Wicked Prey (18 page)

He was already rolling into downtown Minneapolis, thinking about the best way to get turned around to head back to St. Paul, when it occurred to him that if he went back, he (a) wouldn’t find her in the crowd, and (b) if he found her, what would he do with her bike? He was driving a Porsche, and (c) if he did find her, would he try to force her into the car? Knowing Letty, she’d probably start screaming for help.

Well, maybe not that. She’d just be . . . disappointed in him and she’d probably cry. That would break his heart.

Besides, she said she wasn’t with the hooker anymore. She didn’t usually lie to him, though she did sometimes. She was the toughest kid he’d ever met, and also the most levelheaded.

Still. He took a deep breath, relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. “Hell to pay when I get home,” he muttered to himself. He stopped looking for a place to turn around, and headed into the Minneapolis loop.

JOHN WILSON was sitting upright in bed, his bludgeoned left eye unwrapped and looking like he’d been hit with an electric sander. He’d just gotten a strawberry shake when Lucas arrived, and was sucking a blob of whipped cream through a straw. Jones was leaning against the air conditioner and said, “Hey.” Wilson’s assistant, Lorelei Johnson, and Bart Spellman, the third victim, were propped in bedside chairs.

Lucas told the three of them about the murder of Charles Dee: “You guys were pretty lucky, in a way,” Lucas said. “They banged you around a little, but now they’ve killed someone. We know it and they know we know it. The next people who run into them might not be so lucky.”

“So Rick said you had an idea,” Wilson said, nodding at Jones.

Lucas put a finger to his lower lip, thought a moment about how to lay it out, then said, “Okay. Somewhere back down the line—days ago, weeks ago—somebody gave Cohn information on where you’d be staying, when you’d be there, how much money you’d be carrying, and probably, how long you’d be carrying it.”

Quick series of glances, but Lucas held up his hand and said, “Hold on . . . I’m not asking for a statement, I’m speculating on how this must have happened. Somebody knew those things and could point Cohn at you. The question is, who would have that information, on both of you? The details of where you’d be staying?”

Wilson and Spellman looked at each other, frowning, then Johnson suggested, “Travel agency?”

Wilson said to Spellman, “We use Dole,” and Spellman shook his head. “I did mine online, direct with the hotel.”

“How about the hotel?” Wilson asked.

Johnson frowned, shook her head: “How would they know about the money?”

“How about some kind of lobby group back in Washington?” Lucas asked, but Johnson waved him off.

“No, no, no, that wouldn’t be it . . . You get all kinds of talk, who is
going
with who, who is
staying
with who, but you wouldn’t get room numbers.”

“People would tell people . . . you guys probably told people where you’d be staying,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, but how would one person gather all the names up,
with
hotels?” Johnson asked.

Spellman said, “They’ve only got two. That’s not a lot.”

“Two for now—but I expect there’ll be more,” Lucas said. “The money’s too easy. Plus, we think they need more money than they’ve gotten. The New York cops think Cohn’s trying to retire, and the money gets cut up between several people.”

Jones jumped in: “Do you remember anybody chatting you up, about where you were staying, and all that? Who was with who? Somebody unusual, who you might not normally have been talking to about it?”

They all shook their heads. Wilson said, “I didn’t talk to anybody about it. I mean, people know about me and Lorelei . . .”

Johnson looked at Lucas and said, “I’m not entirely unmarried. Almost, but not quite, so we don’t talk about traveling together.”

Lucas nodded. “Okay.”

Again, Spellman and Wilson looked at each other. Spellman finally said, “You know, there are a certain number of guys who know each other, like I know Johnny here. One of those guys could probably make you a list.”

“If they had names, they could get room numbers—they could just do a social hack,” Wilson said. To Lucas, “A social hack . . .”

“I know what it is,” Lucas said.

Jones said, “So you think they got a list, and then they bullshitted people into giving them room numbers? Like bellmen or desk clerks or wives or whatever?”

