Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 78 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

“It’ll drive a guy nuts, being penned up,” Lucas said. “You oughta stay off his case.”

“I try,” she said. “But sometimes I just can’t help it. Men can be so fucking stupid, it gives me a headache.”

They went back to the boat and found Kennett below, digging around. “Hey, Lucas, a little help? I need to pull this marine battery, but it’s too heavy for Lily.”

“Dick, are you messing around with that wrench again . . . ?” Lily started, but Lucas put an index finger over his lips and she stopped.

“I’ll be down,” Lucas said.

Ten minutes later, while Kennett and Lily did the last of the buttoning-up, Lucas humped the battery back to the car. In the parking lot, he propped one end of it on the truck bumper while he sorted out the keys, then turned and looked back through the fence. Lily and Kennett were on the dock, Lily leaning into him, his arms around her waist. She was talking to him, then leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Lucas felt a pang, but only a small one.

Kennett was okay.

CHAPTER

17

The New School auditorium was compact, with a narrow lobby between the interior auditorium doors and the doors to the street.

“Perfect,” Lucas told Fell. They’d taken the tour with a half-dozen other cops, and now, waiting, wandered outside to Twelfth Street. Fell lit a cigarette. “Once he comes around the corner, he’ll be inside the net. And the lobby’s small enough that we can check everyone coming through before they realize there are cops all over the place.”

“You still think he’ll show?” Fell asked skeptically.

“Hope so.”

“It’d be too easy,” she said.

“He’s a nut case,” Lucas said. “If he’s seen the announcement, he’ll be here.”

A car dropped Kennett at the curb. “Opening night,” he said as he climbed out. He looked up and down the fashionable residential street, bikes chained to wrought-iron fences, well-kept brick townhouses climbing up from the street. “It feels like something’s gonna happen.”

They followed him inside, and Carter came by with radios. They each took one, fitting the earpieces, checking them out. “Stay off unless it’s critical,” Carter said. “There are twelve guys here, and if all twelve start yelling at the same time . . .”

“Where do you want me?” Lucas asked.

“Where do you think?” Carter asked. “Ticket booth?”

“Mmm, I’d be looking at too many people’s backs,” Lucas said. He glanced around. A short hall led from the auditorium lobby to the main entrance lobby of the New School. “How about if I stood back there in the hall?”

“All right,” Carter said. To Fell, he said, “We’ve got you handing out programs. You’ll be right there in the lobby.”

“Terrific . . .”

“What’s the setup?” Kennett asked.

“Well, we’re supposed to start in twenty minutes. We’ve got you just inside the auditorium entrance, where you can see everyone, or get back out to the lobby in a hurry,” Carter said. “It’s right down here . . . .”

Bekker tottered down Twelfth Street ten minutes before the lecture was scheduled to begin, past a guy working on a car in the failing daylight. Bekker was nervous as a cat, excited, checking the scattering of people walking along the street with him, and toward him, converging on the auditorium. This was dangerous. He could feel it. They’d be talking about him. There might be cops in the crowd. But still: worth it. Worth some risk.

Most of the people were going through a series of theater-style doors farther up the street. That would be the auditorium. There was another door, closer. On impulse he entered there, turned toward the auditorium.

Almost stumbled.

Davenport.

Trap.

The fear almost choked him, and he caught at his throat. Davenport and another man, their backs to Bekker, were in the hallway between the separate entries. Not ten feet away. Watching the crowd come through the other door.

Davenport was to the left, half turned toward the second man, his back directly to Bekker. The second man, half turned toward Davenport, glanced toward Bekker as simple momentum took Bekker inside. Couldn’t stop. He went straight through the school lobby, past the entrance to the auditorium. An empty guard desk was to the right, with a phone behind it. Ahead of him, another hallway that seemed to lead back outside.

Bekker unconsciously touched his face, felt the hard scars under the special makeup. That night in the funeral home, Davenport hacking at him . . .

Bekker wrenched himself back, forced himself to walk down the stairs, through the next door, outside. He was sweating, almost gasping for breath.

