Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 70 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

CHAPTER

6

The Tropic of Sixth Avenue.

The sky was pink from the pollution haze boiling off the asphalt, and heat mirages made the light poles shimmy like belly dancers. Fell pushed the beat-up Plymouth through the cab traffic, one arm out the window, an unfiltered cigarette between her fingers, old-gold rock ’n’ roll playing from a personal boombox in the backseat. The Doors, “Light My Fire.”

“ . . . don’t have enough money to fix the air conditioner,” she was saying, “but we get three computer terminals so we can do more paperwork, and they’re not even new terminals, they’re rehabs . . .”

Black and brown arms hung from the driver’s windows of the amber taxis beside them, while the paler passengers slumped in back, simmering in their own juices.

“Why fences?” Lucas asked. They were looking for fences. Fell, he’d been told, specialized in burglary and industrial theft, down through the manufacturing district of Manhattan.

“Because Kennett was reading one of these nut-case medical papers Bekker is writing, and figured out that Bekker was taking measurements that you can only take with medical monitoring gear. One of the papers mentions blood pressure taken from a catheter at the radial artery. You gotta have the right stuff . . . .”

“Check the medical-supply houses?”

“Yup, everywhere in North America and the major Japanese and European suppliers. Nothing. Checked the hospitals for stolen stuff and came up empty, but he had to get it somewhere . . . . There are a couple of other guys checking secondary sources . . . .”

They stopped at a traffic light. On the sidewalk, a fruit vendor sat in a plastic lawn chair with a wet rag on his forehead and took a continuous long peel off a red apple, using a thin-bladed stiletto with a pearl handle. A slow-moving, ratty-furred tiger-striped cat walked past him, stopped to look at the dangling peel, then hopped down into the gutter, took a last look around at the daylight world, and dropped into the sewer. Anything to get out of the heat.

“ . . . some kind of heat inversion and the temperature never goes down at night, see. That’s when things get weird,” Fell said, gunning the car through the intersection. “I got a call once where this PR stuck his old lady’s head . . .”

“A what?”

“Puerto Rican. Where this Puerto Rican dude stuffed his old lady’s head in the toilet and she drowned, and he said he did it because it was so fuckin’ hot and she wouldn’t shut up . . . .”

They rolled past the Checks Cashed and the Mexican and Indian restaurants, past the delis and the stink of a dog-’n’-kraut stand, past people with red dots on their foreheads and yarmulkes and witty T-shirts that said “No Farting,” past bums and sunglassed Mafia wannabes in nine-hundred-dollar loose-kneed suits with shiny lapels.

Past a large woman wearing a T-shirt with a silhouette of a .45 on the front. A newspaper-style map arrow pointed at the gun’s muzzle and said, “Official Map of New York City: You Are Here.”

“There’s Lonnie,” Fell said, easing the car to the curb. A taxi behind them honked, but Fell ignored it and got out.

“Hey, whaddafuck . . .”

Fell made a pistol of her thumb and index finger and pointed it at the cabby and pulled the trigger and continued on around the car. Lonnie was sitting on an upturned plastic bottle crate, a Walkman plugged into his ear, head bobbing to whatever sound he was getting. He was looking the other way when Fell walked up and tapped the crate with her toe. Lonnie reared back and looked up, then pulled the plug out of his ear.

“Hey . . .” Lucas turned in front of him, on the other side. Nowhere to run.

“You sold three hundred hypodermic syringes to Al Kunsler on Monday,” Fell said. “We want to know where you got them and what else you got. Medical stuff.”

“I don’t know nothing about that,” Lonnie said. He had scars around his eyebrows, and his nose didn’t quite line up with the center of his mouth.

“Come on, Lonnie. We know about it, and I don’t much give a shit,” Fell said impatiently. Her forehead was damp with the heat. “You fuck with us, we take you down. You tell us, we drive away. And believe me, this is something you don’t want to get involved in.”

