Easy Prey (36 page)

“Then I lie like a motherfucker,” Lucas said.

“I thought cops got free passes.”

“Not if they're showing off for a girl,” Lucas said. “I hope you like books.”

 
 
SHE DID LIKE books, and disappeared into the Art section. Lucas browsed through Literature, slowed down at Poetry, found a collection of Philip Larkin's stuff, and was reading through it when she snuck up behind him. “
Guns 'n' Ammo
,” she predicted, reaching for the book. He let her have it, and she turned it over in her hands and then looked up at him. “Showing off for a girl, eh?”

He shrugged. “Not really. I don't read much fiction, but I read poetry.”

She closed one eye and examined him. “You're lying like a motherfucker.”

“Nope.”

“One of the other cops told me you once owned a computer company.”

“Yeah, but it was really somebody else who did the computer stuff,” Lucas said. “I just had some good ideas at the right time.”

“That's what it's all about, isn't it? Having the right ideas at the right time.” She turned the book over. “You think I'd like him?”

He thought for a minute, then said, “Nope. He's a little too
guy
for you.”

“Who, then?”

“Emily Dickinson? She's my favorite—probably the best American poet ever.”

“All right, I'll try her,” she said. “Otherwise, all I got was this.” She held up a book with a pot on the cover that said,
Japanese Ash Glazes.

“I got a deep interest in ash myself,” Lucas said.

 
 
AFTER THE BOOKSTORE, they went to a bagel place and got healthy bagels. As they were eating, Jael paging through her collection of Dickinson, she suggested that they go back to the bookstore so she could buy some mysteries. “I always go into the bookstores and wind up buying books for work, or something serious, but if I've got to keep sitting in that house, I gotta have something else. I can't stand TV anymore.”

“If you want to buy mysteries, there's a place on the way back that we could stop. Nothing but mysteries.”

“Sounds good.” She licked a drip of sun-dried tomato hummus off her thumb. “We need to kill some more time.” But in the car, she said, “At your house, do you have both a bathtub and a shower? Or are you just a shower guy?”

“No, I have both.”

“Since we've gotta kill time, why don't we go back to your place and jump in the tub? It's been a while since I had a really great back-washing.”

They were sitting at an uphill stop sign, and Lucas had one foot on the clutch and let the car roll back a few feet, then accelerated forward, and rolled back, thinking. “Maybe I need a little more romancing,” he said finally. “Besides . . .”

“Another commitment?”

“Not exactly. But . . . I'm sort of between everything,” he said.

“I know you're not gay, the way you look at me.”

“That's not the problem.” But it had been a long time: He remembered standing outside the cabin and looking up at the great smear of the Milky Way stars and feeling not insignificant, but lonely. And alone.

“It's just casual sex, Lucas. Therapy,” she said.

“Maybe I'm still too Catholic. Besides, what about the guys at the bookstore? They need the sales. What're their children gonna eat if we don't buy books?”

“You remember what it feels like? Sitting in a tub, with a woman between your legs, all slippery and slidey, and you've got the soap in your hands . . .” She was laughing at him again.

Lucas let the car roll back, and accelerated, and let it roll back, and accelerated, and said, “All right.”

“Good choice,” she said. “Fuck the guys at the bookstore.”

She was laughing, but later that evening she said, “For three hours, I almost forgot about Plain.”

22

THURSDAY. DAY SIX of Alie'e Maison.

Frank Lester was carrying a brown sandwich bag up the City Hall steps when Lucas caught up with him the next morning, half jogging through the cold twilight, trailing a long streamer of steam. “Baloney sandwiches?”

“Peanut butter and jelly,” Lester said. He held up the bag; he was wearing ski gloves. “I understand you were out late with Jael Corbeau.”

“Yeah, a little late, rolling around town,” Lucas said evasively. “She didn't want to go back home.”

