Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 45 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

Bekker.

It wasn’t quite human, the thing that pulled itself across the kitchen floor. Not quite human—eyes gone, brain damaged, bleeding—but it was alive and it had a purpose: the telephone. There was no attacker, there was no lover, there was no time. There was only pain, the tile and, somewhere, the telephone.

The thing on the floor pulled itself to the wall where the telephone was, reached, reached . . . and failed. The thing was dying when the paramedics came, when the glass in the window broke and the firemen came through the door.

The thing called Stephanie Bekker heard the words “Jesus Christ,” and then it was gone forever, leaving a single bloody handprint six inches below the Princess phone.

CHAPTER

2

Del was a tall man, knobby, ungainly. He put his legs up on the booth seat and his jeans rode above his high-topped brown leather shoes, showing the leather laces running between the hooks. The shoes were cracked and caked with mud. Shoes you’d see on a sharecropper, Lucas thought.

Lucas drained the last of his Diet Coke and looked over his shoulder toward the door. Nothing.

“Fucker’s late,” Del said. His face flicked yellow, then red, with the Budweiser sign in the window.

“He’s coming.” Lucas caught the eye of the bartender, pointed at his Coke can. The barkeep nodded and dug into the cooler. He was a fat man, with a mustard-stained apron wrapped around his ample belly, and he waddled when he brought the Diet Coke.

“Buck,” he grunted. Lucas handed him a dollar bill. The bartender looked at them carefully, thought about asking a question, decided against it and went back behind the bar.

They weren’t so much out of place as oddly assorted, Lucas decided. Del was wearing jeans, a prison-gray sweatshirt with the neckband torn out, a jean jacket, a paisley headband made out of a necktie, and the sharecropper’s shoes. He hadn’t shaved in a week and his eyes looked like North Country peat bogs.

Lucas wore a leather bomber jacket over a cashmere sweater, and khaki slacks and cowboy boots. His dark hair was uncombed and fell forward over a square, hard face, pale with the departing winter. The pallor almost hid the white scar that slashed across his eyebrow and cheek; it became visible only when he clenched his jaw. When he did, it puckered, a groove, whiter on white.

Their booth was next to a window. The window had been covered with a silver film, so the people inside could see out but the people outside couldn’t see in. Flower boxes sat under the windows, alternating with radiator cabinets. The boxes were filled with plastic petunias thrust into what looked like Kitty Litter. Del was chewing Dentyne, a new stick every few minutes. When he finished a stick, he lobbed the well-chewed wad into a window box. After an hour, a dozen tiny pink wads of gum were scattered like spring buds among the phony flowers.

“He’s coming,” Lucas said again. But he wasn’t sure. “He’ll be here.”

Thursday night, an off-and-on hard spring rain, and the bar was bigger than its clientele. Three hookers, two black, one white, huddled together on barstools, drinking beer and sharing a copy of Mirabella. They’d all been wearing shiny vinyl raincoats in lipstick colors and had folded them down on the barstools to sit on them. Hookers were never far from their coats.

A white woman sat at the end of the bar by herself. She had frizzy blond hair, watery green eyes and a long thin mouth that was always about to tremble. Her shoulders were hunched, ready for a beating. Another hooker: she was pounding down the gin with Teutonic efficiency.

The male customers paid no attention to the hookers. Of the men, two shitkickers in camouflage hats, one with a folding-knife sheath on his belt, played shuffleboard bowling. Two more, both looking as if they might be from the neighborhood, talked to the bartender. A fifth man, older, sat by himself in front of a bowl of peanuts, nursing a lifelong rage and a glass of rye. He’d nip from the glass, eat a peanut and mutter his anger down into his overcoat. A half-dozen more men and a single woman sat in a puddle of rickety chairs, burn-scarred tables and cigarette smoke at the back of the bar, watching the NBA playoffs on satellite TV.

“Haven’t seen much crack on TV lately,” Lucas said, groping for conversation. Del had been leading up to something all night but hadn’t spit it out yet.

“Media used it up,” said Del. “They be rootin’ for a new drug now. Supposed to be ice, coming in from the West Coast.”

Lucas shook his head. “Fuckin’ ice,” he said.

He caught his own reflection in the window glass. Not too bad, he thought. You couldn’t see the gray thatch in the black hair, you couldn’t see the dark rings under his eyes, the lines beginning to groove his cheeks at the corners of his mouth. Maybe he ought to get a chunk of this glass and use it to shave in.

“If we wait much longer, she’s gonna need a cash transfusion,” Del said, eyeing the drunk hooker. Lucas had staked her with a twenty and she was down to a pile of quarters and pennies.

“He’ll be here,” Lucas insisted. “Motherfucker dreams about his rep.”

“Randy ain’t bright enough to dream,” Del said.

“Gotta be soon,” Lucas said. “He won’t let her sit there forever.”

