Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

CHAPTER

4

Jennifer came out of the bathroom, still naked. She was tall, slender, small-breasted and blonde; she had dark eyebrows under her champagne bangs and blue eyes that sometimes, when she was angry, went the color of river ice. Lucas hooked her with his arm as she passed the bed, and pulled her stomach into his face.

“That was nice,” he said. “We should do it more often.”

“I’m here,” she said.

Lucas nuzzled her stomach and she pushed his head away.

“You’re messing with my flab.”

“It’s all gone.”

“No, it’s not.” Jennifer flipped on the room light, pushed the door shut and pirouetted in the full-length mirror mounted on the back. “I’ve got tummy-stretch and butt-hang. I can handle the butt. The tummy is tough.”

“You goddamn yuppie women have the weirdest enthusiasms,” Lucas said lazily, lying back on the bed, watching her. “You look perfect.”

She skipped past him, eluding his arm, and took a cotton nightgown off the dresser. “I can’t decide whether you’re just naturally full of shit or unnaturally horny,” she said as she slipped it over her head.

Lucas shrugged, grinned and leaned back on the oversize pillow. “Whichever it is, it works. I get laid a lot.”

“I should kick you out of here, Davenport,” Jennifer said. “I . . . Is that the baby?”

He listened and heard the baby’s low crying from the next room. “Yup.”

“Time to eat,” Jennifer said.

They had never married, but Lucas and Jennifer Carey had an infant daughter. Lucas pressed for a wedding. Jennifer said maybe—sometime. Not now. She lived with the baby in a suburban townhouse south of Minneapolis, fifteen minutes from Lucas’ house in St. Paul.

Lucas rolled off the bed and followed Jennifer into the baby’s room. The moment the door opened, Sarah stopped crying and began to gurgle.

“She’s wet,” Jennifer said when she picked her up. She handed Sarah to Lucas. “You change her. I’ll go heat up the glop.”

Lucas carried Sarah to the changing table, pulled the tape-tabs loose from the diaper and tossed the diaper in a disposal can. He whistled while he worked, and the baby peered at him in fascination, once or twice pursing her lips as though she were about to start whistling herself. Lucas cleaned her bottom with wet-wipes, tossed the wipes after the diaper, powdered her and put a new diaper on her. By the time he finished, Sarah was bubbling with delight.

“Jesus Christ, you are positively dangerous around anything female,” Jennifer said from the doorway.

Lucas laughed, picked up Sarah and bounced her on the palm of one hand. The baby chortled and grabbed his nose with surprising power.

“Whoa, whoa, wet go ub Daddy’s nose . . . .” Jennifer said he sounded like Elmer Fudd when he spoke in baby talk. Sarah whacked him in the eye with her other hand.

“Jesus, I’m getting mugged,” Lucas said. “What do you think you’re doing, kid, whopping on your old man . . . ?”

The phone rang. Lucas glanced at his wrist, but he’d taken his watch off. It was late, though, after midnight. Jennifer stepped down the hall to the phone. A second later, she was back.

“It’s for you.”

“Nobody knew I was here,” Lucas said, puzzled.

“It’s the shift commander, what’s-his-name . . . Meany. Daniel told him to try here.”

“I wonder what’s going on?” Lucas padded down the hall to the phone, picked it up and said, “Davenport.”

“This is Harry Meany,” said an old man’s voice. “The chief said to track you down and get your ass in here. He’ll see you in his office in half an hour.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. Lester and Anderson are already here and Sloan’s on his way.”

“You’ve got nothing going?” Lucas asked.

“Not a thing,” Meany said. “A 7-Eleven got knocked off over on University, but that’s nothing new. Nobody hurt.”

“Hmph.” Lucas scratched his chin, considering. “All right, I’ll be down.”

Lucas hung up and stood with his hand on the phone, staring blankly at the picture hung above it, a hand-colored print of an English cottage. Jennifer said, “What?”

“I don’t know. There’s a meeting. Daniel, Lester, Anderson, Sloan. Me.”