“Yeah? What’s going on?” He looked like he was about to stand up, but Lucas put his hand on his shoulder, and he settled back on the crate.

“We’re looking for this fruitcake Bekker, okay? He’s getting medical gear. We’re looking for suppliers. You know at least one . . . .”

“I don’t know from this Bekker dude,” Lonnie said.

“So just tell us where you got them,” Lucas said.

Lonnie looked around, as if to see who was watching. “Atlantic City. From some guy in a motel.”

“Where’d he get them?” Lucas asked.

“How the fuck would I know? Maybe off the beach.”

“Lonnie, Lonnie . . .” said Fell.

“Look, I went to Atlantic City for a little straight action. You know you can’t get straight action around here anymore . . . .”

“Yeah, yeah . . .”

“ . . . And I meet this guy at the motel and he says he’s got some merchandise, and I say, ‘Whatcha got?’ And he says, ‘All sortsa shit.’ And he did. He had, like, a million sets of Snap-On tools and some computer TV things and leather flight bags and belts and suits and shit, and these needles.”

“What was he driving?” Lucas asked.

“Cadillac.”

“New?”

“Naw. Old. Great big fuckin’ green one, color of Key Lime pie, with the white roof.”

“Think he’s still there?”

Lonnie shrugged. “Could be. Looked like he’d been there awhile. I know there was some girls down the way, he was partying with them, they acted like they knew him . . . .”

• • •

They touched a half-dozen other fences, small-time hustlers. At half-hour intervals, Fell would find a pay phone and make a call.

“Nobody home?”

“Nobody home,” she said, and they went looking for more fences.

Fell was a cowgirl, Lucas thought, watching her drive. She’d been born out of place, out of time, in the Bronx. She’d fit in the Dakotas or Montana: bony, with wide shoulders and high cheekbones, that frizzy red hair held back from her face with bobby pins. With the scar at the end of her mouth . . .

She’d been jabbed with the broken neck of a beer bottle, she said, back when she was on patrol. “That’s what you get when you try to keep assholes from killing each other.”

Babe Zalacki might have been a babe once, before her teeth fell out. She shook her head and smiled her toothless pink smile at Lucas: “I don’t know from medical shit,” she said. “The closest I got to it was, I got three hundred cases of Huggies a couple of weeks ago. Now Huggies, you can sell Huggies. You take them up to Harlem and sell them on the street corners like that . . . .” She snapped her fingers. “But medical shit . . . who knows?”

Back on the street, Fell said, “Sun’s going down.”

Lucas looked up at the sky, where a dusty sun hung over the west side. “Still hot.”

“Wait’ll August. August is hot. This is nothin’ . . . . Better make a call.”

Up the street, a bald man in a jean jacket turned to face a building, braced a hand against it, and began urinating. Lucas watched as he finished, got himself together, and continued down the street. No problem.

Fell came back and said, “He’s home. Phone’s busy.”

They took a half hour, cutting crosstown as the light began to fail, through a warehouse section not far from the water. Fell finally slowed, did a U-turn, and bumped the right-side wheels over the curb. She killed the engine, put her radio on the floor in the backseat, fished a sign out from under the seat and tossed it on the dashboard: “No radio inside.”

“Even a cop car?”

“Especially a cop car—cop cars got all kinds of goodies. At least, that’s what they think.”

Lucas climbed out, stretched, yawned, and ran his thumb along his beltline, under his jacket, until it hit the leather of the Bianchi holster. The street was in deep shadow, with doorway niches and shuttered carports in brick walls. A red brick cube, unmarked by any visible sign or number, loomed overhead like a Looney Tune. Rows of dark windows started three stories up; they were tall and narrow, and from the third to the eleventh floor, dark as onyx. Half of the top floor was lit.

“Lights are on,” Fell said.

“Weird place to live,” Lucas said, looking around. Scrap paper sidled lazily down the street, borne on a hot humid river breeze. The breeze smelled like the breath of an old man with bad teeth. They were close to the Hudson, somewhere in the twenties.

