Silent Prey

CHAPTER
23

Carter, Huerta and James were huddled together over a tabloid newspaper in the coordinating office, all three of them with Styrofoam coffee cups in their hands. Lucas looked in and James said, "Kennett's down in the corner office, he wants to see you."

"Have you seen Barbara Fell?" Lucas asked.

"Gone home." There was a rapid-fire exchange of glances among the three cops, a vein of thin amusement. They knew he was sleeping with Fell.

"Anything happening?"

"About a thousand sightings on Bekker, including three good ones," Carter said. "He's driving a Volkswagen Bug…"

"Jesus, that's terrific," Lucas said. "Who saw him? How'd you get the car?"

"Two witnesses last night at the parking ramp. The Carson woman's girlfriend and the cashier. The girlfriend is a sure thing-she even told us he was wearing too much Poison. That's a perfume…"

"Yeah."

"… And the cashier remembers the blond part, and says she-he-was driving an old Volkswagen. He remembers because it looked like it was in pretty good shape and he wondered if Bekker was an artist or something. He thinks it was dark green or dark blue. We're running it through the License Bureau right now, but the Volkswagen part isn't public yet. If he goes outside now, he's gonna have to go in a car. And we're stopping every Bug in Midtown."

"You said three people…"

"The third's a maybe, but pretty definite. The night clerk in a bookstore down in the Village says he remembers the face very clearly, says it was Bekker. He says he was buying some weird book about torture."

"Huh."

"We're getting close," Carter said. "We'll have him in two or three days, at the outside."

"I hope," Lucas said. "Any returns on that stun-gun business?"

"Three. Nothing."

"Phones?"

"Nope. Goddamn rat's nest."

"Okay…"

Lucas started to turn away, and Carter said, "You've seen the papers?"

"With Bekker? Yeah…"

"No, that was this morning; the afternoon paper…" Huerta picked up the paper they'd been looking at, closed it, and handed it to Lucas. On the cover was a woman's face, eyes staring; before the headlines reached the brain, the terror of the face came through, then the words: "Kill #8-Bekker Death Pix. "

"This legit?" Lucas asked.

"That's Carson," Carter said grimly. "He sent notes and photos to three newspapers and two TV stations. They're using them."

"Jesus…"

From down the hall, he heard a woman's voice.

Lily.

He walked down to the corner, found the room in semidarkness, the door open. He knocked, standing back, and Kennett said, "Yeah?"

Lucas stuck his head in. "Davenport," he said.

"Come on in. We were just talking about you," Kennett said. He was sitting in a visitor's chair in front of a standard-issue metal desk, his feet up. His shirt collar was open, and his bright Polynesian Gauguin tie was draped across a stack of phone books at the front edge of the desk. Lily sat in another chair at the side of the desk, facing him.

"Fuckin' photographs," Lucas said.

"The shit is hitting the fan," Kennett said grimly. "First the New School thing and now the pictures. The mayor had the commissioner on the carpet. You could hear the screaming in Jersey."

Lucas dragged a third chair around, bumped Kennett. "Move your ass over so I can get my feet up."

"And me with a fuckin' bad heart," Kennett mumbled as he moved.

"You told Fell about the transvestite thing," Lily said. She pushed the phone books out of the way, picked up the necktie.

Lucas shrugged, sat down, put his feet up. "We talked it over and decided it was likely."

"That came at a good time. We told everybody that Carson'll probably be the last, that we've pretty much got him pinned down," she said.

"Should have thought of it sooner, the cross-dressing," Kennett said glumly. "The one before was a lesbian, we knew that. We should have seen that she wouldn't let a strange guy get too close, not outside a lesbian bar."

"Hell, you did everything right…" Lily began.

Kennett interrupted: "Everything but catch him…"

"He's pinned."

"We fuckin' hope," Kennett said.

Lily had been rolling the tie in her fingers, and now she looked down at the bare-breasted Polynesian woman, shook her head and said, "This is the craziest tie."

"Don't knocker it," said Kennett, then slapped his leg and laughed at the pun, while Lily rolled her eyes.

