Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10 Read online

  The woman’s living-room curtains were open, and low-level light filtered in from the street. As his eyes began to adjust, Koop picked out the major pieces of furniture, the rectangles of paintings and prints. Still he waited, standing quietly, his vision sharpening, smelling her, listening for movement, for a word, for anything—for a little red light from an alarm console. Nothing. The apartment was asleep.

  Koop slipped out of his loafers and in sure-footed silence crossed the apartment, down a darker hallway past a bathroom to his left, an office to his right. There were two doors at the end of the hall, the master bedroom to the left, a guest room to the right. He knew what they were, because an ex-con with Logan Van Lines had told him so. He’d moved Jensen’s furniture in, he’d taken an impression of her key, he’d drawn the map. He’d told Koop the woman’s name was Sara Jensen, some rich cunt who was, “like, in the stock market,” and had a taste for gold.

  Koop reached out and touched her bedroom door. It was open an inch, perhaps two. Good. Paranoids and restless sleepers usually shut the door. He waited another moment, listening. Then, using just his fingertips, he eased the door open a foot, moved his face to the opening, and peered inside. A window opened to the left, and as in the living room, the drapes were drawn back. A half-moon hung over the roof of an adjoining building, and beyond that, he could see the park and the lake, like a beer ad.

  And he could see the woman clearly in the pale moonlight.

  Sara Jensen had thrown off the light spring blanket. She was lying on her back, on a dark sheet. She wore a white cotton gown that covered her from her neck to her ankles. Her jet-black hair spread around her head in a dark halo, her face tipped slightly to one side. One hand, open, was folded back, to lie beside her ear, as if she were waving to him. The other hand folded over her lower belly just where it joined the top of her pelvic bone.

  Just below her hand, Koop imagined that he could see a darker triangle; and at her breasts, a shading of her brown nipples. His vision of her could not have been caught on film. The darkening, the shading, was purely a piece of his imagination. The nightgown more substantial, less diaphanous than it seemed in Koop’s mind, but Koop had fallen in love.

  A love like a match firing in the night.

  KOOP PAGED THROUGH the photo books, watching, waiting. He was looking at a picture of a dead movie star when his woman came around the corner, looking up at “Hobbies & Collectibles.”

  He knew her immediately. She wore a loose brown jacket, a little too long, a bit out of fashion, but neat and well tended. Her hair was short, careful, tidy. Her head was tipped back so she could look up at the top shelves, following a line of books on antiques. She was plain, without makeup, not thin or fat, not tall or short, wearing oversize glasses with tortoiseshell frames. A woman who wouldn’t be noticed by the other person in an elevator. She stood looking up at the top shelf, and Koop said, “Can I reach something for you?”

  “Oh . . . I don’t know.” She tried a small smile, but it seemed nervous. She had trouble adjusting it.

  “Well, if I can,” he said politely.

  “Thanks.” She didn’t turn away. She was waiting for something. She didn’t know how to make it happen herself.

  “I missed the reading,” Koop said. “I just finished the Rubaiyat. I thought there might be something, you know, analogous. . . .”

  And a moment later, the woman was saying, “. . . it’s Harriet. Harriet Wannemaker.”

  SARA JENSEN, SPREAD on her bed, twitched once.

  Koop, just about to step toward her dresser, froze. Sara had been a heavy smoker in college: her cigarette subconscious could smell the nicotine coming from Koop’s lungs, but she was too far down to wake up. She twitched again, then relaxed. Koop, heart hammering, moved closer, reached out, and almost touched her foot.

  And thought: What am I doing?

  He backed a step away, transfixed, the moonlight playing over her body.

  Gold.

  He let out his breath, turned again toward the dresser. Women keep every goddamned thing in the bedroom—or the kitchen—and Jensen was no different. The apartment had a double-locked door, had monitor cameras in the hall, had a private patrol that drove past a half-dozen times a night, occasionally stopping to snoop. She was safe, she thought. Her jewelry case, of polished black walnut, sat right there on the dressing table.

