Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

“He’s careful,” Anderson said. They were gathered in Daniel’s office.

“But he’s moving right along,” said Kieffer.

“He ought to be here. Or close,” Lily said, looking from Lucas to Anderson to Daniel to Kieffer.

Kieffer nodded. “Very late tonight or sometime tomorrow, if he keeps pushing it. He’s got Chicago in the way. He either has to go through it, or go way around it . . . . He’d have to push like a sonofabitch to make it here tonight. It’s more likely that he’d make it to Madison tonight and get into the Cities tomorrow.”

“How far is Madison?” Lily asked.

“Five hours.”

“He is pushing it,” she said. “So it could be tonight . . . .”

“We’ll keep a watch,” Daniel said. He looked around. “Anything else?”

“I can’t think of anything,” Lucas said. “Lily?”

“I guess we wait,” Lily said.

CHAPTER

9

Lily went back to the surveillance post with Del, the undercover cop, while Lucas filled out the return on the search warrant. As he was finishing, Larry Hart walked in, carrying an overnight bag.

“Anything more?” Lucas asked.

“Nothing but a bunch of rumors,” Hart said, dumping the bag against the wall. “There was something weird going on, just about the time of the bikers. There was a sun dance up at Standing Rock, but that was on the up-and-up. But there was maybe a ceremony of some kind at Bear Butte. A midnight deal. That’s the rumor.”

“Any names?”

“No. But the guys out there are asking around.”

“We need names. In this business, names are the game.”

Hart checked in with Anderson, then went home to clean up. Lucas filed the return on the search warrant, walked across the street to a newsstand and bought half a dozen magazines, then headed down to Indian Country.

Del was asleep on an inflatable mattress, his mouth half open. He looked exactly like a bum, Lucas decided. Two Narcotics cops were perched on matching aluminum lawn chairs, watching the street. A cooler sat next to the cop on the left and a boombox was playing “Brown Sugar.” The FBI man was gone, although his stool was still there: the seat read L. L. BEAN. Lily was sitting on a stack of newspapers, leaning back against a wall.

“You guys are such a bunch of cutups,” Lucas said as he walked in.

“Fuck you, Davenport,” the two surveillance cops said in unison.

“I second that,” Lily said.

“Anytime, anyplace,” Lucas said. The cops laughed, and Lily said, “You talking to me or them?”

“Them,” said Lucas. “Duane’s got such a nice ass.”

“Takes a load off my mind,” said Lily.

“Puts a load on mine,” said Duane, the fat surveillance cop.

“Nothing happening?” asked Lucas.

“Lot of fuckin’ dope,” Duane said. “I was kinda surprised. We don’t hear too much about it from this area.”

“We don’t know too many Indians,” Lucas said. He looked around the bare apartment. “Where’s the feeb?”

“He went out. Said he was coming back. He seems kinda touchy about his chair, if that’s what you were thinking,” said the thin cop.

“Yeah?”

“Stacks of newspaper down the hall,” Lily said.

One of the magazines had a debate on ten-millimeter automatic pistols. A gun writer suggested that it was the perfect defensive cartridge, producing twice the muzzle energy of typical nine-millimeter and .45 ACP rounds and almost half again as much as the .357 Magnum. The writer’s opponent, a Los Angeles cop, worried that the ten-millimeter was a little too hot, tending to punch holes not only through the target but also through the crowd at the bus stop two blocks away. Lucas couldn’t follow the details of the argument. His mind kept straying to the shape of Lily’s neck, the edge of her cheek from the side and slightly behind, the curve of her wrist. Her lip. He remembered Sloan saying something about her overbite, and he smiled just a bit and nibbled at his own lip.

“What’re you smiling about?” Lily asked.

“Nothing,” Lucas said. “Magazine.”

She heaved herself to her feet, stretched, yawned and wandered over. “Hot-hot-hot,” she said. “It’s a ten-MM?”

Lucas closed the magazine. “Dumb fucks,” he said.

Anderson called on the portable a few minutes after one o’clock: The killer in Oklahoma City had vanished. Kieffer had talked to FBI agents in South Dakota about the rumors Hart had heard of a midnight ceremony, Anderson added, but nobody had much.

“There’s some question about whether there ever was such a thing,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Kieffer talked to the lead investigator out there and this guy thinks the rumors came out of the confrontation with the bikers. One night the Indians surrounded Bear Butte, wouldn’t let the bikers down the road around it. The bikers supposedly saw fires and so on, and heard drum music—and that eventually got turned into this secret-ceremony business.”