“Huh.” She posed with her hands on her hips. “What are you working?”

“Not much,” Lucas said. “We’re still getting rumors about guns going out of here, but nothing we can pin down. There’s been a lot of crack action. That’s about it.”

Jennifer nodded. She had been TV3’s top street reporter for ten years. After Sarah had arrived, she’d taken a partial leave of absence and begun working as a producer. But the years on the street were still with her: she had both an eye and a taste for breaking news.

“You know what it sounds like?” she asked, a calculating look on her face. “It sounds like the team Daniel set up last year. The Maddog group.”

“But there’s nothing going on,” Lucas said. He shook his head again and walked to the bathroom.

“You’ll let me know?” she called after him.

“If I can.”

• • •

Lucas suspected that early city fathers had built the Minneapolis City Hall as an elaborate practical joke on their progeny. A liverish pile of granite, it managed to be both hot in the summer and cold in winter. In the spring and fall, in the basement, where his office was, the walls sweated a substance that looked like tree sap. Another detective, a lapsed Catholic like Lucas, had suggested that they wait for a good bout of sweating, carefully crack his office wall in a likeness of Jesus and claim a holy stigmata.

“We could make a buck,” he said enthusiastically.

“I’m not real big in the Church anymore,” Lucas said dryly, “But I’d just as soon not be excommunicated.”

“Chickenshit.”

Lucas circled the building, dumped the Porsche in a cops-only space. The chief’s corner office was lit. As he walked around the nose of the car and stepped onto the curb, a Chevy station wagon pulled up behind the Porsche and the driver tapped the horn. A moment later, Harrison Sloan climbed out of the wagon.

“What’s happening?” Lucas asked.

Sloan shrugged. He was a thin man with soft brown puppy eyes and a thin mustache. He might have played an RAF fighter pilot in a World War II movie, a pilot named Dicky. He was wearing a sweatsuit and tennis shoes. “I don’t know. I was asleep. Meany called and told me to get my ass down here.”

“Same with me,” Lucas said. “Big mystery.”

As they pushed through the outer doors, Sloan asked, “How’s the hand?”

Lucas looked down at the back of his hand and flexed it. The Maddog had broken several of the bones between his wrist and knuckles. When he squeezed hard, it still hurt. The doctors said it might always hurt. “Pretty good. The strength is back. I’ve been squeezing a rubber ball.”

“Ten years ago, if you’d been hurt like that, you’d have been a cripple,” Sloan said.

“Ten years ago I might have been quick enough to shoot the sonofabitch before he got to me,” Lucas said.

City Hall was quiet, smelling of janitor’s wax and disinfectant. The soles of their shoes made a rubbery flap-flap-flap as they walked down the dim hallways, and their voices rattled off the marble as they speculated about Daniel’s call. Sloan thought the hurried meeting involved a political problem.

“That’s why the rush in the middle of the night. They’re trying to sort it out before the newspapers get it,” he said.

“So why Lester and Anderson? Why bring Robbery-Homicide into it?”

“Huh.” Sloan nibbled at his mustache. “I don’t know.”

“It’s something else,” said Lucas. “Somebody’s dead.”

The outer door of the chief’s office was open. Lucas and Sloan stepped inside and found Quentin Daniel in the dark outer office, poking at his secretary’s desk. Daniel was a broad man with the open, affable face of a neighborhood butcher. Only his eyes, small, quick, probing, betrayed the brain behind the friendly face.

“Stealing paper clips?” Sloan asked.

“You can never find any goddamn matches when you need them, and nobody smokes anymore,” Daniel grumbled. He was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type, but he looked alert and almost happy. “Come on in.”

Frank Lester, the deputy chief for investigations, and slat-thin Harmon Anderson, a computer savant and Lester’s assistant, were perched on side chairs opposite Daniel’s desk. Lucas and Sloan took empty chairs and Daniel settled behind the desk.

“I’ve been on the phone all evening. Frank and Harmon have been here for most of it,” Daniel told Lucas and Sloan. “There’s been a killing in New York City. A commissioner of welfare. A little after five o’clock this evening, their time. He was a prize Italian named John Andretti. Either of you guys hear of him?”

