Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

“You mean like Worthington, Marshall, down there?”

“No, no, not southwest Minnesota, the southwestern United States. Texas, probably. Maybe New Mexico. Like that. Daniel will make it official that he was seen in farmer clothes, just like you had it. But now they think it might be a disguise and that he’s really white-collar.”

“Great. Really great, Red Horse. What else?”

“There’ll be more on the list, but that’s the best stuff. And listen, before you put it on the air, call Anderson and ask him about it. He’ll tell you. He’s in his office now.” He gave her Anderson’s direct line. “Thanks. I’ll see you on the air in fifteen minutes.”

• • •

Midafternoon. Lucas was suffering post-luncheon tristesse, and sluggishly picked up the phone.

“Lucas?”

“How’re you feeling, Jennifer?”

“What’s going on with McGowan?”

“Jennifer, goddammit—”

“No, no, no. I’m not asking you if you screwed her. You already gave me Boy Scout’s honor on that. What I want to know is, what’s going on with McGowan and the surveillance? Why are the cops watching her?”

Lucas hesitated before answering, and instantly knew he had made a mistake.

“Ah. You are watching her,” Jennifer crowed.

“Jennifer, remember when I asked you to talk to the chief before you did anything on Carla Ruiz? I’m asking you to talk to him again.”

Evening. The sun went down noticeably early now. The summer was gone. Lucas waited outside the door of Daniel’s office. He had been waiting fifteen minutes when Daniel came in from the outside.

“Come in,” he said. He pulled off his topcoat and tossed it on the couch. “I’m asking you straight out. Did you tip Jennifer Carey on the surveillance?”

“Absolutely not. She’s got her own sources. She called me and I sent her to you.”

Daniel poked a finger at him. “If I find out otherwise, I’ll kick your ass.”

“It wasn’t me. What happened when she called?”

“I called the station manager, got him with Carey in a meeting, and read them the riot act. Carey started on this media-ethics trip and the station manager told her to shut up. Said he wasn’t going to have his station blamed if a star from another station was murdered by the maddog.”

“So that’s it?”

“They wanted equal access with Channel Eight. They’re going to take a camera into her house over the weekend, when nothing’s happening, shoot some film of McGowan ironing shirts or something. We’ll let them in the surveillance post for a few minutes. Just the once.”

“And they hold the film until we catch him?”

“That’s the deal.”

“Not a bad deal,” Lucas said approvingly. “What did Jennifer have to say about it?”

“She was unhappy, but she’ll go along. She’ll produce the McGowan interview. Some kid’s reporting it,” Daniel said. “To tell you the truth, I think she’s a little jealous. I think she wishes it were her, not McGowan.”

“Do you remember that awful poem you wrote to me when we first started going out? About having my baby?”

“That wasn’t so awful,” Lucas said, propping himself on one elbow. There was a little edge to his voice. “I thought it was rather intricate.”

“Intricate? It sounded like a bad teenage rock-’n’-roll song from 1959.”

“Look, I know you don’t particularly like my—”

“No, no, no. I loved it. I kept it. I have it taped to the pull-out typewriter tray on my desk, and about once a week I open it and read it. I just read it today, and I was thinking: Well, I really am having his baby.”

Lucas pressed his ear to Jennifer’s bare midriff.

“Am I supposed to be hearing anything yet?”

“Are you listening really closely?”

“Yeah.” He pressed down harder.

“Well, if you listen very closely . . .”

“Yeah?”

“You can probably hear that Budweiser I had before bed.”

Lucas arrived at the lake in time to watch the sun go down Saturday evening. Carla was gone on the bike, but arrived a half-hour later with a small bag of groceries and a bottle of red wine. Lucas spent Saturday night and Sunday, and most of Sunday night at the cabin. At two in the morning he kissed Carla on the lips and drove back to the Cities, hitting his own bed a little after five. He was late for the project meeting again.

