Sudden prey

NINE

THE SANDHURST WAS A YELLOW-BRICK SEMIRESIDENTIAL hotel on the west edge of the business district. The building was three stories higher than anything else for two blocks around, and easily covered. The clients were mostly itinerant actors, directors, artists and museum bureaucrats, in town visiting the Guthrie Theater or the Walker Art Center.

Lucas and Sloan brought Weather in through the back, down an alley blocked by unmarked cars. Two members of the Emergency Response Team were on the roof with radios and rifles.

''… everything I've been trying to do,'' Weather was saying. Lucas's head was going up and down as he half-listened. He scanned each face down the alley.

His hand was in his pocket and a. 45 was in his hand. Sloan's wife was already inside.

''It won't be long,'' Lucas said. ''They can't last more than a couple of days.''

''Who? Who can't last?'' Weather demanded, looking upat him. ''You don't even know who they are, except this LaChaise.''

''We'll find out,'' Lucas said. ''They're gonna pay, every fuckin' one of them.'' His voice left little doubt about it, and Weather recoiled, but Lucas had her arm and marched her toward the hotel.

''Let go of my arm,'' she said. ''You're hurting me.''

''Sorry.'' He let go, put his hand in the small of her back, and pushed her along.

The two hotel entries, front and back, met at the lobby: Franklin and Tom Black,

Sherrill's former partner, sat behind a wide rosewood reception desk, shotguns across their thighs, out of sight. The largest cop on the force, a guy named

Loring, read a paperback in one of the lobby's overstuffed chairs. He was wearing a pearl-gray suit and an ascot, and looked like a pro wrestler who'd made it small.

In the entry, a uniformed doorman turned and looked at them when he saw movement down the back hall. Andy Stadic raised a hand, and Lucas nodded at him and then they were around a corner and headed down toward the elevators.

''You know, anybody could find out where we are,'' Weather said.

''They can't get in,'' Lucas said. ''And they can't see you.''

''You said they were Seed people, and Seed people are supposed to be in these militias,'' Weather said. Weather was from northern Wisconsin, and knew about the Seed. ''What if they brought one of those big fertilizer bombs outside?''

''No trucks are coming down this block,'' Lucas said. ''We got the city digging up the streets right now, both sides.''

''You can't hold it, Lucas,'' Weather said. ''The press'll be here, television. ..''

Lucas shook his head: ''They'll know you're here, but they won't get inside. If they try, we'll warn them once, then we'llput their asses in jail. We're not fucking around.''

He took her up to the top floor, and down the hall to a small two-room suite with walls the color of cigar smoke; the rooms smelled like disinfectant and spray deodorant. Weather looked around and said, ''This is awful.''

''Two days. Three days, max,'' Lucas said. ''I'd send you up to the cabin but they know about us, somehow, and I can't take the chance.''

''I don't want to go to the cabin,'' she said. ''I want to work.''

''Yeah,'' Lucas said distractedly. ''I gotta run…''

FOR TWO HOURS AFTER THE KILLINGS, ROSE MARIE Roux's office was like an airport waiting room, fifty people rolling through, all of them weighed down with their own importance, most looking for a shot on national television. The governor stopped, wanted a briefing; a dozen state legislators demanded time with her, along with all the city councilmen.

Lucas spent a half hour watching Sloan and another cop interrogate Duane Cale, who didn't know much about anything.

''But if Dick is here, I'd get my ass out of town,'' Cale said.

The interrogation wouldn't produce much, Lucas thought. He locked himself in his office with Franklin, away from the media and cops who wanted to talk about it.

Sloan came in after a while, and started making calls. Then Del wandered in, his clothes still dappled with his wife's blood.

''How's Cheryl?'' Lucas asked.

Del shook his head: ''She's out of the operating room, asleep. They put her in intensive care, and won't let me in. She'll be there until tomorrow morning, at least.''

''You oughta get some rest,'' Lucas said.

''Fuck that. What're you guys doing?''

''Talking to assholes…''

Between them, they called everyone they knew on the street who had a phone.

