Secret Prey

  ‘‘I’ll check,’’ the nurse said.

  WEATHER STEPPED CLOSER TO SHERRILL AND ASKED, ‘‘How is he?’’

  She shrugged: ‘‘Freaked out. Really freaked.’’

  Weather smiled, a thin, tentative smile but a real one, Sherrill thought. ‘‘Take care of him,’’ Weather said.

  Sherrill blushed and nodded, then said, ‘‘If I can.’’

  Lucas wandered back, and Weather said, ‘‘The bomb through my window, and now Elle.’’

  Lucas shook his head: ‘‘I can’t figure it. It’d have to be somebody who knows me, to know about you two. But who? And why not come after me? And why with the bomb and now a beating, for Christ’s sake? There’s too much risk involved. If they really want to get at me . . .’’ He rubbed his chin, wandered away, deep in thought.

  A moment later, the nurse appeared in the hallway, busily stepping down toward the reception area; Lucas went to meet her.

  ‘‘She’s in the operating room now,’’ the nurse said. ‘‘They’re just putting in the anesthesia. Doctor says he can’t tell how long it’ll be, anywhere from two to six hours.’’

  ‘‘Okay, okay . . .’’

  ‘‘He said she’s strong,’’ the nurse said.

  Lucas turned back to Weather and Sherrill: ‘‘Did you hear that?’’

  They nodded and Weather said, ‘‘Have you been to the scene?’’

  ‘‘No, that’s where I’d like to go . . .’’

  ‘‘You guys go ahead,’’ Weather said. ‘‘I’ll wait here, and if anything comes up, I can handle it.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Weather,’’ Lucas said. To Sherrill: ‘‘You wanta come?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I do.’’ She glanced at Weather and quickly nodded.

  They’d just started toward a door when a middle-aged couple hurried in, and the woman, tightly controlled, went to the reception desk and said, ‘‘My daughter was just hurt in some kind of accident at St. Anne’s and we were told she was here, but I don’t see her, do you know . . .’’

  And Lucas shook his head at Sherrill and they hurried out: ‘‘I didn’t want to see that,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I don’t need it.’’

  A ST. PAUL LIEUTENANT NAMED ALLPORT WAS RUNNING the crime scene at St. Anne’s when Lucas and Sherrill arrived. He spotted Lucas getting out of the car, and yelled at a patrolman, ‘‘Send that guy over here.’’

  The patrolman whistled at Lucas to get his attention, and pointed at Allport. Lucas waved, took Sherrill by the elbow, and they walked along the side of the Residence building to a cluster of cops duckwalking around the parking lot.

  ‘‘I heard,’’ Allport said. ‘‘The nun’s an old pal of yours. She gonna be all right?’’

  ‘‘She’s in the OR. So’s the girl; the girl’s in trouble.’’

  ‘‘Ah, jeez. She’s some kid from the neighborhood here. One of the neighbors said her parents sent her here because she could live close to home and it’s safe.’’

  ‘‘You figure out what happened?’’ Lucas asked.

  ‘‘Yeah. What there is. You ain’t gonna like it.’’

  ‘‘I already don’t like it . . .’’

  ‘‘No, no. I mean, you really ain’t gonna like it. There’s a girl sitting in by the switchboard, she’s talking to one of her friends—they’re doing homework together. So a call comes in for Sister Mary Joseph—family emergency.’’

  ‘‘She doesn’t have a family anymore,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Yeah.’’ Allport looked up at the night sky. ‘‘But that’s what they said. So the girl runs down and gets the sister and the sister takes the call and she listens and she freaks out and she hangs up, and she says to this girl, ‘Lucas has been shot; they’re taking him to Midway. I’ve got to go.’ ’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘So she ran to get her keys and her bag and she ran back out and the girl at the phones says to the other one, ‘I don’t think she should drive,’ and the other one says, ‘I’ll take her,’ and she runs out. Then the girl sits there by the phones, and ten minutes later . . . or sometimes later . . . another kid comes in and says there’re two people hurt on the sidewalk and to call an ambulance.’’

  ‘‘Jesus,’’ Lucas said.

  And Sherrill said, ‘‘It is aimed at you.’’ To Allport: ‘‘You know Lucas’s former fiance

  ´e was firebombed last

  Allport nodded: ‘‘I read about it. You had guys running all over town, kicking ass.’’

