anyone-do you know anyone that Hanson might have been talking to? Did you ever have any feeling that he was worried about it, that there was anything going on there?”

Daniel took a sip of his coffee, then leaned back and closed his eyes, silent for so long that Lucas thought he might be into a serious senior moment; then he opened his eyes and said, “Hanson had some kind of a family problem. Something criminal, and it involved sex. Not here, though-not in Minneapolis. I remember hearing that he was maneuvering around, trying to get something done, and I had somebody tell him to take it easy. You know, unofficially. Be careful about asking for favors.”

Lucas said, “Really.”

“You’re not surprised.”

“There are some indications, if you have a suspicious mind, that suggest the killer was close to Hanson. I saw a picture of his kid, when the kid was still young, a teenager, and he sort of looks like the description of Fell, except that he wasn’t fat. And the guy who shot Marcy had a black beard-and I’ve been told that Hanson’s son can’t grow a beard.”

“Maybe if you were planning to gun somebody down in a quiet neighborhood, where it’d get noticed, you’d want to invest two dollars in a disguise,” Daniel said.

“Could happen,” Lucas said. “Do you remember anything else at all?”

Daniel leaned back, looked out the window for a minute-a young mom pushing a stroller, looking satisfied with herself-and took a hit on his coffee. Turning back to Lucas, he said, “You know, I don’t. It was something serious, but not for us. Brian fixed it somehow-talked to some pals, got a lawyer. Never had any hint that his kid might have been involved in the Jones case. I think Brian would have told us, if he thought that. But if you think Hanson’s death might be involved, I’d take a look at the kid.”

“That’s the biggest hint we’ve gotten so far,” Lucas said.

“And that’s all I got for you,” Daniel said. “I wish I had more. Marcy being killed… goddamnit, I can’t get it off my back. I didn’t know her long, before I retired, but she was a comer. I keep thinking about her. I keep seeing her.”

Lucas nodded: “So do I. I keep wanting to call her up, tell her some stuff.”

Lucas drove back to the BCA and found Sandy. She was wearing one of her long light hippie dresses, and a pair of round sunglasses that she thought made her look like Yoko Ono or somebody, but actually made her look like one of the three blind mice. He told her what he needed, and in one minute, she’d found Hanson’s kid’s driver’s license information, including his current address, in a nice neighborhood in St. Paul. In two minutes, they’d downloaded his driver’s license photo. They printed it; he told Sandy he needed everything they could get on him, and headed back to his car.

His cell phone rang as he was getting in: Sandy. “I dug through the records. He’s got a Chevy van, white in color.”

“Ah, jeez… Sandy!”

Dorcas Ryan, the onetime massage parlor hooker, worked the second shift, so she should be home, he thought. Twenty minutes later, he parked in front her house, and through the kitchen window, saw her looking out at him.

He walked up the sidewalk; she was opening the door as he came up. He didn’t go inside: he simply handed her the digital copy of Hanson’s driver’s license photo, without saying a word. She took it, peered at it, said, “Just a minute,” retreated back inside, returned with a pair of reading glasses, put them on her nose, and looked again at the picture.

She said, “Ah. It’s been a long time.”

“The kid… is that Fell?”

“It could be,” Ryan said. “If I were in a court, and they asked me to swear to it, I don’t think I could. I could say it could be. But it’s been a long time.”

“Don’t tell anybody about this. If he’s the killer, we want to snap him up.”

“Who would I tell?” Ryan asked.

“Anybody,” Lucas said. “You tell a friend, and she tells somebody else, and they call Channel Three… there you are.”

“Won’t tell a soul,” Ryan said. “Not until I hear he’s dead.”

“He might not be dead-”

She snorted. “A cop killer, is what I hear on TV. A lady-cop killer. What are his chances?”

Lucas walked away, thinking, Everybody thinks we’re gonna kill Fell. He remembered Letty’s warning: gotta be cool.

After leaving Ryan, he headed back toward the BCA, got on his cell phone as he drove, and called Del. Del had just gotten up, was eating breakfast. “I got a break,” he said.

“I thought something was up,” Del said. “I told Shrake and Jenkins to hang loose.”

“See you at the office,” Lucas said.

He started by pulling all of Hanson’s DMV information. At the time of the Jones killings, he had been twenty-seven. Just right, Lucas thought. He ran the information through the NCIC and came up empty: Hanson had no criminal record.

Del showed up, and Lucas told him about Hanson. “If he’s the one.. you think he killed his old man? I mean, Jesus.”

“If he’s the one, he’s a fruitcake. A psycho,” Lucas said. “His old man was a cop, and Daniel says, knowing Hanson, if he smelled it on his kid, he’d have let us know. And the kid might have known that. This was a guy who set up that whole Dr. Fell routine… he’s a planner.”

Sandy came in. “Hanson went to the University of Minnesota, here in the Cities. Got a degree in horticultural science. Last job I can find was at a place called Clean Genes, whatever that means.”