Lucas: “No. Couldn’t be that way. Had to be back in time. Days ago, or maybe weeks. Cohn flew in from England, where he’d been hiding out. And it was all planned—they were ready to go as soon as they got here. They had a guy in a room-service uniform, that was specific to the High Hat. Their whole method of operation, the way they’ve done things in the past, and now this time, suggest it was all carefully planned. The hotel was scouted. They knew the route in and out. Then when we unexpectedly popped them at their motel, they had a can of gas on hand and burned it down.”

“Jesus,” Spellman said. “You’re starting to scare me . . . But—they had to get the room numbers at the last minute. I didn’t know what my room number was until I checked in, and I only checked in about six hours before they robbed me.”

Johnson said to Spellman, “Not necessarily. Did you get a special rate through the hospitality guys?”

Spellman said, “Yeah, the standard.”

“So did we,” Wilson said.

Johnson said to Lucas, “The Republican hospitality committee would know where we were. They assigned rooms. They’d have a block of rooms, and a chart they’d fill in, depending, you know, on your status. What you do. If you’re like us, you get a pretty nice room, but not right in with the delegates. Somebody on the committee had to know who was who . . .”

“You know that for sure?” Lucas asked.

“I used to
do
it, for car-sales association conventions,” she said.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Lucas said. “
Now
we’re getting somewhere . . .”

He pushed the three of them to come up with more organizations that might have the information, but they had no ideas. “I think . . . the hospitality committee. That’s about it,” Johnson said.

Jones said to Lucas, “Since they only hit people in the same hotel, it’s possible that there’s somebody inside the hotel. Maybe they got a reservations list, looked them up, marked down the people who worked for lobbyists, and went from there.”

Lucas nodded: “You’re right: that’s a possibility. You chase that down, I’ll run down the hospitality committee.”

* * *

LUCAS CALLED Dan Jacobs at the convention security committee: Jacobs came on the line and said, “I was about to call you. We need you to go back and look for Justice Shafer again.”

Lucas had virtually forgotten about Shafer, the guy with the .50-cal. “I got people looking for him all over two states and I can spread it out to Iowa, if you want. I won’t be able to do much personally.”

“We had something come up,” Jacobs said. “Two hours ago, a Mexican guy—an illegal, God bless his soul for reporting it—was cutting a hedge behind one of those big houses up on Summit Avenue, right where the hill drops off. He trims it up once a month or so. So today he’s cutting it, and he finds a couple of nice shiny .50-cal shells in the grass behind the hedge. He looks down the hill, sees the convention center . . . and calls his boss, who called us. The Mexicano says the shells weren’t there when he cut the hedge last month. Said they were sitting right out in the open. Says he didn’t touch them, and we can see some smudging, so we might get prints . . .”

“How far . . .”

“Seven hundred and fifty yards, more or less, from the hedge to the front of the convention center. Nice high angle, too. One more thing: the spot where the shells were, there’s an old wall, probably going back to the nineteenth century. It’s falling apart, but you never saw a better gun rest in your life. Put a beanbag on that, and
I
could snipe somebody at the convention center. “

“Ah, shit.”

“We’ve got the place staked out, and if our boy shows up, he’s dead as a mackerel,” Jacobs said. “But we’d like to find him sooner than that, if we could. The Secret Service is all over us.”

“Yeah . . . Jesus. Now . . . Listen, there’s another problem, and we’ve already got a dead cop.”

“The guy in Hudson? I heard about it on the news. How’s that tie in . . .”

Lucas explained, and Jacobs said, “Man—the Secret Service is going to be pissing its collective pants. What do you need from us?”

“I need access to the hospitality committee. Like right now,” Lucas said.

“Let me get you an address—you can talk to them as soon as you can get there,” Jacobs said. “If you need an SS guy to add weight, I’ll send one along.”

“That might help,” Lucas said. “Get me an asshole, if you got one.”