Lucas and Sloan both shook their heads. “Nope,” said Sloan. “Should we?”

“He’s been in the Times quite a bit,” said Daniel, with a shrug. “He was a businessman who was getting into politics. Had some different ideas about welfare . . . Anyway, he’s got big family money. Construction, banking, all that. Went to Choate. Went to Harvard. Went to Yale Law. He had these great teeth and this great-looking old lady with great-looking tits and four great-looking kids and nobody in the family pushes dope or drinks too much or fucks anybody else’s husband or wife, and they all go to church on Sunday. His old man had him set to run for Congress this fall and then maybe the Senate in four years. You know, the New York media were starting to call him the Italian John Kennedy . . . .”

“So what happened?” Lucas asked.

“He got himself killed. In his office. There were three witnesses. This guy comes in, he’s got a pistol. He backs everybody off, then steps around behind Andretti. Before anybody can say ‘Boo,’ this guy—he’s an Indian, by the way—he grabs Andretti, pulls his head back and slits his throat with a weird-looking stone knife.”

“Oh, fuck,” said Lucas. Sloan was sitting in his chair with his mouth open. Anderson watched them in amusement, while Lester looked worried.

“That’s exactly right,” said Daniel. He leaned forward, took a cigar from a brand-new humidor, held it under his nose, sniffed, then put the cigar back in the humidor. “ ‘Oh, fuck.’ The Indian also shot one of Andretti’s aides, but he’ll be okay.”

Anderson picked up the story. “The Andretti family went berserk and started calling in debts. The governor, the mayor, everybody is getting in on the act.” Anderson was wearing plaid pants, a striped shirt and shiny yellow-brown vinyl shoes. “The New York cops are running around like chickens with their heads cut off.”

“Andretti was one of the best-connected guys in New York City,” Daniel added. “He’s got twenty brothers and sisters and cousins and his old man and his old lady. They got an ocean of money and two oceans of political clout. They want blood.”

“And they think whoever killed Andretti was working with this Bluebird guy?” asked Lucas.

“Look at the killings,” Daniel said, spreading his arms. “It’s obvious. And there’s more to it. Andretti’s office building had a videotape monitor on a continuous loop. The witnesses picked out the killer. It’s a horseshit picture and they’ve only got him for about ten seconds, walking through the lobby, but they released it to the television stations an hour ago. A few minutes after they put it on TV, a motel owner from Jersey called up and said the guy might have been at his motel. The Jersey cops checked and they think he’s right. They’ve got no license-plate number—it wasn’t that kind of motel—but the owner remembers the guy had Minnesota plates. He remembers that when the guy was checking out, he said he was heading back home. The motel owner said there was no question about him being an Indian. And then there was the other thing.”

“What’s that?” Sloan asked.

“The New York cops held back the part about the stone knife,” Daniel said. “They told the media that Andretti had been stabbed, but nothing about the knife. So this motel owner asked the Jersey cops, ‘Did he stab him with that big fucking stone knife?’ The cops say, ‘What?’ And this motel owner, he says his Indian wore a stone knife around his neck, on a leather thong. He saw him at the Coke machine, wearing an undershirt with the knife hanging down.”

“So we know for sure,” Sloan said.

“Yeah. And he seems to be coming this way.” Daniel leaned back in his chair, put his hands on his stomach and twiddled his thumbs.

Lucas pulled his lip, thinking about it. After a moment of silence, he looked up at the chief. “This guy have braids?”

“The killer? Didn’t say anything about braids . . .” He hunted around his desktop for a moment, picked up a piece of computer printout, read it and said, “Nope. Hair down over the tops of his ears and just over his shirt collar. Longish, but not long enough for braids.”

“Shit.”

“Why?”

“Because the guy who did Cuervo had braids.”

The others glanced at each other and Daniel said, “He could have cut it.”

“I said the same thing about Bluebird, when we took him down,” Lucas said.

