Sudden Prey (30 page)

LACHAISE AND MARTIN HAD CRUISED FRANKLIN'S house, then the side streets.

''If there's anybody around, they sure gotta be inside,'' Martin said. ''Can't see shit out here.''

''I been thinking about it,'' LaChaise said. ''No point in both of us taking him on. So, you drop me up the block,where I can walk back. Then you find a place to park--you see that streetlight?''

LaChaise pointed at a streetlight on the corner two houses up from Franklin's.

''Yeah?''

''You park where you can see the light. If you can see it, then you can see his car lights when he shows up. As soon as you see him turn in, you come on down. I'll take him as soon as he gets out of his car.''

''What if he goes in the garage, stays in the car, drops the door without getting out?''

''Then I'll go right up next to his car window and fill him up from there,'' LaChaise said. ''That might even be easier.''

''Wish we had a goddamn AR,'' Martin said again.

''The 'dog'll do, and the forty-five.''

''You'll freeze out there . . .''

''Not that cold,'' LaChaise said. ''We'll wait for an hour. I can stand an hour.''

THEY'D BEEN WAITING TWENTY MINUTES WHEN FRANKLIN showed, Martin a block and a half down the street, La-Chaise ditched behind a fir tree across the street from the mouth of Franklin's driveway.

Four cars had passed in that time, and a woman in a parka and snowpants, walking, carrying a plastic grocery bag. She passed within six feet of LaChaise, and never suspected him. As she passed, LaChaise pointed the 'dog at the back of her head and said to himself, ''Pop.''

He had six shots in the 'dog. He thought about that for a minute. Martin had given him one of the .45s he'd bought from Dave. Now he took it out of his pocket, racked the slide to load and cock it and flipped the safety up.

* * *

WHEN FRANKLIN TURNED ONTO THE STREET, LACHAISE leaned forward, tense. The car was moving slow, and he had a feeling . . . yes. He clicked the safety down on the .45.

The garage door started up, a light on inside, and Franklin took a hard left into the driveway. The door was moving up quickly enough that Franklin could keep rolling into the garage. LaChaise unfolded from behind the fir, stumbled--his legs were cramped, he'd been kneeling too long--recovered, started to run after the car, stumbled again, caught himself and saw the car door swing open. But the stumbles had slowed him down . . .

FRANKLIN WAS A BIG MAN, BUT AGILE. HE SWUNG HIS feet out of the car and stood up, still thinking about the snowblower, and at that moment saw LaChaise running up the drive, knew who it was and said, ''Shit.''

LaChaise saw the big man turn toward him and saw his hand drop, and he flashed on Capslock making the same quick move. He was ready this time, and he pulled up and fired the first shot with the 'dog, into Franklin's chest from twenty feet, saw Franklin stagger back. He closed, walking, fired again at fifteen feet, then a third, a quick bang-bang-bang and then Franklin's hand came up and LaChaise jerked off a fourth shot and knew that it had gone wide to his right . . .

And then Franklin's gun was up and LaChaise saw the muzzle flash and he fired once with the .45 with his off hand; missed, he thought. Franklin fired again and LaChaise thought he felt the bullet zip through his beard and he was firing and Franklin fell down but he was still firing and LaChaise turned and ran . . .

Martin was there, skidding to a stop, the door opening. LaChaise piled through the passenger-side door and Martin took off, the back end slewing wildly once, twice, then straightening. LaChaise caught the door and slammed it, andlooking back, saw Franklin on the floor of the garage . . .

''Got him,'' Martin said.

''I don't know,'' LaChaise said uncertainly. ''He was this big motherfucker, and I kept shooting him and he kept bouncing around and he wouldn't go down . . .''

''You can shoot a guy in the heart, he can be good as dead, but he can go on pulling the trigger thirty seconds or a minute,'' Martin said. ''That's what happened to them FBIs down in Miami. Those old boys were good as dead, but they kept on shooting, and they took the FBIs down with them.''

''I don't know . . .'' LaChaise said. He twisted to look back, but Franklin's place was gone in the night.

