Rules of Prey (19 page)

“And you won’t tell . . .”

“Girl Scout’s honor,” she said, giving the three-finger sign. “Jesus, we must look ridiculous.”

“All right,” Lucas said. “What I was going to tell you is this. I don’t know where McGowan’s information is coming from, but most of it is completely wrong. She says we think the guy is impotent or smells bad or looks weird, and we don’t think any of that. It’s all courthouse rumor. We think
she’s probably getting it from some uniform out on the periphery of the investigation.”

“It’s all bull?” Jennifer asked, not believing.

“Yep. It’s amazing, but that’s the truth of the matter. She’s had all these great scoops and it’s all bullshit. As far as I know, she’s making it up.”

“You wouldn’t be fibbing, would you, Davenport?” She watched him closely and he stared straight back.

“I’m not,” he said.

“Did you sleep with McGowan?”

“No, I did not,” he said. He lifted his hand in the three-fingered Scout sign. “Boy Scout’s honor,” he said.

She toyed with the stem of her wineglass, watching the wine roll around inside. “I’ve got to do some thinking about you, Davenport. I’ve had some . . . passions before, for other men. This is turning into something different.”

They slept in the next morning. Jennifer was reading the
Pioneer Press
and Lucas was cooking breakfast when the phone rang.

“This is Anderson.”

“Yeah.”

“A cop from Cedar Rapids called. They busted Sparky for conspiracy to commit prostitution, and they’ve got—”

“Conspiracy to what?”

“Some kind of horseshit charge. He said their county attorney will kick their ass when he finds out. They’ll have to tell him this afternoon, before the end of business hours. We got you on a plane at ten. Which gives you an hour to get out to the airport. Ticket’s waiting.”

“How long does it take to drive?”

“Five, six hours. You’d never make it, not before they have to tell the county attorney. Then they’ll probably have to turn Sparky loose.”

“All right, all right, give me the airline.” Lucas wrote the details on a scratch pad, hung up, and went to tell Jennifer.

“I won’t ask,” she said, grinning at him.

“I’ll tell you if you want. But I’d need the Girl Scout’s oath that you won’t tell.”

“Nah. I can live without knowing,” she said. She was still grinning at him. “And if you’re going to fly, you might want to break out the bourbon.”

The airline that flew between Twin Cities International and Cedar Rapids was perfectly reliable. Never had a fatal crash. Said so right in its ads. Lucas held both seat arms with a death grip. The elderly woman in the next seat watched him curiously.

“This can’t be your first time,” she said ten minutes into the flight.

“No. Unfortunately,” Lucas said.

“This is much safer than driving,” the old woman said. “It’s safer than walking across the street.”

“Yes, I know.” He was staring straight ahead. He wished a stroke on the old woman. Anything that would shut her up.

“This airline has a wonderful safety record. They’ve never had a crash.”

Lucas nodded and said, “Um.”

“Well, don’t worry, we’ll be there in an hour.”

Lucas cranked his head toward her. He felt as though his spine had rusted. “An hour? We’ve been up pretty long now.”

“Only ten minutes,” she said cheerfully.

“Oh, God.”

The police psychologist had told him that he feared the loss of control.

“You can’t deal with the idea that your life is in somebody else’s hands, no matter how competent they are. What you have to remember is, your life is always in somebody else’s hands. You could step into the street and get mowed down by a drunk in a Cadillac. Much more chance of that than a plane wreck.”

“Yeah, but with a drunk, I could see him coming, maybe. I could sense it. I could jump. I could get lucky. Something.
But when a plane quits flying . . .” Lucas mimed a plane plowing nose-down into his lap. “Schmuck. Dead meat.”

“That’s irrational,” the shrink said.

“I know that,” Lucas said. “I want to know what to do about it.”

The shrink shook his head. “Well, there’s hypnotism. And there are some books that are supposed to help. But if I were you, I’d just have a couple of drinks. And try not to fly.”

“How about chemicals?”

“You could try some downers, but they’ll mess up your head. I wouldn’t do it if you have to be sharp when you get where you’re going.”

The flight to Cedar Rapids didn’t offer alcohol. He didn’t have pills. When the wheels came down, his heart stopped.

“It’s only the wheels coming down,” the old woman said helpfully.

“I know that,” Lucas grated.

