Easy Prey

Chapter 17

Derrick Deal was distinctly deceased; the Maplewood cop hadn't been lying when he said he looked like he'd been hit with a shovel. The cop played a flashlight over Deal's face. The left side of his forehead and left eye socket had been crushed, and another indentation followed the line of his eyebrows across the right side of his face. Deal's right eyebrow looked like a stepped-on millipede, while his left one was gone entirely.

"Wasn't a shovel, though," Lucas said, looking at the body. "Looks like he was hit with a chair."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. I once went to a killing where this guy hit his old lady with a kitchen chair. He said he thought it was gonna break, like they do in the movies. He might as well of hit her with a pipe. Her face looked just like this." He pointed at the dent leading out the right side of Deal's face. "I'll bet you it was an old wooden chair. The other guy swung it by the back, just like in the movies, and hit him in the face with the edge of the seat. One of the legs busted his brow ridge. You might find a mark from the other leg on his neck, or his chest."

"I'll tell the ME," the cop said. "I never seen a chair job."

Lucas stood around the melancholy scene until the ME got there, and convinced a crime-scene guy to check Deal's pockets. They found a wallet with eight dollars, two dollars and eleven cents in change, a withdrawal slip for twenty-five dollars from an ATM, and a small black-leather card case. The case had a dozen cards from Brown's Hotel.

"No address book?" Lucas asked.

"I don't find one," the crime-scene cop said.

Lucas took a last, pensive look at the dead man's crushed face, got in his car, and started toward Deal's town house.

Deal had known something. Lucas had seen it in his face when he went to talk with him, but hadn't known what Deal was lying about. After Lucas left him in the hotel, Deal probably had gone out looking for a little schmear. A few bucks to meet the rent, or whatever needed meeting. But it wasn't nice to blackmail a killer, who had nothing to lose But now they had a connection. Deal had known the killer, or had known how to make a connection to get to him. They weren't three steps away anymore. One step, and they'd have him.

The Maplewood cops had already opened Deal's town house. The place was a melancholy collection of small cubicles, an efficient, uninflected space for sleeping, eating, and watching television. He had no computer; nor could they find an address book or Rolodex. There had to be one, unless the killer had taken it.

Lucas lingered at the house until he was sure there was no more to find, then headed for Browns Hotel. On the way, he called the hospital. They'd finished with Marcy, Rose Marie told him, but she wasn't out of the operating room yet. They were rigging her up for intensive care.

"The doc thinks she's gonna make it," Rose Marie said. "They're gonna keep her under for a while, though. They don't want her popping anything loose."

A knot in Lucas's neck loosened a notch. "Good. As long as there's no heart involvement."

"It was lower than that, lower than what we heard. The slug went in below her breast at an outward angle, so it came out almost on her side. She must've been turning sideways when it hit her."

"What about the slug in the railing? Have they ID'd it yet?"

"They got it, but it's wrecked. We won't be able to ID the gun. They can say it's a. 44 Magnum jacketed hollowpoint."

"Then it's a different gun than the Bloomington gun," Lucas said. "And if it was a murder-suicide, why'd they bother to hide the big one?"

At Brown's, the good-looking black woman was working behind the reception desk. When she saw Lucas come in, she said a word to the woman working with her and slipped out. Lucas glanced at her name tag and remembered: India. She said, "We heard about Derrick. Is it because you talked with him?"

"I don't know," Lucas said. "But I need to look at his desk. I can get a search warrant, or we can just go look."

"Can I ask the manager this time?"

"If you have to. But I want to go down and stand by Derrick's cubicle while you ask," Lucas said.

"I'll go ask," she said. And "I'm sorry, but my job"

"Sure."

Lucas went down to Deal's office space. Another man was sitting in a cubicle, three down from Deal's, working with an old mechanical adding machine. He glanced at Lucas and said, "Can I help you?"

"Waiting for the manager."

"You the police?"

"Yup."

The man leaned back from his chair. He was Deal's age, and like

Deal, a little heavy, balding, with wiry black hair on his arms. He locked his hands behind his head and said, "I don't know exactly what he was up to, but he seemed a little shady. He always had get-rich-quick deals."