Lucas tried Sally O'Donald a halfdozen times, and left word for her at bars along Lake Street.

A little more than two hours after the killings, Roux called:

''We're meeting with the mayor at his office. Ten minutes.''

''Is this real?'' Lucas asked.

''Yeah. This is the real one,'' Roux said.

A minute later, O'Donald called back.

''Can you come down and look at some pictures?'' Lucas asked. ''The guy you thought might be a cop?''

''I can't even remember in my head what he looked like,'' O'Donald said. ''But

I'll come down if you want.''

''Talk to Ed O'Meara in Identification.''

''Okay-but listen. I talked to my agent…''

''Your what?''

''My agent,'' O'Donald said, mildly embarrassed. ''She said she might get five thousand dollars if I talked to Hard Copy.''

''Goddamnit, Sally,'' Lucas said. ''If you screw me and Del.. .''

''Shut up, shut up, shut up,'' O'Donald said. ''I'm not going to screw anybody.

What I want to know is, are you gonna take LaChaise off the street?''

''Yeah. Sooner or later.''

''So if I talk, he won't be able to get at me?''

Lucas hesitated, then said, ''Look, I'll be honest. If you talk, and then you bag outa here for a few days, he'll be gone. He won't last a week.''

''That's what I wanted to know,'' O'Donald said.

''But you gotta tell me when you're going on,'' Lucas said.''We'll put a guy on your house-in your house, maybe- just in case LaChaise comes looking.''

''Jeez,'' she said. There was a minute's silence. ''You put it that way… maybe I won't. I don't want to fuck with Dick.''

''Either way, let me know,'' Lucas said. He glanced at his watch. The meeting was about to start. ''Come in, talk to Ed…''

''Wait a minute, wait a minute. I thought of something else you might want to know.''

''Yeah?''

''You ought to look at the ownership of that laundromat.''

''Why don't you just tell me?'' Lucas asked.

''I understand that it belongs to Daymon Harp.'' The name hung there, but Lucas didn't recognize it.

''Who's he?''

''Jeez, Davenport, you gotta get back on the streets a little more. He's a dealer. Pretty big time…''

''A Seed guy?''

''No, no, never. He's a black guy; good-looking guy. Ask Del. Del'll know who he is.''

''Thanks, Sally.''

''You talk to sex?''

''I'll talk to them tonight.''

When he got off the phone, he said to Del, ''Daymon Harp?''

''Dealer-semi-small-time. Careful. Reasonably smart. Came over from Milwaukee a few years back. Why?''

''Sally O'Donald says he owns the laundromat where she saw LaChaise.''

Del frowned, shook his head. ''I don't know what that means. I can't see Harp running with the Seed guys. That's the last combination I could imagine.''

''Might be worth checking…''

Del looked at Sloan. ''Want to run it down?''

Lucas interrupted. ''Why don't you get cleaned up first? Sloan and Franklin can stay with the phones. When I get back, we'll all go down.''

LUCAS WAS THE LAST ONE IN THE DOOR. THE MEETING included Roux, the mayor and a deputy mayor; Frank Lester, head of investigations; Barney Kittleson, head of patrol; Anita Segundo, the press liaison; and Lucas.

Rose Marie was talking to Segundo when Lucas eased through the door. She asked,

''How bad?''

''CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN and one or two of the Fox cop shows all have people on the way. Nightline is doing a segment tonight. They're talking about LaChaise and his group being militia. Ever since the federal building was blown up in

Oklahoma City, that's a hot topic.''

'' Are they militia?'' the mayor asked. ''Do these media guys know something?''

''The FBI says LaChaise was on the edge of things, but they don't show him really involved,'' Lester said. ''He knew some of the Order people back in the eighties…''

''Didn't the Order kill that radio guy in Denver?'' the mayor asked.

