Chosen Prey (26 page)

And his lip hurt, he realized. He wandered into the bathroom to look at it in the mirror. He had a full underlip, usually pink, now bruised. Sometime during the struggle, she must have hit him, but he didn't remember it. Hit him hard, judging from the split lip. There was no swelling yet, but he could taste the blood in his mouth. "That was completely fucking unnecessary," he said. He probed the cut with his tongue, winced at the pain. The lip would get big if he didn't get some ice on it, but the swelling would be disguised by his thin beard. "Unfucking-necessary."

He had to stay focused. He got dressed, flushed the condom--surprised to find it full of semen; he didn't remember that part--straightened his shirt, tucked it back in his trousers, got himself neat. Got a chunk of toilet paper and walked through the apartment, wiping everything he could remember touching. Another flush, and he was done.

"Thank God for toilets," he said to himself.

Money. There wouldn't be any cash, but there should be something. . . . Randy had stuck Neumann's jewelry in his pocket, so that was gone. Qatar walked through the apartment, looking. And found almost nothing small. Randy had apparently sold everything that could be peddled on the street.

"Moron," he said aloud. He stepped over the woman's body on the way out. Queen for a day, Tiffany for a minute. Nice tits, though.

RANDY GOT BACK at dawn and pounded on the door, because he didn't want to go through the whole business of finding his key. He was not in any shape to find it. So he beat on the door until somebody shouted, "Go away or we'll call the police."

Some fuckin' neighbor. But he didn't need the police, so he took five minutes and finally found the key, and another five minutes and he fit it into the lock and the door swung open. He shouted up the stairs, got no answer. Climbed the stairs in the dark--there was a switch at the entrance, but he was too fucked up to use it--and in the living room, in the dark, tripped over the woman's body.

"Fuckin' . . ." He groped around on the floor, felt a breast. Knew what it was and knew it was too cold. Randy started down, the cocaine strength dissipating like a fart in a thunderstorm. He crawled across the floor to a lamp, climbed the lamp like a monkey, turned it on.

Looked down at what's-her-name. Who was she? What had he done? He pressed his hands to his temple, trying to squeeze out the memories that must be there somewhere. When had he done it?

"Motherfucker," he said.

Chapter
15.

WEATHER HAD SPENT the night at her own place. "If we haven't rung the bell yet, I don't think we'll get it done this month," she'd said. "Plus, my house is getting stale. I need to air it out."

Lucas didn't remember that when he woke up. Still drowsy, he reached out for her shoulder, came up with air, and bumped up, quickly awake, looking for her. He remembered the question he'd asked the night before. Pregnant? Not pregnant? When would they know?

"In the bye and bye," she'd said cheerfully. "It was fun working with you, Davenport. Maybe we can do it again next month. Then again, maybe we won't have to."

He half-smiled at the thought, punched his pillow back into shape, and drifted off again. Lucas liked to stay up late, but didn't like early mornings. A good day, he believed, generally started around ten o'clock.

TEN O'CLOCK WAS just coming up when the phone rang, and continued to ring. He recognized Del's style. "Yeah?"

"Randy's around, but I can't find him. People say he ran into some shit out in L.A. Ambition combined with stupidity, probably."

"Probably," Lucas said. He yawned. "Who'd you talk to?"

"The Toehy sisters. They said he was running a hooker named Charmin until a couple of weeks ago, but--"

"Charmin like the toilet paper?"

"That's what they say. Anyway, he wandered off in a cocaine blizzard, and she transferred to DDT and that's where she's still at. Thing is, I can't find DDT right now. I got a couple of people looking for him and also for Randy."

"DDT, huh?"

"Yeah. Thought you might be interested."

"I am. Did Marshall ride with you?" Lucas asked.

"You know: That's how it goes," Del said.

"He's standing next to you?"

"You got it," Del said.

"Careful with him. I hate to say no, that he can't come along--but if he starts stepping on you, I'll pack his ass back to Wisconsin."