"You know anybody who bit?" Lucas asked.

"No, not around here. He did not exactly inspire confidence."

"He was not that bad a guy, though."

"Hey, some of the best guys I know sell used cars. They've all got big deals cooking somewhere. I like them, but I'd never put my money with them."

The outer door opened, and a tall man in a dark blue suit came through, trailed by India. The man had a beaked nose, close-set water-green eyes, and a blacktoo blackwidows peak. He resembled Prince Philip just a little, and must've known it, because he had a red silk handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket. He looked Lucas up and down, and before the manager had a chance to open his mouth, Lucas didn't like him.

"You're the police?" As if he doubted it. "Do you have identification?" He had a perfect, round, baritone English voice.

"Yeah, but you usually don't want to flash the old buzzer in a high-class joint like this," Lucas said, looking around the room, as if the ceiling tiles might turn hostile. India's eyes cut sideways at him, and the corners of her mouth twitched. Lucas flipped open his ID, held it in front of the manager's eyes, and said, "We can lay some paper on you if you want. Otherwise, I'll just take a quick gander at Derrick's desk."

"Well, I don't think you need a search warrant. We're all anxious to help find out what happened with Derrick," the manager said. He tilted his head back, the better to peer down his nose. "He'd reformed, you know. He was doing so well."

Lucas shrugged. "So maybeit was an accident."

The manager lifted an eyebrow, just one. "We heard he was found locked in a car trunk, with his face smashed in."

Lucas nodded judiciously. "Maybe you're right. Probably wasn't an accident. I never thought so, myself." He was getting tired of it. "So I can look around?"

"I'd like to leave a staff member with you." Prince Philip tipped his head at India.

"Sure no problem."

When he was gone, India giggled and asked, "Where'd you get that accent?"

"Where'd he get his?" Lucas asked as they walked down to Deal's desk.

"Same place as Cary Grant."

"Really? Cary Grant?"

"They were both born in Bristol. England."

"Yeah?" He'd spotted an old-fashioned plastic Rolodex on Deal's desk. "And this"he touched the Rolodex"is what I've been looking for."

He found a name, two-thirds of the way through the Rolodex. He checked it twice: Terrance Bloom, He checked the printed party list to confirm it, then called Lester at Homicide.

"I'm looking at Derrick Deal's Rolodex and I find the name Terrance Bloom, and Bloom is on the party list."

"Give me the address and phone number," Lester said.

Lucas read them off the Rolodex, and Lester, rattling on some computer keys, said, "Hang on a sec. I'm just bringing the screen up" Then: "Yup, that's him."

"We gotta get on him," Lucas said. "This could be something."

"Hang on, hang on" Lucas hung on for another moment, listening to the computer keys at the other end of the line, then Lester again: "He's not on Lansing's phone list."

"Shit."

"Wellthat could be deliberate, if he's her guy. She probably wouldn't need it, and he wouldn't want her carrying it."

"Yeah, but listen, put somebody good on it. This is the first hint we've had."

"Absolutely. Did you hear about Marcy? I mean, going into intensive care?"

"Yeah, that's the last I heard."

"Same with me She's gonna make it."

"If there's any goddamn justice in the world. Talk to you later."

Lucas spent fifteen minutes with India, going through Deal's computer, but Deal apparently didn't use e-mail, and Lucas couldn't find any data files. There had to be some, but they could be on a removable disk. He closed the computer down, stuck a handwritten note that said, "Don't useMinneapolis police" on the monitor screen, and said, "I'm sending a computer guy over here to take a look at this thing. Don't let anybody touch it, okay?"

"I'll tell Philip," she said.

"Who's he?"

"The manager?"

"Honest to God? Philip?"

Del called when Lucas was on the way back to the hospital.

"I got the game. Started last night, continues until five A.M. tomorrow. Twenty-five grand to get in." That was good. They had Bloom's name now, but there was no guarantee that Bloom was their guy. They still needed Trickand Al-Balah.

"Where at?"

"Pat Kelly. Remember him?"