“Oh, boy,” Lester rasped, rubbing the back of his neck. He was the department’s front man on cases that drew media attention. “That’d make three. If there are two, the media’s gonna go nuts. If there’s three . . . I’ve been burned before, I don’t need this shit.”

Sloan grinned at him. “It’s gonna be bad, Frank,” he said, teasing. “This guy sounds like big headlines. When the networks and the big papers get a whiff of conspiracy, they’ll be on you like white on rice. Especially with the part about the stone knives. They’ll love the stone knives.”

“The local papers already figured it out. Five minutes after the news came across on the Indian angle, we were getting calls on Bluebird. StarTribune, Pioneer Press, all the stations. AP’s got it on the wire,” said Anderson.

“Like flies on a dead cat,” Sloan said to Lester.

“So we’re setting up a team, just like we did with the Maddog. I’ll announce it at a press conference tomorrow morning,” said Daniel. “Frank will run the out-front investigation and handle the press on a daily basis. Harmon will get the database going again. Just like with the Maddog. Every goddamn scrap of information, okay? Notebooks for everybody.”

“I’ll set it up tonight,” Anderson said. “I’ll get somebody to duplicate copies of the Bluebird mug shot.”

“Good. Get me a bunch for the press conference.” Daniel turned to Sloan. “I want you to backtrack everybody connected with Bluebird. He’s our hold on this thing. If we get an ID on the New York killer, I want you to track down everybody who knew him. You’ll be pretty much independent, but you report to Anderson every day, every move. Everything you get goes into the database.”

“Sure,” Sloan nodded.

“Lucas, you’re on your own, just like with the Maddog,” Daniel said. “Our contacts with the Indian community are fuckin’ terrible. You’re the only guy who has any.”

“Not many,” said Lucas.

“They’re all we got,” said Daniel.

“What about bringing in Larry Hart? We’ve used him before . . . .”

“Good.” Daniel snapped his fingers and pointed at Lester. “Call Welfare tomorrow and ask them if we can detach Hart as a resource guy. We’ll pick up his salary.”

“What is he?” asked Sloan. “Chippewa?”

“Sioux,” said Lucas.

“He’s strange, is what he is,” said Anderson. “He’s got some genealogical stuff stored away in the city computers. The systems guys would shit if they knew about it.”

Lucas shrugged. “He’s an okay guy.”

“So let’s get him,” said Daniel. He stood up and paced slowly away from his desk, his hands in his pants pockets. “What else?”

Bluebird’s funeral would be monitored. Intelligence would attempt to identify everyone who attended and run histories on them. Sloan would build a list of friends and relatives who might have known about Bluebird’s activities. They would be interviewed by selected Narcotics and Intelligence detectives. Anderson would press the Jersey cops for any available details on the killer’s appearance and his car and run them against known Indian felons from Minnesota, Wisconsin, Nebraska and the Dakotas.

“It’ll be a fuckin’ circus, starting bright and early tomorrow morning,” said Daniel. “And I’ll tell you what: When this New York guy gets here, I want us on top of this thing. I want us to look good, not like a bunch of rube assholes.”

Anderson cleared his throat. “I don’t think it’s a guy, chief. I think it’s a woman,” he said.

Sloan and Lucas glanced at each other. “What are you talking about?” asked Sloan.

“We told you, didn’t we? No? The goddamn Andretti family is putting the screws on the New York cops. They want to send somebody out here to observe our investigation,” said Daniel. He turned to Anderson. “You say it’s a woman?”

“Yeah. That’s what I understood. Unless they got male cops named Lillian. She’s a lieutenant.”

“Huh,” said Daniel. He stroked his chin, as though grooming a goatee. “Whoever it is, I can guarantee she’s heavy-duty.”

“Where’ll we put her?” asked Lester.

“Let her work with Sloan,” Daniel said. “That’ll give her some time on the street. Give her the feeling she’s doing something.”

He looked around the room. “Anything else? No? Let’s do it.”

