Rules of Prey (3 page)

When the fat cop got back, four minutes later, the van was still there. His partner glanced over at him and said, “Nothing.”

Since Lucas hadn’t done anything yet, the photos they took had never been developed. If they had been, they would have found that Lucas’ middle finger was prominent on most of the slides and they might have decided that he had spotted
them. But it didn’t matter, since the film would never be developed.

As the fat cop scrambled back into the van and Lucas sprawled on the grass, paging through the poetry again, they were very close to the end of the surveillance.

Lucas was reading a poem called
The Snake,
and the fat man was peering at him through the lens of the Nikon when the maddog killer did another one.

He had first talked to her a month before, in the records department of the county clerk’s office. She had raven-black hair, worn short, and brown eyes. Gold hoop earrings dangled from her delicate earlobes. She wore just a touch of scent and a warm red dress.

“I’d like to see the file on Burhalter-Mentor,” she told a clerk. “I don’t have the number. It should have been in the last month.”

The maddog watched her from the corner of his eye. She was fifteen or twenty years older than he was. Attractive.

The maddog had not yet gone for the artist. His days were colored with thoughts of her, his nights consumed with images of her face and body. He knew he would take her; the love song had already begun.

But this one was interesting. More than interesting. He felt his awareness expanding, reveled in the play of light through the peach fuzz of her slender forearm . . . . And after the artist, there had to be another.

“Is that a civil filing?” the clerk asked the woman.

“It’s a bunch of liens on an apartment complex down by Nokomis. I want to make sure they’ve been resolved.”

“Okay. That’s Burkhalter . . .”

“Burkhalter-Mentor.” She spelled it for him and the clerk went back into the file room. She’s a real-estate agent, the maddog thought. She felt his attention and glanced at him.

“Are you a real-estate agent?” he asked.

“Yes, I am.” Serious, pleasant, professional. Pink lipstick, just a touch.

“I’m new here in Minneapolis,” the maddog said, stepping a bit closer. “I’m an attorney with Felsen-Gore. Would you have a couple of seconds to answer a real-estate question?”

“Sure.” She was friendly now, interested.

“I’ve been looking around the lakes, down south of here, Lake of the Isles, Lake Nokomis, like that.”

“Oh, it’s a very nice neighborhood,” she said enthusiastically. She had what plastic surgeons called a full mouth, showing a span of brilliantly white teeth when she smiled. “There are lots of houses on the market right now. It’s my specialty area.”

“Well, I’m not sure whether I want a condo or a house . . .”

“A house holds its value better.”

“Yeah, but you know, I’m single. I don’t really want to hassle with a big yard . . .”

“What you really need is a bungalow on a small lot, not much yard. You’d have more space than you would in an apartment, and you could sign up for a lawn service for thirty dollars a month. That’d be cheaper than the maintenance fee on most condos, and you’d maintain resale value.”

The maddog got his file and waited until she got a photocopy of the liens. They drifted together along the hall to the elevators and rode down to the first floor.

“Well, hmm, look, in Dallas we had this thing, it was called the multiple list, or something like that?” said the maddog.

“Yes, multiple listing service,” she said.

“So if I were to drive around and find a place, I could call you and you could show it to me?”

“Sure, I do it all the time. Let me give you my card.”

Jeannie Lewis. He tucked her card into his wallet. As soon as he turned away and stepped out of her physical presence, he saw the artist again, her face and body as she walked through the streets of St. Paul. He hungered for her, and the real-estate agent was almost forgotten. But not quite.

For the next week, he saw the card each time he took his wallet out of his pocket. Jeannie Lewis of the raven hair. A definite candidate.

And then the fiasco.

He woke the next morning, bruised and creaking. He took a half-dozen extra-strength aspirin tablets and carefully twisted to look at his back in the bathroom mirror. The bruises were coming and they would be bad, long black streaks across his back and shoulders.

The obsession with the artist was broken. When he got out of the shower, he saw a strange face in the mirror, floating behind the steamed surface. It had happened before. He reached out and wiped the mirror with a corner of his towel. It was Lewis, smiling at him, engaged in his nudity.