  Lucas looked around at the duckwalking crime scene cops: ‘‘You finding anything?’’

  Allport shook his head. ‘‘Nope. Not a thing. We’re walking around the neighborhood, looking for the weapon—a ball bat, or a big stick—but we haven’t found it yet.’’

  ‘‘Goddamnit . . .’’ A thought flew through Lucas’s head, quick as a scalded moth; he grasped at it, missed. He shook his head, turned to Sherrill: ‘‘Nothing to do here. I’m going back to the hospital.’’

  ‘‘I’m coming.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to.’’

  ‘‘I’m coming.’’ Allport, arms akimbo, said, ‘‘I hate this shit. If the assholes want to beat each other up, or even us, that’s one thing. A nun and a kid?’’

  In the car, Lucas said, ‘‘Something’s happening, and we don’t know what it is.’’

  ‘‘I knew that a long time ago,’’ Sherrill said.

  Lucas shook his head: ‘‘I don’t mean that somebody is trying to get at me, or even get at Weather or Elle. There’s some kind of apparatus here. Somebody’s set up a machine, and it’s not some simpleminded revenge. It’s doing something . . .’’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ELLE KRUGER CAME OUT OF THE OPERATING ROOM just after four A.M. and the doctor, yawning, came to see Lucas, Sherrill, and Weather: ‘‘I’d say the prognosis is good—she’s gonna have a few days in the ICU, but there wasn’t any direct mechanical damage that I could see. We’ve got swelling, but we’re controlling it. We’re going to keep her sedated, keep her quiet, so she won’t be talking for a couple of days.’’

  ‘‘She’s gonna make it,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Unless we missed something—or if there’s just a further natural complication. But it’s about as good as you could have hoped for, given the circumstances.’’

  ‘‘How about the other girl?’’ Weather asked.

  The doc shook his head: ‘‘She did have some mechanical damage. I think she’s gonna live, we’re just gonna have to wait and see. She might be fine, she might be . . . not so fine.’’

  Lucas turned away, suddenly exhausted. ‘‘Man.’’

  ‘‘Let’s go home,’’ Sherrill said.

  Weather said, ‘‘I’ll be back tomorrow—every day until she wakes up.’’

  ‘‘You got a ride?’’ Lucas asked. Andi Manettte, who’d brought Weather over, had left earlier.

  ‘‘I’ll get a cab. They can have one here in a minute.’’

  ‘‘We came in the Porsche,’’ Lucas said. Two seats: Weather smiled; she understood the math.

  Out the door, walking to the car, Sherrill asked, ‘‘Did Weather and Elle have some kind of relationship?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, they liked each other a lot,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Think Elle will like me?’’ Sherrill asked.

  Lucas nodded. ‘‘She likes almost everybody. You two’ll get along fine.’’

  ROSE MARIE ROUX TALKEDTOTHE ST. PAUL CHIEF, AND St. Paul put together a group of four detectives to work with two Violent Crimes detectives from Minneapolis.

  ‘‘You can do what you want, personally, but I want you to stay clear of these guys,’’ Roux told Lucas. ‘‘You’ve set up this paradigm: you think these attacks on Sister Mary Joseph and Weather are aimed at you. Maybe they are, but I want to keep these guys outside the paradigm. I want them to take a cold look at it.’’

  Lucas agreed. ‘‘That’s smart. But I’m putting Del on the street, looking into a few things; and
I’ll be looking around. Sherrill, Sloan, and Black are going back to Homicide now that we’re done with McDonald.’’

  DEL AND LUCAS SPENT THE DAY CRUISING THE STREET, talking to druggies, thieves, bikers, gamblers—anyone smart enough to take revenge on Lucas by attacking his friends; and checking in every hour with the hospital. No change on Elle Kruger.

  At the end of the day, they sat in Lucas’s office, Del with his feet on the edge of Lucas’s desk, Lucas with his feet on an open desk drawer, looking for new ideas.

  ‘‘All day, absolutely nothing. I’ve never seen it this dry. Usually there’s rumors, even if the rumors are bullshit.’’

  ‘‘Nobody wants to get involved with a run at a cop,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking of terminating our friendship, at least for the time being. Maybe take out an ad in the Star-Tribune.’’