Lester nodded: ''Yes. But the feds took them out a little while later. LaChaise was a big guy in the Seed, and some of the militia people from Michigan were involved in the Seed back when it was a biker gang. And later on, some of the

Seed people got involved with Christian Identity-that's sort of an umbrella group. And we know LaChaise used to sell neo-Nazi stuff in his bike shop: The

Turner Diaries, and all that. Some people think the Seed got its name from a rightwinger who went on the radio and said it was too late to stop the movement, because there were Seeds everywhere. But that could be bullshit.''

''We gotta nail that down,'' the mayor said, jabbing a finger at Roux. ''If these are militia, we gotta start thinking in terms of bombs and heavy weapons.''

Roux glanced at Lucas, scratched her head and said, ''I don't think…''

She stopped, and the mayor's eyebrows went up. ''Yeah?''

''I don't think that's much of a possibility, Stan. I think we're basically dealing with some goofs, with guns. Three guys, psychos, who maybe rode together in a biker gang. And maybe messed around on the edge of the Nazi stuff.''

''Well, you're probably right,'' the mayor said. ''But if they blow up the fuckin' First Bank, I don't want to be standing there with my dick in my hand, trying to explain why we didn't know what was coming.''

Roux nodded. ''That's one thing: we're gonna need a very tight public relations operation, or we're gonna get run over,'' she said. ''We'll have cops gettin' paid off, we'll have reporters chasing witnesses…''

''The guy at Rosedale-the other clerk with Kupicek's wife, in the TV store-he's already signed up for Nightline,'' Segundo said.

The mayor was an olive-complected, bull-shouldered man, with fine curly black hair just starting to recede. He looked at his deputy, then at Roux: ''Rose

Marie, it's gonna be you and me.''

''Sounds like a hit song from the fifties,'' the deputy said, ''Rose Marie, it's you and me.''

Everyone ignored him.

''We lay down the law about cops talking to the press: if you do it, you better get a lot of money, 'cause you won't be working here anymore,'' the mayor said.

''We have four major press briefings every day: one early, to catch the morning shows; one just before noon; one just before five; and one at eight forty-five, to catch the late news. You'll have to coordinatewith your investigators-we should have a bone to throw them at every press conference. Doesn't have to be real, but it has to be satisfying…''

The mayor went on for five minutes, laying out the handling of the press.

Then he turned to Lester and Lucas: ''Lucas, I want you and your people totally off stage. We don't want any arguments about whether the response was provoked by the shootings at the bank.''

''I didn't know that was still a question,'' Lester said.

''There isn't a question,'' the mayor said irritably. ''But the media'll chew on any goddamned bone they can find. You gotta remember we're dealing with the entertainment industry. Die Hard, Oklahoma City, it's all the same. Now it's our turn to make the movie.'' He rapped on the table with his knuckles, still looking at Lester and Lucas: ''We can only bullshit them for so long. We gotta catch these guys.''

''We've got a procedure in emergencies,'' Roux said, and the mayor swiveled back to her. ''We run two parallel investigations. Lucas and his bunch play the angles, and Frank runs the main sweep. Everybody coordinates through Anderson.

He puts out a book every day on every little piece we get. Nobody hides anything from anybody.''

''It works?'' asked the mayor.

''So far,'' Lucas said.

''Then let's do that,'' the mayor said. ''Do we have one single thing we can move on now? Anything?''

''Maybe one,'' said Lucas. He was thinking about the laundromat: a place to start.

SANDY DROVE WHILE BUTTERS LEANED AGAINST THE window on the passenger side.

Elmore followed in Sandy's truck. Elmore hadn't wanted to go at first, and

Butters agreed: Butters wanted Sandy, not her husband.

''I'm not going,'' Sandy had said.

Butters said, ''I ain't got time to argue, Sandy. You're going.'' There was no doubt that she was going: he didn't bother to show her a gun, but it was there.

Butters had an affable, southern-boy line of bullshit, but beneath it, he was as cold as Martin. When she went to get her coat, Butters went with her.

''Are you guarding me?'' she asked.

''I'm making sure that you come along,'' Butters said. ''I know you don't want to.''

''You gonna tell me what happened? Who shot him?''

