Stolen Prey (41 page)

T
HAT SAME DAY
, Albitis opened one eye and looked around, then opened the other. Hospital room. She felt terrible: her head, neck, spine, arms, and hips hurt. Her mouth was dry, and something stank. She suspected it was her. Her feet seemed okay. She tried to turn her head but couldn’t. She managed to raise one arm into her field of view and found it punctured by a number of needles that led to plastic drip lines.

A moment after she woke up, a nurse, apparently alerted by the monitoring equipment, stuck her head in the room and said, “There you are.”

Albitis tried to speak, but her tongue was like sandpaper.

“You need something to wet your mouth,” the nurse said. “I’ll be right back.”

She was back a minute later with a bottle of water and a straw. Albitis took a sip, then two more. Her voice didn’t seem to work quite right, so she whispered, “Was I in an accident?”

The nurse said, “We don’t know exactly what happened to you. We were hoping you could tell us.”

Albitis thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know.” Then, “You’re speaking English. Where am I?”

“You’re in a hospital in Minneapolis,” the nurse said.

“Minneapolis? In the U.S. What am I doing here?”

“We don’t know exactly,” the nurse said.

Albitis’s eyes wandered away, then came back. “Minneapolis? I live in Tel Aviv.”

The nurse said, “Oh, boy.”

A
WEEK AFTER
the shooting, the Davenports moved back into the house. Jimenez had been working his ass off—there were no bullet holes or blood to be seen. He’d replaced the carpet in the hallway where Tres had died, with carpet indistinguishable from the original. He hadn’t yet put in the new upstairs hallway wall, but the maple was gone, and the hall showed bare studs and electric wiring down its length.

The hallway where Martínez had died had a varnished hardwood floor. Jimenez had stripped the varnish and redone it. He’d found a good door to replace the one Martínez had shot through, and had already fitted and painted it. The far wall had been peppered with pieces of nine-millimeter hollow-points, and he’d patched the drywall and repainted.

The temporary front door and the bare studs in the upper hallway were the only remaining signs of the fight.

Letty walked through, checked it all out, and pronounced herself satisfied. “If I didn’t have this cast … I hate this cast.”

“Better than the alternative,” Lucas said.

She thought about that for three seconds, then said, “But he didn’t hit me in the head. He hit me in the arm, and I hate this cast.”

“I got this little … aphorism … from the DEA,” Lucas said.

W
EATHER WAS
watching Letty like a hawk, and the third day after they’d gotten back in the house, she said to Lucas, “I hope there’s nothing wrong with her.”

“Like what?” Lucas asked.

“She’s not showing any signs of the psychological trauma that she should be. I’ve been reading everything I can find on it. The shock—”

“She’s okay,” Lucas said.

“But—”

“I know exactly what you’re saying,” Lucas said. “You’re worried that she might be a psychopath, or a sociopath, or one of those path things. She’s not. Or at least, that’s not all she is.”

“You know I love her,” Weather said.

“Of course you do, but that doesn’t have anything to do with what you’re worried about,” Lucas said. “But stop worrying.”

“I’m not sure I can. I want her to be … happy. I want her to be well.”

“A lot of people think surgeons must have a little psychological thing, you know?” Lucas said. “They take perfectly good people and slice them to pieces so they can have a shorter nose. You’d have to be a little crazy to do that, or to get it done, for that matter. We’re all a little crazy, sweetheart.”

Weather got puffed up. “Comparing what I do—”

“I know, there’s no direct comparison.”

They had a little five-minute exchange about the psychological stability of surgeons, punctuated with examples of crazy surgeons that Weather had talked about in the past, and she finally said, “Look, whatever—I’m not talking about all of that. I’m talking about our daughter.”

“I know you are,” Lucas said. “And like I said, we’re all a little crazy, but basically, and overall, Letty’s okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s just like me,” Lucas said. “And I’m okay, mostly.”

L
UCAS AND
L
ETTY
stopped at a coffee shop, and Letty got a grande latte and Lucas got a no-fat hot chocolate, and Letty asked, “Is Mom okay?”