“So it could be another dead end,” Lily said.

“That’s what Kieffer says.”

“I could be watching The Young and the Restless,” Lily said twenty minutes later.

“Go for a walk?” Lucas suggested.

“All right. Take a portable.”

They went out the alley, two blocks to a 7-Eleven, bought Diet Cokes and started back.

“So fuckin’ boring,” Lily complained.

“You don’t have to sit there. He probably won’t be in until this evening,” Lucas said.

“I feel like I oughta be there,” Lily said. “He’s my man.”

On the way back, Lucas took a small gun-cleaning kit out of the Porsche. Inside the apartment, he spread newspapers on the floor, sat cross-legged, broke down his P7 and began cleaning it. Lily went back to her stack of newspapers for a few minutes, then moved over across from him.

“Mind if I use it?” she asked after watching for a moment.

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” She took her .45 out of her purse, popped the magazine, checked the chamber to make sure it was empty and began stripping it. “I break a fingernail about once a week on this damn barrel bushing,” she said. She stuck her tongue out in concentration, rotated the bushing over the recoil spring plug and eased the spring out.

“Pass the nitro,” she said.

Lucas handed her the cleaning solvent.

“This stuff smells better than gasoline,” she said. “It could turn me into a sniffer.”

“Gives me headaches,” Lucas said. “It smells good but I can’t handle it.” He noticed that her .45 was spotless before she began cleaning it. His P7 didn’t need the work either, but it was something to do.

“Ever shot a P7?” he asked idly.

“The other one. The eight-shot. The big one, like yours, has a lot of firepower, but I can’t get my hand around the butt. I don’t like the way it carries either. Too fat.”

“That’s not exactly a Tinker Toy you’ve got there,” he said, nodding at her Colt.

“No, but the shape of the butt is different. It’s skinnier. That’s what I need. It’s easier to handle.”

“I really don’t like that single-action for street work,” Lucas said conversationally. “It’s fine if you’re target-shooting, but if you’re only worried about hitting a torso . . . I like the double-action.”

“You could try one of the forty-five Smiths.”

“They’re supposed to be good guns,” Lucas agreed. “I probably would have, if the P7 hadn’t come out first . . . . How come you never went to a Smith?”

“Well, this thing just feels right to me. When I was shooting in competition I used a 1911 from Springfield Armory in thirty-eight Super. I want the forty-five for the street, but all that competition . . . the gun feels friendly.”

“You shot competition?” Lucas asked. The cops at the window, who had been listening in an abstract way, suddenly perked up at an undertone in Lucas’ voice.

“I was New York women’s champ in practical shooting for a couple of years,” Lily said. “I had to quit competition because it was taking too much time. But I still shoot a little.”

“You must be pretty good,” Lucas offered. The cops by the window glanced at each other. A bet.

“Better than anybody you’re likely to know,” she said offhandedly.

Lucas snorted and she squinted at him.

“What? You think you can shoot with me?”

“With you?” Lucas said. His lip might have curled.

Lily sat up, interested now. “You ever compete?”

He shrugged. “Some.”

“You ever win?”

“Some. Used a 1911, in fact.”

“Practical or bull’s-eye?”

“A little of both,” he said.

“And you think you can shoot with me?”

“I can shoot with most people,” Lucas said.

She looked at him, studied his face, and a small smile started at the corners of her lips. “You want to put your money where your mouth is?”

It was Lucas’ turn to stare, weighing the challenge. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Anytime, anyplace.”

Lily noticed the cops by the window watching them.

“He’s sandbagging me, right?” she said. “He’s the North American big-bore champ or some fuckin’ thing.”

“I don’t know, I never seen him shoot,” one of the cops said.

Lily stared at him with narrowed eyes, gauging the likelihood that he was lying, then turned back to Lucas. “All right,” she said. “Where do we shoot?”

They shot at a police pistol range in the basement of a precinct house, using Outers twenty-five-foot slow-fire pistol targets. There were seven concentric rings on each target face. The three outer rings were marked but not colored, while the inner four rings—the 7, 8, 9 and 10—were black. The center ring, the 10 ring, was a bit smaller than a dime.

“Nice range,” Lily said when Lucas turned on the lights. A Hennepin County deputy had been leaving just when they arrived. When he heard what they were doing, he insisted on judging the match.

Lily put her handset on the ledge of a shooting booth, took the .45 from her purse, held it in both hands and looked downrange over the sights. “Let’s get the targets up.”

