Rules of Prey

CHAPTER 26

"Come on. Let's do it." Sloan was leaning in the doorway.

"No fuckin' point, man," Lucas said. He felt lethargic, emotionally frozen. "We know what he's hiding. He's worried about his reputation. He ripped off the Rices and he's afraid somebody will find out."

"How do you feel?"

"What?"

"How do you feel? Since the Fuckup?"

Lucas grinned in spite of himself. The disaster at McGowan's had been dubbed the Fuckup. Everybody from the mayor to the janitors was using it. Lucas suspected everybody in town was. "I feel like shit."

"So come on," Sloan urged. "We'll go over and jack that mother up. That ought to clear out your glands."

It was better than sitting in the office. Lucas lurched to his feet. "All right. But I'll drive. Afterward we can go out and get something decent to eat."

"You buying?"

The shop assistant went into the back room to get Nester, who was not happy to see them.

"I thought you understood my position," he said, heading for the telephone. "This has now become harassment. I'm going to call my attorney first thing, rather than listen to you at all."

"That's up to you, Nester," Lucas said, baring his teeth. "It might not be a bad idea, in fact. We're trying to decide whether to bust you on felony fraud or to let Mrs. Rice's attorney handle it as a civil matter. You want to be stubborn, we'll put the cuffs on and drag you downtown and book you right now."

The shop assistant's head was swinging back and forth like a spectator's at a tennis match. Nester glanced at him, his hand on the telephone, and said, "I have no idea what you're speaking of."

"Sure you do," Lucas said. "We're talking about netsukes that might be worth a quarter-million dollars, that you were asked to valuate for insurance purposes. You told the owner that they were virtually worthless and bought them for a song."

"I never," Nester sputtered. "I was never asked to valuate those netsukes. They were offered for sale and I paid the asking price. That is all."

"That's not what Mrs. Rice says. She's willing to take it to court."

"Do you think a jury would believe some… some washerwoman instead of me? It is my word against hers-"

"You wouldn't have a chance," Sloan said in his soapiest voice. "Not a chance. Here's a guy who fought for his country and brought home some souvenirs, not knowing what he had. Then he goes through life, a good guy, pushing a broom, and finally dies of cancer that slowly eats its way up his body, killing him inch by inch. He wants to sell whatever personal possessions he can, to help his wife after he's dead. She's aging herself and they're living hand to mouth. Probably eating dog food-I can guarantee they will be, by the time their lawyer gets done with it."

"Maybe cat food. Tuna parts," Lucas chipped in.

"And they've got this treasure trove, without knowing it," Sloan continued. "Could be a happy ending, just like in a TV movie. But what happens? Along comes this slick-greaser dealer in objets d'art who gives them five hundred dollars for a quarter-million bucks' worth of art. Do you really think a jury would side with you?"

"If you do, you're living in a dream world," Lucas said. "I've got some friends in the press, you know? When I feed them this story, you'll be more famous than the maddog killer."

"That's not a bad idea, you know?" Sloan said, looking sideways at Lucas as he picked up the hint. "We haul him in, book him for fraud, and put out the story. It could take some of the heat off-"

"You better come back to my office," said Nester, now deathly pale.

They followed him through a narrow doorway into the back. A storeroom protected with a steel-mesh fence took up most of the space, with a small but elegantly appointed office tucked away to one side. Nester lowered himself behind the desk, fussed with calendar pages for a moment, then said, "What can we do about this?"

"We could arrest you for fraud, but we don't really want to. We're worried about other things," Lucas said, lowering himself into an antique chair. "If you just tell us what we want to know, we'll suggest that Mrs. Rice get a lawyer and work this out in civil court. Or perhaps you could negotiate a settlement."

"I talked to this person," Nester protested, nodding at Sloan. "I told him everything that happened between Mr. Rice and myself."

"I had a very strong feeling that you were holding back," Sloan said. "I'm not usually wrong."

"Well. Frankly, I thought if you learned about the price paid for the netsukes, which was the price Mr. Rice asked-let the seller beware-that you might feel it was… inappropriate. I was not hiding it, I was merely being discreet."

Lucas grimaced. "If you had told us that, or even suggested it, we wouldn't have hassled you," he said. "We're trying to trace the gun Rice had. We're running down everybody who talked to him while he had it."

"I never saw a gun and he never mentioned a gun or offered to sell one," Nester said. "I didn't see anyone else while I was there, not even Mrs. Rice. We didn't talk. I went in and said I would be interested in looking at the netsukes. He backed his wheelchair up, got them from a box and gave them to me, and went back to his reading. I asked how much, he said five hundred dollars. I gave him a check and left. We didn't exchange more than fifty words."