WHEN THE FIRST SLUG HIT, FRANKLIN FELT LIKE SOMEBODY had smacked him in the breastbone with a T-ball bat. Same with the second one, and the third. Then he had his own weapon out, but the fourth shot caught his arm, and stung, as though somebody had hit him with a whip, or a limber stick, and turned him. He thought, Don't be bad , and he opened fire, knowing that he wasn't doing any good, his left arm on fire. Then another shot hit him in the chest and he fell down, slipping on the snow that had come off his car. He had no idea how many times he'd fired, or how many times he'd been shot at, but a slug ripped through his leg and he rolled, and now was hurting bad, but he kept his pistol pointing out toward the door, and kept it going . . .

And then it all stopped, and he was in silence. Out in the street, he saw LaChaise hurtle into a waiting car.

He said out loud, ''What?'' And he remembered, Christ, he probably was out of ammo. He automatically went for the second magazine with his left arm, and a tearing pain ran through his arm and shoulder.

''Ahhh . . .'' He pushed himself up, and pain coursed through his left leg. He looked down, and saw blood poolingon the floor. Pushing with his right leg, he managed to flop across the driver's seat and grab the radio with his good hand.

''Help me,'' he groaned.

LESTER CAUGHT LUCAS JUST AS HE WALKED INTO the office.

''Franklin's down. Two minutes ago. They hit him at his house,'' he shouted down the long marble hallway. ''They're taking him to Hennepin.''

''On the way,'' Lucas shouted back. ''They're bringing in Palin, talk to him . . .''

Lucas ran through the snow to the medical center, down the street to the emergency entrance. No cops. A doctor was standing just inside the entrance, a couple of nurses were wrestling with a gurney.

''I'm a cop,'' Lucas said. ''You got a . . .''

''Yeah, you're Davenport, I've seen you on TV. He's on the way,'' the doctor interrupted. ''The paramedics got him, they're working on him.''

''How bad?''

''He's shot in the arm and the leg. Sounds bad enough, but not critical. They say he took four rounds right in the middle of his vest.''

Lucas flashed back to the street where they'd stopped to pull on the vests, so they could charge in on simple old Arne Palin. How did LaChaise--it had to be LaChaise--know to wait for Franklin?

Then he heard the sirens, and he and the doctor went out to meet the paramedics, and he stopped thinking about it.

Chapter
Eighteen.

LUCAS HURRIED THROUGH THE CROWD OF MEDIA IN the lobby, shaking his head, saying, ''No, I'm sorry . . . the chief should be out in a minute, I'm really sorry I can't say anything.''

Outside, he hurried, slipping and sliding, back toward City Hall. His office was dark, and he went up to Homicide, where he found Sloan, Del and Sherrill.

''How's Franklin?'' Sloan asked, standing up. They all were beginning to fade.

''He's in surgery, but it's not critical,'' Lucas said. '' Somebody said he might have some peripheral nerve damage in his arm. I'm not sure, but I think that means he might have some patches of skin where he can't feel anything.''

''Could be worse,'' Del said.

''Where's his wife?'' Sloan asked.

''She's at the hospital,'' Lucas said. ''What happened with Palin?''

''We're keeping him around, in case you or the chief wants to talk to him. But it's not him,'' Sloan said.

''Tell me,'' Lucas said.

''Have you heard the tapes?''

''No.''

''Well, if it's him,'' Sloan said, ''he's disguising his voice. But why is he disguising his voice, when he gives his squad number? And even if you figure it's disguised, it sounds too much not-like him.''

''Huh.'' Lucas nodded. ''What was he doing earlier on the tape?''

''That's the other thing,'' Sherrill said. ''I went down and listened to them, and he and Dobie Martinez cleared out a burglary report and then said they were going to stop for a cup of coffee, and they went off the air. Then ten minutes later, there's the request on the Darling car . . . then ten minutes after that, they come back on the air again, ready to go back to work.''

''Shit,'' Lucas said. ''Did you talk to Martinez?''

''Yeah. He remembers clearing the burglary, then stopping at Barney's. He says they were in there for fifteen or twenty minutes, that Arne never left him, and then they came back and started working again. He says they never called in any Wisconsin plates. So unless they're working together, the identification was bullshit.''

''It's bullshit,'' Lucas said. ''But I'd like to hear the tapes.''