Lucas cashed the return portion of the plane ticket.

“You’ll take a loss,” the clerk warned.

“That’s the least of my problems,” Lucas said. He rented a car that he could drop back in Minneapolis and got directions to the police station. The station was an older building, four-square concrete, function over form. Kind of like Iowa, he thought. A cop named MacElreney was waiting for him.

“Carroll MacElreney,” he said. He had wide teeth and an RAF mustache. He was wearing a green plaid sport coat, brown slacks, and brown-and-white saddle shoes.

“Lucas Davenport.” They shook hands. “We appreciate this. We’re in a bind.”

“I’ve been reading about it. Sergeant Anderson said you don’t think Sparks did it, but might know something? That right?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Let’s go see.” MacElreney led the way to an interview room. “Mr. Sparks is unhappy with us. He thinks he’s been treated unfairly.”

“He’s an asshole,” Lucas said. “You find his girl?”

“Yeah. Kinda young.”

“Aren’t they all?”

Sparks was sitting on one of three metal office chairs when Lucas followed the Cedar Rapids cop into the room. He’s getting old, Lucas thought, looking at the other man. He had first seen Sparks on the streets in the early seventies. His hair then had been a faultless shiny black, worn in a long Afro. Now it was gray, and deep furrows ran down Sparks’ forehead to the inside tips of his eyebrows. His nose was a flattened mess, his teeth nicotine yellow and crooked. He looked worried.

“Davenport,” he said without inflection. His eyes were almost as yellow as his teeth.

“Sparky. Sorry to see you in trouble again.”

“Whyn’t you cut the crap and tell me what you want?”

“We want to know why you left town fifteen minutes after one of your ladies got her heart cut out.”

Sparks winced. “Is that what—”

“Don’t give me any shit, Sparky. We just want to know where you dumped the knife.” Lucas suddenly stopped and looked at MacElreney. “You gave him his rights?”

“Just on the prostitution charge.”

“Jesus, I better do it again, let me get my card . . .” Lucas reached for his billfold and Sparks interrupted.

“Now, wait a minute, Davenport,” Sparks said, even more worried. “God damn, I got witnesses that I didn’t do nothin’ like that. I loved that girl.”

Lucas eased his billfold back in his pocket.

“You see who did it?”

“Well, I don’t know . . .”

Lucas leaned forward. “I personally don’t think you did it, Sparky. But you gotta give me something to work with. Something I can take back. These guys from vice want to hang you. You know what they’re saying? They’re saying, sure, he might not be guilty of this. But he’s guilty of everything else and we can get him for this. Dump old Sparky in Stillwater, it’d solve a lot of problems. That’s what they’re
saying. They found some coke in your lady’s purse, and that doesn’t go down too well either . . .”

Sparks licked his lips. “I knew that bitch was holding out.”

“I don’t care about that, Sparky. What’d you see?”

“I seen this guy . . .”

“Let me get my recorder going,” Lucas said.

Sparks had a crack habit that was hard to stay ahead of. On the night Heather Brown was killed, he had been sitting on a bus bench across the street, waiting for her to produce some money. He had seen her last date approach her.

“Wasn’t it pretty dark?”

“Yeah, but they got all them big blue lights down there.”

“Okay.”

There was nothing particularly distinctive about the maddog. Average height. White. Regular features, roundish face. Yeah, maybe a little heavy. Went right to her, there didn’t seem to be much negotiation.

“You think she knew him?”

“Yeah, maybe. But I don’t know. I never saw him before, and she was on the street for a while. Wasn’t a regular. At least, not while she was with me.”

“She still doing the rough trade?”

“Yeah, there was a few boys would come around.” He held his hands up defensively. “I didn’t make her. She liked it. Get spanked a little. Good money, too.”

“So this guy. How was he dressed? Sharp?”

“No. Not sharp,” Sparks said. “He looked kind of like a farmer.”

“A farmer?”

“Yeah. He had one of them billed hats on, you know, that got shit wrote on the front? And he was wearing one of those cheap jackets like you get at gas stations. Baseball jackets.”

“You sure this was her last date?”

“Yeah. Had to be. She went to the motel and I went off to get a beer. The next thing I knew was the sirens coming down the street.”

“Farmer doesn’t sound right,” Lucas said.