“She’s holding up. She’ll be working again tomorrow,” Lucas said.

“Okay, that’s good,” she said.

“How are
you
holding up?” Lucas asked.

“I…” she said, then stopped. “I don’t know.” Her voice was distracted, Lucas thought, like she was taking effort just to talk. Usually she was chatty. She didn’t sound depressed, though. Just distracted.

“Do you feel bad about it?”

“I don’t,” she said. “I shot that one guy before, but I didn’t kill him. But this … nope. Nothing. Just … I had to do it, and I did it, and it was done. I’m not worried about it, I don’t feel bad. Is that normal?”

“It depends,” Lucas said. “Sometimes, if—”

“How many people have you killed?” Letty asked abruptly.

Lucas considered. They’d never talked about it. Not directly. It was known, but it was a topic they’d always avoided. He did a quick tally in his head.

“Ten,” he said. “That I know of.”

“That you
know
of?”

“There are a few more people dead, that I was responsible for, directly or indirectly,” Lucas said. “I’d get in a situation
where pretty much it’s going to end with a death. That sort of thing.”

“Is
that
normal?”

“No. Not for most cops. But I was always pushed into the rough stuff. All of my professional life,” he said. “And sometimes, you’ll get something—a hostage situation, say—and you’ll find out that there’s no way to do it without someone dying. When that happens, if it’s your only option … I just don’t have time to feel too bad about it.”

“Do you regret any of them?”

“Some of them,” Lucas said. “Sometimes they were just … crazy. You get into a situation like that, and what can you do? Like, you remember Alyssa? She was simply insane. Killing people. When we figured that out, we wound up in a confrontation. What happened was her call. She called it, and the whole situation went a certain way. I had no way to … to
disarm
her or anything. Either she died, or I did. I regret it because she was insane—she was ill. She might have been treatable…. I don’t know. It would have been nice to find out.”

“Were any
not
like that? Where you had a choice and went for … the death?”

“Did I set anything up, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

Lucas was silent for a moment, then said, “Twice.”

“Tell me…”

“One guy—I never talk about this, by the way, so if you open your trap…”

“I don’t talk,” she said.

“One guy was a lawyer, and a serial killer, and he would have
gotten away with everything. Then, sooner or later, because he enjoyed it, because it was the main thing in his life, he would have started killing again. That was more than a decade ago. Now I look back on it and think maybe, maybe there was something else I could have done. But back then … no.”

“Judge, jury, executioner. Like that?”

“Back then, yeah,” he said. “Now I wonder if I wasn’t too hasty, if I couldn’t have done something more complicated. Couldn’t have figured another way to get him. But … it’s done.”

“What about the other one?”

“That was different. That was a hostage thing. You know about that one—the one where Weather was the hostage. I gave the orders to our sniper to take him. Shoot to kill, the instant he had an opening. As it happened, your mom had pretty much convinced him to give up, and he was about to do that, when we killed him. Maybe I could have done something different, but your mom’s life was on the line. Or seemed to be.”

“I talked to Mom a little about that one,” Letty said. “It tore her up, you know.”

“I know.”

There was a silence, and then Letty looked up at Lucas, her eyes clear, and said, “I’m okay.”

“At least as okay as I am,” Lucas said.

“Yep. Anyway, I’m not worried about me,” Letty said. “I’m worried about
Mom
.”

“She’ll deal with it,” Lucas said.

“Then we’re good,” Letty said. “If she really can.”

“We
are
good,” Lucas agreed. “She really can.”

L
UCAS AND
S
HAFFER
interviewed Albitis, but Albitis couldn’t remember anything after sometime in May, in Tel Aviv. The very last thing she remembered was being on the beach, and the feeling of hot sand between her toes, and the smell of the hot oil from a beach falafel stand.

“You don’t remember anything about the gold?” Shaffer asked. They’d gotten a lot of gold back, but the accountants thought it might be a little short.

“Gold?” she said. “Turicek? What’s a Turicek?”

They were persistent, they returned three times, and then they gave it up.

