John Sandford - Rules of Prey

After dinner, Lucas started a fire in the fireplace, dragging in birch logs cut the previous fall. When the fire was going, they sat on the couch and talked and watched television and then a rental movie, The Big Chill.

Toward the end of the movie Lucas started working on her blouse buttons. When the phone rang, he had her blouse off and she was straddling his hips, tickling him. He looked up at her and said, suddenly somber, "I don't want to answer. He's killed somebody else."

Carla stopped giggling and half-turned and reached out to grab the receiver and thrust it at him. He looked at it for a second and then reluctantly took it.

"Davenport," he said, sitting up.

"Lucas," said Anderson, "we've got another one."

"Shit." He looked at Carla and nodded.

"You better get down here."

"Who is it?"

"A hooker. We've got a street name, that's all. Heather Brown. Maybe fifteen. Knife, just like the others. The note's there."

"I don't know her. You check on Smithe?"

"Yeah, he's up at the family farm. We figure she was done around seven o'clock. A TV crew followed him up to the farm. They did some film at six. He's still up there. He's out of it."

"How about the girl's pimp?"

"We're looking for him. That's one reason we need you down here-we need you to look at her, see if you recognize her, shake down some of her people."

"Vice working it?"

"Yeah. They know her, but they haven't come up with anything yet."

"Where was it?"

"Down on South Hennepin. Randy's."

"Yeah, I know it. Okay, I'll be down as soon as I can."

He hung up and turned to Carla, who was slipping into her blouse. He reached out and pressed a palm against one of her breasts.

"I've got to go," he said.

"Who was it?" Her voice was low, depressed.

"A hooker. In a hot-bed hotel. It's the guy, all right, but it's kind of… weird. It sounds almost spontaneous. And it's the first time he's gone near a hooker." He hesitated. "I've got a favor to ask you, but I don't want you to take it the wrong way."

She wrinkled her forehead and shrugged. "So ask."

"Could you take a walk down to the dock for a few minutes?"

"Sure…"

"I've got to make a phone call, and…" He gestured helplessly. "It's not that I don't trust you, but it would be best if I was talking in private. Sometimes I do things that are considered mildly outside the law. If there were ever a grand jury… I wouldn't want you to perjure yourself or even think you had to."

She smiled uncertainly. "Sure. So I take a walk. No problem."

"It feels like a problem," Lucas said, running his hands through his hair. "Every time I get into this situation with a woman, they think I don't trust them."

"You've been in it a lot?" she asked.

"A couple of times. Drives me crazy."

"Okay. So you're a cop."

She picked up one of his long-sleeved flannel shirts that she'd been wearing in the cool evenings and smiled at him. "Don't worry about it, for God's sake. I'll be down at the dock, just call when you're done."

He watched her go down the steps and along the path through the front yard, and a moment later saw her silhouette against the dark water as she stepped out on the dock. He picked up the phone and dialed.

"I need to talk to Annie McGowan immediately. This is an emergency."

"Can I tell her who's calling please?"

"Tell her Red Horse."

A moment later McGowan was on the line. "Red Horse?"

"Annie, there's been another killing. Have you heard yet?"

"No." Her voice was quick, excited. "Where's it at?"

"It's a hooker at Randy's Motel, down on Hennepin. Young girl. Her street name was Heather Brown. We've got people on the scene right now, you better get a crew up there. And let me give you one more piece of information about him, that our shrinks worked out. The chief and the other detectives will probably try to deny it, because they don't want this kind of sensitive information getting out, but we were expecting him to kill a hooker."

"Jeez, why?"

"Our shrinks think the guy is probably so ugly, so unattractive to women that not only can't he get it up, he can't get a woman on his own, either. One probably contributes to the other. We don't know that it's appearance, though. Maybe it's body chemistry or something. You know, maybe he's got like world-class body odor."

"Wow."

"Yeah, you get the idea. Really repellent, like a human lizard. I wouldn't give this to anybody, but I liked the way you blended my last tip, about the impotence, into your story. Now that he's killed the hooker, I think maybe this last piece of information will give the Now Report viewers some exclusive insight into the mind of a serial murderer, you know."

"This is really heavy, Luca… uh, Red Horse. Let me get this stuff going and I'll get back to you. Are you at home?"

"No. I'm way up north, three hours away. I'm about to start back, I'll get there just before midnight. I'll be at my house, probably, sometime after one o'clock, and I'll be up until three or so. If you have to call, call then."

"Okay. Thanks, Red Horse."

Carla was on the dock, wrapped in the flannel shirt.

"You going?"

"Yeah."

"I'll walk you up to your car."

"I wanted to spend more time," he said.

"So come back."

"If I can." He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her and she clung to him for a moment, then broke away and turned to the cabin. Lucas dropped into the Porsche, brought it around in a circle, and headed back to the Cities.

Driving at speed on the narrow roads of the North Woods thrilled him, but he usually did it in the daytime. At night the roadside timber seemed to step in, to press closer to the road. He overran his headlights, brush and phone poles flicking in and out of his vision without leaving time for thought.

Thirty miles out, just across the Minnesota border, he passed a roadside rest and the red lights came up behind him as a highway-patrol car burst onto the road.

Lucas wrenched the car to the shoulder and climbed out with his badge case in his hand. The patrolman was already on the road, one hand on his weapon, the other holding a long steel flashlight.

"I'm a Minneapolis cop making an emergency run back to the Cities," Lucas said as he walked toward the patrolman, extending the badge case. "Lieutenant Lucas Davenport. The maddog killer just ripped a hooker, a little girl. I'm trying to get back."

"Uh-huh," the patrolman said. He looked at the badge case and ID card with his light, then flashed it momentarily in Lucas' face.

"If you can call your dispatcher and have them patch you through to our dispatch-"

"I've seen you on TV," the patrolman said. He handed the badge case back. "I'm not going to give you a ticket, but a word to the wise, okay? I clocked you at eighty-three miles an hour. If you drive from here to the Interstate at fifty-five instead of eighty-three, it'll cost you an extra two minutes. If you drive at eighty-three and you hit a deer or a bear, you'll be dead. You're lucky you haven't hit one already. They're really moving right now. You hit a big old sow-bear broadside with that car, it'd be like hitting a brick wall."

"Right. I'm just sort of freaked out."

"Well, cool off," said the patrolman. "I'll call up ahead, tell the guys on the Interstate that you're trying to make up a little extra time. Keep it under a hundred and they won't hassle you, once you get on the Interstate."

"Thanks, man." Lucas headed back to his car.

"Hey, Davenport."

Lucas stopped with the door half-open. "Yeah?"

"Get that cocksucker."

The motel was a shabby single-story L-shaped building with a permanent hand-painted vacancy sign. There were a half-dozen squad cars and four television trucks parked in front when Lucas rolled in. He saw Jennifer and, further down the street, Annie McGowan, both with cameramen. Lucas squeezed the Porsche between two squad cars, got out, locked it, and started toward the yellow tape that blocked the motel driveway.