  Koop picked it up carefully with both hands, pulled it against his stomach like a fullback protecting a football. He stepped back through the door and padded back down the hall to the living room, where he placed the case on the rug and knelt beside it. He carried a small flashlight in his breast pocket. The lens was covered with black tape, with a pinhole through the tape. He turned it on, held it between his teeth. He had a needle of light, just enough to illuminate a stone or show a color without ruining his night vision.

  Sara Jensen’s jewelry case held a half-dozen velvet-lined trays. He took the trays out one at a time, and found some good things. Earrings, several pair in gold, four with stones: two with diamonds, one with emeralds, one with rubies. The stones were fair—one set of diamonds were more like chips than cut stones. Total retail, maybe five thousand. He’d get two thousand, tops.

  He found two brooches, one a circle of pearls, the other with diamonds, a gold wedding band, and an engagement ring. The diamond brooch was excellent, the best thing she owned. He would have come for that alone. The engagement stone was all right, but not great. There were two gold bracelets and a watch, a woman’s Rolex, gold and stainless steel.

  No belt.

  He put everything into a small black bag, then stood, stepping carefully around the empty trays, and went back through the bedroom. Slowly, slowly, he began opening the dresser drawers. The most likely place was the upper left drawer of the chest. The next most likely was the bottom drawer, depending on whether or not she was trying to hide it. He knew this from experience.

  He took the upper drawer first, easing it out, his hands kneading through the half-seen clothing. Nothing hard. . . .

  The belt was in the bottom left-hand drawer, at the back, under some winter woolens. So she was a bit wary. He drew it out, hefting it, and turned back toward Sara Jensen. She had a firm chin, but her mouth had gone slightly slack. Her breasts were round and prominent, her hips substantial. She’d be a big woman. Not fat, just big.

  Belt in his hands, Koop started to move away, stopped. He’d seen the bottle on the dressing table, and ignored it as he always ignored them. But this time . . . He reached back and picked it up. Her perfume. He started for the door again and almost stumbled: he wasn’t watching the route, he was watching the woman, spread right there, an arm’s length away, his breath coming hard.

  Koop stopped. Fumbled for a moment, folding the belt, slipped it into his pocket. Took a step away, looked down again. White face, round cheek, dark eyebrows. Hair splayed back.

  Without thinking, without even knowing what he was doing—shocking himself, recoiling inside—Koop stepped beside the bed, bent over her, and lightly, gently, dragged his tongue over her forehead. . . .

  HARRIET WANNEMAKER WAS frankly interested in a drink at McClellan’s: she had color in her face, the warmth of excitement. She’d meet him there, the slightly dangerous man with the mossy red beard.

  He left before she did. His nerves were up now. He hadn’t made a move yet, he was still okay, nothing to worry about. Had anybody noticed them talking? He didn’t think so. She was so colorless, who cared? In a few minutes . . .

  The pressure was a physical thing, a heaviness in his gut, an inflated feeling in his chest, a pain in the back of his neck. He thought about heading home, ditching the woman. But he wouldn’t. There was another pressure, a more demanding one. His hand trembled on the steering wheel. He parked the truck on Sixth, on the hill, opened the door. Took a nervous breath. Still time to leave . . .

  He fished under the seat, found the can of ether and the plastic bag with the rag. He opened the can, poured it quickly
into the bag, and capped the can. The smell of the ether was nauseating, but it dissipated in a second. In the sealed bag, it quickly soaked into the rag. Where was she?

  She came a few seconds later, parked down the hill from him, behind the truck, spent a moment in the car, primping. A beer sign in McClellan’s side window, flickering with a bad bulb, was the biggest light around, up at the top of the hill. He could still back out. . . .

  No. Do it.

  SARA JENSEN HAD tasted of perspiration and perfume . . . tasted good.

  Sara moved when he licked her, and he stepped back, stepped away, toward the door . . . and stopped. She said something, a nonsense syllable, and he stepped quickly but silently out the door to his shoes: not quite running, but his heart was hammering. He slipped the shoes on, picked up his bag.

  And stopped again. The key to cat burglary was simple: go slow. If it seems like you might be getting in trouble, go slower. And if things get really bad, run like hell. Koop collected himself. No point in running if she wasn’t waking up, no sense in panic—but he was thinking asshole asshole asshole.