  ‘‘I once talked to a guy, a lawyer—defense attorney— whose son was arrested for stealing some stereo gear from a Best Buy,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘The kid was one of those ineffectual audiovisual freaks, didn’t know which way was up. Anyway, the judge gave him six months in the county jail, and this was a first offense.’’

  ‘‘Oops.’’

  ‘‘Yeah. And this attorney tells me, he knows it was because the judge didn’t like him , the attorney. Thought he was sleazy, because he did personal injury and DWI and made a lot of money at it. So anyway, the kid does most of the time, like four months, and gets out, and he’s okay. But the attorney spent the whole time worrying that he was gonna hang himself in his cell or something.’’

  ‘‘Something to worry about, with kids like that,’’ Del said.

  ‘‘The attorney’d go down every day to visit the kid, keep him connected. But he still worried. And what he told me was that he decided in the middle of the kid’s jail term that if the kid killed himself, he’d kill the judge. He made the decision, he worked it all out. He wasn’t irrational about it, it wasn’t a big macho thing. He’d just do it, and try not to get caught. The first thing he’d do was, he’d wait two years before he made his move. Wait until his son’s death was way in the past. Then he’d find a way to kidnap the judge—he said that in his fantasies, he had to explain to the judge why he was going to kill him, he couldn’t sleep if he didn’t do that—and then he was gonna tie him up or chain him to a tree, and douse him with gasoline and set him on fire.’’

  ‘‘Jesus.’’

  ‘‘Yeah. He said he’d decided this, but when his kid got out okay, it wasn’t necessary, so he let it go. He hates the judge, but he says he’ll get at him politically, he doesn’t have to burn him up.’’

  ‘‘What you’re saying is . . .’’

  ‘‘What I’m saying is, I hope it’s not something like that,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I hope it’s not somebody I bumped into years ago, took care of business, didn’t even think about it. And he’s been plotting all this time.’’

  ‘‘We checked all recent prison releases.’’

  ‘‘That’s what I mean. What if it’s not recent? What if it’s somebody from ten years ago, somebody I busted on a solid felony, say, who did a couple of years but figures I ruined his life and his family? And now he’s coming after me, by going after my family? I mean, I might never figure out who it is.’’

  A TENTATIVE KNOCK INTERRUPTED THE THOUGHT. Del looked at the door, then back at Lucas, show-shrugged. ‘‘Come in,’’ Lucas called.

  A woman stepped inside. He remembered her face instantly, and her last name. He pointed a finger at her and said, ‘‘The bridal shop, Mrs. Ingall.’’

  ‘‘Annette,’’ she said.

  ‘‘This is Detective Capslock,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Del, this is Mrs. Ingall; her husband disappeared in that yacht up on Superior. The McDonald case.’’

  ‘‘Oh, sure.’’

  Lucas: ‘‘Sit down. What can we do for you?’’ Ingall looked doubtfully at Del, who tried to smile pleasantly without showing too much of his yellowed teeth, and sat in the chair beside him, clutching her purse on her lap. ‘‘I saw on TV Three about your friend the nun who was attacked last night. I hope she’s going to be okay.’’

  ‘‘She should be,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘I’ve been bothered by it all day,’’ she said. ‘‘It kept nagging at me, and nagging at me, and finally I said, ‘ Annette, go over and talk to Chief Davenport for goodness’ sake, and let him worry about it.’ ’’

  ‘‘Well . . .’’ Lucas spread his hands, waiting, an edge of impatience barely suppressed.

  ‘‘After you told me that Wilson McDonald was probably responsible for killing Andy . . .’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Ingall, I didn’t exactly say—’’

  She waved him down and continued: ‘‘. . . I was pretty satisfied, because it made a nice pattern. He killed George Arris, shooting him with a gun. Then he killed Andy, by sabotaging the yacht. And then he killed Dan Kresge, shooting him, and Susan O’Dell, shooting her .’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘But then—this is what was nagging me—when I read about what happened with you, with your fiance

  ´e firebombed,and then this morning, with your friend the nun being hurt . . .’’

  ‘‘Yes, yes.’’

  ‘‘Look: There were two other incidents which helped Wilson McDonald’s career, that nobody probably told you about, because they didn’t involve anybody being killed at the bank, where it would be obvious.’’