“Jackie Smith is a weird guy,” Fell said. Lucas stepped toward the door, but she caught his arm. “Slow down. Give me a minute.” She dug into her purse and came up with a pack of Luckys.

“You’ve got it bad,” Lucas said, watching her. “The habit.”

“Yeah, but at least I don’t need an alarm clock.”

“What?” He stepped into it.

“Every morning at seven o’clock sharp, I wake myself up coughing.” When Lucas didn’t smile, she peered at him and said, “That was a joke, Davenport.”

“Yeah. Inside, I’m laughing myself sick,” he said. Then he smiled.

Fell tapped a Lucky on the back of a pack of matches, stuck it in her mouth with a two-finger flipping motion, cupped it with her hands and lit it.

“You’re not going to fuck me up, are you?” she asked, her eyes flicking up at him.

“I don’t know what that means,” Lucas said. He stuck a finger between his collar and his neck. His neck felt like sandpaper. If ring around the collar were a terminal disease, they’d be burying him.

“I saw the pictures of Bekker, after the arrest,” Fell said. “He looked like somebody stuck his face in a blender. If you do that in New York, with somebody connected downtown, like Jackie is, your fuckin’ career goes in the blender.”

“I don’t have a career,” Lucas said.

“I do,” said Fell. “Four more years and I’m out. I’d like to make it.”

“What’re you going to do when you get out?” Lucas asked, making talk while she smoked. He tipped his head back and looked up again. He seemed to do that in New York, even with buildings only twelve stories tall.

“I’m gonna move to Hollywood, Florida, and get a job as a topless waitress,” Fell said.

“What?” She brought him down, startled him.

“Joke, Davenport,” she said.

“Right.” He looked back up, turning in the street. “Who is this guy?”

She took a drag, coughed, covered her mouth with a rolled fist. “Jackie? He’s fairly big. The others we’ve talked to, they were middle-sized or small-timers. Jackie’s a wholesaler. There are three or four of them here in midtown. When somebody hijacks a truck full of Sonys, one of the wholesalers’ll get it and parcel it out to the small-timers. If Jackie feels like it, he could put out the word on Bekker to fifty or sixty or a hundred guys. If he feels like it. And those guys could probably talk to a million junkies and thieves. If they feel like it.”

“If you know all this . . . ?” He looked at her with a cool curiosity. A man turned the corner behind them, saw them standing on the sidewalk, and went back around the corner out of sight.

“He’s got his own business, remaindering stuff,” Fell continued. “If somebody has six zillion nuts and no bolts to go with them, he calls up Jackie. Jackie buys them and finds somebody who needs them. That’s all legal. If you tag him, you’ll find him going in and out of warehouses all day, ten or twenty a day, different ones every day of the week. Talks to all kinds of people. Hundreds of them. Somewhere in the mess, he’s got eight or ten people working for him, running the fencing business out the back door of these legit warehouses . . . . It’s tough, man. I know he’s doing it, but I can’t find his dumps.”

“He knows you?”

“He knows who I am,” she said. “I once sat outside this place for three days, watching who came and went. Running license numbers. It was colder than shit. You know how it gets when it’s too cold to snow?”

“Yeah. I’m from . . .”

“Minnesota. Like that,” she said, looking down the street, remembering. “So the third night, this guy comes out of the building, knocks on our window, my partner and me, and hands us a Thermos of hot coffee and a couple of turkey sandwiches, courtesy of Jackie Smith.”

“Hmph.” He looked at her. “You take it?”

“I poured the coffee on the guy’s shoes,” Fell said. She was talking through her teeth. She took a last drag, grinned at him and flicked the cigarette into the street, where it bounced in a shower of sparks. “The silly shit thought he could buy me with a fuckin’ turkey sandwich . . . . C’mon, let’s do it.”