  But she wasn’t coming. She’d gone back down again, down into sleep; and though Koop couldn’t see it—he was leaving the apartment, slowly closing the door behind himself—the line of saliva on her forehead glistened in the moonlight, cool on her skin as it evaporated.

  KOOP SLIPPED THE plastic bag in his coat pocket, stepped to the back of his truck, and popped the camper door.

  Heart beating hard now. . . .

  “Hi,” she called. Fifteen feet away. Blushing? “I wasn’t sure you could make it.”

  She was afraid he’d ditch her. He almost had. She was smiling, shy, maybe a little afraid but more afraid of loneliness. . . .

  Nobody around. . . .

  Now it had him. A darkness moved on him—literally a darkness, a kind of fog, an anger that seemed to spring up on its own, like a vagrant wind. He unrolled the plastic bag, slipped his hand inside; the ether-soaked rag was cold against his skin.

  With a smile on his face, he said, “Hey, what’s a drink. C’mon. And hey, look at this . . .”

  He turned as if to point something out to her; that put him behind her, a little to the right, and he wrapped her up and smashed the rag over her nose and mouth, and lifted her off the ground; she kicked, like a strangling squirrel, though from a certain angle, they might have been lovers in a passionate clutch; in any case, she only struggled for a moment. . . .

  SARA JENSEN HIT the snooze button on the alarm clock, rolled over, holding her pillow. She’d been smiling when the alarm went off. The smile faded only slowly: the peculiar nightmare hovered at the back of her mind. She couldn’t quite recover it, but it was there, like a foot-step in an attic, threatening. . . .

  She took a deep breath, willing herself to get up, not quite wanting to. Just before she woke, she’d been dreaming of Evan Hart. Hart was an attorney in the bond department. He wasn’t exactly a romantic hero, but he was attractive, steady, and had a nice wit—though she suspected that he suppressed it, afraid that he might put her off. He didn’t know her well. Not yet.

  He had nice hands. Solid, long fingers that looked both strong and sensitive. He’d touched her once, on the nose, and she could almost feel it, lying here in her bed, a little warm. Hart was a widower, with a young daughter. His wife had died in an auto accident four years earlier. Since the accident, he’d been preoccupied with grief and with raising the child. The office gossip had him in two quick, nasty affairs with the wrong women. He was ready for the right one.

  And he was hanging around.

  Sara Jensen was divorced; the marriage had been a one-year mistake, right after college. No kids. But the breakup had been a shock. She’d thrown herself into her work, had started moving up. But now . . .

  She smiled to herself. She was ready, she thought. Something permanent; something for a lifetime. She dozed, just for five minutes, dreaming of Evan Hart and his hands, a little bit warm, a little bit in love. . . .

  And the nightmare drifted back. A man with a cigarette at the corner of his mouth, watching her from the dark. She shrank away . . . and the alarm went off again. Sara touched her forehead, frowned, sat up, looked around the room, threw back the blankets with the sense that something was wrong.

  “Hello?” she called out, but she knew she was alone. She went to use the bathroom, but paused in the doorway. Something . . . what?

  The dream? She’d been sweating in the dream; she remembered wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. But that didn’t seem right. . . .

  She flushed the toilet and headed for the front room with the image still in her mind: sweating, wiping her forehead. . . .

  Her jewelry box sat on the floor in the middle of the front room, the drawers dumped. She said aloud, “How’d that get there?”

  For just a moment, she was confused. Had she taken it out last night, had she been sleepwalking? She took another step, saw a small mound of jewelry set to one side, all the cheap stuff.

  And then she knew.

  She stepped back, the shock climbing up through her chest, the adrenaline pouring into her bloodstream. Without thinking, she brought the back of her hand to her face, to her nose, and smelled the nicotine and the other . . .

  The what?

  Saliva.

  “No.” She screamed it, her mouth open, her eyes wide.