“Not quite right,” Del said.

Lucas said to Del, “Did I tell you he drives a white van?”

“That’s something,” Del said to Lucas.

“Nothing to say horticultural scientists can’t read nursery rhymes,” Lucas said.

Lucas asked Sandy, “How’d you do this? Some kind of weird computer shit?”

“I looked him up on Facebook,” Sandy said. “His Facebook page says he graduated from the U, and I took a quick peek at his records-don’t tell anybody about that. He did pretty well.”

Del asked, “What are we doing?”

“I want to look in Hanson’s house,” Lucas said. “Brian Hanson’s. See what I can see. See if there’s anything that would point us at the kid.”

“St. Louis Park’s been inside of it, when the deputies called from up north,” Del said. “We could give them a call.”

Lucas called St. Louis Park, talked to a Lieutenant Carl Wright. “I think we can get you in-I’d have to check with the chief,” Wright said. “Part of the investigation into his disappearance?”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Lucas said. “When you went in the first time, did you move stuff around, or just walk through?”

“Walked through-for all we knew, he’d be coming back, so we didn’t disturb anything.”

“Excellent,” Lucas said. “We’ll start your way. If there’s a problem, give me a call on my cell phone. Also, I don’t want the relatives to know about this, if they get in touch with you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Tell you when we get there,” Lucas said.

On the way out the door, Lucas said to Del, “Let’s take your car. It’s a little less conspicuous.”

“Why can’t we be conspicuous?”

“I might want to cruise Darrell Hanson’s house on the way back. See if he’s around.”

St. Louis Park was a few minutes west of Minneapolis, and a half-hour after they left the BCA, they pulled into the redbrick police station, found Wright, who said they’d been cleared to walk through Hanson’s house. “I’ll be coming with you, to keep everything kosher.”

“Fine,” Lucas said.

“So what’s this about the relatives?”

“There’s at least the outside possibility that one of the relatives could be a guy we’re interested in…” He gave Wright a quick summary, without mentioning Marcy, and Wright said, “You know, if this is a criminal investigation, maybe we ought to get a warrant.”

“We’re not investigating Brian Hanson for anything, other than to find out how he died,” Lucas said. “We’re not searching for anything-we’re just looking for signs that he expected to come back to his house.”

“And it’s better not to ask if it’s okay,” Del said. “We can always apologize later.”

“That’s true,” Wright said. “All right. I can live with that. Let’s go.”

Hanson had lived in a fifties bungalow, on a tree-shaded side street not far from the station. The guy next door was trimming his hedge, and stopped when they got out of their cars-Wright was driving a patrol car-and asked, “No sign of him yet?”

“Not yet,” Wright said.

“You see anybody checking around?” Del asked.

“It’s been quiet,” the neighbor said. “And we been kinda keeping an eye out.”

Wright had a key. He explained that they used a locksmith to open the door the first time, and found the key on a hook in the kitchen. When Wright opened the door, they could smell the lack of activity: the house felt shut up, and still. And they could smell cigarette smoke.

“Guy’s still smoking. Must be nuts, his age,” Del said.

“Gonna kill him, for sure,” Lucas said.

They walked through the house, moving quickly. Del stopped once to pop open the washer and drier. Both were empty.

“He’d been home for a few days,” Lucas said.

In the bathroom, they found a dopp kit with a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste, and miscellaneous-antiseptic cream, SPF-30 face lotion, a tube of Preparation H, nose-hair scissors, Band-Aids. “There’s a clue for you,” Del said. “Did he have another kit up north?”

“No, he didn’t,” Lucas said. “The bathroom was empty. There was no suitcase, but that doesn’t mean much, if he kept clothes in both places.”

“Wonder why he didn’t keep a kit in both places?” Wright asked.

“Because then you’re never sure of what you’ve got,” Lucas said. “I do the same thing with my cabin-I keep clothes there, but I take the dopp kit back and forth. And shoes…”

They found a pair of athletic shoes at the end of the bed. They were scuffed and dirty. “There’s your fishing shoes,” Lucas said.

Del said, “Speaking as a defense attorney, I can say that you’re building a fairy tale.”

In the kitchen, they found a carton of Marlboros sitting on the counter, one pack missing. “There you go,” Lucas said. “He was coming back. At six bucks a pack, he wasn’t going to leave those behind.”

“I’ll buy that,” Del said.

“I gotta think about it,” Wright said. “But I’m moving your way.”

Back in the car, Del said, “It looks almost too good.”

“Let’s take a look at Darrell’s place,” Lucas suggested.

Darrell Hanson lived in a well-preserved three-story Victorian across the street from Lake Como. A guy in a painter’s white shirt and trousers was standing on a stepladder, painting the eaves a teal green.

They were parked on a narrow one-way lane, two doors down from Hanson’s house, and Lucas looked around and said, “If you showed up at the right time of day… that side door.”