“Whatever happened to the list of people we got from the Rice woman?” Lucas asked. Monday morning in the chief’s office. Half the detectives looked out of focus, tired from another weekend’s overtime. “You know, when we were checking about the maddog’s gun and who bought it from her husband?”

“Well, we checked everybody she could remember,” said Sloan, who had done the Rice interview.

“Nothing?”

“We didn’t actually interview everybody. We checked them. If they were way off the profile, we let it go. You know, women, old men, boys, we let them go. We did interviews with everybody that might come close to the profile, and came up dry. We were going to go back to the rest, but everything slowed down when Jimmy Smithe started to look good. Everything got thrown on that.”

“We should go back for interviews with everybody,” Lucas said, turning to Daniel. “We know that goddamn gun is critical. Maybe somebody bought it and resold it. I say we check women, boys, old men, everybody.”

“Get on it,” Daniel told Anderson. “I assumed it was done.”

“Well . . .”

“Just get it done.”

Lucas sat on the attic floor.

“Wednesday. I didn’t think we’d make it to Wednesday,” said the surveillance man. “He’s overdue.”

“Cold in here,” Lucas said. “You can feel the wind coming through.”

“Yeah. We keep the door open but there aren’t any heating vents. We’re thinking about bringing up a space heater.”

“Good idea.”

“Thing is, downtown doesn’t want to pay for it. And we don’t want to get stuck for the money.”

“I’ll talk to Daniel,” Lucas said.

“Car coming,” said the second surveillance man.

The car rolled slowly down the street, paused beneath them, and then kept going, around the corner.

“Get the plate?”

“Guy at the end of the street’s doing that, one of the cars. He’s got a starlight scope.”

A radio sitting beside the mattress suddenly burped.

“Get him?” the surveillance man asked.

“Yeah. Neighbor.”

“He slowed down outside her house.”

“Guy’s sixty-six, but I’ll note it,” said the radio voice.

“How’s it going?”

“Cold,” the car man said.

They went back to waiting.

“Action stations,” the surveillance man said twenty minutes later. “I get the scope.”

Lucas watched through binoculars. McGowan was wearing a frothy pink negligee and tiny matching bikini pants. She moved back and forth behind the eight-inch gap in the curtain, more tantalizing than any professional stripper.

“She’s gotta know,” the surveillance cop said.

“I don’t think so,” Lucas said. “I think she’s just so used to that gap in the curtains that she doesn’t notice—”

“Bullshit. Look at that, when she stretches. She’s showing it off. But she never shows all of it. She walks around without a bra, but you never catch her without her pants, even when she’s been in taking a shower. She’s teasing us. I say she knows . . .”

They were still arguing about it when the maddog did the cripple.

CHAPTER

18

The maddog got a flier at the county clerk’s office, a piece of pink paper handed to him as he walked out the door. He read it as he stood in front of the bank of elevators.

There was no attempt at a drawing and no real description. They said he was white-collar, possibly connected with the Hennepin County Government Center or Minneapolis City Hall. Fair-skinned. Southwestern accent, possibly Texas. Once seen dressed as farmer, but that was probably a disguise.

The maddog folded the paper and stood watching the lights on the elevator indicator. When it came, he stepped inside, nodded to the other two occupants, turned, and stared at the door. He hadn’t thought that he might have an accent. Did he? In his own ears, he sounded like everybody else. He knew talking to Davenport would be a mistake. Now he might pay for it.

The maddog’s mind slipped easily into the legal mode. What could they make of it? So he had an accent. Hundreds of people did. He was white-collar. So was most of Minneapolis. He frequently passed through the Government Center. So did ten thousand people a day, some with business in the Center, some passing through in the skyways. A conviction? No chance. Or little chance, anyway. Some leeway must be given for the vagaries of juries. But would he take a jury? That was something to be contemplated. If they got him, he could ask for a nonjury trial. No judge would convict him on what they had on the flier. But what else did they have? The maddog bit his lip.