“This P7 ain’t exactly a target pistol,” Lucas said. He squinted downrange. “I never did like the light in here either.”

“Cold feet?” Lily asked.

“Making conversation,” he said. “I just wish I had my Gold Cup. It’d make me feel better. It’d also punch a bigger hole in the paper. The same size as yours. If you’re as good as you say, that could make the difference.”

“You could always chicken out if the extra seven-hundredths of an inch makes you nervous,” Lily said. She pushed a magazine into the Colt and jacked a shell into the chamber. “And I don’t have my match guns either.”

“Fuck it. We’ll flip to shoot,” Lucas said. He dug in his pocket for a quarter.

“How much?” Lily asked.

“It’s got to be enough to feel it,” Lucas said. “We ought to give it a little bite of reality. You say.”

“Best two out of three rounds . . . One hundred dollars.”

“That’s not enough,” Lucas said, aiming the P7 downrange again. “I was thinking a thousand.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lily said, tossing her head. The deputy was now watching them with real interest. The story would be all over the sheriff’s department and the city cops, and probably St. Paul, before the night was done. “You’re trying to psych me, Davenport. A hundred is all I can afford. I’m not a rich game-inventor.”

“Hey, Dick,” Lucas said to the deputy. “Lily’s not gonna let me put the targets up, you want to . . .”

“Sure . . .”

The deputy began running the target sheets out to twenty-five feet. Lucas stepped closer to Lily, his voice low. “I’ll tell you what. If you win, you take down a hundred. If I win, I get another kiss. Time and place of my choosing.”

She put her hands on her hips. “That’s the most goddamned juvenile thing I ever heard. You’re too fuckin’ old for that, Davenport. You’ve got lines in your face. Your hair is turning gray.”

Lucas reddened but grinned through the embarrassment. Dick was walking back toward them. “It might be juvenile, but that’s what I want,” he said. “Unless you’re chicken.”

“You really do a number on a person’s head, don’t you?”

“Puk-puk-puk,” he said, doing an imitation of a chicken’s cackle.

“Fuck you, Davenport,” she said.

“So maybe we just have a pleasant afternoon shooting guns. We don’t have to compete. I mean, if you’ve got cold feet.”

“Fuck you.”

“Anytime, anyplace.”

“What an asshole,” she muttered under her breath.

“What does that mean?” Lucas asked.

“It means you’re on,” she said.

Lucas tossed the quarter and won. They shot a round of five shots for familiarization. Neither showed the other the practice target.

“You ready?” Lucas asked.

“Ready.”

Lucas fired first, five shots. He used both hands, his right shooting hand cupped in his left, the left side of his body slightly forward of the right. He kept both eyes open. Lily could tell he was hitting the black, but she couldn’t tell how close he was to the center 10 ring. When Lucas finished, she stepped to the line and took a position identical to the one Lucas had used. She fired her first shot, said, “Shit,” and fired four more.

“Problem?” Lucas said when she took down the gun after the last shot.

“First shot was a flier, I think,” she said. The deputy rolled the targets back to the shooting line. Two of Lucas’ five shots had clipped the 10 ring. The third and fourth counted 9, a fifth was in the 8 ring. Forty-six.

Three shots from Lily’s .45 had obliterated the center of the target, a fourth was in the nine, but the flier was out in the four. Forty-three.

“Without the flier, I’d of won,” Lily said. She sounded angry with herself.

“If pigs had wings they could fly,” said Lucas.

“That’s the worst round I’ve shot in a year.”

“It’s the less than ideal conditions, shooting targets with a gun you don’t use on the range,” Lucas said. “It gets you range shooters every time.”

“I’m not a range shooter,” she said, now angry at Lucas. “Let’s get the new targets up, huh?”

“Jesus, what’d you guys bet? Must be something, huh?” asked the deputy, looking from one of them to the other.

“Yeah,” said Lily. “A hundred bucks and Davenport’s honor. He loses either way.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Lucas grinned as he finished reloading. “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” he said, just barely audibly.

“Keep it up, buster,” she said through her teeth.

“Sorry. Wasn’t trying to psych you,” he said, trying to psych her. “You shoot first this time.”

She fired five shots and all five felt good. She smiled at him this time and said, “I just shot a fifty or close to it. Stick that in your nose, asshole.”

“Temper, temper . . .”

Lucas fired his five. After the last shot he looked at her and said, “If that doesn’t beat you, I’ll kiss your ass in Saks’ front window.”