The warehouse door was built of inch-thick glass poured around stainless-steel rods, with an identical second door six feet farther in. A video camera was mounted on the wall between the two doors. Fell pushed a doorbell marked “Top.” A moment later, an electronic voice said, “Yes?”

Fell leaned close to the speaker plate. “Detectives Fell and Davenport to see Jackie Smith.”

After a short pause, the voice said, “Step inside and hold your badges in front of the camera.”

The door lock buzzed and Fell pulled the door open, and they went inside. Now between the two doors, they held their badges in front of the camera. A second later, the lock on the second door buzzed. “Take the elevator to twelve. It’s on the way down,” the voice said.

A sterile lobby of yellow-painted concrete block waited behind the second door. There were no windows, only the elevator doors and a steel fire door at the far end of the lobby. The elevators were to the left, and another video camera, mounted in a wire cage near the ceiling, watched them.

“Interesting,” Lucas said. “We’re in a vault.”

“Yeah. You’d have a hell of a time getting this far if Jackie didn’t want you in. You’d probably need plastique to do it in a hurry. Then you’d have to get through the fire door, to find the stairs, assuming that the elevator was up and locked. By that time, Jackie’d be gone, of course. I’m sure he’s got a bolthole somewhere . . . .”

“And he’s probably recording all of this,” Lucas said.

Fell shrugged. “I’d like to get him, and I’ve thought about it—that ain’t no secret.” Halfway up, she said, “You got a thing with Rothenburg?”

He looked down at her. “Why?”

“Just curious,” she said. They watched numbers flickering off the floor counter, and then she said, “When she came in, the way she looked at you, I thought you had a thing.”

“Nah . . .”

She shook her head; she didn’t believe him. Then the elevator doors opened and they stepped into a lobby identical to the one on the bottom floor: yellow-painted concrete block with a gray steel door set in one wall. Another video camera was mounted in a corner.

“Come in,” the disembodied voice said.

The steel door opened on Wonderland.

Lucas followed Fell onto a raised hardwood deck, shaped like a half-moon, overlooking an enormous room. Ten or twelve thousand square feet, Lucas thought, most of it open. Different activity areas were defined by furniture, lights and carpet, instead of walls. The kitchen was to the right; a blond man was peering into a stove, and the odor of fresh hot bread suffused the room. To the left, halfway back, a dark-haired man stood on a square of artificial turf with a golf club.

“Over here,” said the voice from the hallway, and the man with the golf club waved at them. Fell led the way, a weaving route through what seemed like an acre of furniture.

A jumble of furniture, with no specific style, Lucas thought: it looked as though it had fallen off the back of a truck. Or trucks—different trucks, from different factories. A king-sized English four-poster bed sat on a huge Oriental carpet, and was covered with an American crazy quilt. A six-foot projection TV faced the bed, and three tripod-mounted video cameras pointed at it.

Behind the TV, a semicircular wall of shoulder-high speakers flanked a conversation pit; a marble-topped table in the center held an array of CD and tape equipment, along with a library of a thousand or more compact discs. The floor beneath the stereo area was hardwood, covered with animal skins: tiger and jaguar, stitched beaver, a buffalo robe, a sleek dark square of what might have been mink. Erroll Garner bubbled out of the speakers, working through “Mambo Carmel.”

Beyond the bed, and between the bed and the sports area, a glass shower stall stood out of the floor like an oversized phone booth. Two toilets sat next to it, facing each other, and on the other side, a huge tub.

Smith waited in the sports area, two thirds of the way to the back wall. The wall was pierced by three or four doors. So there were more rooms, Lucas thought . . . .

Smith, his back to them, waggled a driver, drove a golf ball into a net, shook his head, and put the club in a bag that hung from a wall peg. Behind him, a rank of unlit lights waited over what appeared to be a real grass putting green, built on a raised surface. Beyond the green, a stained-glass lamp hung over an antique pool table; and at the back of the room, a basketball net hung from a wall. Below it, a court was complete out to the top of the free-throw circle.