''No,'' Butters said. He'd told them that LaChaise had been shot in a fight.

Sandy and Elmore had been feeding the stock, and hadn't seen any television.

When it was clear that Sandy was going, Elmore insisted that he go along too.

Butters finally agreed, because he didn't want to waste time arguing: ''But you come down in the van-Sandy goes with me,'' Butters said. ''We're still gonna need both trucks for a while.''

They stopped at the old folks' home, where Sandy still filled in when somebody was sick. A big first-aid kit in the nurse's office gave up bandages, needles and thread, razor blades and antiseptic. A large illegal bottle of Tylenol-3 was kept stashed in the bottom desk drawer, for the miscellaneous aches and pains of old age, and she emptied it. What else? Surgical scissors, a couple of Bic disposable razors, tape. Saline. There was a stock of sterile saline in the storeroom. She took five liters.

The nurses each had a personal drawer in a row of filing cabinets. Nobody bothered to lock them, and Sandy dug around in Marie Admont's drawer and found the bottle of penicillin pills. Marie had gotten them after a crazy old lady had raked her with her fingernails. Marie had only used a fewof the pills, and a half-dozen remained in the bottle. Sandy took them.

THE DRIVE TO ST. PAUL SEEMED TO LAST FOREVER, THE dark strip through Wisconsin, then the winding road out to the interstate on the Minnesota side. Butters said a half-dozen words during the trip, Sandy four or five. Both were caught in their own thoughts.

Once in the Cities, Butters guided them down the interstate, then back into the narrow ice-clogged streets of Frogtown. They parked behind Martin's truck, and got out. Elmore parked behind them, and hurried through the snow, whitefaced, and said, ''I want to talk to Sandy. One minute. Before we go in there.''

Butters said, ''Get your asses in there, goddamnit.''

''I'm going to talk to Elmore,'' Sandy said, her voice like the ice in the streets. ''I'll get to Dick when I get to him.''

''Listen…''

''Are you going to shoot me, Ansel? That'd help Dick a lot.''

Butters backed off, and Sandy took Elmore twenty yards down the street.

''What?''

Elmore was visibly trembling.

''I been listening to the radio,'' he rasped. ''They been down here killing cops' families. That's all they're talking about on the radio, every station I could get. They killed two people and there's a third one might die. Everybody in the goddamned world is looking for them, Sandy.''

Sandy looked at him, then turned and looked at Butters, who stood silently waiting. ''Oh my God,'' she said.

''We got to get out,'' Elmore said.

''Let's go see Dick,'' Sandy said. ''I'll work us out of here. But you're right.

We've got to see John.''

They walked down the driveway together, Butters lingering just out of earshot.

Martin waited at the door.

''Come on in,'' he said to Sandy. He looked at Elmore and nodded, and Elmore looked away.

The house had one couch, a broken-down wreck in the living room. Martin had pulled the cushions off and thrown them on the floor, and LaChaise was lying on them, his head propped up with a pillow. Martin had covered him with a blanket, and LaChaise grinned at Sandy when she came in.

''How bad?'' she asked.

''Not too bad,'' LaChaise said. ''It's more like… it's gotta be cleaned up.''

''Let me see,'' Sandy said. ''I need a light.''

They peeled the blanket off and LaChaise rolled onto his side. The pain had subsided somewhat, and he lifted his arm so she could see more clearly. At the same time, Butters took the shade off a table lamp, and held it like a torch over LaChaise.

Sandy looked at the wound for a moment. An open gash, at the back, became a bluish streak where the bullet had gone beneath the skin. A small round exit wound showed four inches below his nipple and over to the side. A trailing gash showed some rib meat. Sandy looked up at LaChaise. ''You gotta go to a hospital,'' she said.

''Can't do that. You gotta fix it.''

She looked at it again. In fact, she could fix it. ''It'll hurt,'' she said.

''Atta girl,'' LaChaise said, and to Butters: ''Told you so.''

''I believed you,'' Butters said.

''What happened?'' she asked. ''How'd you get shot?''

