''Look at the fuckers,'' LaChaise said.
Martin frowned as the tape of Davenport and Selle was run again. The picture seemed wrong. ''They don't look too happy,'' he said.
''They're laughing,'' LaChaise shouted at him. ''They're laughing.''
LaChaise paced in front of the TV, snarling at it, beating his hands together, palms open, the angry claps snapping intothe room. He went to the window shades, looked down at the street, listening, then stalked back to the television.
''That cop who was laughing. They said it was Davenport, right? The guy on our list?''
As if to answer his question, the television reporter said, ''The chain of events started last night, when Chief Davenport put a surveillance team on the home of his daughter by TV3 correspondent Jennifer Carey, who now lives with TV3 executive vice-president Richard Small…''
She went through the story, ending with the tape loop of Davenport and Selle laughing over Butters's body.
''We're gonna mow those fuckers down,'' LaChaise brayed at Martin.
Martin said, ''Dick, we gotta take care. We can't go off half-cocked, if we want to get anything done.''
LaChaise stalked around the apartment, kicking walls, then looked at Sandy:
''Why'n the fuck don't you do something useful? Go cook something.''
She got up, wordlessly, and went to the kitchen and started looking through the cupboards. She found canned food, but not much else. She dumped a couple of cans of Dinty Moore beef stew in a pot, put it on the stove and started a pot of coffee.
''If we're gonna stay here for more than a couple of hours, we'll need food,''
Sandy said, as she brought the stew out to the living room. The men were on the couch, still watching the television. As they ate, a TV3 television reporter was delivering a eulogy on the dead cop. He was cut off in midsentence. An anchorman came up, quivering with the urgency of his message.
''In Wisconsin, Dunn County sheriff's deputies raided the home of Dick
LaChaise's sister-in-law and her husband, Sandy and Elmore Darling. According to first reports, ElmoreDarling was found shot to death in the kitchen of the couple's rural home, and his wife, Sandy, is missing.''
A five-year-old snapshot of Sandy Darling filled the screen. Sandy screamed,
''Elmore.''
LaChaise grinned. ''You put on a few pounds,'' he said, pointing at the picture.
She had her hands to her face: ''They killed Elmore.'' She looked from Martin to
LaChaise. ''My God. They said Elmore's dead. They killed Elmore. Elmore's dead.''
''Could be bullshit,'' Martin said, his voice even, almost uninterested. ''They maybe got him in jail. Don't want anybody to know.''
''I don't think so,'' LaChaise said. The TV anchor was going on, then Martin said, ''Guess not.''
''No, no…'' Sandy said, riveted to the screen.
''You didn't much like him anyway,'' LaChaise said.
Tears started down her cheeks: ''I didn't want him dead. He wasn't supposed to die.''
LaChaise shrugged. ''Shit happens.''
Martin: ''I wonder if the cops killed him?'' His voice was flat, with no real emotion; he was only curious.
LaChaise thought for a minute, then said, ''Must've. Who else would do it?''
He looked at Sandy, who backed away from the TV and collapsed in a chair.
''Nobody was gonna kill Elmore,'' she said. And after a minute, ''Who'd kill
Elmore?''
STADIC WAS WALKING DOWN THE HALL TO HIS APARTMENT, shell-shocked, his mind running at two hundred miles an hour. He was digging for his keys when the cell phone chirped at him. He pulled it out of his pocket. ''Yeah.''
LaChaise, without preamble, asked, ''What happened to Butters? And Elmore?''
''Jesus Christ, where are you?'' Stadic said, his voice hushed. ''You know what's going on?''
''We're at a friend's,'' LaChaise said. ''We seen it all on TV. Who killed
Butters?''
''Davenport, of course. I told you…''
''We thought it might be him. What happened to Elmore?''
''I don't know about that. I thought you did it, when I heard.''
''We didn't do it,'' LaChaise said. He pulled his lip. ''Maybe the Wisconsin cops.''
''Or the guys from Michigan,'' Stadic suggested. ''There're a couple of Michigan guys running around over there. They are very pissed about this Sand guy, you cuttin' his throat.''
''Yeah, well, that's what you get for working in the fuckin' joint,'' LaChaise said. ''Try to find out who did it.''
''Okay,'' Stadic said. ''But listen-the wives up in the hotel-.. . I hear they're getting antsy. They want out. Davenport's girlfriend is going back to the University of Minnesota hospital.''
''What's her name? We never got any insurance on her.''
'' 'Cause they're not married and you didn't say what you wanted the information for. Her name is Weather Karkinnen and she's a doctor over there. In surgery.''
''Who else? Who's leaving the hotel?''
''Jennifer Carey, the TV news reporter. She's the mother of Davenport's daughter
… She's going back to work, but there'll be guards all over her and they've got locked security doors and stuff. She'd be hard to get at.''
''All right. Find out about Elmore, if you can.''
LaChaise hung up, pulled at his lip again, thinking. After a minute, Sandy said,
''What?''
''Davenport killed Butters… and the women are gettin'unhappy about being locked up. They may be going back to work.''
''Probably got guards all over the place,'' Martin said. ''Tell you what: let's get Harp's car, and go on out to a supermarket and buy some food. Maybe dump the truck: hate to see it go, but I think we better.''
Sandy was sitting in the chair, folding into herself, not hearing any of it.
Elmore was dead.
The guilt was almost too much to bear.
THIRTEEN
WEATHER KARKINNEN LAY ON THE HOTEL BED AND fumed: the television had gone into a news loop. The anchorpeople leaned into the cameras with the usual end-of-the-world intensity, but had nothing new to say. Weather looked at her watch: two o'clock.
Lucas had said he'd drop by at noon, then called to cancel. He told her about the laughing incident, which she hadn't yet seen when he called, but saw later.
The television stations were showing it every twenty minutes or so, and it had been picked up by the national news channels.
Lucas said the laughter had been hysterical, or on that order. She only half-believed it. She'd lived with him long enough to feel the satisfaction he got from confrontation, and the deadlier the confrontation, the better. A death wish, maybe; sometimes when he talked about his world, she could barely recognize it as the same place she lived. They would drive across town, and she'd see good houses and nice gardens and kids on bikes. He'd see whores and dopers and pedophiles and retired cat burglars.
At first, it had been interesting. Later, she wondered how he could put up with it, the constant stench of the perverse, the lunatic, the out-of-control. Even later, she understood that he sought it out…
She looked at her watch again: two-oh-three. Screw it. She wasn't going to sit around anymore. This LaChaise might be extraordinarily bad, but he could hardly have an intelligence system that would tell him where she was-if he even knew to look for her, which she doubted.
And even if he did know where to look for her, once she was in a crowd, she'd be just one of a million and a half women wrapped in heavy winter coats, faces obscured by scarves. Then nobody could find her-not the FBI, not the Minneapolis cops, nobody-much less some backwoods gunman.
''All right,'' she said. She looked at her watch a third time. She'd had to delay a surgery scheduled that morning, but there was a staff meeting at four, and she could make that. And she could set up for tomorrow. The operation in the morning wasn't much-remove some cancerous skin, and patch the wound with a graft-but it would get her going again.