Wicked Prey

Table of Contents

 

ALSO BY JOHN SANDFORD

Rules of Prey
Shadow Prey
Eyes of Prey
Silent Prey
Winter Prey
Night Prey
Mind Prey
Sudden Prey
The Night Crew
Secret Prey
Certain Prey
KIDD NOVELS
Easy Prey
The Fool’s Run Chosen Prey
The Empress File Mortal Prey
The Devil’s Code Naked Prey
The Hanged Man’s Song Hidden Prey
Broken Prey
VIRGIL FLOWERS NOVELS
Dead Watch
Dark of the Moon Invisible Prey
Heat Lightning Phantom Prey

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

Published by the Penguin Group

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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © 2009 by John Sandford

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Sandford, John.
Wicked prey / John Sandford.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-05079-8

1. Davenport, Lucas (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Minnesota—Minneapolis—
Fiction. 3. Minneapolis (Minn.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.A516W
813’.54—dc22

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

To Mom

1

RANDY WHITCOMB WAS A HUMAN STINKPOT, a red-haired cripple with a permanent cloud over his head; a gap-toothed, pock-faced, paraplegic crank freak, six weeks out of the Lino Lakes medium-security prison. He hurtled past the luggage carousels at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, pumping the wheels of his cheap non-motorized state-bought wheelchair, his coarse red hair a wild halo around his head.

“Get out of the way, you little motherfucker,” he snarled at a blond child of three or four years. He zipped past the gawking mother and tired travelers and nearly across the elegant cordovan shoe tips of a tall bearded man. “Out of the way, fuckhead,” and he was through the door, the anger streaming behind him like coal smoke from a power plant.

The bearded man with the elegant cordovan shoes, which came from a shop in Jermyn Street in London, leaned close to his companion, a dark-haired woman who wore blue jeans and a black blouse, running shoes, and cheap oversized sunglasses with unfashionable plastic rims. He said, quietly, in a cool Alabama accent, “If we see yon bugger again, remind me to crack his skinny handicapped neck.”

The woman smiled and said, “Yon bugger? You were in England
way
too long.”

Brutus Cohn, traveling under the passport name of John Lamb, tracked the wheelchair down the sidewalk. There was no humor in his cold blue eyes. “Aye, I was that,” he said. “But now I’m back.”

Cohn and the woman, who called herself Rosie Cruz, walked underground to the short-term parking structure, trailing Cohn’s single piece of wheeled luggage. As they went out the door, the heat hit them like a hand in the face. Not as bad as Alabama heat, but dense, and sticky, smelling of burned transmission fluid, spoiled fruit, and bubble gum. Cruz pushed the trunk button on the remote key and the taillights blinked on a beige Toyota Camry.

“Ugly car,” he said, as he lifted the suitcase into the trunk. Cohn disliked ugly cars, ugly clothes, ugly houses.

“The best-selling car in America, in the least attention-getting color,” Cruz said. She was a good-looking woman of no particularly identifiable age, who’d taken care to make herself mousy. She wore no makeup, had done nothing with her hair.

Cohn had once seen her in Dallas, where women dressed up, and she’d astonished him with her authentic Texas vibe: moderately big hair, modestly big lipstick, two-inch heels, stockings with seams down the back; her twice-great-grand-uncle might have died at the Alamo. Cruz, when working, dressed for invisibility. She fit in Dallas, she fit in Minnesota, she fit wherever they worked—she was wallpaper, she was background. She took the driver’s side, and he sat on the passenger side, fiddling with the seat controls to push it all the way back. At six-foot-six, he needed the legroom.

“Give me your passport and documents,” Cruz said, when the air conditioning was going.

He took a wallet out of his breast pocket and handed it over. Inside were a hundred pounds, fifty euros, fifty dollars, an American passport, a New York State driver’s license, two credit cards, a building security card with a magnetic strip, and a variety of wallet detritus.

The whole lot, except for the passport and currency, had been taken from the home of the real John Lamb by his building superintendent, who was a crook. Since the credit cards would never be used, no one would be the wiser. The passport had been more complicated, but not too—a stand-in had applied by mail, submitting a photograph of Cohn, and when it came to Lamb’s apartment, it had been stolen from the mailbox. As long as the real Lamb didn’t apply for another one, they were good.