“Can’t keep my head down,” Smith said. He strode toward them, his golf shoes scuffing over the artificial turf. Smith was a short, barrel-chested, barrel-gutted man with a fuzzy mustache and kinky black hair. He wore a black golf shirt tucked into black pleated slacks, with a woven leather belt circling his waist. A gold chain dangled from his neck, with what looked like a St. Christopher medal. He smiled at Fell and stuck his hand out. “You’re the cop who was watching me last year . . .”

Fell ignored the hand. “We need to talk to you about this Bekker guy,” she said bluntly. “The guy who’s chopping up these people . . .”

“The freak,” Smith said. He took his hand back, couldn’t find a place for it, and finally stuck it in his slacks pocket. He was puzzled, his mustache quivering. “Why talk to me?”

“He needs money and drugs, and he can’t get them legitimately,” Lucas said. He’d drifted past the driving area to the putting green. The green’s surface was knee high, but dished, to provide a variety of contours. He reached down and pressed his fingers against it. Real grass, carefully groomed, cool and slightly damp to the touch.

“Now that’s a hell of a project, right there,” Smith said enthusiastically. He picked up a remote control, touched a series of buttons, and the lights over the putting green flickered and came on. “Those are special grow lights,” he said, pointing up at the lighting fixture. “Same spectrum as the sun. Joe over there, he knows all about different grasses, he set it up. This is genuine bent grass. It took him a year to get it right.”

Smith stepped up and onto the green, walked lightly across it, then turned to look at Lucas. Back to business: “So this guy needs money and drugs?”

“Yeah. And we want you to put the word out on your network. Somebody is dealing with him, and we want him. Now.”

Smith picked up a putter that was leaning against the far end. Three balls waited in a rack, and he popped them out, lined up the first one, stroked and missed. The ball rolled past the cup and stopped two feet away.

“Twenty-two feet. Not bad,” he said. “When you’ve got a long lag like that, you just try to get it within two feet of the cup. You pretend you’re shooting for a manhole cover. That’s the secret to single-bogey golf. Do cops play golf?”

“We need you to put out the word,” Fell said.

“Talk into my belly button, said Little Red Riding Hood,” Smith said. He lined up another putt, let it go. The ball rolled four feet past the cup. “Fuck it,” he said. “Nerves. You guys are putting pressure on me.”

“There’s no wire,” Lucas said quietly. “Neither one of us is wired. We’re looking for a little help.”

“What do I get out of it?” Smith asked.

“Civic pride,” Lucas said. The pitch of his voice had dropped a bit, but Smith pretended not to notice, and lined up the last ball.

“Civic pride? In fuckin’ New York?” He snorted, looked up and said, “Excuse the language, Dr. Fell . . . . Anyway, I really don’t know what you’re talking about, this network.”

He walked around the green, squinting at the short putt. The blond man approached with a china platter covered with steaming slices of bread. “Anybody for fresh bread? We’ve got straight and garlic butter . . . .”

“Fuck the bread,” said Fell. She looked at Lucas. “We’re not getting to him. Maybe we ought to have the fire department check his . . .”

“Nah, political shit doesn’t work with a guy who’s really connected,” Lucas said. “Mr. Smith sounds like he’s connected.”

Smith squinted at him. “Who’re you? I don’t remember you . . . .”

“I’ve been hired as a consultant here,” Lucas said. He wandered back to the driving net, speaking so softly that the others could barely pick up the words. He pulled a three iron out of the golf bag and looked at it. “I used to work in Minneapolis, until I got thrown off the force. I caught Bekker the first time, but not before he killed a good friend of mine. Cut her throat. He let her see it coming. Made her wait for it. Then he sawed right through her neck . . . . She was tied up, couldn’t fight back. So later, when I caught Bekker . . .”

“His face got all fucked up,” Smith said suddenly.