"Yeah Where's he at now?"

"Bought a place down on the south end, right on Minnehaha Creek. He's got a brand-new two-story fully-heated triple garage in his backyard. The word is, it's upstairs in the garage."

"Going on now?" Lucas asked.

"Yup. Want to meet me?"

"Absolutely. Let's get uh, what's Franklin doing?"

"He's still with Corbeau," Del said. "How about Loring?"

"I saw him early today, so he's probably offbut he's always up for overtime."

"Give him a ring. I'll meet you at Pasties in an hour."

Rose Marie had gone home, but a night nurse at the hospital let Lucas look in on Marcy. She was half propped up in a bed, a breathing tube in her nose, more tube in her arms, wires scrambled around the top of the bed, running to monitors. She smelled of disinfectant and something else: corruption, or cut flesh. Lucas knew the odor, but had never been able to put a name to it.

He sat down on a chair next to the bed, watched her breathe for five minutes, then said, "We got a couple of things going, couple of leads. You're gonna make it. We talked to the docs. But you gotta keep sleeping for now." Maybe she could understand it, somewhere down in her brain. He backed out of the room, turned, and nearly ran over a woman who'd been standing by the door.

"Lucas," she said, and showed a tiny smile.

"Weather." His heart thumped. That hardly ever happened anymore; now, three times in three days, with Catrin, with Jael Corbeau. "I was just Marcy you know."

"I heard. I was coming down to take a look," Weather said. She was a small woman, with wide athletic shoulders and a slightly crooked nose that might have been just a shade too large. Her eyes were dark blue, her short hair just touched with white. She'd be thirty-eight, Lucas thought. And, God, she looked good. "I talked to Hirschfeldhe did the surgeryand he said she's got a good chance. She was pretty torn up when she first came in, and he was worried, but they got it together."

"She was hit hard."

"Another nutcase, Lucas. They keep coming." She was a surgeon. She saw the victims, especially the children.

"Four times a year, about," Lucas said. "Crime's down. Burglary's down, rape's down, robbery's down, even murders down, except for nutcases."

"Everybody's getting too old for crime," she said.

"Everybody's got a job," Lucas said. "Jobs cure everything. And crack's going away"

She looked up at himshe was a small woman, with shoulders that were slightly too broad, like an acrobat'sand asked, "What're we talking about?"

"I don't know."

"Want a cup of coffee?"

"I've gotta go. I'm running down south, I've got a door to kick down," Lucas said.

Now she did smile. "Lucas. So see you around, huh?"

He didn't say anything for a few seconds, then: "Really?"

"If you've got the time sometime."

"Anytime," he said. "Anytime but now. I just gotta, I just gotta go." He backed away from her as he'd backed out of the room, backed up almost to the outer door, then turned and pushed through.

Behind him, Weathers smile softened; she'd heard him talking to Marcy. In that few seconds, she thought, something had changed. Maybe

Lucas drove south through town, replaying the talk with Weather. Played it once, played it again. What she looked like, what she sounded like. She'd once owned a dress that she planned to wear for her wedding to Lucas; that hadn't happened. The relationship had dissolved in blood, in the very hospital where they'd talked, where Marcy had gone under the knife; another nutcase who'd died for his efforts. Weather Karkinnen. She'd wanted lads, two or three

Pasties was an all-night greasy spoon off Lyndale Avenue. When it first opened, it sold indigestible meat pies, but now it was all fried bacon, fried sausage, and fried hamburger, with home fries or french fries and catsup, and suspicious-looking pecan pie. Lettuce was not in demand; the coffee was mediocre. On the other hand, it was open all night, had racks of free papers inside the front door, and nobody cared if a customer spent an hour drinking a cup of coffee.

Del was deep in conversation with the counterman when Lucas showed up. He broke off the conversation and they took a booth, and the counterman followed him over with a plastic carafe of coffee and two cups. The counterman was tubercularly thin, with round John Lennon glasses and shaggy hair; he was rolling an unlit, unfiltered cigarette between his dry lips. "Anyway, that's what happened," he told Del. He shook his head. "Shoulda known better. He said he only wanted to stay a couple of days."