"You were jerking me around, Gauguin and Christian Dior," Lucas said to Kennett. He looked at Lily. "He told me this Gauguin dude was Christian Dior's necktie partner."

Lily laughed again, and Kennett said, "How do you know he wasn't?"

"Looked him up," Lucas said. "He died in 1903. He was associated with the symbolists."

"Now if you knew what a symbolist was, you'd be in fat city," Lily said.

"It was the use of color specifically for its symbolic impact, the emotional and intellectual impact," Lucas said. "Which makes sense. Some holding cells are painted bubble-gum pink for the same reason. The color cools people out."

Kennett, staring, said, "I never fuckin' thought of that."

"Carter tells me you'll have Bekker in three days at the outside," Lucas said.

"That fuckhead. That's the kind of talk that gets us in trouble," Kennett grumbled. "We'll get him soon, but I wouldn't bet on the three days. If he's got food and water, he could hole up."

"Still…"

"I figure no more than a week," Kennett said. "He'll break. I just hope I'm still working for the goddamn police department when it happens. I mean, people are pissed. These fuckin' pictures, man: the mess at the New School was nothing, compared to this."

"People think cops…" Lucas started.

But Lily was shaking her head. "It's not the people, it's the politicians. People understand you can't always catch a guy immediately; most of them do, anyway. But the politicians think they've got to do something, so what they do is run around and scream and threaten to fire people."

"Mmmm. A week," Lucas said. "That's a long time, in ward-heeler years."

"Anxious to get home?" Kennett asked.

"Nah. I'm enjoying myself. I want to be there for the bust."

"Or the kill," said Kennett.

"Whatever…"

Lily pushed herself out of the chair, stretched, and tousled Kennett's hair. "Let's go look at the river," she said.

"Jesus Christ, the woman's indefatigable, and me with this heart," Kennett complained.

Lucas, vaguely embarrassed, stood and drifted toward the door. "See you guys tomorrow…"

A message from Fell was waiting at the hotel: "Call when you get in, until one o'clock." He held the slip in his hand as he rode the elevator to his floor, dropped it on the bedstand, went into the bathroom, doused his face with hot water, and looked up in the mirror, the water trickling down his face.

He'd had a long relationship with a woman, the mother of his daughter, that now, when he looked back, seemed to have been based on a shared cynicism. Jennifer was a reporter, with too much time on the street, edging toward burnout. A baby, for her, had been a run at salvation.

He'd had a shorter, intense relationship with Lily, who had been struggling with the end of her own marriage; that might have been something, if they'd been in the same town, from the same emotional places. But they hadn't been, and some of the guilt of their affair still stuck to their relationship.

He'd had any number of other relationships, long and short, happy and unhappy. Most of the women he'd gone with still liked him well enough, in a wary, once-burned way; but he tended to think of them as others, not Jennifer, not Lily.

Fell was one of the others. A wistful, lovely, finally lonely woman. In a permanent relationship, they would drive each other crazy. He wiped his face with one of the rough hotel towels and wandered back to the bed. He sat down, picked up the phone, looked at the receiver for a moment, then smiled. He'd felt for a year as though he were under water: quiet, placid, out of it. The New York cops were bringing him up, and Fell was fixing him in other ways. He tapped out her number. She picked it up on the second ring.

"This is Lucas," he said.

"Kennett knew it was you, but I got good mileage out of the cross-dressing thing," Fell said, without preamble. "My name was on the TV news, and it's in the Times and the Post. That never hurts."

"I saw it…"

"I'd like to find a way to thank you. Oral sex comes to mind, if I get my share," Fell said.

"Women are so forward these days," Lucas said. "How quick can you get here?"

Fell brought a change of clothes with her, and they spent the evening laughing and making love. The next morning, when they were dressed, Lucas asked, "How would we find Jackie Smith?"

"Call his office," she said.

"That easy?"

"He's a hustler," Fell said. "Getting found is part of his business."

"So call him."

Smith called back in five minutes. "Aren't you guys ever going away? Can't you find out anything on your own?" he complained. "I've done everything you wanted…"

"All we want to do is talk," Lucas said.

"I gave you what you wanted," Smith said again. He was angry.