What else?

As he worried, the need for another was growing. The law student’s face floated before him, against the stainless-steel doors. He was so taken with the vision of her that when the doors opened, he started, and the woman standing beside him glanced at him curiously. The maddog hurried off the elevator, through the skyways, and back to his office. His secretary was out somewhere. As he passed her desk, he saw the corner of a pink slip of paper under a file folder. He paused, glanced around quickly, and pulled it out. A flier. He pushed it back in place. Where was she?

He went inside his office, dropped his briefcase beside the desk, sat down, and cupped his face in his hands. He was still sitting like that when there was a tentative knock at the door. He looked up and saw his secretary watching him through the vertical glass panel beside the door. He waved her in.

“Are you okay? I saw you sitting like that . . .”

“Bad day,” the maddog said. “I’m just about done here. I’m going to head out home.”

“Okay. Mr. Wexler sent around the file on the Carlson divorce, but it looks pretty routine,” she said. “You won’t have to do anything on it before the end of the week anyway.”

“Thanks. If you don’t have anything to do, you might as well take the rest of the day,” he said.

“Oh. Okay,” she said brightly.

On the way out to his car, he thought about the innocent conversation. He had said, “Bad day.” He had said, “I’m just about done here, I’m going to head out home.” That’s what he thought he had said. Had his secretary heard, “Bayed day-ee”? Had she heard “Ah’m” instead of “I’m”? Was “head out” a Texas expression, or did they use that here?

Did he sound like Lyndon Johnson?

At his apartment, the maddog looked in the freezer, took out a microwave dinner, set the timer on the oven, and punched the Start button. His face was reflected in the window of the microwave. Lips like red worms. His hand slipped into his coat pocket and encountered the flier. He took it out and read through it again.

The victims, it said, were a type. Dark eyes, dark hair. Attractive. Young to middle-aged.

He thought about it. They were right, of course. Maybe he should take a blonde. But blondes didn’t appeal. The pale skin, the pale hair. Cold-blooded people. And he didn’t want anyone old. That was distasteful. Old women would know too much about their own deaths. His women should be confronting the prospect for the first time.

I won’t change, he thought. No need to, really. There were better than a million women in the Twin Cities. Probably a quarter of a million fit his “type.” A quarter-million prospective Chosen women. From that point of view, the description of a “type” was meaningless. The police wouldn’t have a chance. He felt a surge of confidence: the whole thing was meaningless. Having been fought off by one woman, having been seen at the Brown killing by another witness, he realized the police had less than he had expected. If they were telling everything.

The microwave beeped at him and he took the dinner out and carried it to the table. If they catch me, he thought as he ate the lonely meal, I could use the microwave defense. Like the guy who claimed he was driven crazy by excess sugar from an overdose of Twinkies. The Twinkie defense; his would be the Tater-Tot defense. He speared one of the potato nubbins and peered at it, popped it in his mouth.

Tonight, he thought. I can’t wait any longer.

He called the cripple’s house a little after six but there was no answer. He called again at seven. No answer. At eight there was an answer.

“Phyllis?” he asked in his highest-pitched voice.

“You must have the wrong number.” It was the first time he’d heard her voice. It was low and musical.

“Oh, dear,” he said. He sounded dainty in his own ears; like anything but a killer. He gave her a number with one digit different from her own.

“That’s the wrong number,” she said. “I’m five-four– seven-six.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” he said, and hung up. She was home.

He prepared carefully, the excitement growing but under control. A hunter’s excitement, a hunter’s joy. He would wear his best tweed sport coat, the black cashmere overcoat, with black loafers. Snap-brim felt hat.

The overcoat had big pockets. They would take the potato—the potato had worked so well last time. He went to the closet, took a Kotex pad out of the box he’d bought three months before. Tape. Latex gloves under his leather driver’s gloves. A scarf would partially cover the bottom of his face, giving him more protection against recognition: this was new, after all, a collection in his own neighborhood. Had to be ready to abort, he thought. If anyone sees me outside her door, forget it.