Her office was in the south lake district, in an old storefront with a big window. He drove the neighborhood, looking for a vantage point. He found it on the parking boulevard kitty-corner from Lewis’ office. He could sit in his car and watch her through the storefront window as she sat in her cubicle, talking on the telephone. He watched her for a week. Every afternoon but Wednesday she arrived between twelve-thirty and one o’clock, carrying a bag lunch. She ate at her desk as she did paperwork. She rarely went back out before two-thirty. She was stunning. He best liked the way she walked, using her hips in long fluid strides. He dreamt of her at night, of Jeannie Lewis walking nude toward him across the desert grass . . . .

He decided to collect her on a Thursday. He found a nice-looking home on a narrow street in a redeveloping neighborhood six blocks from her office. There were no houses directly across the street from it. The driveway was sunken a few feet into the lawn, and stairs led behind a screen of evergreens to the front door. If he rode with Lewis to the house and she pulled into the driveway, and he got out the passenger side, he would be virtually invisible from the street.

The house itself felt empty. He checked the cross-reference books used by investigators at his office, found the names of the neighbors. He called the first one in the book and got a
nosy old man. He explained that he would like to make a direct offer for the house, cutting out the real-estate dealers. Did the neighbor know where the owners were? Why, yes. Arizona. And here’s the number; they’re not due back until Christmas, and then only for two weeks.

Scouting the neighborhood, the maddog found a small supermarket across from a Standard station a few blocks from the house.

On Thursday, he packed his equipment into the trunk of his car and wore a loose-fitting tweed sport coat with voluminous pockets. He checked to make sure Lewis was in, then drove to the supermarket, parked his car in the busy lot, and called her from a pay phone.

“Jeannie Lewis,” she said. Her voice was pleasantly cool.

“Yes, Ms. Lewis?” said the maddog, pronouncing it “miz.” His heart was thumping against his ribs. “I ran into you in the clerk of court’s office a month ago. We were talking about houses in the lakes area?”

There was a moment’s hesitation at the other end of the line and the maddog was afraid she had forgotten him. Then she said, “Oh . . . yes, I think I remember. We went down in the elevator together?”

“Yes, that’s me. Listen, to make a long story short, I was cruising the neighborhood down here, looking, and I had car trouble. So I pulled into a gas station and they said it would be a couple hours, they’ve got to put in a water pump. Anyway, I went out to walk around and I found a very interesting house.”

He glanced at the paper in his hand, with the address, and gave it to her. “I wonder if we might set up a time to look at it?”

“Are you still at that Standard station?”

“I’m at a phone booth across the street.”

“I’m not doing anything right now and I’m only five minutes away. I could stop at the other realtor’s, they’re only two minutes from here, pick up the key, and come and get you.”

“Well, I don’t want to inconvenience you . . .”

“No, no problem. I know that house. It’s very well-kept. I’m surprised it hasn’t gone yet.”

“Well . . .”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

It took fifteen. He went into the supermarket, bought an ice-cream bar, sat on a bus bench next to the phone booth, and licked the ice cream. When Lewis arrived, driving a brown station wagon, she recognized him at once. He could see her teeth as she smiled at him through the tinted windshield.

“How are you?” she asked as she popped open the passenger-side door. “You’re the attorney. I remembered as soon as I saw your face.”

“Yes. I really appreciate this. Have I introduced myself? I’m Louis Vullion.” The maddog killer pronounced it “Loo-ee Vul-yoan,” though his parents had called him “Loo-is Vul-yun,” to rhyme with “onion.”

“Glad to meet you.” And she seemed to be.

The drive to the house took three minutes, the woman pointing out the advantages of the neighborhood. The lakes close enough that he could jog down at night. Far enough away that he wouldn’t be bothered by traffic. Schools close enough to enhance the resale value of the house, should he ever wish to sell it. Not so close that kids would be a problem. Enough stability in the housing that neighbors knew each other and strangers in the neighborhood would be noticed.