''Argument over traveling money,'' LaChaise said. ''The guy owed me…''

''Did you kill him?''

''No, I didn't kill him,'' LaChaise said, smiling faintly.''Now, you want to fix me? This hurts like hell.''

''You lying sonofabitch,'' Sandy said evenly. ''You killed some cops' families.

I oughta…''

Before she could finish, Martin backhanded her. His hand was like a leg of beef, and knocked her flat. For a second, she didn't know what had happened, and then dazed, ears ringing, heard LaChaise say, ''Whoa, whoa…'' Behind him,

Elmore: ''Goddamnit…''

She rolled, tried to sit up, and Martin was there, his face inches from hers:

''Stop the bullshit. You fix him or I'll cut you into fuckin' fish bait.''

Across the room, Butters was smiling at Elmore, half expecting him to make a move, but Elmore swallowed and shut up.

Sandy got back to her feet, turned away from Martin without a word and said to

LaChaise, ''I brought you some pills. You should take a few before we start.''

LaChaise looked at her, then at Martin, and grinned at Martin: ''I wouldn't turn your back on her,'' he said.

LACHAISE TOOK THE PILLS WITH A SWALLOW OF water, and looked past Sandy at

Elmore. ''El, I hate to say this, but you better get back. I was recognized, and the cops'll probably be coming by again.''

''I thought it'd be best if Sandy come back tonight,'' Elmore said.

''She's staying,'' Martin said bluntly. ''Overnight, anyway. Until Dick's okay.''

''What the hell am I supposed to tell the cops if they come?'' Elmore demanded.

''They'll want to know where she is.''

''Tell 'em she went out to the store, then call us on my cell phone. She can be back in an hour,'' LaChaise said.

''Sandy…'' Elmore couldn't say it, but she knew what he was thinking.

''Come on, El, let's get my stuff out of the truck,'' Sandy said. She nodded at

LaChaise. ''I'll get my stuff and kiss El good-bye.''

''I'll help,'' Butters said.

''You can stand on the porch,'' said Sandy.

Outside, at the truck, Elmore whispered, ''I'm sorry about that in there. I was gonna say something…'' He scuffled at the snow with the toe of his boot.

''We gotta get out.''

''I know.'' She looked back at the house, at Butters standing there on the dark porch. ''But I've got to get clear. If they killed cops' families, then they're dead men. I'll be back home tomorrow, and we'll figure something out.''

''Sandy…'' He stepped up to her, maybe to kiss her. She moved just an inch sideways and pecked him on the cheek.

''You go on; I'll be okay. Just wait 'til I get there, before you call John.''

He didn't want to go, but he couldn't stay. He shifted his feet, looked up at the sky, shook his head, then started the low moaning that she'd seen earlier: he was weeping again.

''El, El, hold on,'' she said. ''Come on, El…''

''Ah, Jesus,'' he said.

''I'll see you in the morning,'' she said.

As Elmore was starting the truck, Sandy walked back toward the house; Butters suddenly dropped off the porch and hurried past her, waving at Elmore. Elmore rolled down the driver's-side window and Butters came up, leaned close to

Elmore, grinned and said, ''You call the cops, we'll cut off her head.''

THE BULLET HAD SIMPLY SLIPPED BENEATH THE SKIN and back out again, but the wound had to be opened and cleaned. Sandy cut through the skin, carefully, with a razor blade. Fresh blood trickled into the gash, but as soon as she had the entire pathway open, she flushed it with saline, thensoaked a sterile gauze pad with more saline and dabbed it clean. At the bottom of the wound, there was a flash of white. Rib bone.

''Just touched a rib,'' she said to Martin.

''I see,'' he said, peering into the hole. He was interested in bullet wounds.

After a final wash, she repaired the razor cut with a long series of rolling stitches with black nylon thread, then painted the area around the wound with antiseptic. LaChaise wiggled a few times, but kept his mouth shut.

When she'd finished the stitching, Sandy's hands were red with blood. She went to the kitchen, washed, then returned to LaChaise and put a heavy bandage over the wound. She fixed the bandage in place with round-the-chest wraps of gauze, and then tape.

