Because the cop in the Benz would recognize Kort but might not recognize him, Soto left Kort in a shopping center and walked across a divided highway to the only Mercedes dealer in Nashville and cruised the parking lot as though looking at the cars. He spotted a black Mercedes-Benz SUV parked behind the building and wandered past it. He didn’t have to get too close before he knew he had the right truck: there were no other SUVs that had been shot to pieces with a machine gun.
A thin, balding man in tan slacks and a blue sport coat was examining the truck and making notes on a clipboard. Soto walked past it, checked the license plate and the state. Minnesota? What was up with that? If the guy really was a cop, what was he doing in Tennessee?
His phone chirped and Soto answered and Kort said, “Get out of there. The cop just walked into the front of the store.”
Soto hurried away, cut through a line of cars, and recrossed the street.
“I saw the car, got the tag,” he told Kort. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
—
THEY CALLED the College-Sounding Guy. Soto said, “I need a license tag run. From Minnesota. When we get a name, we need to check the name out, see who he is.”
The College-Sounding Guy crunched on something that might have been a Cheeto and said, “Two hundred.”
“Bill us, as usual.”
“Call you back in fifteen minutes,” the College-Sounding Guy said. Soto imagined he was tall, soft, wore glasses, and combed his heavily gelled hair straight back from his forehead. And he had pimples and was surrounded by sacks of Cheetos. How he got wired up with the people in Honduras would remain a mystery.
Kort and Soto sat and waited.
Kort said, “My buttocks . . .”
“I don’t want to hear any more about your ass,” Soto snarled. “It’s my ass, my ass, my ass, all the time my ass. I know your ass hurts, now shut up.”
“You’re such a motherfucker,” Kort said. “I’d like to get ten minutes with you and my Sawzall.”
Soto looked at her with interest. This was something new: “Really? You really want to cut me up? I’ll tell you what, bitch, you look at me sideways . . .” A switchblade appeared in one hand and the serrated blade flicked out. “. . . I cut your fuckin’ nose off.”
“Yeah, I . . . There’s the cop.”
Lucas walked out of the Mercedes dealership and around to the back where his car was, and out of sight. “Not gonna fix that wreck,” Soto said. He sounded proud of himself.
“He’s outa sight. I gotta get out of this car,” Kort said. The pain wasn’t so bad when she was standing up. She waited outside the car, partially concealed by a bush, and thought about Soto, and what a miserable jackass he was. Here she was, really hurt, because of his failing—his job had been to check the house, and instead he’d let a kid get the drop on them, like the worst fuckin’ amateur in the world.
Jackass.
—
FIVE MINUTES after Kort got out of the car, Soto’s phone rang, and the College-Sounding Guy said, “What you’ve got there is a federal marshal named Lucas Davenport. New on the federal job, but a longtime cop in Minnesota with a history of killing people. He is not somebody to toy with.”
“To what with?”
“Toy with. Mess with,” the College-Sounding Guy said.
“Can you look at airline tickets?”
“Sure, but if you want some ongoing monitoring for Lucas Davenport, it’ll cost you a thousand a day. I’ll have to check every fifteen minutes or so, if you want some warning on when he’s flying, if he does. That’s a full-time job, but if you want that, I can give you enough warning that you could get to the airport yourself. I could even make reservations for you.”
“I don’t care about that so much as where he’s going,” Soto said. “If he goes, I’d like to know what kind of car he rents when he gets there.”
“In that case, I’ll monitor flights for two hundred per day. That’ll get you a check every couple of hours until he flies. Another two hundred for the car, make, model, and tag. I also got a special, today only, for our better customers. If he has a phone from AT&T or Verizon, I can hack into the company’s GPS location server and tell you where his phone’s at, at any given time.”
Soto: “You can do that?”
“For a hundred dollars per check, as many checks as you want, but a hundred dollars each.”
“Do that, and bill us,” Soto said.
“You’re on the clock, starting now,” the College-Sounding Guy said, and he hung up.