“Side bet?” she asked before the deputy reeled in the targets. “I got fifty bucks that says I win this round. And don’t give me any shit about anything else.”

“All right,” he said. “Fifty.”

Dick pulled in the targets and whistled. “I’ll have to count these careful,” he said.

All ten shots were deep in the black. Dick spread the targets on a workbench and started counting, Lily and Lucas looking over his shoulder.

“Wait a minute,” Lucas started, when the deputy wrote down an eight.

“Not a fuckin’ word,” Lily said, pointing her finger at Lucas’ nose.

The deputy added up the totals, turned to Lucas and said, “You owe the lady fifty bucks. I count it forty-seven to forty-six.”

“Bullshit. Let me see those . . . .”

Lucas counted them forty-eight to forty-seven. He took two twenties and a ten out of his wallet and handed them to her.

“This pisses me off,” he said, his voice tight.

“I hope being pissed off doesn’t make your hand shake,” she said sweetly.

“It won’t,” he promised.

Lucas shot first on the third round. All five shots felt good, and he turned to her and nodded. “If you beat me this time, you deserve it. This time, I got the fifty.”

“We’ll see,” she said.

She fired her five and they followed Dick down to the targets. He shook his head. “Jesus. You guys . . .”

He took five minutes to count, then glanced at Lily. “I think he’s got you, Lily, Lieutenant. Either one point or two . . .”

“Let me see that . . . .”

Lily went over the targets, counting, her lips moving as she totaled them up. “I don’t believe it,” she grunted. “I shoot two of the worst rounds of my fuckin’ career and you take me out by a point.”

Lucas was grinning. “I’ll collect tonight,” he said.

She peered at him for a second, then said, “Double or nothing. One round, five shots.”

Lucas thought about it. “I’m happy where I’m at.”

“Yeah, maybe, but the question is, Are you greedy enough to go for more? And do you have the balls for it?” Lily said.

“I’m happy,” he repeated.

“Think how happy you’ll be if you win.”

Lucas looked at her for a moment, then said, “One shot. Just one. Double or nothing.”

“You’re on,” she said. “You shoot first.”

Dick sent down a new target sheet. When he was out of the way, Lucas lined up in a one-handed bull’s-eye-shooter’s stance, brought the P7 up once, lowered it, scratched his forehead, brought the gun up again, let out half a breath and fired.

“That’s a good one,” he said to her.

“I thought you shot practical.”

“Most of the time,” he said. Then he added, innocently, “But I was really better at bull’s-eye.”

She took her two-handed stance and squeezed off the shot. “A hair to the left.”

“I win, then.”

“We ought to look.” They looked. Lucas’ shot wiped out the 10 ring. Lily’s shot counted nine. “God damn it,” she said.

Outside the precinct station, it was already getting dark. They turned a corner into the parking lot and were alone for a moment.

“Well,” she said.

He took in her big dark eyes and the heavy breasts beneath her tweed jacket, looked down at her and shook his head. “Later.”

“God damn it, Davenport . . .” But Lucas was already popping open the door to the car. They were back at the surveillance post in fifteen minutes, Lily stewing.

“Anything?” Lucas asked, as they stepped into the surveillance room. The FBI man’s camp stool had disappeared.

“Quiet as death,” said one of the cops. Del was still asleep. “Who won?”

“He did,” Lily said grimly. “Two points out of a hundred and fifty.”

“All right,” said the heavier of the two cops. He held out his hand and the other cop gave him a dollar.

“A whole fuckin’ dollar?” Lucas said. “I’m impressed.”

The street was absolutely empty. At times it seemed as though an hour passed between cars. Sloan stopped by, watched an hour and finally said, “Why don’t you get a portable and come down to King’s Place. My wife is gonna meet me there. It’s about two minutes away.”

“What is it?” Lily asked.

“Tex-Mex cowboy-lumberjack bar down on Hennepin. They don’t allow fights, they’ve got a band and terrific tacos, three for a dollar,” Sloan said.

“Food,” said Lily.

Lily expected Lucas to collect at the car, in the dark, but he walked around her again.

“Jesus, you’re an asshole sometimes,” she said.

“You’re so impatient,” he said. “Why can’t you relax?”

“I want to pay off and be done.”

“We got plenty of time,” he said. “We got all night.”

“In a pig’s eye we got all night,” she said.

The bar had thirty-pound muskies and deer heads on the wall, a stuffed black bear in the entrance and a wooden cactus in the middle of a room full of picnic tables. A three-piece Mexican rock band banged away in a corner, and pitchers of Schmidt beer went for two dollars.