At the end of it, LaChaise sat up.

''Maybe you shouldn't move,'' she said.

He was feeling the pills, and smiled weakly and said, ''Shit, I been hurt worse than this by sissies.''

''That's the codeine. You're gonna hurt later on,'' Sandy said.

''I can live with it,'' he said. He got shakily to his feet and looked down at the bandaging job. ''Jesus, good job. Really good job. You're a little honey,'' he said.

DEL AND LUCAS WERE ON THE WAY OUT OF THE BUILDING when Sloan caught up: ''I'm coming,'' he said. ''Keep you out of trouble.''

All the way out to the laundromat, they argued about the shootings, and the response. Del said the season was open.

''Wouldn't be murder,'' Del said stubbornly. ''I wouldn't just shoot them cold.''

''… and the thing is,'' Lucas continued, ''you'd take allof us down with you. We'd all go out to Stillwater together. Nobody'd believe it was just you.''

An unwanted grin popped up on Del's face: ''Hell, we know half the guys out there. Be like old home week.''

Sloan said, ''Lucas is right. I don't even think you should be riding with us.

If you pop somebody now, after Cheryl, the media'd crucify us, and the grand jury'd be on us like a hot sweat: the politics would kill us.''

''Well, who in the hell's side is everybody on?'' Del asked. ''What about

Cheryl?''

''Don't ask that question,'' Lucas said. ''The answer'll piss you off.''

They were in Lucas's Explorer, Lucas driving, beating through the desolate streets to the near south side. Lights showed on the laundromat's second floor.

Below them, behind the storefront windows of the laundromat, five women, all of them black, folded clothes, read magazines or sat and stared at the dirty pink plaster walls.

Lucas stopped in a bus zone on the corner, twenty yards up the street from the windows. ''When I talked to Lonnie, he said if you go up the main stairway, you get to the top and there's a bunch of junk, cardboard boxes and stuff, all piled up. You can't get through to the door, not in a hurry, anyway,'' Del said, peering up at the second-story windows. ''There's a back stairs that comes down inside the garage. But the garage door's locked, and you can't get through that.''

''So you go up the stairs and make a lot of noise-kick the boxes out of the way, bang away on the door,'' Sloan said to Del. ''We'll wait out back. If he opens up the front door, you call us; and if he runs, we'll be the net.''

''All right,'' Del said, ''but I think we might be barking up the wrong tree. I can't see Harp having anything to do with a bunch of…'' He stopped in midsentence, pointed through the windshield. ''Hey-look there.''

A woman was walking toward them, half skating on the slippery sidewalk, holding what appeared to be a small white bakery sack. She passed under a streetlight and then into the brighter lights from the laundromat window.

''That's Jas Smith, Daymon's old lady,'' Del said.

Lucas said, ''Let's take her. Maybe she'll invite us up.''

''Yeah.'' Del and Sloan hopped out of the right side, while Lucas walked around the nose of the truck, converging on Jasmine. She was wearing a brimmed hat, and her head was down against the snow: she didn't see them coming until they were on top of her.

Then she jumped, and put her hand across her heart: '' Goddamn, Capslock, give me some warning.''

''Sorry…''

''If I was carrying a little piece or something, I might of shot you outa self-defense, popping out like that.''

She looked at Lucas and Sloan, worried, and Del said, ''This is Chief Davenport and Detective Sloan. We got something we need to talk to Daymon about. Not bust him; just talk.''

''Whyn't you call him up?''

''Because we didn't want him hanging up on us,'' Sloan said pleasantly. ''You hear about all those cops' husbands and wives getting shot today?''

''Everybody heard,'' she said.

''My wife was one of them,'' Del said. ''She's in the hospital now, and she's hurting. We want you to know how serious this is-so why don't you just open up the garage and we'll go on up and talk to Daymon.''

She looked from Del to Sloan to Lucas, and said, ''He'd kick my ass if I done that. I mean, he'd kick me so bad.''