“That’s right,” said Lucas. He’d come back, carrying the iron. “His face got all fucked up.”

“Wait a minute,” said Fell.

Lucas ignored her, hopped up on the putting green, and walked toward Smith. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fell’s hand sliding into the fold of her shoulder bag. “And I didn’t worry about fucking him up. You know why? Because I’ve got a lot of money of my own and I didn’t need the job. I don’t need any job.”

“What the fuck are you talking . . .” Smith backed away, looked quickly at the blond.

“ . . . And Bekker got me really pissed,” Lucas said to Smith, his voice riding over the other man’s. His eyes were wide, the tendons in his neck straining at his shirt collar. “I mean really fuckin’ pissed. And I had this pistol, with this big sharp front sight on it, and when I caught him, I pounded his face with the sight until you couldn’t tell it was a face. Before that, Bekker’d been really pretty, just like this fuckin’ green . . . .”

Lucas pivoted and swung the three iron, a long sweeping swing into the perfect turf. A two-pound divot of dirt and grass sprayed off the platform across the pool table.

“Wait, wait . . .” Smith was waving his hands, trying to stop it.

The blond had set the china tray aside and his hand went toward the small of his back and Fell had a pistol out, pointed at his head, and she was yelling, “No, no, no . . .”

Lucas rolled on, swinging the club like a scythe, screaming, walking around Smith, saliva spraying on Smith’s black shirt. “Pounded his face, pounded his motherfuckin’ face, you believe the way we pounded his fuckin’ face.”

When he stopped, breathing hard, a dozen ragged furrows slashed the surface of the green. Lucas turned and looked at the blond man. Hopped down off the platform, walked toward him.

“You were going to pull out a gun,” he said.

The blond man shrugged. He had heavy shoulders, like a weight lifter, and he shifted, setting his feet.

“That really pisses me off,” Lucas shouted at him.

“Hold it, for Christ’s sake,” said Fell, her voice low and urgent.

Lucas swung the iron again, quickly, violently, overhead, then down. The blond flinched, but the iron smashed through the freshly baked bread and the platter beneath it. Pieces of china skittered across the floor, and he shouted, “And tried to fuckin’ bribe us . . .”

Then he ran down, staggered, turned back to Smith and pointed the club like a saber.

“I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to deal. You’re a goddamned dirtbag, and it makes me feel nasty to be here. What I’m telling you is, I want you to put the word out on your network. And I want you to call me. Lucas Davenport. Midtown South. If you don’t, I will fuck you up six different ways. I’ll talk to the New York Times and I’ll talk to the News and I’ll talk to Eye Witness News and I’ll give them pictures of you and tell them you’re working with Bekker. How’d that help business? And I might just come back and fuck you up personally, because this is a serious matter with me, this Bekker thing.”

He turned in a half-circle, his breath slowing, took a step toward the door, then suddenly whipped the club into the kitchen like a helicopter blade. It knocked a copper tureen off a wall peg, bounced off the stove, and clattered to the floor with the tureen. “Never was any fucking good with the long irons,” he said.

On the way out of the building, Fell watched him until Lucas began to grin.

“Nuttier’n shit, huh?” he said, glancing at her.

“I believed it,” she said seriously.

“Thanks for the backup. I don’t think blondie would’ve done much . . . .”

She shook her head. “That was funny; I mean, funny-strange. I didn’t know Jackie Smith was gay until I saw this guy. That’s like dealing with spouses, only worse. You whack one and the other’s liable to come after you with a knife . . . .”

“Are you sure they’re gay?”

“Does Raggedy Ann have a cotton crotch?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Lucas said, laughing.

“It means yes, I’m sure they’re gay,” she said.

“How come he called you Dr. Fell?” Lucas asked. “Are you a doctor?”

“No. It’s from the nursery rhyme: ‘I do not love thee, Dr. Fell; the reason why I cannot tell; but this I know, and know full well: I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.’ ”

“Huh. I’m impressed,” Lucas said.