“The crime rate around here is quite low compared to other neighborhoods in the city,” she said. Just then a jet roared low overhead, going in for a landing at Minneapolis-St. Paul International. She didn’t mention it.

Vullion didn’t mention it either. He listened just enough to nod at the right places. Deeper inside, he was going through his visualization routine. This time, he couldn’t mess it up, as he had with the artist.

Oh, yes, he’d assumed the blame for that one; there was no shirking it. He’d erred and he had been lucky to escape.
A one-hundred-thirty-pound woman in good shape could be a formidable opponent. He would not forget that again.

As for Lewis, he couldn’t foul it up. Once he attacked, she had to die, because she’d seen his face, she knew who he was. So he’d practiced, as best he could, in his apartment, hitting a basketball hung from a hook in the bathroom door. Like it was a head.

And now he was ready. He’d tucked a gym sock filled with a large Idaho baking potato into his right jacket pocket. The bulge showed, but not much. It could be anything, an appointment book, a bagel. A Kotex pad, the tape, and a pair of latex surgeon’s gloves were in his left pocket. He would touch nothing that would take a fingerprint until he had the gloves on. He thought about it, rehearsed it in his mind, and said, “Oh, yes?” at the right spots in Lewis’ sales talk.

And as they drove, he felt his awareness expanding; realized, with a tiny touch of distaste, that she probably smoked. There was the slightest odor of nicotine about her.

When they pulled into the driveway, his stomach began to clutch just as it had with the artist and the others. “Nice place from the outside, anyway,” he said.

“Wait’ll you see inside. They’ve done a beautiful treatment of the bathrooms.”

She led the way to the front door, which was screened from the street by evergreens. The key opened the door, and they pushed in. The house was fully furnished, but the front room had the too-orderly feeling of long-prepared-for absence. The air was still and slightly musty.

“You want to wander around a minute?” Lewis looked up at him.

“Sure.” He glanced at the kitchen, strolled through the front room, walked up three stairs to the bedroom level, looked in each room. When he came back down, she was clutching her purse strap in front of her, examining with some interest a crystal lamp on the fireplace mantel.

“How much are they asking?”

“A hundred and five.”

He nodded and glanced toward the basement door at the edge of the kitchen.

“Is that the basement?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

When she turned toward the door, he took the sock out of his pocket. She took another step toward the basement door. Swinging the sock like a mace, he slammed the Idaho baker into the back of her head, just above her left ear.

The blow knocked her off her feet and Vullion dropped on her back and slammed her again. This one was not like the bitch artist. She was an office worker with no strength in her arms. She moaned once, dazed, and he grabbed the hair on the crown of her head and wrenched her head straight back and shoved in the Kotex. He pulled on his gloves, took the tape from his side pocket, and quickly wrapped her head. As she finally began to struggle against him, he rolled her over, crossed her wrists, and taped them. She was beginning to recover, her eyes half-open now, and he dragged her up the stairs into the first bedroom and threw her on the bed. He taped her arms first, to the headboard, then her legs, apart, to the corner posts of the bed.

He was breathing hard but he could feel the erection pounding at his groin, the excitement building in his throat.

He stepped back and looked down at her. The knife, he thought. Hope there’s a good one. He went down to look in the kitchen.

On the bed behind him, Jeannie Lewis moaned.

The Twin Cities’ horse track looks like a Greyhound bus station designed by a pastry chef. The fat cop, no architecture critic, liked it. He sat in the sun with a slice of pepperoni pizza in his lap, a Diet Pepsi in one hand and a portable radio in the other. He took the call on the portable just before the second race.

“Right now?”

“Right now.” Even with the interference, the voice was unmistakable and ragged as a bread knife.

The fat cop looked at the thin one.

“Christ, the fuckin’ chief. On the
radio.
”

“His procedure is fucked.” The thin cop was eating the last of a hot dog and had dribbled relish down the front of his sport coat. He brushed at it with an undersize napkin.