"Jackie… ten minutes, please? Have breakfast with us or something. We'll buy."

Smith would meet them at a cafe outside the St. Moritz hotel, he said. They caught a cab, struggling north through the midmorning traffic, the driver with his arm out the window, whistling. The day would be hot again; already the sky was showing a whitish haze, and when they got out of the cab across from Central Park, Lucas could see the leaves on the park trees were curling against the heat.

Smith was sitting at a metal table, eating a cream cheese croissant and drinking coffee. He didn't get up when they arrived.

"Now what?" he asked, a sullen look on his face.

"We wanted to thank you-those names you gave us started a chain reaction. We've maybe got the asshole pinned down."

"No shit?" Smith looked surprised. "When'll you get him?"

"Some of the guys are betting a couple-three days. Nobody gives him more than a week," Lucas said. "But we do have something we need from you. All the small-time fences who buy from the junkies-they need to tell the dopers that Bekker'll be out looking for angel dust, ecstasy, speed. Maybe acid. And he'll kill. The guy we got to, with your help, was boosting stuff out of Bellevue, but he was also dealing dope. Bekker killed him. Cold blood. Walked up and bam. Killed him."

"I saw that on TV. I wondered…"

"That was him," said Lucas.

Smith nodded. "Okay. No skin off my butt. I'll tell everybody I know and ask them to pass the word."

"He's probably around the Village, but could be anywhere between the civic center and Central Park. That's about all we know. That's where the word's got to be," Lucas said.

"That's my territory," Smith said. "Is that all?"

Lucas glanced at Fell, then said, "No. I gotta ask you something else. You might not want to talk about it with another witness here." He tipped his head at Fell. "But if you don't mind if she stayed…"

Fell frowned at him, and Smith said, "What's the deal?"

"Back when I first got here, I banged up your place. Tried to get your attention…"

"Well, that worked," Smith said ruefully.

"Yeah. A couple of days later, I got the snot beat out of me when I was coming out of a friend's place. I need to know if that was you. Off the record. If it was, it's no problem, I swear it."

Smith dropped his croissant on the plate and laughed. "Jesus Christ, it wasn't me. I read about it, though-but it wasn't me."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And if you don't mind me saying so, you're the kind of guy that shit happens to, getting beat up," Smith said.

Lucas looked at Fell. "Could you hike down to the end of the block for a minute?"

"I don't know," she said, studying him.

"C'mon," Lucas said.

"Are you Internal Affairs?"

"Fuck no, I told you," Lucas said impatiently. "C'mon, take a hike."

Fell pushed back her chair, picked up her purse and stalked away.

"She's pissed," Smith said, looking from Fell to Lucas and back to Fell. "Are you screwing her?"

Lucas ignored the question: "There's a big-dog shoot-out going on. Inside the department. And I'm tangled up in it. Now. The people who jumped me might be one set of those big dogs. That's why I really need to know."

"Listen…"

"Just a minute," Lucas said, putting up a hand. "I want to put it to you as simple as I can. If you tell me no, it wasn't you, and I find out that it was, I'll come back and hurt you. All right? I really will, because I've gotta know the truth of this. Not knowing the truth could get me killed. On the other hand, if you say yes, it was you, there's no problem. I'll take the lumps."

Smith shook his head in disbelief, a half-smile fixed on his face. "The answer is still no. I didn't do it. I wasn't even particularly happy to see the story in the paper, because I thought you might come back on me."

Lucas nodded, and Smith spread his hands, lifted his shoulders: "I'm a businessman. I don't want any shit. I don't want any muscle around. I hate people with guns. Everybody's got a fuckin' gun." He stared off across Sixth Avenue, the traffic waiting for the light at Central Park South, then looked back at Lucas. "No. Wasn't me."

"All right," Lucas said. "So get the word out to the junkies on Bekker. You might also point out that there's a twenty-five-thousand-dollar crime-stoppers award for his capture."

Lucas turned away from Smith and walked down the street to Fell. "I wish I could read lips," she said. "I'd give a lot to know what you just told him."

"I told him why I wanted to know if those were his guys who came after me," Lucas said.