"I'll tell you whatthose accordion guys are sneakier than they look," Del said. "Some of that music is pretty damn romantic. TheBlue Skirt Waltz? You know that one? And youknow women like to dance."

"I wouldn't have no more suspected him than I would've suspected a a banjo player or something."

"Coulda been worse," Del said.

"Yeah? How?"

"She could've run off with one of the Eagles." The bartender didn't laugh. He shook his head and shuffled back to the counter. Del looked at Lucas and said, "Love problems."

Lucas didn't want to hear that. He said, "Did you find Loring?"

"Yeah, he'll be here anytime. Did you stop at the hospital?"

"She looks like shit, Del. Her skin's the color of a piece of paper."

"She's gonna make it," Del said.

"She had about a million units of blood. It was running out of her as fast as they could put it in."

"Look, they stopped the bleeding, right? That's most of it with that kind of wound. Stop the bleeding."

"Yeah." Suddenly Lucas felt tired. He hadn't gotten much sleep since he'd left his cabin three days before, and now it jumped him. And he felt greasy, he thought. Literally greasy, like he needed to shower, right now. He took a sip of the coffee. It lived up to its billing: mediocre. "This isn't fun anymore."

"Was it ever?"

"Of course it was," Lucas said. "When all we had was Alie'e and Lansingall the goddamn media pouring in, all the attention, everybody running aroundthat was kind of fun."

"I'd pick a different word."

"Fuck ititwas fun. You were enjoying yourself, Del. So was I. So were the mayor and Rose Marie. Right up to when Marcy was shot."

"Yeah, well"

They were talking aimlessly, pointlessly, when Loring came in. Loring was a very large man; nature had given him square teeth and a naturally mean expression. He was wearing a black raincoat over jeans and brown penny loafers. He got a coffee cup from the counterman, slid in next to Del, poured a cup of coffee, and stirred in a couple of ounces of sugar.

"Pat Kelly," Lucas said.

"Yeah. He's got that three-stall garage. He's been doing a game or two every month. Supposed to be a nice layout," Loring said.

"You been inside?" Lucas asked.

"No, but I heard about it. There's a back door, then some stairs, and a door at the top of the stairs. There's a toilet up there, and a refrigerator and a Coke machine full of cold drinks and beer. Big table. Kelly deals."

"Security?"

"Depends. I asked, but the guy I asked said he didn't see any," Loring said. "That was small stakes, two or three grand. If Del's right about this one, and they got seven guys playing, then there's a hundred and seventy-five thousand in cash on the table. Soprobably security."

"Don't want to go walking into some asshole with an AK," Del said. He yawned, and poured out the last of the coffee.

"Kelly's too smart for that," Loring said. "His security would be good."

"Hate bad security," Del said. "Some goddamned workout fag with a baseball hat and a gun."

"That's why I wanted Loring," Lucas said. "We can stand behind him."

"I thought it was my brains, and it was my body all the time," Loring said.

Pat Kelly's house was on a narrow tree-lined street where the cheapest hovel went for a half-million dollars. His house was shingled with cedar; the cedar had turned old and dark over the years. One yellow light was visible through the front-room curtains, a lamp with a white shade and fringe. A double driveway led toward the back, where a hulking garage peeked out from behind the house. The garage had been built in the same style as the house, but the shingles were paler, redder. New. The only light near the garage was on the house's back porcha yellow light, the kind that's supposed to discourage insects.

They parked their cars down the street, hooked up, and walked toward the drive. "No light in the garage," Lucas said.

"Made that way," Loring said. "No windows. You drive by, it looks like anything but a casino."

"Looks like a rich dudes house," Del said.

They turned up the drive, shoulder to shoulder, and unconsciously began spreading out, and each of them touched his own hip as they walked, feeling for the tender comfort of a gun. They were passing the house when a voice in the dark called, "Can we help you gentlemen?"

"Police officers," Lucas said toward the voice. How many was "we"? No way to tell. "We're looking for a particular player."

"Do you have some ID?"