“Well . . .” Sparks scratched his head. “He didn’t look right, either. There was something about him . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But there was something.” He scratched his head again.

“You see his car?”

“Nope.”

Lucas pressed, but there wasn’t anything more.

“You think you’d recognize him?”

“Mmm.” Sparks looked at the floor between his feet, thinking it over. “I don’t think so. Maybe. I mean, maybe if I saw him walking down the street in the night with the same clothes, I’d say, there, that’s the motherfucker right there. But if you put him in a lineup, I don’t think so. I was way across the street. All there was, was those streetlights.”

“Okay.” Lucas turned off his recorder. “We want you back in the Cities, Sparky. You can run your girls. Nobody will hassle you until we get this turkey. When we locate him, we’d like you around to take a look. Just in case.”

“You ain’t gonna roust me?”

“Not if you stay cool.”

“All right. How about this bullshit charge here?”

MacElreney shook his head. “We can process you out in ten minutes if Minneapolis doesn’t want you.”

“We don’t want him,” Lucas said. He turned back to Sparks. “But we do want you back in the Cities. If you start trolling the other Iowa cities on your route, we’ll roust you out of every one of them. Get back up to Minneapolis.”

“Sure. Be a relief. Too much corn down here for the likes of me.” He glanced at MacElreney. “No offense.”

MacElreney looked offended.

Lucas had unlocked the door of the rental car when MacElreney shouted at him from the steps of the police station. Sparks was right behind him and they walked down the sidewalk together.

“I thought of what was weird about that dude,” Sparks said. “It was his haircut.”

“His haircut?”

“Yeah. Like, when they walked away from me toward the motel, he took his hat off. I couldn’t see his face or anything, only the back of his head. But I remember thinking he didn’t have a farmer haircut. You know how farmers always got their ears stickin’ out? Either that, or it looks like their old lady cut their hair with a bowl? Well, this guy’s hair was like
styled.
Like yours, or like a businessman or a lawyer or doctor or something. Slick. Not like a farmer. Never seen a farmer like that.”

Lucas nodded. “Okay. Blond guy, right?”

Sparks’ forehead wrinkled. “Why, no. No, he was a dark-haired dude.”

Lucas leaned closer. “Sparky, are you sure? Could you make a mistake?”

“No, no. Dark-haired dude.”

“Shit.” Lucas thought it over. It didn’t fit. “Anything else?” he asked finally.

Sparks shook his head. “Nothin’ except you’re getting old. I remember when I first knew you, when you beat up Bald Peterson. You had this nice smooth face like a baby’s ass. You gettin’ some heavy miles.”

“Thanks, Sparks,” Lucas said. “I needed that.”

“We all be gettin’ old.”

“Sure. And I’m sorry about your lady, by the way.”

Sparks shrugged. “Women do get killed. And it ain’t like there’s no shortage of whores.”

The drive back took the rest of the day. After a stop near the Iowa line for a cheeseburger and fries, Lucas put the cruise control on seventy-five and rolled across the Minnesota River into Minneapolis a little after eight o’clock. He dropped the rental car at the airport and took a taxi home, feeling grimy and tight from the trip. A scalding shower straightened out his bent back. When he was dressed again, he got beer from the refrigerator, went down to the spare bedroom, put the beer can on the floor next to the bed, and lay back, looking at the five charts pinned to the wall.

Bell, Morris, Ruiz, and Lewis. The maddog. The dates. Personal characteristics. He read through them, sighed, got up, pinned a sixth sheet of paper to the wall, and wrote “Brown” at the top with his Magic Marker.

Hooker. Young. Dark hair and eyes. The physical description was right. But she was killed in a motel, after being picked up on the street. All the others had been attacked in private places, their homes or apartments, or, in Lewis’ case, the empty house she was trying to sell.

He reviewed the other features of the Brown murder, including her appearance in court. Could the maddog be a lawyer? Or even a judge? A court reporter? How about a bailiff or one of the other court personnel? There were dozens of them. And he noted the knife. The maddog brought it with him for this killing. Chicago Cutlery was an expensive brand, and it was widely sold around the Twin Cities in the best department and specialty stores. Could he be some kind of gourmet? A cooking freak? Was it possible that he bought the knife recently and that a check of stores would turn up somebody who’d sold a single blade to a pudgy white guy?