Del said, “You’re not thinking about bagging the place? Man, that’s a really bad idea. This whole neighborhood is gonna be full of security-we could be on a camera right now.”

“Come in from the back-”

“Aw, bullshit. That’d probably be worse.”

Lucas took a long breath and let it out: “I’d like to bag it. See what I could see. But I’m also thinking that Dwayne Paulson might give us a delayed report, if he thinks we got enough on Hanson.”

“Maybe we got enough. Maybe. A half-ass photo ID, the white van..”

“When I make application, the photo ID could be ‘probably.’ I could get a ‘probably’ out of Kelly Barker.”

“That’s sorta… borderline, dude.”

“Don’t get all lawyer on me,” Lucas said. “Look: we know Darrell’s father disappeared from his house, leaving the lights on, his cigarettes out, and all the rest. We know that Hanson’s death was faked, if it was faked, by somebody who knew about the cabin, how to get in and out, and about the motorbike. Had to know about the old man’s habits. Had to know about the dirt bike so they could count on stealing it. So if he was killed, it was probably by somebody who knows him.”

“And we thought we knew he was a schoolteacher, but it turns out he wasn’t.”

Lucas went on: “He was the right age-”

“I agree, he’s probably the one,” Del said. “I’m just saying, a lot of the stuff might not cut much ice with a judge. And why go to Paulson? We could just go to Carsonet.”

Lucas said, “Because Paulson got divorced about five years ago, and he and Marcy went out for a while.”

“Ah. That would help,” Del said. “Still don’t have any hard evidence.”

“And once we go for a warrant, we’re committed,” Lucas said.

They thought about that for a minute, then Del said, “If you bag it, you gotta talk to me. I don’t want you doing it alone.”

“Then, if I get caught, two of us go down,” Lucas said.

“So let’s go talk to Paulson.”

“I’m afraid he’ll say no.”

“So then we bag it,” Del said. “Can’t be in any more trouble, if we get caught.”

Lucas put his head down and thought about it. If he blackbagged the house, he could only be inside for a few minutes. If he got caught, his career was done: and he might be looking at jail time. A lot of security around…

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go see Paulson. We can tell him what we’ve got, ask him if he’ll give us a delayed report. We ask him before he makes application.”

“Be right up front with him.”

“He’s no dummy,” Lucas said. “If we try to bullshit him, we’ll only piss him off.”

They went back to the BCA to pick up some paperwork, and then Lucas talked to Paulson’s clerk to make sure the judge would be around. Told that he had a relaxed schedule that morning, Lucas signed up for an appointment and he and Del headed for Minneapolis.

Paulson’s chambers were on the eighteenth floor of the Hennepin County Courthouse. When his clerk ushered Lucas and Del into the office, they found Paulson with his feet up on his desk, picking on an electric guitar, listening to himself on earphones plugged into a tiny amp. He saw them, tipped his head toward two visitors’ chairs, continued picking for another ten seconds, then shut down the guitar.

“I coulda been a Rolling Stone,” he said. He was a tall man, with slicked-back hair, a long nose, and a thin white smile. He could have been a country singer, but probably not a Rolling Stone.

“And if you’d been a judge at the same time, you coulda sent yourself to prison for drug abuse,” Del said.

“How are you, Del?” Paulson asked. To Lucas: “It’s bad, ain’t it?”

“It is. I’ve got to tell you, we’re here to ask your advice about a search warrant, and it involves Marcy’s murder.”

“Uh-oh,” Paulson said, dropping his feet to the floor. “Let’s hear it.”

Lucas explained what they had, and what they’d be looking for if they got a search warrant, and why they weren’t yet applying: “We know it’s a little thin, but we think the totality of the evidence should get us in. But if you don’t think so, we don’t want the application made official.”

“And you came to me because you knew it was thin, and you also knew that Marcy and I dated for a while.”

“That was a factor,” Lucas said. “I won’t bullshit you, Dwayne: we do think we’ve got enough, but we know we’re on the edge.”

“Give me one minute to think,” Paulson said. He turned in his desk chair so that his back was to them, and tilted his head back. They looked at his small bald spot for a minute, then two, and finally he turned back and said, “This guy just walked into that house down in Bloomington and opened fire, with no warning.”

“That’s right.”

“It sounds like he’s an absolute danger to himself and others. He may be undergoing a psychotic break.”

“Absolutely,” Del said.

“I wouldn’t give it to you without that. Make a note of that in your app, and I’ll give it to you.”

Lucas took the paperwork from his pocket: “I left space for additional notes,” he said.

They left with the warrant in their pockets, and Lucas said, “The more I’ve thought about it, the surer I am. No big thing pointing to him, but a lot of little ones. And he’s a planner. He’s not the kind of guy to leave big clues hanging around.”

Back at the BCA, Lucas called John Simon, the director, and told him what was happening. Simon had almost no control over Lucas’s unit, and resented it, but lived with it. “Just take it easy. I don’t want a bunch of dead people,” he said. “I don’t want any dead people.”