John Sandford - Rules of Prey

"Red Horse," she whispered, her lips moving as she memorized the phrase. "Red Horse. Like the horse in chess?"

More like the fish, the red horse sucker, Lucas thought. McGowan stepped forward another step and kissed him on the lips, then with a flash of black eyes and fashionable wool coat was gone down the stacks.

The store owner, an unromantic fat man who collected early editions of Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi, appeared in the dim aisle and said, "Jesus, Lucas, what're you doing back there, squeezin' the weasel?"

Lucas stopped at Daniel's office and outlined Smithe's alibis. Together they went to the homicide division and outlined them to Lester and Anderson.

"I want everybody off everything else, I want this checked right now," Daniel said. "You can start by going over to the welfare office, see about this in-service training. That'll give us a quick read. Then look at these tickets, make a few calls. If it all checks, and I bet it will, we'll set up a meeting with the prosecutor's office. For like one o'clock, two o'clock. Decide what to do."

"You mean drop the charges," Lester said.

"Yeah. Probably."

"The press'll eat us alive," Anderson said.

"Not if we play it right. We tell them that Davenport was the only guy Smithe would trust, told him the stories, Davenport came to us, and we realized our mistake."

"Sounds like a lead balloon to me," Lester said.

"It's all we got," Daniel said. "It's better than having McCarthy shove it down our throats."

"Christ." Lester's face was gray. "I made the call. They're going to be all over me. The fuckin' TV."

"Could be worse," Daniel said philosophically.

"How?"

"Could be me."

Lucas and Anderson started laughing, then Daniel, and finally Lester smiled.

"Yeah, that'd be un-fuckin'-thinkable," Lester said.

Lucas spent the rest of the morning in his office, talking to contacts around the Cities. Nothing much was moving. There were rumors that somebody had been killed at a high-stakes poker game on the northeast side, but he'd heard a similar rumor three weeks earlier and it was beginning to sound apocryphal. Several hundred Visa blanks had hit the Cities and were working through the discount stores and shopping centers; some heavy-hitting retailers were upset and were talking to the mayor. There was a rumor about guns, automatic weapons going out-country through landing strips in the Red River Valley. That was a weird one and needed checking. And a strip-joint owner complained that a neighboring bar was putting on young talent: "It ain't fair, these girls ain't old enough to have hair on their pussy. Nobody else is gettin' any business, everybody's down at Frankie's." Lucas told him he'd look into it.

"It all checks," Daniel said. "We faxed a photo out to New York, had the cops run it over to the hotel, and the bellhop remembers him and remembers the rat. He couldn't remember the exact date, but he remembers the week it was in. It's the right week."

"How about the in-service?"

"Checks out. That's the clincher, because there isn't any question about it. As soon as we asked the question, word was all over welfare that we fucked up. It'll be all over the courthouse by tonight."

"And?"

"We've got a meeting with the prosecutor and the public defender at two o'clock," Daniel said. "We're going to recommend that all charges be dismissed. We'll have a press conference this evening."

"He's going to sue our butts," Anderson said.

"We'll ask for a waiver," Daniel said.

"No chance," said Lucas. "The guy is freaked." He looked at the chief. "I don't think I ought to show at the press conference."

"That might be best."

"If anybody asks, you can tell them I'm on vacation. I'm going to take a couple of days off and go up north."

Lucas left City Hall at three and wandered down to the detention center, stopping only to pick up a box of popcorn. Annie McGowan and a cameraman were outside the center, waiting. Lucas sat on a bus bench a block away, and a half-hour later saw McCarthy walk out of the center with Smithe right behind. They were with two older people, a man and a woman, whom Lucas recognized as Smithe's parents from the photos in his house. McGowan was on them in a flash, and after a bit of milling around, they apparently agreed to a brief on-camera interview. Lucas balled up the empty popcorn bag, tossed it under the bench, and smiled.

"Press conference at seven," Anderson said, spotting Lucas in the hall.

"I've got something going tonight," Lucas said. "And I'm trying to hide out for a while."

Before leaving, he made arrangements for backup with the patrol division and headed home in time for the six-o'clock news. McGowan looked wonderful as she delivered her scoop. After two minutes of videotaped interview outside the detention center, the cameras cut back to McGowan in the studio.

"Now Report Eight has also learned that police believe the real killer is sexually impotent and the women may actually have been raped using some kind of blunt object because he is incapable of raping them himself."

She turned to the anchorman and smiled. "Fred?"

"Thanks for that exclusive report, Annie…"

Lucas turned to Channel Four. The last story of the broadcast was a recap of McGowan's, obviously stolen: "We have just learned that Jimmy Smithe, who was arrested in the investigation of the multiple murders of three Twin Cities women, has been released and that police apparently now believe him to be innocent of the crimes…"

Jennifer was on the phone five minutes later.

"Lucas, did you feed her that?"

"Feed who what?" Lucas asked innocently.

"Feed McGowan the Smithe release?"

"Has he been released?"

"You jerk, you better be wearing your steel jockstrap the next time I'm over, because I'm bringing a knife."

Late that evening, he cruised Lake Street in an unmarked departmental pool car, watching the night walkers, the drinkers, the hookers, looking for any one of a dozen faces. He found one just before ten.

"Harold. Get in the car."

"Aw, lieutenant…"

"Get in the fuckin' car, Harold." Harold, a dealer in free-market pharmaceuticals, got in the car.

"Harold, you owe me," Lucas said. Harold weighed a hundred and thirty pounds and was lost in his olive-drab field jacket.

"What do y' want, man?" he whined. "I haven't been talking to anybody…"

"What I want is for you to go into Frankie's and do some light drinking. On me. But light. Wine, beer. I don't want you hammered."

"What's the bad part?" Harold asked, suddenly looking perkier.

"They're going to put some young puss up on the bar. Real young. When they do, I want you to walk out and tell me. I'll be up the block. You come out as soon as she starts, hear? Not two minutes later, just as soon as she starts." He handed Harold a ten.

"Ten? You want me to stay in there drinkin' on ten?" he complained.

Lucas gripped the front of Harold's field jacket and shook him once. "Listen, Harold, you're lucky I don't charge you for the privilege, okay? Now, get your lame ass in there or I'm going to rip your fuckin' face off."

"Jesus, lieutenant…" Harold got out, and Lucas slumped in the seat, watching the passersby. Most were drinking or already drunk. A few drug cases walked by. A pimp and one of his string; Lucas knew him, and put his head down further, his hand up to block a view of his face. The pimp never looked toward him. A pusher, a pusher, a fat-faced boy who might just have come in from the country, and a drunk salesman. He watched the parade for a half-hour before Harold eased up to the car.