John Sandford - Rules of Prey

"That's big of you,"

"Wait a minute. Let me finish. This time, you've made a direct promise. No ifs, ands, or buts. If it gets out, I'll know where it had to come from. And I'll know that we won't have any basis to trust each other. Ever. Even with the kid. I'm not playing a game now. This is real life."

Jennifer leaned back, looked up at the ceiling, then dropped her eyes to him. "When I was a teenager, I made a deal with my father," she said slowly. She looked up. "If something was really important and he had to know the truth of it, I would tell him the truth and then say 'Girl Scout' honor.' And if he wanted to tell me something and emphasize that it was important and he wasn't kidding or fibbing, he'd say 'Boy Scout's honor' and give me the Boy Scout sign. I know it sounds silly, but we never broke it. We never lied."

"And you won't tell…"

"Girl Scout's honor," she said, giving the three-finger sign. "Jesus, we must look ridiculous."

"All right," Lucas said. "What I was going to tell you is this. I don't know where McGowan's information is coming from, but most of it is completely wrong. She says we think the guy is impotent or smells bad or looks weird, and we don't think any of that. It's all courthouse rumor. We think she's probably getting it from some uniform out on the periphery of the investigation."

"It's all bull?" Jennifer asked, not believing.

"Yep. It's amazing, but that's the truth of the matter. She's had all these great scoops and it's all bullshit. As far as I know, she's making it up."

"You wouldn't be fibbing, would you, Davenport?" She watched him closely and he stared straight back.

"I'm not," he said.

"Did you sleep with McGowan?"

"No, I did not," he said. He lifted his hand in the three-fingered Scout sign. "Boy Scout's honor," he said.

She toyed with the stem of her wineglass, watching the wine roll around inside. "I've got to do some thinking about you, Davenport. I've had some… passions before, for other men. This is turning into something different."

They slept in the next morning. Jennifer was reading the Pioneer Press and Lucas was cooking breakfast when the phone rang.

"This is Anderson."

"Yeah."

"A cop from Cedar Rapids called. They busted Sparky for conspiracy to commit prostitution, and they've got-"

"Conspiracy to what?"

"Some kind of horseshit charge. He said their county attorney will kick their ass when he finds out. They'll have to tell him this afternoon, before the end of business hours. We got you on a plane at ten. Which gives you an hour to get out to the airport. Ticket's waiting."

"How long does it take to drive?"

"Five, six hours. You'd never make it, not before they have to tell the county attorney. Then they'll probably have to turn Sparky loose."

"All right, all right, give me the airline." Lucas wrote the details on a scratch pad, hung up, and went to tell Jennifer.

"I won't ask," she said, grinning at him.

"I'll tell you if you want. But I'd need the Girl Scout's oath that you won't tell."

"Nah. I can live without knowing," she said. She was still grinning at him. "And if you're going to fly, you might want to break out the bourbon."

The airline that flew between Twin Cities International and Cedar Rapids was perfectly reliable. Never had a fatal crash. Said so right in its ads. Lucas held both seat arms with a death grip. The elderly woman in the next seat watched him curiously.

"This can't be your first time," she said ten minutes into the flight.

"No. Unfortunately," Lucas said.

"This is much safer than driving," the old woman said. "It's safer than walking across the street."

"Yes, I know." He was staring straight ahead. He wished a stroke on the old woman. Anything that would shut her up.

"This airline has a wonderful safety record. They've never had a crash."

Lucas nodded and said, "Um."

"Well, don't worry, we'll be there in an hour."

Lucas cranked his head toward her. He felt as though his spine had rusted. "An hour? We've been up pretty long now."

"Only ten minutes," she said cheerfully.

"Oh, God."

The police psychologist had told him that he feared the loss of control.

"You can't deal with the idea that your life is in somebody else's hands, no matter how competent they are. What you have to remember is, your life is always in somebody else's hands. You could step into the street and get mowed down by a drunk in a Cadillac. Much more chance of that than a plane wreck."

"Yeah, but with a drunk, I could see him coming, maybe. I could sense it. I could jump. I could get lucky. Something. But when a plane quits flying…" Lucas mimed a plane plowing nose-down into his lap. "Schmuck. Dead meat."

"That's irrational," the shrink said.

"I know that," Lucas said. "I want to know what to do about it."

The shrink shook his head. "Well, there's hypnotism. And there are some books that are supposed to help. But if I were you, I'd just have a couple of drinks. And try not to fly."

"How about chemicals?"

"You could try some downers, but they'll mess up your head. I wouldn't do it if you have to be sharp when you get where you're going."

The flight to Cedar Rapids didn't offer alcohol. He didn't have pills. When the wheels came down, his heart stopped.

"It's only the wheels coming down," the old woman said helpfully.

"I know that," Lucas grated.

Lucas cashed the return portion of the plane ticket.

"You'll take a loss," the clerk warned.

"That's the least of my problems," Lucas said. He rented a car that he could drop back in Minneapolis and got directions to the police station. The station was an older building, four-square concrete, function over form. Kind of like Iowa, he thought. A cop named MacElreney was waiting for him.

"Carroll MacElreney," he said. He had wide teeth and an RAF mustache. He was wearing a green plaid sport coat, brown slacks, and brown-and-white saddle shoes.

"Lucas Davenport." They shook hands. "We appreciate this. We're in a bind."

"I've been reading about it. Sergeant Anderson said you don't think Sparks did it, but might know something? That right?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Let's go see." MacElreney led the way to an interview room. "Mr. Sparks is unhappy with us. He thinks he's been treated unfairly."

"He's an asshole," Lucas said. "You find his girl?"

"Yeah. Kinda young."

"Aren't they all?"

Sparks was sitting on one of three metal office chairs when Lucas followed the Cedar Rapids cop into the room. He's getting old, Lucas thought, looking at the other man. He had first seen Sparks on the streets in the early seventies. His hair then had been a faultless shiny black, worn in a long Afro. Now it was gray, and deep furrows ran down Sparks' forehead to the inside tips of his eyebrows. His nose was a flattened mess, his teeth nicotine yellow and crooked. He looked worried.

"Davenport," he said without inflection. His eyes were almost as yellow as his teeth.

"Sparky. Sorry to see you in trouble again."

"Whyn't you cut the crap and tell me what you want?"

"We want to know why you left town fifteen minutes after one of your ladies got her heart cut out."

Sparks winced. "Is that what-"

"Don't give me any shit, Sparky. We just want to know where you dumped the knife." Lucas suddenly stopped and looked at MacElreney. "You gave him his rights?"

"Just on the prostitution charge."

"Jesus, I better do it again, let me get my card…" Lucas reached for his billfold and Sparks interrupted.

"Now, wait a minute, Davenport," Sparks said, even more worried. "God damn, I got witnesses that I didn't do nothin' like that. I loved that girl."