He found himself in a sculpture garden, facing another door like the one he’d come through. On the other side of the door was a hallway, and beyond that, maybe a hundred feet away, another set of doors and the next street. Nobody ahead. He strode quickly across the courtyard, caught the door, pulled.

Locked. Stricken, he gave it a tug. It didn’t budge. The glass was too thick to break, even if he had something to break it with. He turned and looked back, toward the way he’d come. If he tried to get out that way, he’d be face to face with Davenport for several seconds, just as he’d been with the cop Davenport had been talking to.

He stood, frozen, unable to sort the possibilities. He had to get out of sight. He went to his left, found a short hallway with a door marked with a B and the word “Stair.” He jerked at the door, hoping . . .

Locked. Damn. He huddled in the doorway, temporarily out of sight. But he couldn’t stay: if anybody saw him like this, hiding, they’d know.

Another goddamned Davenport trap, pulling him in . . .

Bekker lost it for a moment, his mind going away, dwindling, imploding . . . . He came back with a gasp, found himself pulling at the door, fighting the door handle.

No. There must be something else. He let go of the door, turned back to the courtyard. He needed help, needed to think. He groped for his pillbox, found it, gulped a half-dozen crosses. The acrid taste on his tongue helped cool him, get him thinking again.

If they caught him—and if they didn’t kill him—they’d put him back inside, they’d pull him off his chemicals. Bekker shuddered, a full-body spasm. Take him off: he couldn’t live through that again, he couldn’t even think about it.

He thought of the funeral home again. Davenport’s face, inches from his, screaming, the words unintelligible, then the pistol coming up, the gunsight coming around like a nail on a club, the nail ripping through his face . . .

Had to think. Had to think.

Had to move. But where? Davenport was right there, watching. Had to get past him. Only half aware of what he was doing, he fetched the pill box and gulped the rest of the speed and a single tab of PCP. Think.

“They gotta start pretty soon,” Carter said.

“Give him another five minutes,” Davenport said. “Fuck around with the slide projector or something.”

“The crowd’s gonna be pissed when Yonel makes the announcement.”

“Maybe not,” said Kennett, who’d gotten tired of waiting in the auditorium. “Maybe they’ll get a kick out of it.”

“Yonel says he’ll do a half-hour on Mengele and Bekker anyway, before he says anything,” Lucas said. He stood and stepped to the door: “I’m going to take a quick turn through the crowd. There’re not many people coming in.”

“Fuck it, he’s not coming,” Carter said.

“Maybe not, but he should have,” Lucas said.

Bekker, desperately exploring the courtyard, followed a short flight of steps into an alcove and found another door. Behind the stage? Would there be cops back there? He took the handle in his hand, pulled . . . and the door moved. He eased it open until just a crack of light was visible and pressed his eye to the opening. Yes. Backstage. A man was there, wearing slacks and a sport coat, peering out at the audience from a dark corner on the opposite side of the stage. As Bekker watched, he lifted a rectangular object to his face. A radio? Must be. Cop.

Just inside the door, in front of Bekker, was a scarred table, and on the table an empty peanut butter jar, a black telephone and what looked like a collapsible umbrella in a nylon case. Bekker let the door close, turned back toward the steps. A finger of despair touched him: no way out. No way. And they’d be checking the building before they left. He knew that. He had to get out. Or hide.

Wait. A radio? The cop had a radio.

Bekker turned, went back to the door, peeked inside again. The cop was still in the corner, peering out from behind the curtain, checking the crowd. And on the table, not an umbrella, but a folding music stand, apparently left behind after a concert.

He flashed on Ray Shaltie, and the blood splashing from his head . . . .

The PCP was coming up now, warming him, bringing him confidence. He needed that radio. He let the door close, took a quick, silent turn around the alcove outside the door, thinking. A paper? He dug in his bag, found an envelope, folded it. Thought again for a moment, but there was no other way: he would not be beaten. Bekker took a breath, posed for a moment, then stepped to the door, pulled it open, and stepped inside.