By that time, Albitis was hobbling around the physical therapy ward, a hemispherical plaster cast, punctured by a metal rack screwed into her skull, covering most of the top of her head. Everyone was encouraged by the speed of her recovery. The extent of her brain damage, however, might not be known for years, the doctors told the cops.

Lucas took away one thing from their interviews: that English speakers called falafel “feel-awful,” because that’s the way you felt when you ate them from a beach stand.

D
EL CAME
into Lucas’s office one morning, three weeks after the shoot-out, and asked, “Have you ever heard of an artist named Callahan Pitt?”

Lucas did not frequent the art world. “No. Who is he?”

“British guy. Painting, photography, sculpture, installations,”
Del said. “Everything. He’s got a big show over at the Walker, goes on for three months. Anyway, he bought the
Naiads of the North
sculpture.”

“What?”

“The bronze one, that got all cut up,” Del said. “The one we got back from Anderson. He bought it from the insurance company.”

“Oh, yeah? He bought the scrap?”

“For a million bucks, is what I’m told,” Del said. “The thing is, Anderson cut the sculpture up in big chunks, you know, hands, heads, tits, feet, butts … so this guy has already started welding them back together. He’s putting the pieces back in a kind of random order, you know, tits welded to butts, hands to the tops of the heads. Like, modern art. He welds them around the rims of the cuts, so you can see both the inside and outside. He’s calling it
Rim Job
, and this chick over at the Walker says he’s already priced it at six mil.”

“What?”

T
ERRILL
A
NDERSON
, who’d stolen the sculpture and cut it up, would eventually get a year in prison; his two accomplices agreed to testify against him, and walked.

Duane Bird and Bernice Waters, the two tweekers who’d robbed Lucas, pled guilty to armed robbery. Waters was sent back to the women’s prison immediately, on the parole violation, and was returned to her job in the cafeteria. She did well with it, and was content. Bird was held in the Ramsey County jail pending sentencing, with a recommended sentence of six years.
Waters would get a similar amount of time tacked onto her original sentence.

S
ANDERSON AND
K
LINE
met at a Caribou Coffee in downtown Minneapolis.

“The attorney says we’re good. They’re not going to prosecute,” Kline said, as they huddled over their table. “He thinks we ought to sue the cops for putting those Mexicans on me. If it wasn’t for the cops, I never would have gotten shot.”

Sanderson said, “Are you crazy? You get into court, you’d have to perjure yourself, you’d have to—”

“I told him I wasn’t interested. I just want to get away from everything,” Kline said. “I told him I want to travel, maybe get a job on the West Coast.”

“Good,” Sanderson said. “You think we’re safe?”

“The cops say the Mexicans aren’t interested anymore. The government’s got the gold.”

Sanderson thought about it for a moment, then said, “We’ll have to go to the farm sooner or later. When the cops are
sure
that we don’t have anything.”

“That’ll be weeks. Maybe months,” Kline said.

“Nobody’s touched the place for years. We should be fine.”

“What about Edie?” Kline asked.

“If she really has no memory, then I guess we split her share,” Sanderson said. “But if she gets her memory back, we cut it three ways, and she gets a million and a third.”

“I hated giving back all that gold,” Kline said. “Maybe we should have kept
three
million each.”

“
They wouldn’t have bought that,” Sanderson said. “I was worried they wouldn’t buy eighteen million,” Sanderson said. “And giving it back killed any motive they had to keep looking for it.”

“Yeah. Still. We were almost
really
rich.”

A
LBITIS’S FATHER
bought a plane ticket that would take his daughter back to Tel Aviv. She got out of the hospital, spent three days in a downtown hotel, making sure she was well enough to fly.

On the last day, as she was crossing the hotel lobby, she saw Sanderson watching from a side hall. She went that way, and Sanderson backed up, into a phone niche.

Albitis took a last look around, stepped into the niche, and grabbed Sanderson by the blouse. Sanderson smiled and said, “How’re you feeling, Edie?”

Albitis leaned into her face: “Where’s my money, bitch?”