The hooker was bait. Del had found her working a bar in South St. Paul two days earlier and had dragged her ass back to Minneapolis on an old possession warrant. Lucas had put the word on the street that she was talking about Randy to beat a cocaine charge. Randy had shredded the face of one of Lucas’ snitches. The hooker had seen him do it.

“You still writing poems?” Del asked after a while.

“Kind of gave it up,” Lucas said.

Del shook his head. “Shouldn’t of done that.”

Lucas looked at the plastic flowers in the window box and said sadly, “I’m getting too old. You gotta be young or naive to write poetry.”

“You’re three or four years younger’n I am,” Del said, picking up the thought.

“Neither one of us is a fuckin’ walk in the park,” Lucas said. He tried to make it sound funny, but it didn’t.

“Got that right,” Del said somberly. The narc had always been gaunt. He liked speed a little too much and sometimes got his nose in the coke. That came with the job: narcs never got out clean. But Del . . . the bags under his eyes were his most prominent feature, his hair was stiff, dirty. Like a mortally ill cat, he couldn’t take care of himself anymore. “Too many assholes. I’m gettin’ as bad as them.”

“How many times we had this conversation?” Lucas asked.

“ ’Bout a hundred,” Del said. He opened his mouth to go on, but they were interrupted by a sudden noisy cheer from the back and a male voice shouting, “You see that nigger fly?” One of the black hookers at the bar looked up, eyes narrowing, but she went back to her magazine without saying anything.

Del lifted a hand to the bartender. “Couple beers,” he called. “Couple Leinies?”

The bartender nodded, and Lucas said, “You don’t think Randy’s coming?”

“Gettin’ late,” Del said. “And if I drink any more of this Coke, I’ll need a bladder transplant.”

The beers came, and Del said, “You heard about that killing last night? The woman up on the hill? Beat to death in her kitchen?”

Lucas nodded. This was what Del had been leading up to. “Yeah. Saw it on the news. And I heard some stuff around the office . . . .”

“She was my cousin,” Del said, closing his eyes. He let his head fall back, as though overcome with exhaustion. “We grew up together, fooling around on the river. Hers were the first bare tits I ever saw, in real life.”

“Your cousin?” Lucas studied the other man. As a matter of self-defense, cops joked about death. The more grotesque the death, the more likely the jokes; you had to watch your tongue when a friend had a family member die.

“We used to go fishing for carp, man, can you believe that?” Del turned so he could lean against the window box. Thinking about yesterdays. His bearded face drawn long and solemn, like an ancient photo of James Longstreet after Gettysburg, Lucas thought. “Down by the Ford dam, just a couple blocks from your place. Tree branches for fishing poles. Braided nylon line, with dough balls for bait. She fell off a rock, slipped on the moss, big splash . . .”

“Gotta be careful . . .”

“She was, like, fifteen, wearing a T-shirt, no bra,” Del said. “It was plastered to her. I said, ‘Well, I can see it all, you might as well take it off.’ I was kidding, but she did. She had nipples the color of wild roses, man, you know? That real light pink. I had a hard-on for two months. Stephanie was her name.”

Lucas didn’t say anything for a moment, watching the other man’s face, then, “You’re not working it?”

“Nah. I’m no good at that shit, figuring stuff out,” Del said. He flipped his hands palm out, a gesture of helplessness. “I spent the day with my aunt and uncle. They’re all fucked up. They don’t understand why I can’t do something.”

“What do they want you to do?” Lucas asked.

“Arrest her husband. He’s a doctor over at the U, a pathologist,” Del said. He took a hit of his beer. “Michael Bekker.”

“Stephanie Bekker?” Lucas asked, his forehead wrinkling. “Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah, she used to run around with the political crowd. You might even have met her—she was on the study group for that civilian review board a couple of years ago. But the thing is, when she was killed, her old man was in San Francisco.”

“So he’s out,” Lucas said.

“Unless he hired it done.” Del leaned forward now, his eyes open again. “That alibi is a little too convenient. I personally think he’s got a loose screw.”

“What’re you telling me?”

“Bekker feels wrong. I’m not sure he killed her, but I think he might’ve,” Del said. A man in a T-shirt dashed to the bar with a handful of bills, slapped them on the bar, said, “Catch us later,” and ran three beers back to the TV set.

“Would he have a motive?” Lucas asked.

Del shrugged. “The usual. Money. He thinks he’s better than anyone else and can’t figure out why he’s poor.”

“Poor? He’s a doctor . . . .”

“You know what I mean. He’s a doctor, he oughta be rich, and here he is working at the U for seventy, eighty grand. He’s a pathologist, and there ain’t no big demand for pathology in the civilian world . . .”

“Hmph.”