The cop saw him immediately and frowned, took a step toward him. Bekker held up the envelope, and in a whisper, called, “Officer. Officer.”

The cop glanced out at the crowd, then started across the stage behind the curtain. Radio in his hand. Bekker took a step forward, touched the music stand. It would be flimsy when opened, but when closed, and wrapped in its plastic sheath, a perfect club.

“You’re not . . .” the cop started. Deep voice.

“The man out there . . .” Bekker whispered, and thrust the envelope at the cop, dropping it at the same time. The envelope fell to the cop’s feet. Without thinking, the cop bent to catch it.

And Bekker hit him.

Hit him behind the ear with the music stand, swinging it like a hatchet. The impact sounded like a hammer striking an overripe cantaloupe, and the cop went down, the radio hitting the floor beside him. There’d been little noise, and that was muffled by the curtains, Bekker thought, but he hooked the man by the collar and dragged him into the corner by the door. And waited. Waited for the call, for the shout, that would end it. Nothing.

The cop couldn’t be allowed to talk about how he was ambushed. Bekker stood over him for a moment, waiting, waiting, then pushed open the exterior door, dragged the body through it. The courtyard was still empty. Bekker lifted the music stand and hit the unconscious cop again and again, until the head resembled a bloody bag of rice.

Stop . . . no time. But the eyes . . .

Hurrying now, he used his penknife to cut the eyes, then patted down the body and found an identification card: Francis Sowith. The radio. Shit. The radio was still inside. He went to the door, peeked through, saw the radio, stepped quickly inside and retrieved it.

Back out on the porch again, stepping over the dead man. He noticed he had blood on his hands, and wiped them on the cop’s coat. Still sticky: he lifted them to his face and sniffed. The smell of the blood was familiar, comforting.

He looked at the radio. Basic thumb switch. Calmed himself, checked his clothing, straightened it, and walked up the steps to the door back inside.

He took a breath, tensing, opened the door, and walked straight ahead. A staff member, he thought. That’s what he was: a teacher who worked here. He heard a voice, a man, from around the corner. He slipped up to the guard desk, where he’d seen the telephone, and stepped around behind the desk, the phone to his ear. He could see the shoulder and sleeve of Davenport’s jacket now, if that was in fact Davenport, in the same place. He leaned over the desk, head down, put the radio to his mouth, and thumbed the switch.

“This is Frank,” he blurted. “He’s here, backstage, backstage . . . .”

He dropped the radio hand, and pressed the phone receiver to his ear, his shoulder turned away: the body language said making a date. At the same time, there was a shout, then another. Davenport’s shoulder disappeared from the doorway, but another man came through it, running, right past the desk and down into the courtyard.

Moving quickly, Bekker walked from behind the desk, looking straight ahead, out through the school doors into the street. A woman screamed from the auditorium. Bekker kept walking. The man who’d been working on the car hurried past him, heading toward the doors, a pistol in his hand.

And then the night closed around him. Bekker was gone.

CHAPTER

18

They wound up in the courtyard, a half-dozen senior police officers shouting at each other. Lights burned in every room of the building and uniformed cops crawled through it inch by inch, but the people in the courtyard knew the search was pointless.

“Silly motherfucker . . . How many got out? How many?”

“I was trying to save his ass. Where the fuck were your guys, huh? Where the fuck . . .” A square guy pushed a tall guy, and for a moment it looked like a fight; but then other cops got between them.

“Jesus Christ, you gotta go out the back, the fuckin’ TV is sweeping the streets . . . .”

“Who had the watch on the stairs? Where was . . .”

“Shut up.” Kennett had been sitting on a bench, talking to Lily and O’Dell. Now he shouldered through the ring of cops, his voice cutting through the babble like an icicle going through a sponge cake. “Shut the fuck up.”

He stood on the sidewalk, pale, two fingers hovering over his heart. He turned to one of the cops: “How many got out?”

