John Sandford - Silken Prey

Lucas leaned against the car and thought about it. One minute later, Ignace called back and Lucas said, “Still off the record, okay?”

“Okay. Against my better judgment. The public’s trust in both government and the media would be so much higher if we identified—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re off the record. Call Don Schariff—S-C-H-A-R-I-F-F—at DFL headquarters. He’s got some kind of title there, but I’m not sure what. Anyway, he’s involved with DFL intelligence gathering—”

“Spies.”

“Yeah. Ask him if Bob Tubbs—”

“The guy who disappeared . . . Holy shit , Tubbs? Tubbs dumped the porn on Smalls?”

“I didn’t say that,” Lucas said. “Schariff might possibly have some information for you. But he’ll probably deny any involvement with Tubbs.”

“You’re saying the Republicans killed Tubbs?”

“Somebody did, but I don’t think it was the Republicans,” Lucas said. “I think there’s a cover-up going on. But it’s possible that Tubbs is just lying low, until the election is over.”

“Not from what I hear,” Ignace said. “I hear the St. Paul cops think he’s dead. I hear you do, too.”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” Lucas said.

“All right, we’re more than even. You need anything from me?”

“Not right now. But wait at least an hour before you call Schariff. I just talked to him two minutes ago, and if you call him right now, he’ll figure I talked to you. So wait.”

“You talking to Channel Three?”

“No. You’ve got it exclusively. So wait.”

“I can do that,” Ignace said. “I can probably get one of our political guys to tie Schariff to Tubbs. They must’ve worked together a hundred times. Hot dog. But say it out loud: Tubbs used the porn to frame Smalls.”

“I can’t say that,” Lucas said. “But I can say that you sometimes, against all odds, seem like a very, very smart guy.”

“You can kiss my odds,” Ignace said. “But no, wait. Thanks, Lucas. I owe you big. If you’re ever indicted for anything, I’ll take your side.”

• • •

LUCAS WENT BACK TO his office, called his agents, got updates—still nothing on the Ape Man Rapist of Rochester—and waited for something from the DFL.

Larson, the lawyer, called back two hours later. He was angry: “Lucas, I’d call you a miserable motherfucker if I didn’t need Weather’s money. You talked to Ignace, over at the Strib . You got him on Don’s case. He’s going to publicly connect Don to Bob Tubbs and Tubbs to the Smalls scandal.”

“I’m not talking to anybody,” Lucas lied. “I’m just trying to get a little cooperation from people who might know why a guy got murdered.”

“You lying motherfucker . . . pardon the language. Don’t talk to Ignace again: don’t, or I’ll find some way to screw you. I promise.”

“Do your best, Daryl. But if I find out Don knew something that he’s not giving me, he’s going to prison,” Lucas said. “He’ll be part of the conspiracy if he tries to cover it up.”

“There’s no cover-up,” Larson said. “If there’s a spy in the Smalls campaign, she was placed by Grant’s campaign, not by us.”

“You said, ‘she,’” Lucas said. “So you know something.”

“I’ll tell you exactly what we did,” Larson said. “We got everybody together, and we tried to figure out who was working for Smalls, all the volunteers, and then we showed the list to Don. He looked it over and said there was one volunteer, a young woman, Bunny Knoedler, who he was surprised to see working for the opposition.”

“Bunny?”

“Yes. Knoedler. K-N-O-E-D-L-E-R.”

“How surprised was he?” Lucas asked.

“He said she worked on a couple of our campaigns out-state that Tubbs was involved with,” Larson said. “Don said she seemed like a pretty dedicated DFLer.”

Lucas said, “If this works out, Daryl, I’ll send you a hundred dollars myself.”

“Fuck you, Lucas . . . but do say hello to Weather for me.”

• • •

LUCAS LOOKED AT HIS WATCH: getting late. He walked down the hall, saw Shrake on the phone at his desk, went that way. Shrake saw him coming, held up a finger, said, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, send me the paper. Okay. I gotta go.” He hung up and said, “You’re quivering.”

“You got some time?”

“Ah . . . no. Not if you want me to keep pushing the Jackson thing,” Shrake said.

“All right. Where’s Jenkins?” Lucas asked.

“He’s getting his oil changed,” Shrake said.

“He’s . . .”

“No, no, not that,” Shrake said. “He was going down to a Rapid Oil Change, getting the oil changed in his car.”

“Call him, tell him to get back here,” Lucas said. “I need to terrorize a young woman, and I want one of you guys to come along.”

“Well, hell, that’s right up his alley,” Shrake said. He picked up his phone and dialed.

With Jenkins on the way back, Lucas called Smalls and asked the question. Smalls made a call and came back immediately: “The girl is working until nine o’clock on the phone bank. Is she the one who did this?”

“Don’t know—but we got a tip that made us want to talk with her,” Lucas said. “Don’t do anything that would let her know we’re looking at her.”

“In other words, keep my mouth shut.”

“I’m far too polite to say that to a U.S. senator.”

• • •

JENKINS SHOWED UP and said, “I was next in line.”

“That piece of shit you drive won’t know the difference,” Lucas said. “You could fill it up with a water hose. Let’s go.”

Lucas briefed Jenkins on the way over. They got to Smalls’s headquarters a little after four o’clock, and the secretary, Helen, pointed out Bunny Knoedler, a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed girl with bow-lips, who looked like she might have been Lucas’s daughter.

The phone room was just another office, divided up into a half-dozen booths with acoustic tiling on the walls, to hush up the multiple voices. Knoedler was sitting in a booth with two hardwired phones and a list, and was dialing a number when Lucas leaned over her shoulder and pushed down the hang-up bar on the base set.

She turned and looked up at him and said, “What . . . ?” and he could see in her eyes that she knew who he was.

“We need you to come back into Senator Smalls’s office,” Lucas said. Jenkins loomed behind him, as though to keep her from running.

“What . . . what?” she asked.

“I think you know what, but we have to talk about it,” Lucas said. “Come along.”

She put the phone down, and with the other phone-bank people suddenly gone silent, followed them out of the room, sandwiched between Jenkins and Lucas, like a perp walk.

Smalls’s office was empty—not even a computer anymore—and Lucas pointed Knoedler at a chair. He and Jenkins remained on their feet, looking down at her. “You’re a Democratic spy,” Lucas said. “A friend of Bob Tubbs, and you worked with him on out-state campaigns. He planted you here to watch Senator Smalls’s campaign.”

She was scared, and started to reply. She said, “I—”

Lucas put up a hand to stop her. “We’re going to read you your rights. But I want to tell you, in addition to your rights, if you lie to me, that’s a crime. You have the right to remain silent, to say nothing at all, but you can’t lie to me. At this point, we’re looking for information.”

Lucas looked at Jenkins and nodded, and Jenkins started the routine. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

When he was finished, Lucas asked, “Did you understand all of that? That you have a right to an attorney?”

“I haven’t done anything illegal,” she said, looking at the two of them, looming.