John Sandford - Rules of Prey

"Lucas."

"Hey, Jennifer…"

"You son of a bitch, you fed her another one."

"Who?"

"You know who. McGowan." Jennifer turned her head to glare down the street at the other woman.

"I did not," Lucas lied. "I was up north at my cabin, for Christ's sake."

"Well, somebody's feeding her select stuff. She's laughing up her sleeve at the rest of us."

"That's the way it goes in the news biz, huh?" He crouched and slipped under the tape. "Give me a call tomorrow, I'll see if I can get something for you."

"Hey, Lucas, you're not still angry? About the Smithe thing?"

"We have to talk," he said. "We have to figure out some kind of arrangement. You off tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, sure."

"So I'll take you to dinner somewhere private. We'll work something out."

"Great." She smiled and he turned and saw Anderson standing in a crowd outside the motel manager's office.

"So what?" he asked, taking Anderson by the sleeve.

"Come on down and take a look." He led the way toward the rear of the motel.

"Who found her?"

"The night clerk," Anderson said, glancing back. "The girl'd stop by and rap on the window when she was coming and going. She rapped going in, but never came back out. After a while, he kind of stuck his head out and says he saw this crack of light around her door. The killer apparently didn't pull it all the way shut when he left. That made the clerk curious and he walked down and knocked. And there she was."

"Did he see the killer? The clerk?"

"Uh-uh. He says he didn't see anybody."

"This clerk, is it Vinnie Short?"

"I don't know his name," Anderson said. "He's short, though."

Heather Brown was bound like the others, but unlike the others, her arms were stretched out at right angles to her body, as though she'd been crucified. The handle of the knife protruded from her chest under her breastbone. Her head was turned to one side, her eyes and mouth open. Her tongue stuck out, obscenely pale. She had long narrow scars on her thighs, white against her too-even machine tan.

"I don't know her," Lucas said. A vice officer walked in. "You know her?" Lucas asked.

"Seen her around a few times, she's been on the street a couple years," the vice cop said. "She used to be over on University, in St. Paul, but her old man OD'd on crank and she disappeared for a while."

"You're talking about Louis the White?"

"Yeah. See the scars on her legs? That was Louis' trademark. Used to beat them with coat hangers. Said it never took more than twice."

"But he's dead," said Lucas.

"Eight months ago. Good riddance. But I'll tell you something. His girls did the specialty tricks. Golden showers, bondage, spanking, like that. So this guy may have known her. The way she's tied up… it'd be hard to tie somebody up like that if she wasn't cooperating."

"You guys don't know who's running her now?"

"Nope. Haven't seen her around for a while," said the vice cop.

"We've talked to the night clerk but he claims he doesn't know anything about her," Anderson said. "Said she's been around two, three weeks. She'd come into the office, pay for the room, leave. She'd take a room for the night, bring two or three guys back, knock on the window when she was coming and going. She'd remake the bed herself."

"How much did she pay for the room?"

"I don't know," the vice cop said. "I could check."

"Usually it's one guy, one rent. They don't usually take them for the night. Not if the motel knows what's going on."

"This guy knows," said the vice cop.

"It's Vinnie Short?"

"Yeah."

"We have a long relationship. I'll go talk to him," Lucas said. He looked around the room again. "Nothing, huh?"

"Not much. The note."

"What'd it say?"

"'Never carry a weapon after it has been used.'"

"Son of a bitch. He's not leaving us much."

Anderson wandered out. Lucas looked at the body again, then picked up Brown's bag and looked through it. A cheap plastic billfold contained fifteen dollars, a driver's license, a social-security card, and a half-dozen photos. He pulled the clearest one out of the billfold and let it fall to the bottom of the bag. In a side pocket he found two twists of plastic. Cocaine.

"Got a couple quarter-grams here," he said to the vice cop. "You inventoried her purse yet?"

"Not yet."

"Stick your head out the door and call Anderson, will you?"

When the cop stepped outside, Lucas pocketed the photograph from the billfold and snapped the billfold shut.

"Yeah?" Anderson stepped back inside.

"Got some toot. Better get a property bag around this purse before it goes away."

Vincent Short was short. He also had long, thinning red hair and thought he looked like Woody Allen. He didn't know nothing. He scratched his head and shook it, and scratched his head some more. The dandruff flakes fell like snow on his black turtleneck shirt. Two vice cops were standing around looking at him when Lucas came in. Short looked up and paled.

"Lieutenant," he said nervously.

"Vincent, my friend, we need to talk," Lucas said cheerfully. He looked around at the vice cops. "Could I have a private talk with this guy? We're old pals."

"No problem," said one of the cops.

"Say, you find the girl's registration card?"

"Yeah, right here."

One of the vice cops handed it to him and Lucas glanced at the total charge. Thirty dollars. "Thanks. See you around."

When they were gone, Lucas turned to Short, who was shrinking back in his chair.

"Maybe we ought to go back in the office where we can talk," he suggested.

"You fuck, Davenport-" Short started to cry.

Lucas leaned over his chair and spoke in kindly tones. "Vincent, you know who the girl's pimp is. Now, you've got to decide, are you more scared of him? Or more scared of me? And let me give you a hint. We're working on a multiple killer here. My ass is on the line. So you should definitely be more scared of me."

"You fuck-"

"And maybe you should think about what the boss is going to say when he finds out you rented a room to a hooker, all night, for thirty bucks. You must have been getting a little on the side, huh? Maybe a little pussy, maybe a little kickback? Huh, Vincent?"

"You fuck…"

Lucas glanced out the windows toward the street. Nobody was looking in. He reached down and grabbed the flesh between Short's nostrils between a thumb and forefinger and drove his thumbnail into it. Short arched his head as though he were being electrocuted and dragged at Lucas' hand with his, but Lucas hung on and pressed his other thumb into Short's throat below his Adam's apple so he couldn't scream. They struggled for a few seconds and then Lucas let go and backed off, and Short doubled up in the chair, his face buried in his hands, a long groan squeezing from his mouth.

Lucas leaned over him and wiped his fingers on Short's shirt, his face close to Short's.

"Who's her pimp?" Lucas asked quietly.

"Aw, c'mon, Davenport."

"If you think that hurt, I've got a couple more in places you wouldn't even believe," Lucas said. "Don't show, either."

"Sparks," he mumbled. His voice was almost inaudible. "Don't tell him I told you."

"Who?"

"Jefferson Sparks. She works for Sparks."

"Sparky. God damn." Lucas patted Short on the shoulder. "Thanks, Vincent. The police appreciate the cooperation of our citizens."

Short looked up at him, his eyes rimmed with red, tears running down his cheeks.

"Get out of here, you fuck."

"If this isn't right, if it's not Sparky, I'll be back," Lucas promised. He smiled at Short. "Have a nice day."

Outside, they were moving the body, wheeling it out into the flaring lights of the TV cameras. The vice cops were standing in a small group by the sidewalk, watching, when Lucas walked up.