“Listen, it wasn’t my . . .”

“I don’t give a shit whose fault it was,” Kennett snarled. “We all fuckin’ blew it. What I want to know is, how many got out?”

“I don’t know,” the cop said. “Twenty or thirty. When everybody stampeded backstage, a bunch of people in the lobby and near the doors just went outside. Nobody was there to stop them. When I came back . . . most of them were gone.”

“There were only about fifty people in the auditorium,” Kennett said. “So maybe half of them got out.”

“But that’s not the thing,” the cop said.

“What’s the thing?” Kennett asked. His voice was like a hangnail, sharp, ragged, painful.

“The thing is, I looked into every one of those faces. Bekker wasn’t there. I don’t care if you hang me up by my nuts, you ain’t gonna get me to say he was, ’cause he wasn’t. He wasn’t there.”

“He had to be somewhere,” Carter snapped.

“Nobody came across the stage. Nobody went out through the courtyard. There was only one other door, and that doesn’t go anywhere, it just comes back to the lobby . . . .”

There was a long moment of silence, compounded of anger and fear. Heads would roll for this one. Heads would roll. A couple of cops glanced furtively at O’Dell and Lily, deep in private talk. After a moment, Huerta said, “He must’ve been here all the time. He must’ve hid out before we got here, saw that he couldn’t get out, figured we’d sweep the place before we left, and nailed Frank to get his radio.”

Kennett was nodding. “That couldn’t have been Frank who called . . . .”

“Sounded like Frank . . . .”

“So Bekker’s got a deep voice, big fuckin’ deal. We had people back there in five seconds, and Frank was gone. It took a while to mess him up like that.”

“Then why’d he call? Bekker? If he was already gone?” Kuhn asked.

“To get us running back there,” Lucas said. “Say he goes back there, nails Frank, takes the radio, goes off through the side door around the corner from the lobby, makes the call, then pushes through the door and goes right through the lobby and out.”

“Billy said nobody came through the door,” Kuhn said.

A young plainclothes cop with his hands in his pockets shook his head. “I swear to God, I don’t see how anybody could’ve got through there. Lieutenant Carter told me to stay there, and even when Frank called, I stayed there. I saw everybody running . . .”

“But your back was to the door?” Kennett asked.

“Yeah, but I was right there,” the young cop said. He could feel the goat horns being fitted for his head.

Kennett turned to Lucas: “You’re sure he didn’t come past you?”

“I don’t see how. It’s like this guy said . . .” Lucas pointed at the cop who looked at the faces. “I looked at every goddamn face coming through the door; he just wasn’t there.”

“All right, so he was inside,” Kennett said. “We assume he made the radio call as a diversion to get out . . . .”

“Or to hide,” somebody said. “If he had a bolthole during the day . . .”

“We’ll find out,” Kennett said, peering up at the brightly lighted windows. He glanced sideways at Lucas, who shook his head. Bekker was gone. “The other possibility is that he went out a window somewhere and made the radio call to pull the guys off the street . . . .”

“What if he had keys and was already outside, and was just taunting us?” one of the cops asked.

They talked for twenty minutes before drifting away to specific assignments, or simply drifting away, afraid that their names and faces might become associated with the disaster. In the alcove outside the stage door, a crime-scene crew worked under heavy lights, picking up what they could. But there was no real question: it was Bekker. But Bekker, how?

“Okay, now we’re out of cop work: now we’re down to politics,” Kennett said to Lucas as they stood together in the courtyard.

“You gonna hang?” Lucas asked.

“I could,” Kennett nodded. “I gotta start calling people, gotta get some spin on the thing, fuzz it up.”

“Gonna be tough, with you right here,” Lucas said.

“So what would you do?” Kennett asked.

“Lie,” Lucas said.

Kennett was interested. “How?”