When Kort got back in the car, Soto told her about the call. “That there’s a guy worth knowing,” he said.
“Sounds like a ratshit asshole frat boy to me,” Kort said. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I need to get a doctor to look at my buttocks. I think it hurts worse now than it did yesterday.”
“I can make a call down South and maybe they have a guy, but it also might make them unhappy to know you’ve been shot.”
Kort didn’t say anything for a bit, then, “Let’s see what it’s like tomorrow.”
—
THE THIN balding man from State Farm told Lucas that the Benz was totaled—“Seventy thousand miles and not a decent piece of metal on it—not even the roof,” he said. “The interior’s trashed, plus the engine compartment looks like somebody was pounding on it with a ball-peen hammer, and the mag wheels look like somebody used a chain saw on them.”
“Just tell me how much,” Lucas said.
The adjuster told him and the recommended payoff was far too low. Lucas threatened legal action and the adjuster couldn’t quite hide a yawn. He refused to adjust his adjustment and told Lucas his insurance rates would probably be going up, given the nature of the claim, which involved all those bullet holes.
Lucas was still pissed when he walked into the restaurant where Bob and Rae had taken a booth; they were eating salads.
“Tell me something good,” Lucas said, as he slid in next to Rae.
“There’s one pay phone in Elkmont, and at six o’clock the day before yesterday, somebody made a call to Dallas. That was the only outgoing long-distance call from that phone, that day,” Rae said.
“Poole’s in Dallas,” Lucas said. “That’s about the time Stiner would have called Darling, and Darling went right into town and called Poole.”
“Maybe,” Rae said. “Darling does have a cell phone—Mrs. Darling was lying to you—but it’s not up on any network right now. He pulled the battery and probably has a burner by now.”
“So we don’t know if he’s running on his own, going to Canada to shoot a bear, or hooking up with Poole,” Lucas said.
Bob said, “If he is in Dallas, we’re taking all the credit for finding him. Me’n Rae.”
“If you give me partial credit, I’ll tell you what the next step is,” Lucas said.
They watched him for a minute, then Rae asked, “What you got?”
—
“WHAT I HAVE is a name in Dallas—I pulled all the paper I could find on Poole, and there are two guys he worked with, seem to have been friends, who are not in prison or dead,” Lucas said. “One is Derrick Donald Arnold and I have a Dallas address for him. The other is a guy named Rufus Carl Cake, who lives in New Orleans. We need to talk to Arnold, right away.”
Arnold had a history of violence, according to Lucas’s paper—brawling, when he was younger, jobs as a bouncer at a couple of strip clubs. He’d been busted twice and served time for strong-arm robbery and once was arrested but released without prosecution while working as a boat unloader for a marijuana ring in New Orleans. In his association with Poole, he’d apparently worked as an intimidator and the guy who carried heavy stuff.
“He a shooter?” Bob asked.
“On two of his arrests, they took shotguns out of his cars—not bird guns, but tactical pumps loaded wit
h buckshot. No hard evidence that he ever used them.”
“What’s he doing now?” Rae asked.
“Don’t know,” Lucas said. “No law enforcement contacts for the last three years, except for a speeding ticket. The cop who stopped him ran him, and based on his record, asked to search his car. Arnold agreed, nothing was found. Doesn’t look like he’s ever spent much time in straight jobs, though. If we jack him up and find something—anything—we can use that as a hammer. Texas has a three-strikes law.”
“I know a lot of people in the Dallas area,” Bob said. “They could help if we need it.”
“Good. Let’s check him ourselves, before we do that,” Lucas said. “I don’t want to misfire on something and have Poole warned off.”
“What about Cake?” Rae asked. “I know New Orleans.”
“We’ll check him for sure, if we don’t get a hit with Arnold,” Lucas said.
Bob: “What you’ve got is one name in Dallas?”
Lucas said, “No—I also know that before he disappeared, Poole was converting everything he had to gold coins. He supposedly was going to run to Central America or somewhere.”
