John Sandford - Wicked Prey

The apartment had two bedrooms, with Cruz in one, and Cohn and Lindy in the other, with Lane bagged out on the floor of the living room. Now he hung over the toilet, letting it all run out, coughing, finally dried up, pulled up his underpants, and went back to the living room.

Needed a cigarette, but he'd quit smoking three years earlier. Still needed one, but he was used to the random flashes. He'd wait it out: turned on the TV and hit the mute, went in search of the local weather station.

Saw Cohn's face, and then, in a blink, Cruz's. "Holy shit."

He yelled, "Rosie. Rosie, get in here. Rosie…" He was fumbling with the remote, finally brought up the sound, but Cruz's face was gone and he shouted, "Rosie," and caught, on the TV the last part of a pitch for help: "… see her or Brutus Cohn, do not attempt to apprehend them, but call nine-one-one immediately. They are heavily armed and considered extremely dangerous."

The woman turned to another camera and said, "St. Paul police are braced for another day of trouble…"

Cruz stumbled into the living room, dressed in a cotton nightgown, took in Lane, looked at the TV, said, "What?" and then Cohn stuck his head out, and Lane said to Cruz, "They just had your picture on TV along with Brute's. They got a picture of you."

"Oh, shit'" She looked unbelieving, shaking her head, asked, "Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure," Lane said. He picked up the remote and started clicking through the channels. The apartment was a model, so they had only basic cable service, and after he'd run up to CNN, he ran back down, and at the bottom, on Channel Three, caught another shot of Cruz, a poor shot but identifiable enough, with the anchor in the background: "… Davenport said that the woman may come from the Los Angeles area, because the phone used to take the photo listed a large number of calls to a phone from the three-two-three area code in Los Angeles; that phone has not been found…"

"He took my picture with a cell phone," Cruz said, unbelieving. "He took my picture."

"Who?" Cohn asked.

Cruz ran into the bedroom and came back a moment later with another phone, flipped it open and pushed a speed dial, let it ring, hung up, pushed the speed dial again, and then, a third time, said, "It's only five o'clock out there…" and then somebody answered.

She said, "We're busted. Get out of there. Get the files and anything else you need, take them out to your car, move my car, and burn it. Burn it' I know, but they've busted us, and it's bad. Get out. They could be there anytime. We're seeing it now, on TV here, so you might have a couple hours. Get over to Ellen's ' just don't let her see it. Don't let her see it and when everything slows down, get down south. I'll meet you at the beach. Yes. Yes. Maybe an hour. Don't push it any further than that' G. G."

She hung up and Lane said, "I was right-about where you were from."

She looked at him and shook her head, then said, "The fucker took my picture with a cell phone. I never saw it. He tried to take one once, and I told him I hated that, I made him stop before he took it. He took one anyway."

"Who?"

"The guy who gave me the names of the moneymen," she said.

"This changes everything," Cohn said. "Now we need to do the big one."

Cruz shook her head: "Are you nuts? We needed four guys with me outside, and then Spitzer went, and then McCall' we've got two guys and…" She flipped a hand at Lindy. "Y."

"Fuck you, Rosie," Lindy said.

"Everything's changed," Cohn insisted. Lane was flipping through the channels. "I need to bury myself deep and I need more money to do that. And now, so do you, Rosie. They've got your picture. There are four cops dead, counting the ones in New York. They'll never give up. You need to go to Argentina or ' India ' or something. You can't stay here, babe."

Lane was looking at her, and he bobbed his head. "I don't know how much money you got, but'"

Cruz spoke slowly, as though they were stupid: "We-don't- have-enough-people. We don't have enough! Is that hard to understand?"

Cohn said, "We don't have enough if we have a mob scene."

She stared at him for a minute, then said, "What's the option?"

"We have to get on top of them. We kill one: we never give them a chance to resist. We pop one the minute we've got them, let them look at the body and think about being dead. I can hold them myself, that way. Even if we get twenty or thirty people. Jesse does the boxes, Lindy is the desk clerk, you're on the radios."

Cruz said, "No," and Lindy said, "I can't do that," but Cohn, ignoring Lindy, said, "Rosie, just think about it."

Cruz went back to her bedroom, which had a tiny bathroom with a tight shower, and got cleaned up and let the water run over her head, and shampooed and conditioned and didn't think about it, until she was toweling off.

She'd killed three people in her life, after some long consideration, and with great care. Before this benighted trip to the Twin Cities, five others had been killed in the series of robberies she'd done with Cohn and his gang. None of the killings had been cold. All had been necessary, and in some way, self-defense, with the exception of the two cops killed in New York. Spitzer had simply gotten nervous and pulled his trigger, and Spitzer had paid.

Now the body count was out of control. Four dead in the Twin Cities, counting McCall. Another in the hotel would be five.

But the cops had her photo, Laura was out of the Venice place, she thought, and the fire should already be cleaning up after them. She could change her face a bit, go blond ' but she had to be far gone. Someplace like New Zealand, she thought. Some careful money, checks coming in from Ireland, a full-time straight job for a while '

Laura was still clean.

Five dead, best case. Hard to think about.

But Cohn had put his finger squarely on one critical fact: if they went in shooting, they could do it with three.

A cold front was headed down from Canada, and this might be the last day of summer: but it was another good one, a good day for shorts. Don Johnson, the perverted mailman, wearing shorts and a wrinkled blue shirt, climbed out of his truck with a bag on his shoulder and started up the suburban driveway, his second block of the morning.

Letty and Carey were in a Channel Three van driven by a tough nut named Andy Cramer, who Letty had thought was an Australian but turned out to be a South African. Cramer wedged the van into the curb in front of the postal truck and hopped out, slid back the side door and picked up his camera, and Carey took the microphone and they walked up the driveway behind Johnson, who looked back at them, and then at the house, wondering what was going on. Letty sat in the open door of the van and watched: Carey had said she wouldn't do it if Letty got involved.

"Mr. Johnson!" Carey called. "Mr. Johnson."

Johnson was befuddled. "Me?"

Cramer said, for Johnson's benefit, "We're running," and Carey shoved the microphone at Johnson's face. "Mr. Johnson, we've been told by a sixteen-year-old girl that you have repeatedly forced yourself on her sexually."

"What-what-what?" Johnson held a handful of mail between his face and the camera lens. He was horrified and, Carey was pleased to see, frightened. Guilty-guilty-guilty.

Carey: "She tells us that she can identify your intimate areas by a variety of birthmarks and also by a bite mark she left on your hip, which left a scar, when you were forcing her to perform oral sex on you."

"Get away, get away…" Johnson tried to run around them and Cramer tracked him with the camera, stayed with him.

"Do you deny this, Mr. Johnson? Are you willing to speak to the police about these charges?"

"Get away, get away," Johnson shouted. "This is the mail, I'm delivering the U.s. mail here…" A few letters slipped out of his hand and he slapped at them, trying to catch them.