“Blame Frank. Unlock the back door,” Lucas said, nodding to the opposite side of the courtyard. “Tell them that Bekker hid in the building during the day and that he must’ve stolen keys from somewhere. That when he came out and got down here, cutting through the courtyard, using his keys—where we only had one man, because we’d secured the place ahead of time—he ran head-on into Frank. There was a fight, but Bekker’s a PCP freak and he killed Frank and escaped back out the other side of the building. If anybody gets blamed, the blame goes on Frank. But nobody’ll say anything, because Frank’s dead. You could even do a little off-the-record action. Tell them that Frank fucked up, but we can’t say it publicly. He was a good guy and now he’s dead . . . .”

“Hmph.” Kennett pulled at his lip. “What about the radio call?”

“Somebody’s already suggested that he was taunting us: go with that,” Lucas suggested. “That he was already outside. That fits Bekker’s character, as far as the media’s concerned.”

“Do you think . . . ?”

“No, I think he suckered us.”

“So do I.” Kennett stared at his feet for a moment, then glanced at Lily and O’Dell. “The story might not hold up for long.”

“If we get him before it breaks, nobody’ll care.”

Kennett nodded. “I better go talk to O’Dell. We’ll need a ferocious off-the-record media massage.”

“You think he’ll help?”

Kennett permitted himself a very thin grin. “He was here too,” Kennett said. “They’d just pulled up outside . . .”

Kennett started toward Lily and O’Dell, then stopped and turned, hands in his pockets, no longer grinning. “Get your ass back to Minneapolis. Find something for us, God damn it.”

CHAPTER

19

Lucas sat alone in the worst row of seats on the plane, in tourist class behind the bulkhead, no good place to put his feet except in the aisle. The stewardess was watching him before they crossed Niagara Falls.

“Are you all right?” she asked finally, touching his shoulder. He’d dropped the seat all the way back, tense, his eyes closed, like a patient waiting for a root canal.

“Are the wheels off the ground?” he grated.

“Uh-oh,” she said, fighting a smile. “How about a scotch? Double scotch?”

“Doesn’t work,” Lucas said. “Unless you’ve got about nine phenobarbitals to put in it.”

“Sorry,” she said. Her face was professionally straight, but she was amused. “It’s only two more hours . . . .”

“Wonderful . . .”

He could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye: ripped chunks of aluminum skin and pieces of engine nacelle scattered around a Canadian cornfield, heads and arms and fingers like bits of trash, fires guttering just out of sight, putting out gouts of oily black smoke; women in stretch pants wandering through the wreckage, picking up money. A Raggedy Ann doll, cut in half, smiling senselessly; all images from movies, he thought. He’d never actually seen a plane crash, but you had to be a complete idiot not to be able to imagine it.

He sat and sweated, sat and sweated, until the stewardess came back and said, “Almost there.”

“How long?” he croaked.

“Less than an hour . . .”

“Sweet bleedin’ Jesus . . .” He’d been praying that it was only a minute or two; he’d been sure of it.

The plane came in over the grid of orange sodium-vapor lights and blue mercury lights, banking, Lucas holding on to the seat. The window was filled with the streaming cars, the black holes of the lakes stretching down from just west of the Minneapolis Loop. He looked at the floor. Jumped when the wheels came down. Made the mistake of glancing across the empty seat next to him and out the window, and saw the ground coming and closed his eyes again, braced for the impact.

The landing was routine. The bored pilot said the usual good-byes, the voice of a Tennessee hay-shaker, which he undoubtedly was, not qualified to fly a ’52 Chevy much less a jetliner . . . .

Lucas stunk with fear, he thought as he bolted from the plane, carrying his overnight bag. My God, that ride was the worst. He’d read that La Guardia was overcrowded, that in a plane you could get cut in half in an instant, right on the ground. And he’d have to do it again in a day or two.

He caught a cab, gave directions, collapsed in the backseat. The driver took his time, loafing along the river, north past the Ford plant. Lucas’ house had a light in the window. The timer.

“Nice to get home, huh?” the cabdriver asked, making a notation in a trip log.

“You don’t know how good,” Lucas said. He thrust a ten at the driver and hopped out. A couple strolled by on the river walk, across the street.