Del looked at Lucas and nodded: he would.

''What happened to your hand?'' Lucas asked. Jasminewasn't carrying a bakery sack; her hand was professionally wrapped in a huge white bandage.

She looked down at it, and her lip trembled: ''Paper cutter,'' she said. ''Cut my finger right off.'' She started to blubber. ''It was just layin' there, and I knew it was off, and then the blood squirted out…''

Lucas said, ''Jeez, that's too bad. Look, Daymon must have an unlisted number, right? Of course he does.''

He nodded, and she nodded. He took a cellular phone out of his pocket.

''So why don't you dial him up, and tell him we're down here by the garage, and then he can go brush his teeth or whatever, and we can go on up.''

''I'll try,'' she said, after a moment.

HARP LET THEM UP, UNHAPPY ABOUT IT. THE APARTMENT smelled of marijuana, but nothing fresh, just old curtainandrug contacts, enough to get you started if you'd gone to college in the sixties. Harp was waiting for them in the kitchen, his butt against the edge of the table, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at Jasmine as if she were at fault, and she said, ''Honey, they snatched me right off the street, they knew you was up here…''

Del said, ''That's right, Day; we were coming up, one way or another.''

''What you want?'' Harp grunted.

''You heard about the killings?''

''Didn't do it,'' Harp said.

Lucas felt a tingle: Harp was a little too tough. ''We know you didn't do it personally, but we think you might have a connection,'' Lucas said. ''Two of the people involved met down in your laundromat. We have a witness. We want to know why these two white assholes would come halfway across the country to meet in

Daymon Harp's laundromat.''

''You think I'd help them peckerwoods?'' Harp asked indignantly. ''I been inside with those motherfuckers. Daymon Harp ain't helping them no way, no place, no time.''

''How'd you know they were peckerwoods?'' Sloan asked. ''We didn't say they were peckerwoods.''

''They all over the TV,'' Harp said. ''They're Seeds, right? I know all about it-you can't get nothin' but TV news. They canceled Star Trek.''

''Who's your cop friend?'' Lucas asked.

Harp's eyelid flickered, a quick twitch. ''What kind of bullshit you talkin'?''

They pushed him for twenty minutes, but he wouldn't move. He knew nothing, saw nothing, had heard nothing. On the way out the door, Lucas said to Jasmine,

''Take care of the hand.''

OUTSIDE, THEY HURRIED ALONG TO THE TRUCK, blown by the breeze. Sloan said, ''I don't know what he knows, but I think he's got a corner on something.''

''I'll talk to Narcotics. We'll shut him down,'' Lucas said. He looked back up at the apartment lights. ''Twenty-four hours, maybe he'll be ready.''

Del shook his head: ''He can't talk. Too many dead people, now. If he's got a connection, he'll do everything he can to bury it.'' He looked back at the apartment: ''I'll bet you anything he books it.''

LACHAISE HAD CALLED STADIC WITH THE NUMBER OF his new cell phone: Stadic had been in the office, and he scribbled it down, stuck the paper in his wallet.

Two hours later, the shit hit the fan. He tried calling the number, but there was no answer. Then he was swept up in the chaos of the response, and eventually found himself wearinga doorman's uniform, working the door at the hotel where the families were hidden. No time to call…

At ten o'clock the night of the attacks, the bank time and temperature sign down the block said -2°. Stadic traded his doorman's uniform for street clothes and hurried down the street to his car. The ferocity of the attacks had stunned him.

Near panic, he'd spent the evening pacing in and out of the Sandhurst, wondering whether he should run for it. He had almost enough money…

But he realized, with a little thought, that it was too late. Cops' families had been attacked. That was worse than killing the cops themselves. If anyone found out that he'd been involved, there'd be no place to hide. If he were to be saved now, salvation would come in one form: the death of La-Chaise and all of his friends. Which wasn't impossible…

He sat in his car, took out his cellular phone, punched in his home number. Two calls on the answering machine. The first was Daymon Harp, who said two words:

''Call me.'' The second call was nothing.