“Where does that get us?” Rae asked.
“If he didn’t leave the country and if he hasn’t been working, he’s probably been cashing those coins to support himself. When we get to Dallas, first thing we do is check every gold-buying store in the area, see if they know his face.”
“There’re seven million people in the Dallas–Fort Worth metroplex,” Rae said. “He’ll be a needle in a haystack.”
“But if he’s there, at least we’ll have the right haystack,” Lucas said. “That’s when we go after Arnold.”
Lucas called Washington and talked to Forte, told him about the Dallas connection, and got tickets on a flight into Dallas that afternoon, with rental cars and reservations at another suites hotel.
They were still sitting in the restaurant and when he got off the phone, Bob asked, “How do you do that, man? We never stay in suites.”
“Bowden connection,” Lucas said. “Everybody’s feeling their way along, trying to figure out how tight we are. In the meantime . . . I get perks. If they ever find out we’re not that tight, it’s back to the Holiday Inn.”
“What time are we leaving?” Rae asked.
“Four.”
“Probably ought to head out to the airport after we finish eating,” Bob said. “Takes us a little extra time to get on the planes. We’re flying with all that ordnance.”
—
THEY PACKED UP and headed for the airport, Lucas with one bag, Bob and Rae with one bag each, plus a large wire-reinforced duffel full of guns and armor. They reconvened on the flight side of security at three o’clock. Rae said, “Our tickets are business class.”
“Yeah?” Lucas shrugged.
Bob looked at Rae, then said to Lucas, “Boy, oh boy, you’re my new hero, Davenport. Anytime you need help, call us. And if you only need one of us, call me—fuck Rae.”
“Goddamn short people,” Rae said.
13
LATE AFTERNOON, after a brief flight from Nashville: Dallas was hot, bright-sunny, vibrating with stress, cars in a hurry. Not a Southern city as much as a southwestern one. Lucas resisted the inclination to kiss the earth when he got off the plane, got another Jeep, but a bigger one this time; the truck seemed okay, though he got lost getting out of DFW.
When he finally got to the hotel, he found he’d arrived before the other two and checked in for all three of them, took his bag up to his room, and went down to the lobby to wait. Rae arrived ten minutes later, in a Camry, explained that Bob had gotten lost getting out of DFW and would be a few minutes behind her.
Rae hauled her bags up to her room and then Bob showed up in another Camry, shaking his head. “Tell me you didn’t get lost at the airport.”
“Can’t tell you that,” Lucas said, handing over the key card. “I’m in 505, let’s meet there. I’ll call Rae.”
—
WHEN THEY were together again, in Lucas’s room, Lucas showed them the list of gold buyers he’d downloaded from the ’net. They split the list three ways, and ten minutes later, were on their way out.
Rae had the closest one and called Lucas before he had the chance to get to his first stop. “We got a solid hit. They say he doesn’t look exactly like the mug shot anymore, he’s older and heavier, but it’s him. He comes in once a month or so and cashes a coin, or sometimes two. He was last in a month ago.”
“Excellent. Call Bob, tell him. Let’s visit a couple more stores, but I think we got him.”
Lucas stopped at a place called Arlington Precious Metal Exchange & Pawn, a storefront with dusty windows and a tangle of used power tools behind the glass. Inside, he walked past a lot of damaged musical instruments and obsolete film cameras to a guy who was leaning on a counter, smoking a cigarette and reading a free newspaper. The guy had looked up when the doorbell jangled, and when Lucas got to him, said, “You’re a very well-dressed police officer.”
“Thank you.”
“Well-dressed police officers make me nervous,” the man said. He was wearing cargo shorts with a weight in one leg pocket that Lucas suspected was a pistol, and a Tommy Bahama shirt with palm trees. “I haven’t done anything, have I? I stay straight with the local cops. You’re not local, are you?”