Knife? No. She’d have one.

When he was ready, he went through the side door into the attached garage, got in the car, punched the button on the remote garage-door opener, backed into the street, closed the garage, drove two blocks, and parked the car. He reached into the back seat and got a brown business envelope, opened the flap, and looked inside. A half-dozen forms, procured from a bin on the first floor of the Government Center. Applications for employment.

As he walked down to the door, the excitement became almost unbearable. I am coming, he prayed, I am coming for the Chosen; the One is coming. He felt the cold wind on his face and exulted in it, the smell of the Northwest, the expectant winter.

He walked briskly to her house, a businessman on business, and without breaking step turned down her sidewalk. The door had four small panes set in the center, just at head height, partly covered by a small curtain. He looked into her kitchen. She was not in sight. The maddog rapped on the door.

And waited. Rapped again. A noise? Then he saw her, rolling down the linoleum floor in her wheelchair. Not a wealthy woman, but such a face; such a fresh face, for one who had been so badly injured. An optimist.

She half-opened the inner door, left the outer one closed.

“Yes?”

“Miss Wheatcroft? I am Louis Vullion, an attorney with Felsen-Gore. I’m on the Minnesota Bar Association scholarship committee.” He reached under his coat, took out a business card, opened the outer door, and handed it to her. She looked at it and said, curiously, “Yes?”

He held up the brown envelope. “I was just talking to Dean Jensen at the law school. Actually, I was over there picking up applications for the Felsen Legal Residencies and Dean Jensen said you must have neglected to submit yours. Either that, or it was lost?” He waved the brown envelope at her, started to fumble out the white application forms.

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I never heard of them.”

“Never heard of them?” The maddog was puzzled. How could she not have heard of them? “I’m sorry, I assumed all the top students knew about the residencies. They pay so well, and, you know, you probably get more experience in top-level personal injury and tort. They’re at least as sought after as the clerkships, especially since they pay so well.”

She hesitated, looked at his face, his clothes, the brown envelope, the business card. “Maybe you better come in, Mr . . . .”

“Vullion,” he said, stepping inside. “Louis Vullion. Nasty night, isn’t it?”

This one was different. Comfortable, almost. He took almost twenty minutes to kill her, lying nude beside her on her bed, the rubber firmly protecting him from seminal disclosures. He needed it. He came once as he worked on her and again when he finally slipped the knife under her breastbone and her back arched and she left him.

And he felt sleepy, looking at her, and laid his head upon her breast.

Cold. Stiff. He sat up, looked around. My God, he had been asleep. Panic gripped him and he looked down at her cooling body and then wildly around the room. How long? How long? He glanced at his watch. Nine-forty-five.

He stood, tore off the rubber, flushed it. His body was covered with blood. He stepped into the tiny bathroom, turned on the shower, and rinsed himself. He kept the latex gloves on; he didn’t want to leave prints. Not now. Not in his finest hour so far.

When he’d cleaned off most of the blood, he stepped out of the shower but left it to run. If he’d lost any hair in the shower, the water might wash it down the drain. He picked up a towel, then put it down. Hair again. He dried himself with his undershirt, and when he was reasonably dry, he stuffed the shirt in his coat pocket. Thinking about hair had made him paranoid. He had continued shaving his pubic hair, but he feared the loss of hair from his chest or head. He got his roll of tape, made a loop around his hand, and blotted the bed where he’d been lying. When he was finished, he looked at the tape; there were small hairlike filaments stuck to it, and what might have been one or two black pubic hairs, the woman’s. Nothing red, nothing of his. He stuffed the tape in his coat pocket with the damp shirt, stepped into the bathroom, turned off the shower, and dressed.