  She convulsively wiped her hand on the robe, wiped it again, wiped her sleeve across her forehead, which felt as if it were crawling with ants. Then she stopped, looked up, expecting to see him—to see him materializing from the kitchen, from a closet, or even, like a golem, from the carpet or the wooden floors. She twisted this way, then that, and backed frantically toward the kitchen, groping for the telephone.

  Screaming as she went.

  Screaming.

  2

  LUCAS DAVENPORT HELD the badge case out the driver’s-side window. The pimply-faced suburban cop lifted the yellow plastic crime-scene tape and waved him through the line. He rolled the Porsche past the fire trucks, bumped over a flattened canvas hose, and stopped on a charred patch of dirt that a few hours earlier had been a lawn. A couple of firemen, drinking coffee, turned to check out the car.

  The phone beeped as he climbed out, and he bent down to pull it off the visor. When he stood up, the stink from the fire hit him: the burned plaster, insulation, paint, and old rotting wood.

  “Yeah? Davenport.”

  Lucas was a tall man with heavy shoulders, dark-complected, square-faced, with the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. His dark hair was just touched with gray; his eyes were a startling blue. A thin white scar crossed his forehead and right eye socket, and trailed down to the corner of his mouth. He looked like a veteran athlete, a catcher or a hockey defenseman, recently retired.

  A newer pink scar showed just above the knot of his necktie.

  “This is Sloan. Dispatch said you were at the fire.” Sloan sounded hoarse, as though he had a cold.

  “Just got here,” Lucas said, looking at the burned-out Quonset.

  “Wait for me. I’m coming over.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve got another problem,” Sloan said. “I’ll talk to you when I get there.”

  Lucas hung the phone back on the visor, slammed the door, and turned to the burned-out building. The warehouse had been a big light-green World War II Quonset hut, mostly galvanized steel. The fire had been so hot that the steel sheets had twisted, buckled, and folded back on themselves, like giant metallic tacos.

  With pork.

  Lucas touched his throat, the pink scar where the child had shot him just before she had been chopped to pieces by the M-16. That case had started with a fire, with the same stink, with the same charred-pork smell that he now caught drifting from the torched-out hulk. Pork-not-pork.

  He touched the scar again and started toward the blackened tangle of fallen struts. A cop was dead inside the tangle, the first ca
ll had said, his hands trussed behind his back. Then Del had called in, said the cop was one of his contacts. Lucas had better come out, although the scene was outside the Minneapolis jurisdiction. The suburban cops were walking around with grim one-of-us looks on their faces. Enough cops had died around Lucas that he no longer made much distinction between them and civilians, as long as they weren’t friends of his.

  Del was stepping gingerly through the charred interior. He was unshaven, as usual, and wore a charcoal-gray sweatshirt over jeans and cowboy boots. He saw Lucas and waved him inside. “He was already dead,” Del said. “Before the fire got to him.”

  Lucas nodded. “How?”

  “They wired his wrists and shot him in the teeth, looks like three, four shots in the fuckin’ teeth from all we can tell in that goddamned nightmare,” Del said, unconsciously dry-washing his hands. “He saw it coming.”

  “Yeah, Jesus, man, I’m sorry,” Lucas said. The dead cop was a Hennepin County deputy. Earlier in the year, he’d spent a month with Del, trying to learn the streets. He and Del had almost become friends.

  “I warned him about the teeth: no goddamned street people got those great big white HMO teeth,” Del said, sticking a cigarette into his face. Del’s teeth were yellowed pegs. “I told him to pick some other front. Anything would have been better. He coulda been a car-parts salesman or a bartender, or anything. He had to be a fuckin’ street guy.”

  “Yeah . . . so what’d you want?”

  “Got a match?” Del asked.

  “You wanted a match?”

  Del grinned past the unlit cigarette and said, “C’mon inside. Look at something.”

  Lucas followed him through the warehouse, down a narrow pathway through holes in half-burned partitions, past stacks of charred wooden pallets. Toward the back, he could see the black plastic sheet where the body was, and the stench of burned pork grew sharper. Del took him to a fallen plasterboard interior wall, where the remnants of a narrow wooden box held three small-diameter pipes, each about five feet long.