Stadic erased the tape, hung up, found LaChaise's number in his wallet and punched it in. The phone was answered on the first ring.

''Hello?'' A man's voice, a southerner.

''Let me speak to Dick,'' Stadic said.

LaChaise came on a second later: ''What?''

''You're fucked now. You can't walk a block without bumping into a cop.''

''We can handle it. What we need is their location. We heard on the radio they were all being moved.''

''They're at the Sandhurst Hotel in Minneapolis,'' Stadic said. ''They're sequestered in interior rooms. There are cops all through the place. Snipers on the roof. The streets are being dug up outside, so you can't get a car close.''

After a moment of silence, LaChaise said, ''We'll think of something.''

''No, you won't. There's no way in. And who got shot? One of you is hit, they found blood down Capslock's sidewalk.''

''I got scratched,'' LaChaise said. ''It's nothing. We need to know more about this hotel.''

''There's no way in,'' Stadic said. ''But there are some people outside you might be interested in-and I don't think there's a watch on them.''

''Who's that?'' LaChaise asked.

''You know Davenport?'' Stadic asked. He looked down the street at the hotel.

Another cop paraded the lobby, behind the glass doors, in the doorman's uniform.

Stadic was due back in the uniform in the morning. ''He runs the group that shot your women.''

''We know Davenport. He's on the list,'' LaChaise said.

''He's got a daughter that almost nobody knows about, because he never married the mother,'' said Stadic. ''She's not on any insurance forms.''

''Where is she?''

''Down on Minnehaha Creek-that's in south Minneapolis. I got the address and phone number.''

''Let me get a pencil…'' LaChaise was back in a minute, and scribbled down the address. ''Why're you doing this?'' LaChaise asked.

'' 'Cause I want you to finish and get out of here. You got three of them. You get Davenport's daughter, we set something up on Franklin, and you're outa here.''

LaChaise said nothing, but Stadic could hear the hum of the open line. Then

LaChaise said, ''Sounds like bullshit.''

''Listen, I just want you to get the fuck out of here,'' Stadic said. Then, ''I gotta go. I'll call you about Franklin.''

Stadic hung up, and dialed Harp's unlisted number. Harp picked it up on the first ring.

''What?'' Stadic asked.

''Cops were here. Capslock and Davenport and another guy. Somebody saw you and

LaChaise in the laundromat. They think I know something about LaChaise.''

''Just hang on,'' Stadic said.

''I don't know, man. I'm thinking about taking a vacation.''

Stadic thought a minute, then said, ''Listen, how much trouble would it cause the business, if you were gone for a week?''

''Not much,'' Harp said. ''I make a couple of big deliveries, we'd be all right.

You think I should walk?''

''Yeah,'' Stadic said. ''Go somewhere they wouldn't expect. Not Las Vegas. Not

Miami.''

''Puerto Rico?''

''That'd be the place,'' Stadic said. ''They'd never think of it.''

''Great pussy. No pussy like Puerto Rico pussy,'' Harp said.

''Forget the pussy. Just get your ass down there so Davenport can't get right on top of you. Take Jas.''

''What for? She ain't doing me no good,'' Harp said. ''She been weepin' around about this finger.''

''You need a witness. There's some heavy shit coming down. You might want to prove that you weren't here. Take a credit card, and buy some stuff down there.

Keep the receipts, so you can prove it.''

''Yeah, okay. Good idea,'' Harp said.

''Stay in touch. Call my place, leave a hotel name on the tape. Nothing else, just the hotel name.''

''We're outa here,'' Harp said, and he hung up.

Harp's disappearance would simplify things, Stadicthought: one less problem to worry about. LaChaise would be gone in a week, and in two weeks, nobody would be coming back to Harp.

LUCAS CALLED A MEETING FOR TEN O'CLOCK: AT nine-fifteen he shut himself in his office and closed his eyes, feet up on the desk, and worked parts of it out. At nine-thirty, he started going through LaChaise's file, everything that Harmon

Anderson had managed to put together from Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois and the