"That doesn't sound like Rice," Sloan said. "He was supposed to be quite a talker."

"Not with me," Nester said.

Lucas looked at Sloan and shook his head.

"I think because he was so involved with his will," Nester continued. "He had to read it and sign it before his attorney picked it up."

"His attorney?" Lucas asked. He turned to Sloan. "His attorney?"

Sloan started paging through his workbook.

"He said his attorney was on his way," Nester said, looking from one to the other. "Does that help?"

"We don't show any attorney," Sloan said.

Lucas felt his throat tighten. "Did he say what his attorney's name was?"

"No, nothing like that. Or I don't remember," Nester said.

"We may want to talk to you some more," Lucas said, standing up. "Come on, Sloan."

Sloan pumped a quarter into the pay phone. Mary Rice picked it up on the first ring.

"Your husband's will, Mrs. Rice, do you have a copy of it there? Could you get it? I'll wait."

Lucas stood beside him, looking up and down the street, bouncing on the balls of his feet, calculating. A lawyer. It would fit. But this was ridiculous. This would be too easy. Sloan shifted from foot to foot, waiting.

"Did you look in the top drawer of your dresser?" Sloan said finally. "Remember you told me once you'd put stuff there… Yeah, I can wait."

"What is she doing?" Lucas blurted. He wanted to rip the phone away from Sloan and shout the woman into abject obedience.

"Can't find it," Sloan said.

"Let's run down there and shake down the house or-"

Sloan put up a hand and went back to the phone. "You did? Good. Look at the last page. Is the lawyer's name there? No, not the firm, the lawyer. There should be a signed name with the same name typed underneath… Okay, spell it for me. L-o-u-i-s V-u-l-l-i-o-n. Thank you. Thank you."

He wrote the name in his book, Lucas looking over his shoulder. "Never heard of him," Lucas said, shaking his head.

"Another call," Sloan said. He took a small black book from his shirt pocket, opened it, found a number, and dug in his pocket for a quarter. He came up empty.

"Got a quarter?" he asked Lucas.

Lucas groped in his pockets. "No."

"Shit, we gotta get change…"

"Wait, wait, we can use my calling card, just dial zero. Here, give me the phone. Who is this, anyway?"

"Chick I know up at the state Public Safety."

Lucas dialed the number and passed the receiver to Sloan when it started to ring. Sloan asked for Shirley.

"This is Sloan," he said, "over at Minneapolis PD. How are you?… Yeah. Yeah. Great. Listen, I got a hot one, could you run it for me?… Right now?… Thanks. It's Louis Vullion." He spelled it for her. He waited a moment, then said, "Yeah, give me the whole thing."

He listened, said, "Aw, shit," and, "Whoa," and, "Hey, thanks, honey." He hung up the phone and turned to Lucas.

"Yeah?"

"Louis Vullion. White male. Twenty-seven. Five ten, one ninety, blue eyes. And some good news and some bad news. What do you want first?"

"The bad news," Lucas said quickly.

" Sparks is positive he had dark hair. He doesn't. He's a fuckin' redhead."

Lucas stared at Sloan for a moment, licked his lips. "Red hair?"

"That's what his license says."

"That's fuckin' wonderful," Lucas whispered, his face like stone.

"What?" Sloan was puzzled.

"Carla was sure he was light-complexioned. She was positive. You don't get anybody lighter than a redhead. Sparky was sure he had dark hair. I couldn't figure it out. But you put a redhead under those mercury-vapor lights down on Hennepin at night…" He pointed a finger at Sloan's chest, prompting him.

"Son of a bitch. It might look dark," Sloan said, suddenly excited.

"Fuck might," ' Lucas said. "It would look dark. Especially from a distance. It fits; it's like a poem." He licked his lips again. "If that was the bad news, what's the good news?"

Sloan put up a finger. "Registered owner," he said, "of a midnight-blue Ford Thunderbird. He bought it three months ago."

Daniel's door was closed. His secretary, Linda, was typing letters.

"Who's in there?" Lucas asked, pointing at the door. Sloan was standing on his heels.

"Pettinger from accounting," Linda said. "Lucas, wait, you can't go in there…"

Lucas pushed into the office, with Sloan trailing selfconsciously behind. Daniel, startled, looked up in surprise, saw their faces, and turned to the accountant.

"I'm going to have to throw you out, Dan," he said. "I'll get back this afternoon."

"Uh, sure." The accountant picked up a stack of computer printouts, looked curiously at Lucas and Sloan, and walked out.

Daniel pushed the door shut. "Who is he?" he rasped.

"A lawyer," said Lucas. "A lawyer named Louis Vullion."