"Tell me," she said.

"No. And I'm not Internal Affairs."

They spent the day walking through the Village and SoHo, drifting in and out of shops, talking to Fell's contacts on the street, chatting with uniform cops in Washington Square, watching the street action on Broadway. They found the bookstore where Bekker had been spotted, a long, narrow shop with a narrow front window and a weathered, paint-peeled door three steps up. A sign in the door said "Open All Night, 365 Nights a Year."

The clerk who had talked to Bekker wasn't working, but happened by on his bike a few seconds after they asked for him. A thin man with a goatee and a book of poetry, he looked like a latter-day Beat, his face animated as he told them about the encounter.

"He's a good-looking woman, I'll tell you that," the clerk said. "But you can look at somebody and know what kind of book they're going to buy, and I never picked her-him-out for the one he found. Torture and shit. I thought maybe he was, like, an NYU professor or something, and that's why he bought it…"

Down the sidewalk, Fell said, "I think he's real."

"So do I," said Lucas. "He saw him." He looked up at the red-brick buildings around him, with their iron stoops and window boxes full of petunias. "And he's somewhere close, Bekker is. He didn't drive any distance to get to a small bookstore. I can smell the sonofabitch."

He took her to the restaurant where Petty had been killed, sat and had Cokes, and almost told her about it.

"Not too bad a place," he said, looking around.

"It's all right," she said.

"You ever been here? Your regular precinct is around here, right?"

"Ten blocks," Fell said, poking a straw in her Coke. "Too far. Besides, this is sort of a sit-down place, not the kind of place you come to for lunch if you're a cop."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

Late in the afternoon, while Fell browsed a magazine rack, Lucas stopped at a pay phone, dropped a quarter, and got Lily in O'Dell's car.

"Where are you?"

"Morningside Heights."

"Where's that?"

"Up by Columbia."

"I need to see you. Tonight. By yourself. Won't take too long."

"All right. How about nine, at my place?"

"Good."

When he hung up, Fell looked up from a copy of Country Home and said, "So. Are you up for dinner?"

"I'm talking to Lily tonight," he said. "I'd like to come around later, though."

"I hate to see you hanging around with that woman," Fell said, dropping the magazine back on the rack.

"This is purely business," Lucas said. "And look, could you stop by Midtown and pick up those file summaries? We've been floating around all day, listening to bullshit… maybe something'll come out of the files."

"All right. I'll haul them over to my place…"

Lily was sitting in a living room chair, her high heels in the middle of the carpet, her bare feet up on a hassock. The hassock was covered with a brocaded throw that seemed to Lucas to be vaguely Russian, or Old World. She was sipping a Diet Coke, tired smudges under her eyes.

"Sit down. You sounded tense," she said. "What happened?" Her head was back, her dark hair a perfect frame around her pale oval face.

"Nothing happened, not today, anyway. I just need to talk to you," he said. He perched on the edge of her other overstuffed chair. "I need to know about you and Walter Petty-your relationship."

She leaned farther back in the chair, wiggled once to settle in, laid her head back, and closed her eyes. "Can I ask why you need to know?"

"Not yet."

She opened her eyes and looked at him carefully and said, "Robin Hood?"

"I'm not sure. What about Petty?"

"Walt and I went back as far as you can go," Lily said, her eyes unfocusing. "We were born on the same block in Brooklyn, sort of middle-class brownstones. I was exactly one month older, to the day. June first and July first. His mother and mine were friends, so I suppose I first laid eyes on him when I was five or six weeks old. We grew up together. Went to kindergarten together. We were both in the smart group. Someplace along the way, sixth or seventh grade, he got interested in math and science and ham radio in that geeky way boys do, and I got interested in social things. After that we didn't talk so much."

"Still friends, though…"

She nodded. "Sure. I'd talk to him when I saw him around the block, but not at school. He was in love with me for most of his life. And I guess I loved him, you know, but not sexually. Like a handicapped brother, or something."

"Handicapped?"

She carefully set the glass on the table and said, "Yeah, he was socially handicapped. Walked around with a slide rule on his belt, his table manners went from bad to worse, he got weird around girls. You know the type. Sort of ineffectual, nonphysical. Really nice, though. Eager… too eager."