Short, dry chuckle from Jacobs. “Okay. If I can find one,” he said. “And, hey—Lucas. Talk to Iowa about looking for Shafer. Talk to everybody.”

* * *

CRUZ HAD TAKEN two hours to dye Brutus Cohn’s hair and beard. When he got out of the shower, after the final shampoo, he hardly recognized himself. In addition to the mop of black hair, he’d shaved off his beard, leaving behind a small trim mustache, also black. He put on his pants and trotted out to the condo’s living room: “I look like a goddamned Irish cardsharp,” he said.

“You looked like a goddamned Irish cardsharp when you had red hair,” Lindy said.

Cruz nodded: “It’s too even, too black, even with that little bit of color”—they’d isolated some of his natural hair with tinfoil, and let it fall back into the dyed hair—“but I wouldn’t recognize you. Not walking down the street. Makes you look even taller.”

Cohn went back and looked in the mirror again, and came back out.

“You’re not still planning to leave?” Cohn asked Cruz.

“Damn right I am,” she said. “It’s time to go, Brute. We need to get in the cars and drive.”

“But: what if we do the guy tonight? Completely different situation,” Cohn said.

“They may be watching everybody, now that there’s a dead cop,” she said.

“Can’t watch everybody,” Cohn said. “Especially not when these guys are dealing illegal money.”

“Brute, they’ve got your number. You’ve got to get out of sight.”

“I don’t have enough money,” he said. “I just don’t have enough. I’m not going to be some old fucking guy, sitting on a dock in Costa Rica, pissing in his pants and eating cat food. It’s not like I’m gonna have Social Security coming in. I need that hotel, Rosie. I need this guy tonight.”

Cruz looked at him for a moment and then said, “I’m sure you’ve figured this out, but somebody pointed the cops at you. What we’re doing now, there’s no way that fits with your history. They knew something.”

He looked at her for a moment, then grinned. “We’ve been talking about that,” he said. “Our feeling—me and Lindy—was that you were the best candidate. My feeling, all alone, was that it was either you or . . . Lindy.”

They both turned to look at Lindy, who, horrified, shouted, “Brute. Goddamnit. I would never, ever, ever do anything like that. You know I would never do that.”

Cohn scratched his bare chin, thinking, then said, “One thing I know for sure. We killed a Wisconsin cop. They won’t let anybody deal on that—or if you do get a deal, it’ll be for thirty years, instead of no parole. So even if one of you is dealing, it’d be time to stop. Right now. Because if we go down, we’ll take you down with us.”

“I oughta get out of here,” Cruz said. “I know I oughta get out of here.”

“One easy hit on this third guy, and then the hotel, and we’re set. I won’t set foot out of this place until we’re making a move,” Cohn said. He looked around the sparsely furnished condo. “Let’s get some beer in here, and settle in. Let’s get the boys over.” He grinned at Cruz—“Take a fuckin’ aspirin, Rosie. We’re gonna be good, and you’re gonna be rich. Richer. Whatever . . .”

* * *

THE SECRET SERVICE agent’s name was George Dickens. He met Lucas at the hospitality committee’s office suite in a temp office in what had been an especially vacant stretch of the St. Paul skyway.

Lucas introduced himself and Dickens, a thin, hard, lank-haired man who looked like he could run down and arrest a greyhound, said, “My boss wanted me to ask you about the parameters of the alert on Justice Shafer.”

“Which parameters?” Lucas asked.

“Who’s looking?”

“Northern and Western Wisconsin and all Minnesota sheriffs have been contacted directly, with the full file on him, and they’ve all been asked to distribute the file to the local police forces in their jurisdictions,” Lucas said. “We’ve also directly notified all the bigger police departments . . . like every town over about ten thousand or so—county seats, and all the towns here in the metro area. We’re calling Iowa now. They’ll do Des Moines and the suburbs, the bigger towns and all the county sheriffs north of about I-80. Every place within about a short-day’s drive from here.”