“Not a goddamn thing happening. Not with Corbeau, not with Kinsley. Maybe we're fucked up. Maybe Olson's not the guy. He's been preaching every night, he goes around to all these churches. The guys who're tracking him say he's completely loony, but the people at these churches, they love him. Last night, he started to bleed--”

“Aw, man, I don't want to hear that,” Lucas said.

“Can't figure out how he did it. Thought maybe he has a little razor blade stuck on his belt, or something, but they say he got all cranked up and he spread his arms above his head, screaming, and all of a sudden, the blood started seeping out of his palms, and then he gets a red spot on his shirt, right . . . you know. Right where the spear went in.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly. . . . What's happening with Rodriguez?”

“Pushed a button last night,” Lucas said. “Maybe today we'll see something.”

“Hope so.” He looked past Lucas, and Lucas turned. A TV remote van squatted down on the street, its engine running. “Wonder if they've got a microphone on us?”

“Better not,” Lucas said. “I'd slam their butts in jail for that. Talk to the judge, we could probably get them three years.”

“Yeah.”

They both watched the van for a few more seconds—no signs of life, just the exhaust; and they went inside.

 
 
LANE CAME BY ten minutes after Lucas got to his office. “We need an accountant to look at some of that paper from the bank,” he said. “I've got it narrowed down to a few questions, but I can't answer the questions without an expert.”

“What are the questions?”

“How could Spooner give him the loans? That's the basic question. If I could have gotten a home loan on the same terms, I'd be living on one of the lakes. The loans stink.”

Lucas leaned back in his chair. “See? That's why I had you reading the paper.”

“I'd rather be bustin' somebody's balls. So get me the accountant, and I'll go over and bust Spooner's.”

“Let's talk to Rose Marie.”

 
 
ROSE MARIE HAD a better idea. She knew the banking commissioner from the old days, made a call, and got Lane lined up with a bank examiner. She'd just gotten off the phone when the secretary buzzed her. Rose Marie picked up, listened for a minute, then said, “It's Rodriguez,” and pushed another button.

“Rose Marie Roux. . . . Yes, this is . . .” She listened for a long minute, then said, “I'm not aware of any of this. Chief Davenport is leading that aspect of the investigation, and we haven't met yet this morning. . . . No, I can't tell you anything. If he did that, as part of the investigation, I assume he had good reason. I appreciate that, Mr. Rodriguez, but there's really no more that I can tell you. I can have Chief Davenport call you when he comes in. . . . Yes, I'm sure he would. Yes, I'm sure he would. . . .”

After another minute of back-and-forth, she politely said goodbye, hung up, and said to Lucas, “Not a happy man. Some real estate deal was canceled. . . . You
did
have good reason?”

“Sure. We're trying to panic him. We've got him tapped.” He stopped, scratched his head, said, “How come a cop called me and told me about his appointment with a real estate dealer, but we didn't get it on the wiretaps? He had to have called the guy.”

Lane said, “He's a dope dealer, dummy. He's got a blind phone.”

Lucas stood up and said, “Shit! How'd we miss that? All of his good calls have been going out somewhere else.”

Rose Marie asked, “But how would you find a blind phone if--”

Lucas shook a finger at her. “We need to talk to the phone company, and get incoming phone numbers yesterday afternoon. Wait a minute—who's watching the lines?”

“Somebody from Narcotics, I guess,” Rose Marie said.

“Call down and get a number.”

Two minutes later, Lucas was talking with the Narcotics cop who was monitoring Rodriguez's lines. “Did he just take a call from a real estate dealer?”

“Nope. He's gotten a couple of calls from one of his apartment managers. They had an electric panel fire last night. He's been making calls to some of his other managers, and a maintenance company. He just talked to the chief, I assume you know that.”

“What line was that?”

The cop gave Lucas a number. “But no real estate dealer?”

“Nope.”

Lucas rang off, got Rose Marie to dig a St. Paul phone book out of her desk, looked up Coffey Realty, dialed, and asked for Smalley. Smalley came up, and Lucas asked, “We just got a call from Mr. Rodriguez. He sounded a little upset. I assume you called him?”