"We'll figure something out," Del said. "We're okay for now."

"You want me to come along if you find DDT?"

"If you don't mind. He owes you big, and he don't owe me shit."

"Gimme a call," Lucas said.

Lucas shaved and spent ten minutes in the shower, working on a sound he'd heard on a David Allen Coe album, from a song called "The Ride"--twisting the word "moan," trying to get three syllables out of it. He agreed with himself that he sounded particularly good that morning, got dressed, looked out the window--patches of blue sky and the street was dry--and loaded into the Porsche.

He was carrying a red apple and whistling when he pushed into the office. Marcy was talking on the phone, twisting a ring of her dark hair around her index finger, her feet up on her desk. She stopped playing with her hair long enough to raise a hand to Lucas, then started talking into the phone again. Lucas paused and looked her over: Marcy tended to be a little too tense all the time, and when the tension was suddenly relieved, it showed.

She noticed him studying her and turned away. Lucas continued into his office, a little pissed now: That goddamn Kidd had gotten into her pants. He knew the look too well to be mistaken. And they hardly knew each other, Lucas thought, and Kidd was a lot older. He retracted that a bit: Not too old--actually, he was probably a year or two younger than Lucas, so he couldn't be too old, because Lucas himself had . . .

"Goddamnit," he said. He flipped the apple up at the wall and caught it on the rebound, leaving a small pink patch behind on the wall. If Kidd and Marcy . . . He didn't want to think about it. But it sure as hell was going to reduce her efficiency at a critical moment in the case, and--

"I don't want to hear the first fuckin' word from you." Marcy was in the doorway.

"I just--"

"Not the first fuckin' word," she said, holding up a finger. When he opened his mouth again, she said, "No! Bad dog."

Lucas dropped into his chair, looked away from her, then said, quickly, "You don't know him that well."

"Shut up, Mr. Why-don't-we-screw-Marcy-Sherrill-on-the-office-carpet."

"We knew each other," Lucas protested. "For a long time. That was spontaneous."

"So was last night. And I'll tell you what, he's a good guy," she said.

"You spend the night?"

"He did. At my place. We were just coming back from dinner, and it happened."

"He bring his toothbrush?"

"No, he didn't bring his toothbrush. And that's all I'm telling you," she said.

"What'd he brush his teeth with?"

"His finger."

"That's so unsanitary," Lucas said sourly.

Marcy put her hands on the top of her head and started to laugh, and a moment later Del came in, with Marshall trailing behind, and asked, "What's so funny?"

"He is," Marcy said, pointing at Lucas.

"I ain't even gonna ask," Del said, looking from one to the other. To Lucas: "We found DDT."

DDTSTOOD FOR Dangerous Darrell Thomas. Thomas had given himself the name when he was riding with a motorcycle club and was interviewed for a public radio magazine. The magazine writer got it wrong, though, and referred to him as TDT--Terrible Darrell Thompson--which lost something of its intent when expressed as initials; and since the writer got the last name wrong, too, Thomas never again trusted the media.

Darrell wasn't much of a pimp. He didn't solicit customers and he wasn't particularly interested in sex, money, or any kind of fashion. His only pimping qualification was that he liked to fight, and when a girl wanted to leave her former sponsor, or was having trouble with a customer who expected fidelity, she might move in with Darrell.

He would grudgingly take care of her, and if she wanted to chip in a few bucks every once in a while, and maybe clean house and cook a few meals, that was okay. And if she didn't, that was okay, too. They tended to drift away when they discovered that Darrell really didn't care.

At all. About anything.

Except cars.

Darrell was a professional house-sitter.

"Can't believe he got a gig in Edina," Lucas said, as they pulled into his driveway. They were driving a city car, a dented Dodge, and they all peered through the windshield at the house. The house was long and white and two-storied, with double faux-marble pillars on either side of the front entry. "Wonder what the neighbors think about the whores going in and out all the time?"

