John Sandford - Rules of Prey

Lucas eased his billfold back in his pocket.

"You see who did it?"

"Well, I don't know…"

Lucas leaned forward. "I personally don't think you did it, Sparky. But you gotta give me something to work with. Something I can take back. These guys from vice want to hang you. You know what they're saying? They're saying, sure, he might not be guilty of this. But he's guilty of everything else and we can get him for this. Dump old Sparky in Stillwater, it'd solve a lot of problems. That's what they're saying. They found some coke in your lady's purse, and that doesn't go down too well either…"

Sparks licked his lips. "I knew that bitch was holding out."

"I don't care about that, Sparky. What'd you see?"

"I seen this guy…"

"Let me get my recorder going," Lucas said.

Sparks had a crack habit that was hard to stay ahead of. On the night Heather Brown was killed, he had been sitting on a bus bench across the street, waiting for her to produce some money. He had seen her last date approach her.

"Wasn't it pretty dark?"

"Yeah, but they got all them big blue lights down there."

"Okay."

There was nothing particularly distinctive about the maddog. Average height. White. Regular features, roundish face. Yeah, maybe a little heavy. Went right to her, there didn't seem to be much negotiation.

"You think she knew him?"

"Yeah, maybe. But I don't know. I never saw him before, and she was on the street for a while. Wasn't a regular. At least, not while she was with me."

"She still doing the rough trade?"

"Yeah, there was a few boys would come around." He held his hands up defensively. "I didn't make her. She liked it. Get spanked a little. Good money, too."

"So this guy. How was he dressed? Sharp?"

"No. Not sharp," Sparks said. "He looked kind of like a farmer."

"A farmer?"

"Yeah. He had one of them billed hats on, you know, that got shit wrote on the front? And he was wearing one of those cheap jackets like you get at gas stations. Baseball jackets."

"You sure this was her last date?"

"Yeah. Had to be. She went to the motel and I went off to get a beer. The next thing I knew was the sirens coming down the street."

"Farmer doesn't sound right," Lucas said.

"Well…" Sparks scratched his head. "He didn't look right, either. There was something about him…"

"What?"

"I don't know. But there was something." He scratched his head again.

"You see his car?"

"Nope."

Lucas pressed, but there wasn't anything more.

"You think you'd recognize him?"

"Mmm." Sparks looked at the floor between his feet, thinking it over. "I don't think so. Maybe. I mean, maybe if I saw him walking down the street in the night with the same clothes, I'd say, there, that's the motherfucker right there. But if you put him in a lineup, I don't think so. I was way across the street. All there was, was those streetlights."

"Okay." Lucas turned off his recorder. "We want you back in the Cities, Sparky. You can run your girls. Nobody will hassle you until we get this turkey. When we locate him, we'd like you around to take a look. Just in case."

"You ain't gonna roust me?"

"Not if you stay cool."

"All right. How about this bullshit charge here?"

MacElreney shook his head. "We can process you out in ten minutes if Minneapolis doesn't want you."

"We don't want him," Lucas said. He turned back to Sparks. "But we do want you back in the Cities. If you start trolling the other Iowa cities on your route, we'll roust you out of every one of them. Get back up to Minneapolis."

"Sure. Be a relief. Too much corn down here for the likes of me." He glanced at MacElreney. "No offense."

MacElreney looked offended.

Lucas had unlocked the door of the rental car when MacElreney shouted at him from the steps of the police station. Sparks was right behind him and they walked down the sidewalk together.

"I thought of what was weird about that dude," Sparks said. "It was his haircut."

"His haircut?"

"Yeah. Like, when they walked away from me toward the motel, he took his hat off. I couldn't see his face or anything, only the back of his head. But I remember thinking he didn't have a farmer haircut. You know how farmers always got their ears stickin' out? Either that, or it looks like their old lady cut their hair with a bowl? Well, this guy's hair was like styled. Like yours, or like a businessman or a lawyer or doctor or something. Slick. Not like a farmer. Never seen a farmer like that."

Lucas nodded. "Okay. Blond guy, right?"

Sparks' forehead wrinkled. "Why, no. No, he was a dark-haired dude."

Lucas leaned closer. "Sparky, are you sure? Could you make a mistake?"

"No, no. Dark-haired dude."

"Shit." Lucas thought it over. It didn't fit. "Anything else?" he asked finally.

Sparks shook his head. "Nothin' except you're getting old. I remember when I first knew you, when you beat up Bald Peterson. You had this nice smooth face like a baby's ass. You gettin' some heavy miles."

"Thanks, Sparks," Lucas said. "I needed that."

"We all be gettin' old."

"Sure. And I'm sorry about your lady, by the way."

Sparks shrugged. "Women do get killed. And it ain't like there's no shortage of whores."

The drive back took the rest of the day. After a stop near the Iowa line for a cheeseburger and fries, Lucas put the cruise control on seventy-five and rolled across the Minnesota River into Minneapolis a little after eight o'clock. He dropped the rental car at the airport and took a taxi home, feeling grimy and tight from the trip. A scalding shower straightened out his bent back. When he was dressed again, he got beer from the refrigerator, went down to the spare bedroom, put the beer can on the floor next to the bed, and lay back, looking at the five charts pinned to the wall.

Bell, Morris, Ruiz, and Lewis. The maddog. The dates. Personal characteristics. He read through them, sighed, got up, pinned a sixth sheet of paper to the wall, and wrote "Brown" at the top with his Magic Marker.

Hooker. Young. Dark hair and eyes. The physical description was right. But she was killed in a motel, after being picked up on the street. All the others had been attacked in private places, their homes or apartments, or, in Lewis' case, the empty house she was trying to sell.

He reviewed the other features of the Brown murder, including her appearance in court. Could the maddog be a lawyer? Or even a judge? A court reporter? How about a bailiff or one of the other court personnel? There were dozens of them. And he noted the knife. The maddog brought it with him for this killing. Chicago Cutlery was an expensive brand, and it was widely sold around the Twin Cities in the best department and specialty stores. Could he be some kind of gourmet? A cooking freak? Was it possible that he bought the knife recently and that a check of stores would turn up somebody who'd sold a single blade to a pudgy white guy?

Lucas looked at the notes on the maddog chart. That he was well-off, that he could be new to the area. Up from the Southwest. Office job. Sparks had confirmed that he was fair-skinned. The business about the dark hair was a problem; Carla was sure that he was very fair, and that suggested lighter hair. There were some black-haired Irish, and some Finns would fit the bill, but that seemed to be stretching. Lucas shook his head, added "dark hair?" At the end of the list he wrote "Expensive haircut. Dark hair? Wig? Wears disguises (farmer). Gourmet?"

He lay back again, his head propped up on a pillow, took a sip of beer, held the can on his chest, and read through the lists again.

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. Cop.