“No, I’m a U.S. marshal,” Lucas said, the phrase still sounding odd to his ear. He took an eight-by-ten copy of Poole’s decade-old mug shot from his jacket pocket and asked, “Does this guy cash coins here?”
The man looked at the photo and said, “Yeah, he does. He looks a little older now—got a three-day beard most of the time, with some gray in it. Don’t tell him I talked to you.”
“Feels like a threat?”
“Yeah. First time he came in here, he had one coin with him,” the man said. “I made him an offer. I didn’t know him from Adam, so the offer was a little low. He said, ‘Don’t fuck with me, bro,’ and I looked him in the eye and decided not to fuck with him. You meet a few guys like that, in this business.”
“When was the last time he was in?”
The guy scratched his neck, then said, “Maybe . . . a month ago? Maybe more. He’s about due. Usually comes in every month or six weeks. I make about twenty bucks a visit, so, you know, I don’t mind seeing him, but I ain’t holding my breath, either. He’s not gonna make or break the monthly nut.”
“Any idea where he lives?” Lucas said.
“Nope. I gotta tell you, sir, he didn’t strike me as a person you want to be curious about. You notice I ain’t asking what he’s done. Don’t bother to tell me.”
Lucas took out a business card and handed it over. “Call me if he comes in. He’ll never know.”
“Sure,” the man said, in a way that suggested he wouldn’t be calling.
“You don’t want to not call us,” Lucas said. “You really don’t want to be any kind of accessory. Not with this guy.”
“Okay.”
A little plastic stand sat next to the shop’s cash register, with a deck of business cards on it. Lucas took one, read it, asked, “You’re Deke?”
“That’s me.”
“Thanks for the help, Deke,” Lucas said. “I’ll call you every once in a while.”
—
BOB FOUND the same thing that Lucas and Rae had: they checked nine stores between the three of them, and seven store operators remembered buying gold coins from Poole. Bob and Rae each found one store where the operators said they didn’t remember Poole, but in both cases neither was the store owner/manager. Nobody knew where he lived.
Back at the hotel, they agreed that they’d found the city where Poole had been living, but he hadn’t been to any of the stores less than a month earlier.
“Hasn’t sold gold since the counting house was hit,” Lucas
said. “He’s got cash and doesn’t need to burn any more gold.”
“What’s next?” Rae asked.
“I’ve got to think about it. Go find Arnold first thing tomorrow.”
“We could do some of that tonight,” Rae said. “Look at his apartment, anyway. Maybe find out where he’s working.”
“We could.” Lucas yawned. “This place has a gym, I’m going to work out first. We could get some dinner and talk about Arnold, whether to go tonight or tomorrow.”
“I might look around for a playground,” Rae said.
“A playground?”
Bob said to Lucas, “She travels with a basketball. She won’t let me deflate it. It’s the world’s biggest pain in the ass.”
Lucas looked at Rae for a minute, then asked, “Where’d you play?”
“UConn,” Rae said.
“Starter?”
“Last two years, anyway,” Rae said. Then, “You play?”
“I was hockey at the University of Minnesota,” Lucas said. “When I was checking out the weight room here, I noticed that this place has a little basketball court.”
Rae’s eyebrows went up: “This place does?”
“Yes. I suspect a person of your academic caliber never played any street ball, though,” Lucas said.
Rae said, “With that kind of insight, you could get a detective job in some broke-ass town in the Delta.”
Lucas: “Does Bob play?”
Rae looked at Bob, then back to Lucas: “Stumps don’t play basketball. Stumps wrestle.”
“I play basketball,” Lucas said. “Quite well, really.”
Rae slapped her hands together and stood up, a predatory ivory-white grin slashing her face. “Fifteen minutes, on the court. One hundred American dollars.”
—
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, on the court. Lucas was only a half inch taller than Rae, but he was sixty pounds heavier. Bob had found a chair somewhere and sat at the side of the court with a happy smile as he did a running commentary.
“These people don’t like each other, I see the possibility for some really trashy action here, sports fans, it could get ugly . . .”