"Maybe they think it's colorful," Del said.

They got out of the Dodge, and Lucas took a second to look around the neighborhood. Nothing moved: The place was one large bedroom.

When Lucas caught up, Del and Marshall were already looking at an enormous wrought-iron knocker on the front door. "Use the doorbell," Marshall said. "You'll knock the door down if you use that thing."

"How about a nice-knocker joke?" Del asked.

"None of those either," Lucas said. Del leaned on the doorbell, and after three long buzzes ten seconds apart, a woman with power-frizzed hair, wearing a pale blue quilted housecoat, stuck her head out, looked at the three of them, and snarled, "What?"

"Time to get up, sleepyhead," Del said, showing her a badge. "We're friends of DDT. Is he home?"

"Yeah, but he's in the spa," she said.

"That's something I wouldn't want to miss," Del said. He stepped forward and the woman stepped back, a good enough invitation, they thought, and they all trooped inside.

"It's outside, on the deck," the woman said, pointing at faux French doors at the far end of the living room.

Del's nose was working. "Something smells like dog shit," he said.

"We got a new puppy," the woman said. As she passed the table, she picked up a bottle half full of white wine and started working the cork loose. "We're paper-training it. You guys want some wine?"

Lucas said, "No, thanks," and she took a pull on the bottle, and Del and Lucas walked over to the French doors and out onto a deck.

The spa was big enough to seat eight, but in this case, sat three: DDT, a large, balding, and mildly fat man with scant chest hair, who was reading a folded copy of The New York Times; and two women, both with short mousy brown hair. Steam rose out of the spa into the cold air, but they all seemed comfortable: None of them were wearing any clothing at all, and when Lucas, Del, and Marshall pushed through the doors, one of the women said, "Better turn on the bubbler, Marie."

"Hey, Lucas, how they hanging, man?" DDT said, looking up from the paper. "Del, you fuckhead. What's happening?" To the girls he said, "They're cops."

"We got a problem, Darrell," Lucas said. "We're looking for a girl named, uh . . ." He looked at Del.

Del said, "Charmin."

DDT pointed at one of the mice, who said, "Jesus Christ, it's Charmin', like in Charming, you asshole. It's not sharmin, like the toilet paper."

"We thought maybe it came from Please Don't Squeeze The," Marshall said. The crow's-feet around his eyes compressed a little, and the corners of his mouth may have turned up. He was being funny, Lucas realized.

"No, it don't," the woman said frostily.

"You guys want to get in? Plenty of room. Water's hot," DDT said, nodding at the bubbling surface.

"Ah, we're kinda running," Lucas said, looking at Charmin'; she was the larger of two women, and her breasts were floating on the top of the water, her nipples pointing straight out like the prows on a couple of fancy powerboats. "Charmin', you were working for Randy Whitcomb until not long ago, and we need to find him."

"What's he done?" she asked.

"Nothing. We're trying to figure out where he might have bought some jewelry. This was back before he went to L.A."

"Yeah? I wasn't with him them. I didn't join up until after he got back."

"I know that," Lucas said patiently. "But we need to find him now."

"I don't know if I oughta talk to cops," she said. "Randy's a crazy motherfucker."

"Tell them," DDT said.

She looked at him and said, "You're supposed to be on my side."

"I owe him," he said. "Big-time. So you can tell him or move the fuck out."

She looked at DDT for a minute, then at Lucas, and said, "He's in St. Paul, one of them gray apartments on Sibley. I don't know the number." She gave them a few details, and Lucas nodded: He knew exactly where she meant. "Thanks."

"You be careful. The crazy fucker's been smokin' crack since he got back--he ain't got any brains left. And don't tell him where you got this."

DDT said, "So what're you driving?"

"C4," Lucas said. "Bought it new last year."

"Yeah? But you're not right now. . . ." He raised his eyebrows and looked at the three large men.