“He wants Davenport,” said the fat one.

“Something must have happened,” said the thin one. They were outside, on the deck. Lucas was on the blacktopped patio below, two sections over. He lazily sprawled over a wooden bench directly in front of the tote board and thirty feet from the dark soil of the track. A pretty woman in cowboy boots sat at the other end of the bench drinking beer from a plastic cup. The two cops went up the aisle to the top of the grandstand, down the staircase, and pushed through a small crowd at the base of the steps.

“Davenport? Lucas?”

Lucas turned, saw them, and smiled. “Hey. How’re you doing? Day at the races, huh?”

“The chief wants to talk to you. Like right away.” The fat
cop hadn’t thought of it until the last minute, but this could be hard to explain.

“They pulled the surveillance?” Lucas asked. His teeth were showing.

“You knew about it?” The fat cop lifted an eyebrow.

“For a while. But I didn’t know why.” He looked at them expectantly.

The thin cop shrugged. “We don’t know either.”

“Hey, fuck you, Dick . . .” Lucas stood up with his fists balled, and the thin cop took a step back.

“Honest to Christ, Lucas, we don’t know,” said the fat one. “It was all hush-hush.”

Lucas turned and looked at him. “He said right now?”

“He said right now. And he sounded like he meant it.”

Lucas’ eyes defocused and he turned toward the track, staring sightlessly across the oval to the six-furlong starting gate. The jockeys were pressing their horses toward the gate and the crowd was starting to drift down the patio to the finish line.

“It’s the maddog killer,” Lucas said after a moment.

“Yeah,” said the fat cop. “It could be.”

“Has to be. Goddammit, I don’t want that.” He thought about it for another few seconds and then suddenly smiled. “You guys got horses for this race?”

The fat cop looked vaguely uneasy. “Uh, I got two bucks on Skybright Avenger.”

“Jesus Christ, Bucky,” Lucas said in exasperation, “you’re risking two dollars to get back two dollars and forty cents if she wins. And she won’t.”

“Well, I dunno . . .”

“If you don’t know how to play . . .” Lucas shook his head. “Look, go put ten bucks on Pembroke Dancer. To win.”

The two cops looked at each other.

“Really?” said the thin one. “This is a maiden, you can’t know . . .”

“Hey. It’s up to you, if you want to bet. And I’m staying for the race.”

The two internal-affairs cops looked at each other, looked back at Lucas, then turned and hurried inside to the nearest betting windows. The thin one bet ten dollars. The fat one hesitated, staring into his wallet, licked his lips, took out three tens, licked his lips again, and pushed them across the counter. “Thirty on Pembroke Dancer,” he said. “To win.”

Lucas was sprawled on the bench again and had started a conversation with the woman in the cowboy boots. When the surveillance cops got back, he moved down toward her but turned to the cops.

“You bet?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t look so nervous, Bucky. It’s perfectly legal.”

“Yeah, yeah. It ain’t that.”

“Have you got a horse?” The woman in the cowboy boots leaned forward and looked down the bench at Lucas. She had violet eyes.

“Just a guess,” Lucas said lazily.

“Is this, like, a private guess?”

“We’ve all got a couple of bucks on Pembroke Dancer,” Lucas said.

The woman with the violet eyes had a
Racing Form
on the bench beside her, but instead of looking at it, she looked up at the sky and her lips moved silently and then she turned her head and said, “She had a terrific workout at six furlongs. The track was listed as fast but it probably wasn’t that good.”

“Hmm,” said Lucas.

She looked at the tote board for a few seconds and said, “Excuse me, I gotta go powder my nose.”

She left, hurrying. The fat cop was still licking his lips and watching the tote board. The odds on Pembroke Dancer were twenty to one. Three other horses, Stripper’s Colors, Skybright Avenger, and Tonite Delite, had strong races in the past three weeks. Pembroke Dancer had been shipped in from Arkansas two weeks earlier. In her first race she finished sixth.

“What’s the story on this horse?” asked the fat cop.