Out on the sidewalk, on the other side of the one-way window, a couple shared an umbrella and, assuming privacy, slowed to light a joint. The woman was wearing a short white skirt and a black leather jacket. Lucas’ Porsche was parked next to the curb, and as they walked by it, the man stopped to look, passing the joint to the girl. She took a hit, narrowed her eyes as she choked down the smoke and passed the joint back.

“Gotta get your vitamins,” Del said, watching them. He reached forward and quickly traced a smiley face in the condensation on the window.

“I heard in the office . . . there was a guy with her? With your cousin?”

“We don’t know what that is,” Del admitted, his forehead wrinkling. “Somebody was there with her. They’d had intercourse, we know that from the M.E., and it wasn’t rape. And a guy called in the report . . . .”

“Lover’s quarrel?”

“I don’t think so. The killer apparently came in through the back, killed her and ran out the same way. She was working at the sink, there were still bubbles on the dishwater when the squad got there, and she had soap on her hands. There wasn’t any sign of a fight, there wasn’t any sign that she had a chance to resist. She was washing dishes, and pow.”

“Doesn’t sound like a lover’s quarrel . . .”

“No. And one of the crime-scene guys was wondering how the killer got so close to her, assuming it wasn’t Loverboy who did it—how he could get so close without her hearing him coming. They checked the door and found out the hinges had just been oiled. Like in the past couple of weeks, probably.”

“Ah. Bekker.”

“Yeah, but it’s not much . . . .”

Lucas thought it over again. A gust of rain brought a quick, furious drumming on the window, which just as quickly stopped. A woman with a red golf umbrella went by.

“Listen,” Del said. “I’m not just sitting here bullshitting . . . . I was hoping you’d take a look at it.”

“Ah, man . . . I hate murders. And I haven’t been operating so good . . . .” Lucas gestured helplessly.

“That’s another thing. You need an interesting case,” Del said, poking an index finger at Lucas’ face. “You’re more fucked up than I am, and I’m a goddamned train wreck.”

“Thanks . . .” Lucas opened his mouth to ask another question, but two pedestrians were drifting along the length of the window. One was a very light-skinned black woman, with a tan trench coat and a wide-brimmed cotton hat that matched the coat. The other was a tall, cadaverous white boy wearing a narrow-brimmed alpine hat with a small feather.

Lucas sat up. “Randy.”

Del looked out at the street, then reached across the table and took Lucas’ arm and said, “Take it easy, huh?”

“She was my best snitch, man,” Lucas said, in a voice like a gravel road. “She was almost a friend.”

“Bullfuck. Take it easy.”

“Let him get all the way inside . . . . You go first, cover me, he knows my face . . . .”

Randy came in first, his hands in his coat pockets. He posed for a moment, but nobody noticed. With twelve seconds left in the NBA game, the Celtics were one point down with a man at the line, shooting two. Everybody but the drunk hooker and the bitter old man who was talking into his overcoat was facing the tube.

A woman came in behind Randy and pulled the door shut.

Lucas came out of the booth a step behind Del. She’s beautiful, he thought, looking at the woman past Del’s shoulder; then he put his head down. Why would she hang with a dipshit like Randy?

Randy Whitcomb was seventeen and a fancy man, with a gun and a knife and sometimes a blackthorn walking stick with a gold knob on the end of it. He had a long freckled face, coarse red hair and two middle teeth that pointed in slightly different directions. He shook himself like a dog, flicking water spray off his tweed coat. He was too young for a tweed coat and too thin and too crazy for the quality of it. He walked down the bar toward the drunk hooker, stopped, posed again, waiting to be seen. The hooker didn’t look up until he took a hand out of his coat and slid a church key down the bar, where it knocked a couple of quarters off her stack of change.

“Marie,” Randy crooned. The bartender caught the tone and looked at him. Del and Lucas were closing, but Randy paid them no attention. He was focused on Marie like fire: “Marie, baby,” he warbled. “I hear you been talking to the cops . . . .”

Marie tried to climb off the stool, looking around wildly for Lucas. The stool tipped backward and she reached out to catch herself on the bar, teetering. Randy slid around the corner of the bar, going for her, but Lucas was there, behind him. He put a hand in the middle of the boy’s back and pushed him, hard, into the bar.

The bartender hollered, “Hey,” and Del had his badge out as Marie hit the floor, her glass shattering.

“Police. Everybody sit still,” Del shouted. He slipped a short black revolver out of a hip holster and held it vertically in front of his face, where everybody in the bar could see it.

“Randy Ernest Whitcomb, dickweed,” Lucas began, pushing Randy in the center of his back, looping his foot in front of the boy’s ankles. “You are under . . .”

He had Randy leaning forward, his feet back, one arm held tight, the other going into his pocket for cuffs, when Randy screamed, “No,” and levered himself belly-down onto the bar.