“Yeah, just a little while ago. He was not a happy camper.”

“Can you give me the number you called?”

“Well, sure. I guess,” Coffey said.

“I don't have it here. I want to call him back,” Lucas said.

“Just a sec, I've got it on a piece of paper. Where . . . Here it is.”

Lucas copied the number and said, “Thanks. I would stay away from Mr. Rodriguez for a while. Until he cools off, anyway.”

“I plan to stay away from him forever,” Smalley said.

Lucas hung up, and Rose Marie said, “Different number?”

“Yeah.” He punched in the number for the monitoring cop, got him, and said, “We think Rodriguez is using a blind phone that we're not monitoring. I want you to call him, make like you dialed a wrong number . . . see if it's him. If the voice is right.”

The cop said, “Gimme the number.”

“He might have caller ID,” Lucas said.

“He won't get it from this phone.”

“Get back to me,” Lucas said.

“Goddamnit, we should have known this,” Rose Marie said when Lucas had hung up. “A blind phone's pretty basic for a dealer.”

“Water under the rug,” Lucas said. He looked at Lane. “You get over to the bank guy. If it's like you think, call me. We'll go bust Spooner's balls.”

“All right. I should be back to you before noon,” Lane said.

“Are you going to call Rodriguez?” Rose Marie asked.

“I'm gonna get Sloan to go over and see him,” Lucas said. “I want to see how he handles himself.”

Rose Marie's phone burped. She picked it up, listened, pushed a button, said, “This is Rose Marie . . .” then looked at Lucas. “That's Rodriguez's number. It's his voice on the other end.”

“Excellent,” Lucas said. “Now maybe we make some progress. But we've got to get him talking.”

Sloan was on his cell phone. Lucas got him, told him to bring a car around to the hospital. “We're gonna go talk to Rodriguez.”

 
 
MARCY WAS SITTING up, still paper-pale, five years older than she'd been the week before, the corners of her eyes creased with pain lines. But her eyes were clear, and Black, perched on a chair next to her bed, said, “They're gonna put her in a regular room.”

“That's progress,” Lucas said. He bent over the bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Man, I'm glad to see you up. I had all these premonitions.”

She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “What've you been up to?”

“What?” He shrugged.

“You've got that innocent look, and that really close shave you get when you're really satisfied with yourself. What have you been doing?”

Lucas grinned. “I don't have the guy who shot you, but I think we've got the guy who did Alie'e. Sloan and I are gonna go bust his chops.”

“Yeah?” She still looked suspicious. “Who is it?”

As he filled her in on Rodriguez, he caught her attention wavering once or twice. She really wasn't back yet, he realized. Almost, but not quite. When he finished with Rodriguez, he asked, “What are they telling you about recovery time? Think you could be back by Wednesday?”

“Maybe not,” she said. “They said if everything goes well, I'm gonna have to do some rehab. . . . Maybe May?”

“May? Jesus . . . You were hit hard.”

“They might have to go back in,” Black said. “There're a couple pieces of bone floating around inside that oughta come out. But that's gonna be a while yet.”

“You hurt?” Lucas asked her.

She nodded. “Yeah. Started this morning. I don't think it's gonna stop for a while.”

“Drugs,” Lucas said.

Sloan showed up and chatted for a while, then he and Lucas left, headed for St. Paul and Rodriguez. Outside the door, on the way to the car, Lucas said, “Before, I was scared about her. Now I'm pissed. She's hurting, and there's not a goddamn thing we can do about it.”

“Get the guy who did it,” Sloan suggested.

“The guy who did it thinks he's the Messiah,” Lucas said.

“There's a difference between
thinks he is
and
is
,” Sloan said. “To me, he's just another fat asshole on his way to a cell at Stillwater.”

 
 
ON THE WAY to St. Paul, Lucas said, “Let's stop and see if Spooner is at his office. Bust his balls a little bit.”

“Want me to be the nice guy?” Sloan asked.