“A tip from a friend.” Lucas gestured over his shoulder
with his thumb, up toward the press box. “One of the handicappers got a call from Vegas. Guy walked into a horse parlor a half-hour ago and bet ten thousand on Pembroke Dancer to win. Somebody knows something.”

“Jesus. So why’d he lose his last race so bad?”

“She.”

“Huh?”

“She. Dancer’s a filly. And I don’t know why she lost. Might be anything. Maybe the jock was dragging his feet.”

The tote board flickered and the odds on Pembroke Dancer went up to twenty-two to one.

“How much you bet, Lucas?” the fat cop asked.

“It’s an exacta. I wheeled Dancer with the other nine horses. A hundred each way, so I have nine hundred riding.”

“Jesus.” The fat man licked his lips again. He had another twenty in his wallet and thought about it. Across the track, the first of the horses was led into the gate and the fat cop settled back. Thirty was already too much. If he lost it, he’d be lunching on Cheetos for a week.

“So you got anything good?” asked Lucas. “What was this thing about Billy Case and the rookie?”

The fat cop laughed. “Fuckin’ Case.”

“There was this woman lawyer,” said the thin one, “and one day she looks out her office window, which is on the back of an old house that they made into offices. The back of her office looks at the back of the business buildings on the next street over. In fact, it looks right down this walkway between these buildings. At the other end of this walkway there’s a fence with a gate in it, like blocking the walkway from the street. So you can’t see into the walkway from the street. But you can see into it from this lawyer’s office, you know? So anyway, she looks down there, and here’s this cop, in full uniform, getting his knob polished by this spade chick.

“So this lawyer’s watching and the guy gets off and zips up and he and the spade chick go through this gate in the little fence, back onto the street. This lawyer, she’s cool, she thinks maybe they’re in love. But the next day, there’s two of them, both cops, and the spade chick, and she’s polishing
both of them. So now the lawyer’s pissed. She gets this giant camera from her husband, and the next day, sure enough, they’re back with another chick, a white girl this time. So the lawyer takes some pictures and she brings this roll of Kodachrome in to the chief.”

The first of the horses was guided into the back of the gate and locked. The woman with the violet eyes got back and settled at the end of the bench. The thin cop rambled on. “So the chief sends it down to the lab,” he said, “and they’re only like the best pictures anybody ever took of a knob-job. I could of sold them for ten bucks apiece. So the chief and the prosecutors decide there’s some problem with the chain of evidence and we wind up in this lawyer’s office with a video unit. Sure enough, here they come. But this time they got both the spade chick and the white chick. This is like in Cinemascope or something. Panavision.”

“So what’s going to happen?” Lucas asked.

The fat one shrugged. “They’re gone.”

“How much time did they have in?”

“Case had six years, but I don’t give a shit. He had a bad jacket. We think he and a security guard was boosting stereos and CD players out of a Sears warehouse a few months back. But I feel sorry for the rookie. Case told him this was how it’s done on the street. Gettin’ knob-jobs in alleyways.”

Lucas shook his head.

“Right on the street, in daylight,” said the fat cop.

The last horse was pushed into the back of the gate, locked, and there was a second-long pause before the gate banged open and the announcer called “They’re all in line . . . and they’re off, Pembroke Dancer breaks on the outside, followed by . . .”

Dancer ran away from the pack, two lengths going into the turn, four lengths at the bottom of the stretch, eight lengths crossing the wire.

“Holy shit,” the fat cop said reverently. “I won six hundred bucks.”

Lucas stood up. “I’m going,” he said. He was staring at
the tote board, calculating. When he was satisfied, he turned to the other two. “You coming behind? I’ll drive slow.”

“No, no, we’re all done,” said the fat cop. “Thanks, Lucas.”

“You ought to quit now,” said Lucas. “The rest of these races are junk. You can’t figure them. And, Bucky?”

“Yeah?” The fat cop looked up from his winning ticket.

“You won’t forget to tell the IRS about the six hundred?”