“I know several nursery rhymes,” Fell said, digging in her purse for the pack of Luckys. “Want to hear ‘Old King Cole’?”

“I mean with Smith. Knowing the rhyme.”

“I don’t impress you, huh?” She flipped the cigarette into her mouth, her eyes slanting up at him.

“Don’t know yet,” he said. “Maybe . . .”

Barbara Fell lived on the Upper West Side. They dropped her city car at Midtown South, found a cab, and she said, “I’ve got a decent neighborhood bar. Why don’t you come up and get a drink, chill out, and you can catch a cab from there.”

“All right.” He nodded. He needed some more time with her.

They went north on Sixth, the sidewalk traffic picking up as they got closer to Central Park, tourists walking arm in arm along the sidewalks.

“It’s too big,” Lucas said, finally, watching through the window as the city went by. “In the Twin Cities, you can pretty much get a line on every asshole in town. Here . . .” He looked out and shook his head. “Here, you’d never know where it was coming from. You got assholes like other places got raindrops. This is the armpit of the universe.”

“Yeah, but it can be pretty nice,” she said. “Got the theaters, the art museums . . .”

“When was the last time you went to a theater?”

“I don’t know—I really can’t afford it. But I mean, if I could.”

“Right.”

In the front seat, the taxi driver was humming to himself. There was no tune, only variations in volume and intensity as the driver stared blank-eyed through the windshield, bobbing his head to some unheard rhythm. His hands gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. Lucas looked at the driver, looked at Fell and shook his head. She laughed, and he grinned and went back to the window.

The bar was small, carefully lit, convivial. The bartender called Fell by her first name, pointed her at a back booth. Lucas took the seat facing the entrance. A waitress came over, looked at him, looked at Fell, said, “Ooo.”

Fell said, “Strictly business.”

“Ain’t it always,” the waitress said. “Didja hear Louise had her kid, baby girl, six pounds four ounces?”

Lucas watched Fell as she chatted with the waitress. She looked a little tired, a little lonesome, with that uncertain smile.

“So,” she said, coming back to Lucas. “Do you really freeze your ass off in Minnesota? Or is that just . . .”

Small talk, bar talk. A second drink. Lucas waiting for a break, waiting . . . .

Getting it. A slender man walked in, touched a woman on the cheek, got a quick peck in return. He was blond, carefully dressed, and after a moment, looked at the back of Fell’s head, said something to the woman he’d touched, then looked carefully at Lucas.

“There’s a guy,” Lucas said, leaning across the table, talking in a low voice. “And I think he’s looking at you. By the bar . . .”

She turned her head and lit up. “Mica,” she called. To Lucas she said, “He used to be my hairdresser. He’s, like, moved downtown.” She slid out of the booth, walked up to the bar. “When did you get back . . . ?”

“I thought that was you . . .” Mica said.

Mica had been to Europe; he started a story. Lucas sipped the beer, lifted his feet to the opposite seat, caught Fell’s purse between his ankles, pulled it in. Fumbled with it, out of sight, watching. The waitress glanced his way, lifted her eyebrows. He shook his head. If she came over, if Mica’s story ended too soon, if Fell hurried back to get a cigarette . . .

There. Keys. He’d been waiting all day for a shot at them . . . .

He glanced at the key ring in his hand, six keys. Three good candidates. He had a flat plastic box in his pocket that had once held push pins. He’d dumped the pins and filled both the bottom and the lid with a thin layer of modeling clay. He pressed the first key in the clay, turned it, pressed again. Then the second key. The third key he did in the lid; if he made the impressions too close together, the clay tended to distort . . . . He glanced into the box. Good, clean impressions, six of them.

Fell was still talking. He slipped the keys back into her purse, gripped it with his ankles, lifted it back to her seat . . . .

Pulse pounding like an amateur shoplifter’s.

Jesus.

Got them.