“Hey, Lucas,” the man called.

“Hey, Rick, Stephanie.” Neighbors: he could see her blond hair, his chrome-rimmed glasses

“You left your backyard sprinkler on. We turned it off and put the hose behind the garage.”

“Thanks . . .”

He picked up the mail inside the door, sorted out the ads and catalogs and dumped them in a wastebasket, showered to get the fear-stink off his body and fell into bed. In thirty seconds, he was gone.

“Lucas?” Quentin Daniel stuck his head out of his office. He had dark circles under his eyes and he’d lost weight. He’d been the Minneapolis chief of police for two terms, but that wasn’t what was eating him. Innocent people had died because of Quentin Daniel: Daniel was a criminal, but nobody knew except Daniel and Lucas. Lucas had resolved it in his mind, had forgiven him. Daniel never could . . . . “C’mon in. What happened to your face?”

“Got mugged, more or less . . . I need some help,” Lucas said briefly, settling into the visitor’s chair. “You know I’m working in New York.”

“Yeah, they called me. I told them you were Mr. Wunnerful.”

“I need to find the guys who were in the jail cells next to Bekker—or anybody he talked to while he was in there.”

“Sounds like you’re scraping the bottom of the bucket,” Daniel said, playing with a humidor on his desk.

“That’s why I’m here,” Lucas said. “The cocksucker’s dug in, and we can’t get him out.”

“All right.” Daniel picked up his phone, punched a number. “Is Sloan there? Get him down to my office, will you? Thanks.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, then Lucas said, “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit,” Daniel said. He turned the humidor around, squared it with the edge of the desk.

“Your wife . . . ?”

“Gone. Thought it’d be a lift, seeing her go, but it wasn’t. I’d get up every morning and look down at her and wish she was gone, and now I get up and look at the bed and there’s a hole in it.”

“Want her back?”

“No. But I want something, and I can’t have it. I’ll tell you one thing, between you and me and the wall—I’m getting out of here. Two months and I hit a crick in the retirement scale. Maybe go up north, get a place on a lake. I’ve got the bucks.”

There was a knock on the door, and Daniel’s secretary stuck her head in and said, “Sloan . . .”

Lucas stood up. “I do wish you luck,” he said. “I’m serious.”

“Thanks, but I’m cursed,” Daniel said.

Sloan was lounging in the outer office, a cotton sport coat over a tennis shirt, chinos, walking shoes. He saw Lucas and a grin spread across his thin face.

“Are you back?” he asked, sticking out his hand.

Lucas, laughing: “Just for the day. I gotta find some assholes and I need somebody with a badge.”

“You’re working in the Big Apple . . . .”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you about it, but we gotta go talk to the sheriff.”

Three names, a deputy sheriff said. He’d looked at the records, checked with the other guards. They all agreed.

Bekker had been next to Clyde Payton, who was now at Stillwater, doing twenty-four months on a drugstore burglary, third offense. A doper.

“Motherfucker’s gonna come out and kill people,” the deputy said. “He thought Bekker was like some rock idol, or something. You could see Payton thinking: Killing people. Far out.”

Tommy Krey, car theft, had been on the other side. He was still out on bail; Krey’s attorney was dragging his feet on the trial. “The car owner’s gonna move to California, I hear. Tommy’s lawyer’s looking for a plea,” the deputy said.

Burrell Thomas had been across the aisle, and pled to simple assault, paid a fine. He was gone.

“I know Tommy, but I don’t know the other two,” Lucas said. Out of touch.

“Payton’s from St. Paul, Rice Street. Basically a doper, sells real estate when he’s straight,” Sloan said. “I don’t know Thomas either.”

“Burrell’s a head case,” the deputy said. “They call him Rayon. Y’all know Becky Ann, the cardplayer with the huge hooters, see her down on Lake sometimes?”

“Sure.” Lucas nodded.

“She was going with this super-tall black dude . . . .”

“Manny,” said Sloan, and Lucas added, “Manfred Johnson.”