Sloan got things rolling by ordering a round of pitchers, which only Lily thought was excessive. The band came on with a south-of-the-border version of “Little Deuce Coupe.”

“Let’s dance,” Lucas said, pulling Lily away from her tacos and pitcher. “Come on, they’re playing rock ’n’ roll.” Lucas danced with Lily and then with the wife of a local cowboy while the cowboy danced with Lily. Then Lily danced with Sloan, and Lucas with a tall single woman whose beehive hairdo had just begun to topple, while Sloan’s wife danced with the cowboy. Then they did it again. Lily was giggling when she finally got back to the table. Lucas waved at the waitress and pointed at Lily’s pitcher.

“ ’Nother round, all the way,” Lucas called.

“You’re trying to get me drunk, Davenport,” Lily said. Her voice was clear, but her eyes were moving too much. “It’ll probably work.”

Sloan laughed immoderately and started on the second round.

At midnight, they checked the surveillance room. Nothing. Both of Hood’s roommates were home. The lights were out. At one o’clock, they checked again. Nothing.

“So what do you want to do?” Lucas asked when King’s closed.

“I dunno. I guess you better take me back to the hotel. I doubt he’d be driving this late.”

Lucas pulled the Porsche into the hotel parking lot and hopped out.

“Time to collect?” Lily asked.

“Yeah.”

A half-dozen people were walking through the lot, and more were going in and out.

“This is not an invitation, so I don’t want you to read anything into it . . . .”

“Yeah?”

“You can come up for just long enough to collect.”

They rode up in the elevator without speaking and walked down the hall to her room, Lucas feeling increasingly awkward. Inside, when she closed the door, it was dark. Lucas fumbled for the light switch but she caught his hand and said, “Don’t. Just collect and then you can leave.”

“All of a sudden, I feel like a fuckin’ idiot,” Lucas said, abashed.

“Let’s get it over with,” she said, a little drunkenly.

He found her in the dark, pulled her in and kissed her. She hung in his arms for just a fraction of a moment, then returned the kiss, powerfully, pushing him against the door, her face and pelvis pressed to his, her hands clenching his rib cage. They clung together for a long moment; then she broke her lips away and squeezed him tighter and groaned, “Oh, Jesus.”

Lucas held her for a moment and then whispered in her ear, “Double or nothing,” and found her lips again and they walked in a tight little circle and Lucas felt the bed hit the back of his knees and he dropped on it, pulling her with him. He expected her to resist, but she did not. She rolled to one side and held him, kissing him again on the lips, then on the edge of the jaw, and Lucas rolled over half on top of her and pulled at her shirt, getting it out of her trousers, slipping his hand inside, fighting the brassiere, finally reaching around her, unsnapping the bra and then catching one of her breasts in his hand . . . .

“Oh, God,” she said, arching against him. “God, Davenport . . .”

He found her belt, pulled it open, slipped his hand inside her trousers, under the edge of her underpants, down, to the hot liquid center . . . .

“Ah, Jesus,” she said, and she rolled away from him, pushing his hand away, off the side of the bed onto the floor.

“What?” It was pitch black in the room, and Lucas was groggy from the sudden struggle. “Lily . . .”

“God, Lucas, we can’t . . . . I’m sorry, I don’t mean to tease. Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“Lily . . .”

“Lucas, you’re going to make me cry, go away . . . .”

“Jesus, don’t do that.” Lucas stood up, pushed his shirt back in his pants, discovered he was missing a shoe. He groped in the dark for a second, found the light. Lily was sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, clutching her shirt around her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her eyes were black with remorse. “I just can’t.”

“That’s okay,” Lucas said, trying to catch his breath. He half laughed. “My fuckin’ shoe is missing . . . .”

Lily, her face drawn, looked around the edge of the bed and said, “Under the curtain. Behind you.”

“Okay. Got it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Look, Lily, whatever is right, okay? I mean, I’m going back home to blow my brains out, to relieve the pressure, but don’t worry about it.”

She smiled a tentative smile. “You’re a nice guy. See you tomorrow.”

“Sure. If I survive.”

When he was gone, Lily stripped off her clothes and stood in the shower, letting the water pour down her breasts and then her back. After a few minutes, she began reducing the temperature until finally she stood in what felt like a torrent of ice water.

Sober, she went to bed. And just before she went to sleep, she remembered that last shot. Had she flinched? Or had she deliberately thrown the shot?

Lily Rothenburg, faithful wife, went to sleep with lust in her heart.