When he was ready, he looked around, took stock. Still wearing the latex gloves. Sport coat, overcoat, hat, scarf, driving gloves. Was he forgetting anything? The business card. He found it on the floor. That was everything. Leave the sock and potato on the floor. Drop the note on her chest: Isolate yourself from random discovery. Ready. He patted her on the tummy and left.

He stepped out, walked down the sidewalk and around the house, stripping off the latex gloves as he walked. The old woman’s apartment was dark. There was a light upstairs, in the third apartment, but nobody at the window. He walked briskly down the sidewalk, and, as he passed under a streetlight, noticed a dark stain on the back of one hand. He hesitated, looking at it. Blood? He touched it to his tongue. Blood. Sweet. He passed no one on the street on the way to his car. He opened it, climbed in, and drove.

Out to I-94. Pressure behind his eyes. He was going to do it. Telephone on a pole, outside a Laundromat. One guy inside, reading a newspaper while his clothes went around in the dryer. It was a mistake before, it would be a mistake again. But he needed it. He needed it like he needed the women. Someone to talk to. Someone who might understand. The maddog pulled in to the Laundromat phone, dialed Davenport’s house.

And got an answering machine. “Leave a message,” Davenport’s voice said tersely, without identifying itself. There was a beep. The maddog was disappointed. It was not the same as human contact. He touched his tongue to the spot of blood on the back of his hand, savored it, then said, “I did another one.”

The line stayed open and he wet his lips.

“It was lovely,” he said.

CHAPTER

19

“It was lovely.”

Lucas listened a second time, the despair growing in his chest.

“Motherfucker,” he whispered.

He ran the tape back and played it again.

“It was lovely.”

“Motherfucker.” He sank down beside the desk, put his elbow on it, propped his forehead up with his hand. He sat for three minutes, unable to think. The house huddled around him, dim, protective, quiet. A car rolled by in the street, its lights tracking across the wall. Rousing himself, he called Minneapolis and asked for the watch commander.

“Nothing here,” he was told. St. Paul said the same. Nothing in Bloomington. There were too many suburbs to check them all. And Lucas thought it likely that the maddog had killed one in Lucas’ own jurisdiction. It was a contest now. Explicitly.

“Lucas?” Daniel’s voice had an ugly edge to it.

“I got a call. He’s says he’s done another one.”

“Sweet bleedin’ Jesus,” Daniel said. In the background Lucas heard Daniel’s wife ask if there had been another one, and where.

“I don’t know where,” Lucas said. “He didn’t tell me. He just said it was lovely.”

They found the law student two days later, in the late afternoon. She rarely missed class. When she was gone the first day, her absence was noted, but not investigated. When she missed the second day with no word from her, no excuse, a friend called her apartment but got no answer. At dinnertime the friend stopped and saw the light in the back. She knocked, peered through the window, saw a rubber grip handle of the wheelchair protruding from the bedroom doorway. Worried, she went to the old woman, who brought her keys. Together they found the Chosen.

“I was afraid the maddog had killed her,” the friend wept when the first cops arrived. “I thought of it on the way over. What if the maddog’s taken her?”

“Red Horse?”

“Annie, there’s another one,” Lucas said. He gave her the name and address. “Over by the university. A law student, crippled. Name Cheryl—”

“Spell it.”

“Wheatcroft, C-h-e-r-y-l W-h-e-a-t-c-r-o-f-t. There have been a bunch of newspaper stories about her, I think, in the Strib.”

“I can look. We’ve got an on-line library.”

“Look in the Pioneer Press too. She was a senior, right at the top of her class. Her folks are here; they live over on the east side of St. Paul. Nobody else knows about it yet, but everybody’s going to find out pretty soon. There are about a million cops in the street, going in and out. And the medical examiner. We’re attracting neighbors and students. But if you get a crew over here fast, you should catch the parents coming out.”

“Five minutes,” she said, and hung up.