''I've got a copy on cassette, I'll get it,'' Sherrill said.

She stepped away, and Lucas said to Del, ''Have you heard about Sell-More?''

''No, I just got here.''

''Stadic called just about the time Franklin got shot. He was on a call down south. Sell-More was lying in the street with a couple of bullet holes in his head.''

''Sonofabitch,'' Del said. ''They used Sell-More to set up Palin.''

''But I don't understand why,'' Lucas said. ''It's gotta be a cop, and he's gotta know that it wouldn't hold up.''

They all looked at each other, and then Sloan said, ''Maybe he ain't the brightest.''

''Bullshit. He's been leading us around by the nose,'' Lucas said. ''Who's working the scene down at Franklin's?''

''Some of Lester's guys, I don't know who--Christ, people are all over the place.''

''I want to talk to whoever it is . . .''

Lester came in, and they turned toward him, and a second later, Rose Marie Roux followed Lester through the door. She looked at Lucas and said, ''Give me an idea.''

Lucas said, ''I got nothin' that we aren't already doing. He's gotta be holed up with a friend.''

''We've shaken down every biker in the fuckin' city,'' Lester said. ''The question is, who was a good enough friend that they'd put up with this shit? Maybe he's staying with . . . you know.''

He didn't say it, but he meant, ''the cop.''

Lucas shook his head and said, ''My brain isn't working right. I need to lie down for a while.'' Then he said to Roux, ''There is one thing. We should talk to Sandy Darling. She's freaked out about lawyers, she thinks we're gunning for her with the rest of them . . .''

''So what do we say? Without giving her away?''

Lucas rubbed his chin. ''Suppose we say that we had a source who has been useful, but now is apparently afraid and has gone into hiding. We're asking her to come back out, that we'll protect her and offer her immunity.''

''I don't know about immunity,'' Roux said doubtfully. ''What if she's deep into it, and she's just playing an angle?''

''All right, so we just say, 'Protect her.' I mean, there's three ways we can get them: we can take them on the street, we can find the cop who's pulling our dick or we can getDarling to give them up. We're doing everything we can on the street, but we're getting nowhere with the cop . . .''

Roux nodded. ''All right. I'll put this out. They're using everything we give them, so it'll be on the air in ten minutes.''

Sherrill walked up, carrying a tape recorder, and said, ''Something else. What they're doing--they're not gonna back off. I think we've got to set up a combat team anywhere they might show. Everybody's house. The hotel's already covered. But maybe we should set up at the hospital to cover Franklin and Cheryl and whoever.''

Sloan said, ''And I don't think anybody ought to be running around loose.'' He looked at Lucas and said, ''Weather and Jennifer. Somebody is feeding these guys everything . . .''

Roux said, ''Lucas, get those goddamn women under control, will you? Can you do that?''

Lucas said, ''I'll talk to them.''

SHERRILL PLAYED THE TAPE, AND LUCAS LISTENED, EYES closed. The voice wasn't right: too smooth, too high-pitched: faked. Whoever it was would have fooled the Dispatch people, because the unit number was right and the request was routine.

''I think--I can't swear to it--but I think that's the guy who called me and warned me that Butters was cruising Jennifer and Sarah,'' Lucas said.

''Why?''

''I'll tell you why,'' Lucas said. ''Because that fuckin' LaChaise is blackmailing him, and he figures that if we take them alive, they'll deal him. And they probably will. So he's got to have them dead.''

LUCAS HEADEDOUTTOTV3 IN A CITY CAR, MONITORING the radio, his cell phone in his pocket. This was like nothinghe'd ever heard of: this was like a war. He didn't have the usual intervals of quiet, when he could sit and think about patterns, and the way the opponents were working. Puzzle pieces were slipping past him; he could feel it. Maybe if he got some sleep . . .

The TV3 lobby was locked. When he approached the glass doors, four men ranged behind two reception desks waved him off. He stood next to the glass, held up his ID. One of the men, large, in a heavy, dark suit, crossed the lobby to the door. Lucas realized that he was wearing a vest and carried a pistol on his hip. The man looked at the ID, looked at him, then turned the knob on the lock.