Lucas grabbed for one of his legs, but Randy kicked, thrashed. One foot caught Lucas on the side of the face, a glancing impact, but it hurt and knocked him back.

Randy fell over the bar, scrambled along the floor behind it and up over the end of it, grabbed a bottle of Absolut vodka and backhanded it at Del’s head. Then he was running for the back of the bar, Lucas four steps behind him, knowing the back door was locked. Randy hit it, hit it again, then spun, his eyes wild, flashing a spike. They were all the fashion among the assholes. Clipped to a shirt pocket, they looked like Cross ballpoint pens. With the cap off, they were six-inch steel scalpels, the tip honed to a wicked point.

“Come on, motherfucker cop,” Randy howled, spraying saliva at Lucas. His eyes were the size of half-dollars, his voice high and climbing. “Come on, motherfucker, get cut . . . .”

“Put the fuckin’ knife down,” Del screamed. His gun pointed at Randy’s head. Lucas, glancing at Del, felt the world slowing down. The fat bartender was still behind the bar, his hands on his ears, as though blocking out the noise of the fight would stop it; Marie had gotten to her feet and was staring at a bleeding palm, shrieking; the two shitkickers had taken a step away from the shuffleboard bowling machine, and one of them, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, was fumbling at the sheath on his belt . . . .

“Fuck you, cop, kill me,” Randy shrieked, doing a sidestep shuffle. “I’m a fuckin’ juvenile, assholes . . . .”

“Put the fuckin’ blade down, Randy . . . .” Del screamed again. He glanced sideways at Lucas. “What d’ya wanna do, man?”

“Let me take him, let me take him,” Lucas said, and he pointed. “The shitkicker’s got a knife.” As Del started to turn, Lucas was facing Randy, his eyes wide and black, and he asked, “You like to fuck, Randy?”

“Fuckin’ A, man,” Randy brayed. He was panting, his tongue hanging out. Nuts: “Fuck-in-A.”

“Then I hope you got a good memory, ’cause I’m gonna stick that point right through your testicles, my man. You fucked up Betty with that church key. She was a friend of mine. I been looking for you . . . .”

“Well, you got me, Davenport, motherfucker, come get cut,” Randy shouted. He had one hand down, as he’d been shown in reform school, the knife hand back a bit. Cop rule of thumb: An asshole gets within ten feet of you with a knife, you’re gonna get cut, gun or no gun, shoot or no shoot.

“Easy, man, easy,” Del shouted, looking at the shit-kicker . . . .

“Where’s the woman? Where’s the woman?” Lucas called, still facing Randy, his arms wide in a wrestler’s stance.

“By the door . . .”

“Get her . . . .”

“Man . . .”

“Get her. I’ll take care of this asshole . . . .”

Lucas went straight in, faked with his right, eluded Randy’s probing left hand, and when the knife hand came around, Lucas reached in and caught his right coat sleeve, half threw him and hit him in the face with a roundhouse right. Randy banged against the wall, still trying with the knife, Lucas punching him in the face.

“Lucas . . .” Del screamed at him.

But the air was going blue, slowing, slowing . . . the boy’s head was bouncing off the wall, Lucas’ arms pumping, his knee coming up, his elbow, then both hands pumping, a slow motion, a long, beautiful combination, a whole series of combinations, one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three, like working with a speed bag . . . the knife on the floor, skittering away . . .

Suddenly Lucas was staggering backward; he tried to turn, and couldn’t. Del’s arm was around his throat, dragging him away . . . .

The world sped up again. The people in the bar stared in stunned silence, all of them on their feet now, their faces like postage stamps on a long, unaddressed envelope. The basketball game was going in the background, broadcast cheers echoing tinnily through the bar.

“Jesus,” Del said, gasping for breath. He said, too loudly, “I thought he got you with that knife. Everybody stay away from the knife, we need prints. Anybody touches it, goes to jail.”

He still had a hand on Lucas’ coat collar. Lucas said, “I’m okay, man.”

“You okay?” Del looked at him and silently mouthed, Witnesses. Lucas nodded and Del said loudly, “You didn’t get stabbed?”

“I think I’m okay . . . .”

“Close call,” Del said, still too loud. “The kid was nuts. You see him go nuts with that knife? Never saw anything like that . . .”

Steering the witnesses, Lucas thought. He looked around for Randy. The boy was on the floor, faceup, unmoving, his face a mask of blood.

“Where’s his girlfriend?” Lucas asked.

“Fuck her,” Del said. He stepped over to Randy, keeping one eye on Lucas, then squatted next to the boy and cuffed his hands in front. “I thought you were gonna get stuck, you crazy fuck.”

One of the hookers, up and wrapping a red plastic raincoat around her shoulders, ready to leave, looked down at Randy and into the general silence said, in a long, calm Kansas City drawl, “You better call an ambliance. That motherfucker is hurt.”