“Cheryl Wheatcroft,” Daniel said. He stood in the kitchen, hatless, coatless, angry. “What did she do to deserve this, Davenport? Did she sin? Did she fornicate in the nighttime? Did she miss Mass on Sunday? What did she fuckin’ do, Davenport?”

Lucas looked away from the outburst, tried to deflect it with a question. “What’d they show her folks?”

“Her face. That’s all. Her mother wanted to see the rest of her, but I told her old man to get her out of here. He was almost as bad as the old lady, but he knew what we were talking about, he got her out. That TV camera was right in their faces. Jesus Christ, those people are animals, the fuckin’ TV people are as bad as the fuckin’ maddog.”

The homicide detectives moved around the apartment with their heads down, as though with poor posture they might somehow avoid Daniel’s wrath. The talk was in whispers. It continued in whispers after Daniel left. When he went out the door, the TV cameras across the street caught his face and held it. For the next week, his profile, frozen in anguish like a block of Lake Superior ice, was used to promo the nightly news on Channel Eight.

Lucas stayed at the scene while the technicians processed it. “Is there anything out of the pattern?” he asked the medical examiner.

The chief examiner was on the scene in person. He turned his eyes on Lucas and gave him a tiny nod. “Yeah. He butchered her. The other ones, it was surgical. Go in, kill. This one, he cut apart. She was alive for most of it.”

“Sex?”

“You mean did he rape her? No. Doesn’t look like it. She has numerous stab wounds over the pelvic area, up into the vaginal opening, the rectum, then across the anterior aspect of the pelvis—”

“The what?”

“The front, the front, right up her front. It looks like . . . Mother of God . . .” The medical examiner ran his hands through his graying hair.

“Sam . . .”

“It looks like he was trying to find where the pain started. She has a case full of medical records, and from what I can tell, the spinal event that crippled her was relatively high. Above the hip, below the breasts. She would have lost the superficial . . . Jesus, Lucas, this is freaking me out. Can’t you wait for the reports?”

“No. I want to hear it.”

“Well, when you have a spinal accident, you lose varying amounts of muscular control and the super . . . the feeling in your lower body. The loss ranges from minor disability to total paralysis, where you lose everything. That’s what happened to her. But depending on where the damage happens to the spine, you lose superficial sensory . . . you lose the feeling over different areas. We’re talking about the pain. And it looks like he was systematically working up her body, trying to find where it began.”

“What about all the stab wounds in the vaginal area?”

“I was about to say, that doesn’t fit with the other pattern of wounds. That appears to be sexual. And it’s not uncommon when there’s a sexual motivation behind a murder. There was also substantial flensing of the breasts—”

“What? Flensing?”

“He was skinning her. I think he stopped when he realized she was dying. That’s when he finally put the knife in, so he could do it himself. Kill her.”

“Jesus God.”

The technicians tramped in and out. Lucas poked through the cripple’s possessions, found a small collection of graduation pictures tucked in the top drawer of her chest. She was wearing a black gown and mortarboard, tassel to the left. He slipped the picture in his pocket and left.

Lucas was awake when the newspaper hit his screen door. He lay with his eyes closed for a moment, then gave up and walked out to retrieve it.

A double-deck headline spread across the page. Beneath it a four-column color photograph dominated the page, a shot of the covered body being rolled out to the medical examiner’s wagon on a gurney. The photographer had used a superwide lens that distorted the faces of the men pushing the gurney. HANDICAPPED, the headline said. TORTURE, it said. Lucas closed his eyes and leaned against the wall.

The meeting started angry and stayed that way.

“So there’s nothing substantial?” They were gathered in Daniel’s office—Lucas, Anderson, Lester, a dozen of the lead detectives.

“It’s just like the others. He left us nothing,” said Anderson.