“Of course not,” the cop said, offended. Lucas grinned and walked away and the fat cop muttered, “In a pig’s eye.” He looked at his ticket again and then noticed that the woman with the violet eyes was hurrying after Lucas. She caught him just before he got inside, and the fat cop saw Lucas grin as they walked together into the building.

“Look at this,” he said to the thin cop. But the thin cop was looking at the tote board and his lips were moving quietly. The fat cop looked at his partner and said, “What?”

The thin cop put up a hand to hold off the question, his lips still moving. Then they stopped and he turned and looked after Lucas.

“What?” said the fat cop, looking in the same direction. Lucas and the woman with the violet eyes had disappeared.

“I don’t know much about this horse-race bullshit,” said the thin cop, “but if I’m reading the tote board right, this exacta payoff, Davenport took down twenty-two thousand, two hundred and fifty bucks.”

The office of the chief of police was on the first floor of City Hall, in a corner. Windows dominated the two walls that faced the street. The other two walls were covered with framed photographs, some in color, some in black and white, stretching back in time to the forties. Daniel with his family. With the last six Minnesota governors. With five of the last six senators. With a long and anonymous chain of faces that all looked vaguely the same, faces that took up space at chicken dinners for major politicians. Directly behind the chief was the shield of the Minneapolis Police Department
and a plaque honoring cops who had been killed in the line of duty.

Lucas sprawled in the leather chair that sat squarely in front of the chief’s desk. He was surprised, though he tried not to show it. It had been a while since anything surprised him, other than women.

“Pissed off?” Quentin Daniel leaned over his glass desktop, watching Lucas. Daniel looked so much like a police chief that a number of former political enemies, who were now doing something else, made the mistake of thinking he got the job on his face. They were wrong.

“Yeah. Pissed off. Mostly just surprised.” Lucas did not particularly like Daniel, but thought he might be the smartest man on the force. He would have been surprised—again—to know that the chief thought precisely the same about him.

Daniel half-turned toward the windows, his head cocked, still watching.

“You can see why,” he said.

“You thought I did it?”

“A couple of people in homicide thought you were worth looking at,” said Daniel.

“You better start at the beginning,” Lucas said.

Daniel nodded, pushed his chair away from his desk, stood up, and wandered to a wall of photographs. He inspected the face of Hubert Humphrey as though he were looking for new blemishes.

“Two weeks ago, our man made a run at a St. Paul woman, an artist named Carla Ruiz,” he said as he continued his inspection of Humphrey’s face. “She managed to fight him off. When St. Paul got there, the sergeant in charge found her looking at a note. It was one of these rules he’s leaving behind.”

“I haven’t heard a thing about this Ruiz,” Lucas said.

The chief turned and drifted back to his chair, no hurry, his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Well, this sergeant’s a smart guy and he knew about the notes in the first two killings. He called the head of St. Paul homicide and they put a lid on it. The only people who know are the St. Paul chief and his
chief of homicide, the two uniforms who took the call, a couple of people in homicide here, and me. And the artist. And now you. And every swingin’ dick has been told that if this leaks, there’ll be some new foot beats out at the land-fill.”

“So how’d it point to me?” Lucas asked.

“It didn’t. Not right away. But our man dropped his gun during the fight with the artist lady. The first thing we did was print it and run it. No prints—checked everything, including the shells. We had better luck on the ownership. We ran it down in ten minutes. It went from the factory to a gun store down on Hennepin Avenue, and from there to a guy named David L. Losse—”

“Our David L. Losse?”

“You remember the case?”

“Shot his son, said it was an accident? Thought somebody was breaking into the house?”

“That’s him. He fell on a manslaughter, though it was probably a straight-out murder. He got six years, he’ll serve four. But there’s still an appeal floating around. Because of the appeal, the evidence was supposedly up in the property room. We went up and looked. The gun is gone. Or it was gone, until the killer dropped it.”

“Shit.” Things had disappeared from the property room before. Five grams of cocaine became four. Twenty bondage magazines became fifteen. As far as Lucas knew, this was the first time a gun had gone missing.