CHAPTER

5

The barbershop had one chair, a turn-of-the-century model with a cracked black leather seat. A mirror was mounted on the wall behind the chair. Below the mirror, on a shelf, stood a line of bottles with luminescent yellow lotions and ruby-red toilet waters. Sunlight played through them like a visual pipe organ.

When Lucas walked in, William Dooley was pushing a flat broom around the floor, herding snips of black hair into a pile on the flaking brown linoleum.

“Officer Davenport,” Dooley said gravely. Dooley was old and very thin. His temples looked papery, like eggshells.

“Mr. Dooley.” Lucas nodded, matching the old man’s gravity. He climbed into the chair. Dooley moved behind him, tucked a slippery nylon bib into his collar and stood back.

“Just a little around the ears?” he asked. Lucas didn’t need a haircut.

“Around the ears and the back of the neck, Mr. Dooley,” Lucas said. The slanting October sunlight dappled the linoleum below his feet. A sugar wasp bounced against the dusty window.

“Bad business about that Bluebird,” Lucas said after a bit.

Dooley’s snipping scissors had been going chip-chip-chip. They paused just above Lucas’ ear, then resumed. “Bad business,” he agreed.

He snipped for another few seconds before Lucas asked, “Did you know him?”

“Nope,” Dooley said promptly. After another few snips, he added, “Knew his daddy, though. Back in the war. We was in the Pacific together. Not the same unit, but I seen him from time to time.”

“Did Bluebird have any people besides his wife and kids?”

“Huh.” Dooley stopped to think. He was halfbreed Sioux, with an Indian father and a Swedish mother. “He might have an aunt or an uncle or two out at Rosebud. That’s where they’d be, if there are any left. His ma died in the early fifties and his old man went four or five years back, must have been.”

Dooley stared sightlessly through the sunny window. “No, by God,” he said in a creaking voice after a minute. “His old man died in the summer of ’seventy-eight, right between those two bad winters. Twelve years ago. Time passes, don’t it?”

“It does,” Lucas said.

“You want to know something about being an Indian, Officer Davenport?” Dooley asked. He’d stopped cutting Lucas’ hair.

“Everything helps.”

“Well, when Bluebird died—the old man—I went off to his funeral, out to the res. He was a Catholic, you know? They buried him in a Catholic cemetery. So I went up to the cemetery with the crowd from the funeral and they put him in the ground, and everybody was standing around. Now most of the graves were all together, but I noticed that there was another bunch off in a corner by themselves. I asked a fellow there, I said, ‘What’s them graves over there?’ You know what they were?”

“No,” said Lucas.

“They were the Catholic suicides. The Catholics don’t allow no suicides to be buried in the regular part of the cemetery, but there got to be so many suicides that they just kind of cut off a special corner for them . . . . You ever hear of anything like that?”

“No, I never did. And I’m a Catholic,” Lucas said.

“You think about that. Enough Catholic suicides on one dinky little res to have their own corner of the cemetery.”

Dooley stood looking through the window for another few seconds, then caught himself and went back to work. “Not many Bluebirds left,” he said. “Mostly married off, went away east or west. New York and Los Angeles. Lost their names. Good people, though.”

“Crazy thing he did.”

“Why?” The question was so unexpected that Lucas half turned his head and caught the sharp point of the scissors in the scalp.

“Whoa, did that hurt?” Dooley asked, concern in his voice.

“Nah. What’d you . . . ?”

“Almost stuck a hole in you,” Dooley interrupted. He rubbed at Lucas’ scalp with a thumb. “Don’t see no blood.”

“What do you mean, ‘Why?’ ” Lucas persisted. “He cut a guy’s throat. Maybe two guys.”

There was a long moment of silence, then, “They needed them cut,” Dooley said. “There weren’t no worse men for the Indian community. I read the Bible, just like anybody. What Bluebird did was wrong. But he’s paid, hasn’t he? An eye for an eye. They’re dead and he’s dead. And I’ll tell you this, the Indian people got two big weights off their backs.”

“Okay,” said Lucas. “I can buy it. Ray Cuervo was an asshole. Excuse the language.”