"Yeah. A dork. A nerd. The kind of kid that gets shredded by girls."

"Yes. Exactly. The kind that gets shredded," she said. "But we were friends… And whenever I needed something done-you know, get an apartment painted, or help fixing something-I could call him up and he'd drop everything and be there. I took him for granted. He was always there, and I assumed he always would be."

"Why'd he become a cop?"

" 'Cause he could. It was a job you could get with a test and with family connections. He was brilliant on tests and had the connections."

"Was he a good cop?"

"He was terrible in uniform," she said. "He didn't have that… that… cold spot. Or hot spot. Or whatever it is. He couldn't get on top of people-you ought to know about that."

"Yeah." Lucas grinned. "I don't know if it's hot or cold, though. Anyway, Petty…"

"So he was terrible on the street and they moved him inside. He was working guard details and so on. Then they tried him on dope. And Jesus, he was something else. I mean nobody, nobody would believe he was a cop. He'd make a buy and the backup would drop on the dealer, and they still wouldn't believe it. This dork couldn't be an undercover cop. Sometimes even the judges didn't believe it. Anyway, that's about the first job he ever did really well at; he was a bit of an actor. Then he got interested in investigation, in crime-scene processing. He was good at that, too. The best. He'd go into a crime scene and he'd see everything. And he could put it together, too. Then computers came along, and he was great with computers." She laughed, remembering. "Suddenly, the guy who fucked up everything, the nerd as big as the moon, was a hot item. And he was still good old Walt. When you needed your apartment painted, there he was. He had this great open smile, completely… geeky, but honest. When he looked happy to see you, he was happy to see you; he'd just light up. And if he got angry, he'd go off and start yelling, and then he'd maybe start crying or something; or you thought he would…"

Lily's lip was trembling, and she dropped her feet off the hassock and dropped her head.

"How'd he get the job looking for Robin Hood?"

"He knew computers and he'd worked with O'Dell, and we swung it for him. He could help us, and it was a chance for him to break out. And maybe I had something to do with it-he'd be working with me. Like I said…"

"Yeah. I know exactly what you mean."

"Sounds like arrogance, or vanity."

Lucas shook his head. "Not really. Just life… You think he got close to Robin Hood?"

"He must have. Jesus, when he was killed, I couldn't stop crying for a week. I really… I don't know. There was no sexual impulse at all, but when I thought of him over all those years, that puppy-dog quality, that he loved me… It was like… I don't know. I loved him. That's what it came to."

"Huh." He was watching her, his elbow on the arm of the chair, one finger at his chin.

"So what's this all about?" she asked. The weariness had slipped from her voice, and she looked up, intent.

"You and O'Dell are running me as some kind of lure," Lucas said. "You're dragging me out in front of whoever your targets are. I need to know who you think they are."

After a long moment of silence, she said, "Fell. As far as I know, that's it."

"Bullshit."

"It's not bullshit," she said. "She's all we've got."

"That can't be right."

"It is."

"You know everything that O'Dell is doing?"

"Well, yes, I mean I schedule for him… I suppose he could run something on the side…"

There was another moment of silence, then Lucas said, "I'm afraid you're betraying me."

She was offended, angry. "God damn it."

"I know you are-or somebody is. O'Dell for sure, and you're with O'Dell…"

"Tell me about it," she said, sitting back again.

Lucas looked her over and said, "First of all, Fell's not involved."

"Why not?"

"I just know, and I'm not wrong," Lucas said.

"Lucas, instincts or no instincts, the goddamn records aren't lying about this," Lily said. "She's all over the place."

"I know. She's an alarm."

"What?"

"She's a trip wire," Lucas said. "Working the jobs she has, in Burglary, and as a decoy, she knows half the assholes in Midtown. So Robin Hood used her as a reference and picked on assholes that she knew. Then they watched her. If anybody got close, they'd get close to her first…"

"I don't know." Lily was shaking her head. She didn't believe it.

