County cops hit the Darling place. They found the husband… uh, Elmore
Darling… was shot to death in the kitchen. His wife is missing. His truck is up there, so she's down here, somewhere, if she's still alive.''
Lucas shook his head: ''Huh. Family feud?''
''Hard to tell what's going on,'' Sloan said. ''They got a charge slip from yesterday-from last night-at an Amoco station off I-94 over in St. Paul, so he was over there, probably at that house. And then he gets shot up there. There's no doubt he was shot in place, there's splatter all over the kitchen. Short range with a shotgun.''
Lucas repeated the story to Del, who scratched his chin: ''That don't compute.''
Lucas said into the phone, ''They're printing everything, right?''
''I guess. They've got their crime-scene guy up there.''
''Be nice to know who all was in that house,'' Lucas said. ''If Sandy Darling was there with the rest of them.''
''I'll push them on it,'' Anderson said.
LACHAISE, MARTIN AND SANDY HAD BEEN HEADING back to the house with a bag of supermarket doughnuts andtwo quarts of milk, when Stadic had called and told them to get out.
''Shit.'' LaChaise was stunned. ''They got us, they got the house.''
''Maybe something happened with Ansel,'' Martin said slowly. ''Maybe they spotted him scoutin' out the Davenport house, and followed him back.''
He pulled the truck to the curb, reached out and poked the ''power'' button on the radio, got old-time rock 'n' roll, and started working down the buttons.
Sandy looked from one of them to the other: ''Now what?''
''I'm trying to think,'' LaChaise said.
''Let me go back home,'' Sandy said.
''Fuck that,'' Martin said. To LaChaise: ''We gotta get out of sight.''
''How about the trailer? We could probably lay low in the trailer for a while.''
''If they've got Elmore's truck, they'll bag Elmore for sure, and he'll tell them about the trailer,'' Martin said. ''If they put any pressure on him, he'll talk his ass off.''
He was still playing with the car buttons, and finally switched over to AM. They found a news station almost instantly, but no news-nothing but blather.
''Let's get turned around, and get out of here,'' LaChaise said finally. ''If
Stadic's right, we're too close.''
''If he's right, we ought to hear something on the radio,'' Martin said.
But he swung the truck around, and they headed west toward Minneapolis. At that moment, a helicopter roared overhead, cutting diagonally across the city blocks, headed for Frogtown.
''Goddamnit,'' Martin said. ''They're doing it.''
LaChaise punched the radio buttons again, still found nothing.''Let's get over to Minneapolis. We can figure it out there.''
''Maybe it wasn't Butters led them in-maybe it was Elmore,'' Martin said.
''Maybe Butters is still out there.''
LaChaise seized on the idea: ''That's gotta be it.'' To Sandy: ''You were talking about it last night, weren't you? Bailing out on us.''
''No, we weren't,'' she lied.
''Don't give me that shit,'' he muttered; he poked spasmodically at the radio, and tripped over the news station again. This time, they were on the air locally:
''… police are flooding the east side neighborhood around Dale on the possibility that one or more members of the gang escaped the house at the same time as Butters. Residents are asked to report unusual foot traffic through their streets, but not to approach anyone they may see. These men are armed and obviously dangerous…''
''C'mon,'' LaChaise said impatiently, ''what happened?''
''They got Butters,'' Sandy said. ''If they know he was one guy coming out of the house, they got him.''
''Yeah, but is he dead or alive?''
''… we've just gotten word from our reporter Tim Mead at Ramsey Medical
Center that the St. Paul police officer wounded in the shoot-out has died. We still have no identification, and authorities say the officer won't be identified until next of kin can be found and notified, but our reporter at
Ramsey says the officer definitely has died. With Butters's death, that brings to two the number of people killed in this latest clash between Twin Cities police officers and the LaChaise gang…''
LaChaise groaned: ''Oh, goddamn, they killed Ansel. The sonsofbitches killed
Ansel.''
Martin: ''We gotta get under cover. If they got the house, they'll get my prints. If they get my prints, sooner or later they'll get this truck. We don't have much time.''
The highway was slippery with the snow, and LaChaise finally told Martin to get off and find someplace to park. ''We gotta talk this out. We're in big fuckin' trouble. We lost our gear.''
''You got your 'dog, I got my forty-five and the knife.''
''We lost the heavy stuff,'' LaChaise said. He patted his pocket and said, ''But
I still got Harp's money.''
''Dick, you gotta give this up and run for it,'' Sandy said. ''Drop me off, I'll call the cops. I'll tell them I was kidnapped and you let me go. I'll tell them you're headed for Alaska or the Yukon, you can head for Mexico.''
''Aw, that ain't gonna work,'' LaChaise said.
''The whole thing lasted one day, Dick,'' Sandy said, pressing him. ''Now you're on the road, no guns, no transportation, no place to run to.''
''But we do have some money,'' Martin said. ''That can get us some guns. And I just thought where we might get a car and a place to hide.''
MARTIN TOOK THEM INTO SOUTH MINNEAPOLIS, TO Harp's laundromat. The laundromat was empty: it was too early and too cold to think about washing laundry. They parked the truck in front of the garage doors, Martin got a claw hammer out of his toolbox, and all three of them walked around to the front. The door that led up the stairs was locked. Martin, with LaChaise blocking, popped the door with the hammer. The lock was old, and not meant to stop much. When Martin pushed the door shut, it caught again.
''Locks are different at the top,'' Martin said quietly. ''Bestyou can buy. And it's a steel door. But if we can get him to open it, just a crack, there's nothing but a shitty little safety chain after that.''
Martin led the way up the stairs. He'd told LaChaise about the pile of cardboard boxes at the top of the stairs. They moved and restacked them until they had a narrow passage to the door.
''Ready?'' Martin had his. 45 in his hand, and LaChaise drew his Bulldog.
''Try it,'' LaChaise said.
Martin banged on the door, then tried the doorbell next to it. And then banged some more.
''Open up, Harp,'' he shouted. ''Minneapolis police, open up.''
Silence.
Martin tried again. ''Goddamnit, open the fuckin' door, Minneapolis police.''
They could hear themselves breathing, but felt no vibration, no footfall, no bump or knock that might suggest somebody was home.
''He should be here, this time of day,'' Martin said.
''Maybe he can't hear us.''
''He could hear us…'' Martin put his ear to the door and stood that way, one hand up to silence LaChaise, for a full minute. Then he looked at LaChaise:
''Shit, he's not here.''
''We gotta get off the street,'' LaChaise said.
''I know, I know.'' Martin looked at the door, shook his head. ''No way we're going through that. And the garage door will be locked. We could try pulling the fire escape down.''
''The whole city would see us climbing up there,'' La-Chaise said. Then: ''Run downstairs and see if there's anybody in the laundromat.''
Martin nodded, trotted down the stairs, fought the jammeddoor for a moment, then disappeared outside. A second later he was back. He shoved the door shut and called up, '' Nobody.''
LaChaise crushed one of the boxes, pushed others in front of the door, until he had a clear patch of wall.