“I heard the word before,” Dooley said. “I wouldn’t say you was wrong. And not about this Benton fella, either. He was bad as Cuervo.”

“So I’m told,” Lucas said.

Dooley finished the trim above Lucas’ ear, pushed his head forward until his chin rested on his chest, and did the back of his neck.

“There’s been another killing, in New York,” Lucas said. “Same way as Cuervo and Benton. Throat cut with a stone knife.”

“Saw it on TV,” Dooley acknowledged. He pointed at the black-and-white television mounted in the corner of the shop. “Today show. Thought it sounded pretty much the same.”

“Too much,” Lucas said. “I’ve been wondering . . .”

“If I might of heard anything? Just talk. You know Bluebird was a sun-dancer?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Lucas said.

“Check his body, if you still got it. You’ll find scars all over his chest where he pulled the pegs through.” Lucas winced. As part of the Sioux ceremony, dancers pushed pegs through the skin of their chests. Cords were attached to the pegs, and the dancers dangled from poles until the pegs ripped out. “There’s another thing. Bluebird was a sun-dancer for sure, but there’s folks around saying that a couple years ago, he got involved in this ghost-dance business.”

“Ghost dance? I didn’t think that was being done,” Lucas said.

“Some guys came down from Canada, tried to start it up. They had a drum, went around to all the reservations, collecting money, dancing. Scared the heck out of a lot of people, but I haven’t heard anything about them lately. Most Indian people think it was a con game.”

“But Bluebird was dancing?”

“That’s what I heard . . . .” Dooley’s voice trailed off and Lucas turned and found the old man staring out the window again. There was a park across the street, with grass worn brown by kids’ feet and the fall frosts. An Indian kid was working on an upturned bike in the middle of the park and an old lady tottered down the sidewalk toward a concrete drinking fountain. “I don’t think it means much,” Dooley said. He turned back to Lucas. “Except that Bluebird was a man looking for religion.”

“Religion?”

“He was looking to be saved. Maybe he found it,” Dooley said. He sighed and moved close behind Lucas and finished the trim with a few final snips. He put the scissors down, brushed cut hair off Lucas’ neck, unpinned the bib and shook it out. “Sit tight for a minute,” he said.

Lucas sat and Dooley found his electric trimmers and shaved the back of Lucas’ neck, then slapped on a stinging palmful of aromatic yellow oil.

“All done,” he said.

Lucas slid out of the chair, asked, “How much?” Dooley said, “The regular.” Lucas handed him three dollars.

“I haven’t heard anything,” Dooley said soberly. He looked Lucas in the eyes. “If I had, I’d tell you—but I don’t know if I’d tell you what it was. Bluebird was the Indian people, getting back some of their own.”

Lucas shook his head, sensing the defiance in the old man. “It’s hard to believe you said that, Mr. Dooley. It makes me sad,” he said.

Indian Country was full of Dooleys.

Lucas quartered through it, touching the few Indians he knew: a seamstress at an awnings shop, a seafood broker, a heating contractor, clerks at two gas stations and a convenience store, an out-of-business antique dealer, a key-maker, a cleaning lady, a car salesman. An hour before Bluebird’s funeral was scheduled to begin, he left his car in an alley and walked across the street to Dakota Hardware.

A bell over the door jingled, and Lucas stopped for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Earl May came out of the back room wearing a leather apron and flashed a smile. Lucas walked back and watched the smile fade.

“I was about to say, ‘Good to see you,’ but I guess you’re here to ask questions about Bluebird and that killing in New York,” May said. He turned his head and yelled into the back, “Hey, Betty, it’s Lucas Davenport.”

Betty May stuck her head through the curtain between the back room and the store. “Lucas, it’s been a while,” she said. She had a round face, touched by old acne scars, and a husky voice that might have sung the blues.

“There’s not much around about Bluebird,” said Earl. He looked at his wife. “He’s asking about the killings.”

“That’s what everybody tells me,” Lucas said. Earl was standing with his arms crossed. It was a defensive position, a push-off stance, one that Lucas had not seen before with the Mays. Behind her husband, Betty unconsciously took the same position.