  ‘‘Two others?’’ Lucas leaned forward, now interested.

  ‘‘Two weird . . . accidents,’’ Ingall said. ‘‘One involved a man named McKinney, who was in the investments department and was also competitive for promotions with Wilson. They were sort of neck and neck. This is way back, when Wilson was still selling out of the investments division, before he went to mortgages. And all of a sudden, this other man’s son was killed in a hit-and-run accident. If I remember, he was riding home in the evening on his bike, in the summer, I think he had a paper route or something, and he was hit and killed and they never found out who did it. Anyway, McKinney just fell apart. He couldn’t do anything, and when the job came up, which was right after that, Wilson got it.’’

  ‘‘Huh,’’ Lucas said. Del was looking at Ingall with interest.

  ‘‘Then, and this must’ve been, oh, about 1990, there was sort of a bank recession going on. Lots of banks were restructuring and jobs were being cut. Wilson was one of a half-dozen people in the mortgage division as a vice president, and people knew some jobs were going to be cut over there. The man who was in charge of the cuts was named Davis Baird, and he had an assistant named Dick McPhillips. Davis Baird didn’t like Wilson, he thought he was a fat pompous oaf. He might have cut him. But Dick McPhillips was always under the influence of Wilson’s father. If Davis Baird had wanted to cut Wilson, McPhillips couldn’t stop it. But . . .’’ She paused dramatically.

  ‘‘But,’’ Lucas said, and Del nodded at her.

  ‘‘But, while they were working out the cutbacks, all of a sudden Baird’s parents were killed in a fire at their cabin up north. I thought about this because of the firebomb at your friend’s house. Something exploded in the Bairds’ house—they even called it a firebomb in the paper, I think—and they were killed, and Baird had to take time off to deal with all of it. McPhillips was in charge of making the cuts, and he got rid of two of the five vice presidents over there . . .’’

  ‘‘But not Wilson,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘Not Wilson.’’

  ‘‘Go ahead,’’ Lucas said.

  ‘‘So I started thinking, this took a strange mind. Not to attack the principal target directly, but to incapacitate the principal by attacking someone close to them. Distracting them in a really awful way. And I thought, you know, that’s what’s happening to Chief Davenport. He’s investigating these murders, and suddenly his fiance´e’s house blows up, and then an old friend is almost killed. If Wilson McDonald weren’t dead, I would say he
was doing it for sure. Especially since Andy’s death almost might be an accident, and Arris’s death was also easy to blame on somebody else— that gang. Nothing is what it looks like.’’

  ‘‘Wilson McDonald is dead,’’ Del said.

  ‘‘Yes. Shot to death,’’ Ingall said. ‘‘And that’s very curious.’’

  Lucas closed his eyes, rubbed his face: ‘‘Jesus.’’

  ‘‘Do you think this line of thought might be useful?’’ Ingall asked.

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘But you are a very smart lady.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I’ve always thought so,’’ she said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  MOST OF THE FILE ON AUDREY MCDONALD HAD BEEN developed since she killed Wilson: name, age, weight, distinguishing marks. She had a number of scars; too many, Lucas thought. Her only prior contact with police had been two traffic tickets, one for speeding, one for failure to yield, which had resulted in a minor collision.

  He made quick calls to the Department of Natural Resources and the Department of Public Safety: she’d never had a hunting license, never taken gun safety training, never applied for a handgun permit.

  She’d graduated from St. Anne’s. That was interesting— she’d know her way around out there, she’d know what would happen if she called the Residence. She might even have overlapped with Elle Kruger, if just barely. He made a note to ask. After college, she’d worked as a librarian, then with a couple of charitable organizations.

  He mulled over the file for a few minutes, then glanced at his watch. Almost time to see Elle. But first he picked up the phone book and looked up Helen Bell, Audrey’s sister. She was listed in South Minneapolis. Not expecting too much, he punched in her phone number. She answered on the second ring.

  ‘‘I’d like to come talk to you about the whole case,’’ he said, after he introduced himself.

  ‘‘I . . . thought it was just about done,’’ Bell said. He noticed her voice immediately: she sounded like Audrey, who sounded like the woman who’d called him to press him on McDonald.