“I’m not going to take this kind of answer anymore,” Daniel suddenly shouted, smashing the top of his desk with his hand, staring at Anderson. “I don’t want to hear this bullshit about—”

“It’s not bullshit,” Anderson shouted back. “It’s what we got. We got nothing. And I don’t want to hear any shit from you or Davenport about any fuckin’ media firestorms—that’s the first fuckin’ thing you said when we came in: what about the fuckin’ media? Fuck the fuckin’ media. We’re doing the best we fuckin’ can and I don’t want to hear any fuckin’ shit about it . . . .” He turned and stomped out of the room.

Daniel, caught in mid-explosion by Anderson’s outburst, slumped back in his chair. “Somebody go get him back,” he said after a minute.

When Anderson came back, Daniel nodded at him. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m losing it. We’ve got to stop this dirtbag. We gotta get him. Ideas. Somebody give me ideas.”

“Don’t cut the surveillance on McGowan,” Lucas said. “I still think that’s a shot.”

“She was all over the place out at the Wheatcroft scene,” one of the detectives said. “How’d she know? She was there a half-hour before the rest of the media.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Daniel snapped. “And I want the surveillance on her so tight that an ant couldn’t get to her on his hands and knees. Okay? What else? Anything? Anybody? What’s happening with the follow-up on the people who might have gotten the gun from Rice?”

“Uh, we got an odd one on that,” said Sloan. “Rice was over in Japan right after World War II and he brought back these souvenirs, these little ivory-doll kind of things? Net-soo-kees? Anyway, he told some guy about them, a neighbor, and the neighbor told him about this gallery that deals in Oriental art. This guy from the gallery comes over and he buys these things. Gave Rice five hundred dollars for fifteen of them. We got the receipt. I went over to talk to the guy, Alan Nester’s his name, he’s over on Nicollet.”

“I’ve seen his place,” said Anderson. “Alan Nester Objets d’Art Orientaux. Ground floor of the Balmoral Building.”

“Pretty fancy address,” said Lucas.

“That’s him,” said Sloan. “Anyway, the guy wouldn’t give me the time of day. Said he didn’t know anything, that he only talked to Mr. Rice for a minute and left. Never saw any gun, doesn’t know about the gun.”

“So?” asked Daniel. “You think he might be the guy?”

“No, no, he’s too tall, must be six-five, and he’s real skinny. And he’s too old for the profile. Must be fifty. One of those really snotty assholes who wear those scarves instead of ties?”

“Ascots?”

“Whatever, yeah. I don’t think he’s the guy, but he was nervous and he was lying to me. He probably doesn’t know anything about the maddog, but there’s something he’s nervous about.”

“Look around, see what you can find out,” Daniel said. “What about the other people?”

“We’ve got six more to do,” he said. “They’re the least likely ones.”

“Do them first. Who knows, maybe somebody’ll jump up and bite you on the ass.” He looked around. “Anything else?”

“I’ve got nothing,” Lucas said. “I can’t think. I’m going out on the street this afternoon, catch up out there, then I’m going up north. I’m not doing any good here.”

“Hang around for a minute, will you?” Daniel asked. “Okay, everybody. And I’m sorry, Andy. Didn’t mean to yell.”

“Didn’t mean to myself,” Anderson said, smiling ruefully. “The maddog is killing us all.”

“Anderson doesn’t want to talk about the media,” Daniel said, rapping the pile of newspapers on his desk. “But we’ve got to do something. And I’m not talking about saving our jobs. We could see some panic out there. This might be routine in Los Angeles, but the people here . . . It just doesn’t happen. They’re getting scared.”

“What do you mean by panic? People running in the streets? That won’t happen. They’ll just hunker down—”

“I’m talking about people carrying guns in public. I’m talking about a college kid coming home from the U when his parents don’t expect him, in the middle of the night, and having the old man take off his head with the family Colt. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re probably too young to remember when Charlie Starkweather was killing people out in Nebraska, but there were people walking around in the streets of Lincoln carrying shotguns. We don’t need that. And we don’t need the National Rifle Association cranking up its scare campaign, a gun in every house and a tank in every garage.”