Lucas still couldn't spot the voice. He could feel Del edging farther away from him on one side, Loring idling away on the other, an inch at a time, so they wouldn't all get taken down with a single burst. A little stress. He grinned and held up his card case. "Lucas Davenport," he said. "And friends."

The voice spoke softlyinto a cell phone, Lucas thoughtand two minutes later, a side door opened on the garage. Pat Kelly stepped out, a thin, white-haired man wearing a white dress shirt open at the throat. He looked tentatively down the driveway and said, "Davenport?"

"Yeah. Me and Loring and Del."

"Jesus, like old home week. What's going on?"

"You got Trick Bentoin up there?"

"What's he done?"

"You got him?" Lucas asked.

"Well"

"So we'll just run up and get him," Lucas said.

"You're gonna scare the shit out of my guests," Kelly said. "We're just a bunch of friends."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Lucas said impatiently. "Look, you heard this lady cop got shot this afternoon?"

"Yeah? What's that got to do with Trick?"

"Something," Lucas said. "So we're gonna go up."

"Why don't I just ask him to step down?"

"Nah. If people knew exactly what was going on, they might start running. We're gonna have to go up, Pat. I guess it's up to you how we do it."

Kelly shook his head. "Hey, if you wanna go up, you're the cops."

They found seven guys sitting around an empty green-baize table on a beige carpet. There was no money in sight, no chips, no cardsan air of innocence smudged with cigar smoke. A television in the corner was tuned to ESPN; Trick Bentoin's chair was turned toward the TV. With the exception of Trick, the guys were all beefy, and every one of them wore a dress shirt. Suit jackets and sport coats hung off the back of plain wooden chairs. Trick was thin, and looked a little like a cowboy in a cigarette ad.

"Trick," Lucas said. "You gotta cash out. We need you downtown."

"Me?" He was surprised. The other six players looked at him.

"Yeah, it's that Rashid Al-Balah thing," Lucas said.

"Man, we're right in the middle ofSports…"

"Sportswhat?" Del asked.

"Sports Talk?"

"Sorry, that's the radio," Del said. "And the only goddamn place you ever watched sports was a book in Las Vegas. Come on along."

"What if I told you I was on a roll?" Trick asked.

"You could just ask the guys to wait until you get back," Loring said.

One of the guys grunted, "Huh," and a couple of them grinned.

"Sorry. We need you," Lucas said. He looked at the other menother than the single grunt, none of them had said a single word, or had met his eyesand said, "We'll wait at the bottom of the stairs."

Pat Kelly followed them down. "That was relatively civilized," he said.

"This is a nice place," Lucas said. "But don't push it."

"I never push," Kelly said genially. "Never, ever."

Thick Bentoin appeared a minute later, pulling on a rumpled jacket, shook his head, and said, "Down four."

"I thought you were on a roll," Lucas said.

"I was. I'd been down nine. Another two hours, I'd of owned their asses, each and every one." He looked at the three cops and said, "Well, I'm not gonna run. What're we doing?"

"We need to haul your ass out to Stillwater tomorrow, for a little discussion with Rashid Al-Balah."

"You could've called," Trick said. "I would've come in."

"Couldn't find you. Didn't even know you were at the game for sure. And if we'd called, and you'd found it inconvenient" Lucas let his voice trail away.

"So you're gonna put me in the fuckin' jail?" Trick asked.

"Well," Lucas said, "we don't want to take a chance."

"That's such a pain in the ass. I'll get some psycho up all night screaming. I need some sleep."

"I got a spare bedroom," Loring said. "If you really won't run."

"I won't run," Trick said. "You guys know me better than that."

Lucas thought about it for a minute, then said, "All right. Let's do that. Then we won't have any bullshit, either, checking him in."

"You want me to bring him over to your place?" Loring asked., "I'm up early tomorrow."

"I'll be down at the office about eight. Let's meet there," Lucas said. "I'll make some calls tonight and get the interview set up."

Del said, "I'll be there, too. I'll come out to Stillwater with you."

"Marcy's gonna be okay," Loring said.

"Yeah. I just don't want any early calls tomorrow," Lucas said. "No goddamn early calls."