Cruz took out the currency and handed it back to Cohn, tucked the wallet under the car seat and handed over another one, thick with cash. “William Joseph Wakefield—Billy Joe. Everything’s real, except the picture on the driver’s license. Don’t use the credit cards unless it’s an emergency.”

“Billy Joe.” Cohn thumbed through the cash. “Two thousand dollars. Three nights at a decent hotel.”

“We’re not staying at a decent hotel,” Cruz said. She reached into the backseat, picked up a baseball cap with a Minnesota Twins logo, and said, “Put this on and pull it down over your eyes.”

He did, and with his careful British suit, it made him look a bit foolish. She wouldn’t have given it to him without a reason, so he put it on, and asked, “Where’re we set up?”

She backed carefully out of the parking space and turned for the exit. “At the HomTel in Hudson, Wisconsin, just across the state line from here. Thirty miles. Two hundred and twenty dollars a night, for two rooms for you, adjoining, which is twice as much as they’re worth, but with the convention in town, you get what you can. I’m upstairs and on the other side of the motel.”

“Where’re the boys?”

“Jesse’s across the street at the Windmill, Tate is at the Cross Motel, Jack is at a mom-and-pop called Wakefield Inn, all in Hudson. All within easy walking distance from the HomTel.” Multiple nearby rooms in different hotels made it easier to get together, and also easier to find an emergency hideout if the cops made one or another of them. They could be off the street in minutes, in a motel where they’d never been seen by the management.

Standard operating procedure, worked out and talked over in prisons across the country. Cohn nodded and said, “Okay.”

“I almost went home when you invited Jack back in,” Cruz said, threading her way through the concrete pillars of the parking ramp.

“Better to have him inside the tent pissin’ out, than outside the tent pissin’ in,” Cohn said.

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

“It means that when he gets picked up—and I do mean
when
, it’s only a matter of time—he’ll try to cut a deal,” Cohn said. “We’re one of the things he’s got. I need to talk to him.”

“He’d cut a deal whatever we do.”

“No. Not really. I’ve thought on that,” he said, in an accent that spoke of the deep southern part of Yorkshire. “There are circumstances in which he would not cut a deal, no matter what the coppers might have offered to him.”

“You’ve got to lose that bullshit British syntax, right
now
,” Cruz said. “You’re Billy Joe Wakefield from Birmingham, Alabama. You need khakis and golf shirts.”

“Give me two minutes listening to country music,” Cohn said. “That’ll get ’er done.”

“Anyway, about
Jack . . .”

“Let it go,” he said. “I’ll take care of Jack.”

“Okay,” she said. “Put your sunglasses on.”

At seven o’clock, the sky was still bright. Cohn took a pair of wraparound sunglasses from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. At the pay booth, Cruz dropped the window and handed ten dollars to a Somali woman in a shawl. Cruz got the change from the ten, and a receipt, rolled the window back up, pulled away from the booth, and handed the receipt to Cohn.

“Check it out,” she said.

He looked at the receipt, said, “Huh. The tag number’s on it.”

“There’s a scanning camera at the entrance,” Cruz said. “I’m wondering if it might digitize faces at the same time that it picks up the license plates—hook them together, then run them through a facial recognition program.”

“Would that be a problem?”

“Not as long as somebody doesn’t put your face in the car with your face in the FBI files,” she said. “That’s not a question with me, of course.”

“Got the beard, now,” he said. “And the hat and glasses. I cut the beard off square to give my chin a different line. I was wondering about the baseball hat . . .”

They rode along for a minute or two, as she got off the airport and headed into St. Paul, past the confluence of the Minnesota and Mississippi rivers. Even in the middle of a big urban area, the river valleys had a wildness that reminded him of home in Alabama. In Britain, even the wild areas had a groomed look.

“Jack, I can’t get him off my mind. I’m sorry . . .”

“Never mind Jack.” He was looking out the window. “You almost went home, huh? That’d be . . . Zihuatanejo?”