“You’ll have trouble dealing with the community on this one,” she said. “Benton was bad, Cuervo was worse. Cuervo was so bad that when his wife got down to his office, after the police called her, she was smiling.”

“But what about this guy in New York, Andretti?” Lucas asked. “What the hell did he do?”

“Andretti. The liberal with good accountants,” Earl snorted. “He called himself a realist. He said there were people that you have to write off. He said that it made no difference whether you threw money at the underclass or just let it get along. He said the underclass was a perpetual drag on the people who work.”

“Yeah?” said Lucas.

“A lot of people want to hear that,” Earl continued. “And he might even be right about some people—winos and junkies. But there’s one big question he doesn’t answer. What about the kids? That’s the question. You’re seeing a genocide. The victims aren’t the welfare queens. The victims are the kids.”

“You can’t think this is right, these people being killed,” Lucas argued.

Earl shook his head. “People die all the time. Now some folks are dying who were hurting the Indian people. That’s too bad for them and it’s a crime, but I can’t get too upset about it.”

“How about you, Betty?” Lucas asked. He turned to the woman, disturbed. “Do you feel the same way?”

“Yeah, I do, Lucas,” she said.

Lucas peered at them for a moment, studying Earl’s face, then Betty’s. They were the best people he knew. What they thought, a lot of people would think. Lucas shook his head, rapped the counter with his knuckles and said, “Shit.”

Bluebird’s funeral was . . . Lucas had to search for the right word. He finally settled on peculiar. Too many of the gathered Indians were shaking hands, with quick grins that just as quickly turned somber.

And there were too many Indians for one guy who wasn’t that well known. After the coffin had been lowered into the ground, and the last prayers said, they gathered in groups and clusters, twos and threes, talking. An air of suppressed celebration, Lucas thought. Somebody had lashed out. Bluebird had paid, but there were others still at it, taking down the assholes. Lucas watched the crowd, searching for faces he knew, people he might tap later.

Riverwood Cemetery was a working-class graveyard in a working-class neighborhood. Bluebird was buried on a south-facing slope under an ash tree. His grave would look up at the sun, even in winter. Lucas stood on a small rise, next to one of the city’s increasingly rare elms, thirty yards from the gravesite. Directly opposite him, across the street from the cemetery and a hundred feet from the grave, were more watchers. The catsup-colored Chevy van fit into the neighborhood like a perfect puzzle piece. In the back, two cops made movies through the dark windows.

Identifying everyone would be impossible, Lucas thought. The funeral had been too big and too many people were simply spectators. He noticed a white woman drifting along the edges of the crowd. She was taller than most women and a little heavy, he thought. She glanced his way, and from a distance, she was a sulky, dark-haired madonna, with an oval face and long heavy eyebrows.

He was still following her progress through the fringe of the crowd when Sloan ambled up and said, “Hello, there.” Lucas turned to say hello. When he turned back to the funeral crowd a moment later, the dark-haired woman was gone.

“You talk to Bluebird’s old lady?” Lucas asked.

“I tried,” Sloan said. “I couldn’t get her alone. She had all these people around, saying, ‘Don’t talk to the cops, honey. Your man is a hero.’ They’re shutting her down.”

“Maybe later, huh?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think we’ll get much,” Sloan said. “Where’re you parked?”

“Around the corner.”

“So am I.” They picked their way between graves, down the shallow slope toward the street. Some of the graves were well tended, others were weedy. One limestone gravemarker was so old that the name had eroded away, leaving only the fading word FATHER. “I was talking to one of the people at her house. The guy said Bluebird hadn’t been around that much. In fact, he and his old lady were probably on the edge of breaking up,” Sloan said.

“Not too promising,” Lucas agreed.

“So what’re you doing?”

“Running around picking up bullshit,” Lucas said. He looked one last time for the dark-haired woman but didn’t see her. “I’m headed over to the Point. Yellow Hand’s up there. Maybe he’s heard something more.”