"It'd have to be a tough sonofabitch to set that up," Lucas continued. "As soon as you pulled her off her regular job and put me next to her, the alarm went off. Petty's been killed, the official investigation seems to be dead in the water-and here comes Lily Rothenburg and the department's Svengali, towing me along behind. And you stick me next to Fell. They never bought the Bekker thing: they've been reading us like a book."

"Who?"

Lucas hesitated. "I'm tempted to say Kennett."

"Bullshit." Lily shook her head. "I'd know. In fact, I asked him. He doesn't even think there is such a group."

"But we know there is. And I'm still tempted to say Kennett. O'Dell put me right up against Fell and he put me right up against Kennett. It's possible that O'Dell knows it's Kennett, but doesn't have the proof."

Lily thought it over, staring at him. "That's…"

"Bizarre. I agree. And of course, there're other possibilities, too."

"That it's me?" She smiled a small and frosty smile.

"Yeah." Lucas nodded. "That's one of them."

"And what do you think?"

He shook his head. "It's not you, so…"

"How do you know it's not me?" she asked.

"Same way I know it's not Fell-I've seen you operate."

"Thanks for that," Lily said.

"Yeah… which brings us to the last possibility."

"O'Dell?"

"O'Dell. He has access to everything he needs to organize the group. He knows everybody on the force, and he probably could pick out likely candidates for his hit teams. He has the computer files to pick out the assholes, and to set up Fell as an alarm…"

"There's a hole," Lily said quickly. "He's so high up he wouldn't need an alarm…"

"Internal Affairs-he might not know about Internal Affairs investigations."

She bit her lip. "Okay. Go ahead."

"Since Petty was a computer maven too, maybe computers led him to O'Dell. Whatever it was, for whatever reason Petty got hit, O'Dell was right there to manage the investigation. Kept it out of Internal Affairs…"

"Said it was too political," Lily said thoughtfully.

"Yeah. Then he pulls me into it, produces Fell, and he puts me up against Kennett. And you know what? Fell and Kennett are all I've got-all that paper you gave me, the regular investigation, the reports. It's all bullshit. It's all a stone wall. It looks impressive, but there's nothing in it."

"Why would O'Dell pick on Kennett?"

"Because Kennett's going to die," Lucas said bluntly. "Suppose he gets everything pointed at Kennett, and then Kennett… dies. Natural causes, a heart attack. If there was an agreement that Kennett was it, the investigation would die and the real organizer would be clear."

Lily, pale as notebook paper: "He couldn't have… I don't think."

"Why not?"

"I don't think… I don't think he's brave enough. Physically. He'd be thinking about prison."

"That all depends on how he's set it up. Maybe his shooters don't know him."

"Yeah, but remember-if O'Dell is it, he wouldn't have to give you Fell. If Fell's an alarm, I mean, he'd know what you were here for."

"Yeah. And he'd know that Fell would get me exactly where she has: nowhere. And at the same time, lend a touch of truth to the whole business. Fell did know all those dead guys. Besides, with Petty talking to both of you, and Fell popping out of the computer, there was no way to get her back inside…"

"Maybe," she said.

"How'd you meet Kennett?" Lucas asked abruptly.

"In the intraconference meetings."

"As O'Dell's assistant?"

"Yes."

"Did O'Dell feed you to him?" Lucas asked.

"Jesus, Lucas," she said.

"Did he? I mean, he knows both of you. Could he have figured…"

"I don't know. They don't like each other, you know." Lily stood and turned in place, like a dog trying to make a bed more comfortable. "You know, you've put this whole tissue together without a single goddamned fact…"

"I've got one interesting, surprising, generally unknown fact," he said; and it was his turn to produce a wintry smile.

"What?"

"I know that O'Dell's trying to frame Kennett. I know that for sure. The question is, is he doing it because Kennett's guilty and it's the only way to get him? Or because he's looking for a scapegoat?"

"Bullshit," she said, but he could see the shock in her eyes.

"I found Red Reed in Charleston, South Carolina," he said. "He's a friend of O'Dell's, from Columbia…"

And then he told her most of the rest of it, except for the curious thing Mrs. Logan had said, when they interviewed her in the apartment below Petty's.