“Yeah, that’s him—he’s a friend of Burrell’s. Like from high school and maybe even when they were kids . . .”

• • •

“How’s New York?” Sloan asked. They were in Sloan’s unmarked car, poking into the south side of Minneapolis.

“Hot. Like Alabama.”

“Mmm. I never been there. I mean New York. I understand it’s a dump.”

“It’s different,” Lucas said, watching the beat-up houses slide by. Kids on bikes, rolling through the summer. They’d called Krey’s attorney, a guy who worked out of a neighborhood storefront. He could have Krey there in a half-hour, he said.

“How different? I mean, like, Fort Apache?”

“Nah, not that,” Lucas said. “The main thing is, there’s an infinite number of assholes. You never know where the shit is coming from. You can’t get an edge on anything. You can’t know about the place. Here, if somebody hijacks a goddamn Best Buy truck and takes off fifty Sonys, we got an idea where they’re going. Out there . . . Shit, you could make a list of suspects longer than your dick, and that’d only be the guys that you personally know might handle it. And then there are probably a hundred times that many guys that you don’t know. I mean, a list longer than my dick.”

“We’re talking long lists here,” Sloan said.

“It’s strange,” said Lucas. “It’s like being up at the top of the IDS Building and looking out a window where you can’t see the ground. You get disoriented and you feel like you’re falling.”

“How ’bout that Bekker, though?” Sloan said enthusiastically. “He’s a fuckin’ star, and we knew him back when.”

• • •

Tommy Krey was sitting on a wooden chair in his attorney’s office. His attorney wore a yellow-brown double-knit suit and a heavily waxed hairdo the precise shade of the suit. He shook hands with Sloan and Lucas; his hands were damp, and Lucas smothered a grin when he saw Sloan surreptitiously wipe his hand on his pant leg.

“What can Tommy do for yuz?” the lawyer asked, folding his hands on his desk, trying to look bright and businesslike. Krey looked half bored, skeptical, picked his teeth.

“He can tell us what he and Michael Bekker talked about in jail,” Lucas said.

“What are the chances of knocking down this car-theft . . .”

“You’re gonna have to do that on your own,” Lucas said, looking from the lawyer to Krey and back again. “Maybe Sloan goes in and tells the judge you helped on a big case, but there’s no guarantees.”

The lawyer looked at Krey and lifted his eyebrows. “What d’you think?”

“Yeah, fuck, I don’t care,” Krey said. He flipped his toothpick at the basket, rimmed it out, and it fell on the carpet. The lawyer frowned at it. “We talked about every fuckin’ thing,” Krey said. “And I’ll tell you what: I been beatin’ my brains out ever since he went out to New York, trying to figure out if he gave me, like, any clues. And he didn’t. All we did was bullshit.”

“Nothing about friends in New York, about disguises . . . ?”

“Naw, nothing. I mean, if I knew something, I’d a been downtown trying to deal. I know that his buddy, the guy who did the other kills, was an actor . . . so maybe it is disguises.”

“What was he like in there? I mean, was he freaked out . . . ?”

“He cried all the time. He couldn’t live without his shit, you know? It hurt him. I thought it was bullshit when I first went in, but it wasn’t bullshit. He used to cry for hours, sometimes. He’s totally fuckin’ nuts, man.”

“How about this Clyde Payton? He was in for some kind of dope deal, he was around Bekker.”

“Yeah, he came in the day before I made bail. I don’t know; I think he was a wacko like Bekker. Square, but wacko, you know? Kind of scary. He was some kind of businessman, and he gets onto the dope. The next thing he knows, he’s busting into drugstores trying to steal prescription shit. He mostly sat around and cursed people out while I was there, but sometimes he’d get like a stone. He figured he was going to Stillwater.”

“He did,” said Sloan.

“Dumb fuck,” said Krey.

“How about Burrell Thomas?”

“Now, there’s something,” Krey said, brightening. “Bekker and Burrell talked a lot. Rayon’s one smart nigger.”