Buried Prey Part 35

"Good. I'm going to sleep now, so I don't cut off poor Mrs. Johnson's nose."

Rhino, Lucas thought, as he drifted away, for rhinoplasty. From the Greek rhino rhino for nose, plus for nose, plus pla.s.sein pla.s.sein, to shape. A nose job, in other words.

But he didn't dream of rhinos; he dreamed of the mysterious Fell.

I do not like thee, Dr. Fell . . .

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WEATHER GOT UP at five-thirty, and Lucas at eight, early for him. He hadn't felt her go; he usually didn't. He stretched, yawned, did some push-ups and crunches, got cleaned up, got his gun, sat down in his den, and made a call.

Quentin Daniel picked up and in an old man's voice said, "What?"

"This is Davenport. I need to talk."

"That was a bad day," Daniel said. "That was about as bad a day as I've had since Carol died. On top of the Jones kids coming up-"

"That's what I need to talk about."

"When?"

"How about now?" Lucas suggested.

"You know where that Starbucks is, down the street from me?" Daniel asked.

"Sure."

"Meet you there in thirty minutes," Daniel said.

QUENTIN DANIEL HAD BEEN a ranking detective when Lucas first met him, and later, for eight years, the chief of police. He'd done some bad things in his time, and he knew it, as did Lucas, and they'd never been quite square since.

But Daniel was smart and had been a good investigator, and knew the Jones case and also knew his cops. That, in fact, had been his most serious strength: he knew his investigators so well that he'd match them to cases that he knew would catch their imaginations, and they'd work all the harder for it. He'd also had complete confidence in his own intelligence, and other smart cops didn't intimidate him. He saw the intelligence of others as simply another weapon in his a.r.s.enal.

Lucas had been his finest weapon.

Lucas crossed the street to the Starbucks just as Daniel opened the door to go inside. He'd always been a bigger man, but now had thinned down; his hair was longer, and silvery gray, and he was dressed for golf in a red s.h.i.+rt and white slacks, with athletic shoes. He must be in his middle seventies, Lucas thought.

He held the door for Lucas, said, "You're looking rich," and Lucas asked, "What's your handicap now?" Daniel said, "Same as always: my swing."

Inside, Daniel ordered a skinny half-caff no-foam latte and Lucas got a bottle of orange juice from the cooler. "Get a table while I'm waiting," Daniel said.

Lucas found a table in the corner, and when Daniel came over, asked, "How've you been?"

"I've lost twenty pounds and gotten my cholesterol lower than my IQ. Of course, I'm eating nothing but twigs."

They chatted for a minute, and Daniel asked about Lucas's kids, and Lucas filled him in, and then Lucas said, "You remember, way back when, on the Jones case, I was running after a guy named Fell?"

"I remember you were running after a guy," Daniel said. "There was something unusual about him."

Lucas filled him in and Daniel started nodding. "I got it now," he said. Then Lucas told him about the weird death of Brian Hanson, and the timing, and his thoughts about the possibility that somebody on the force had been talking to the killer.

"So what I want to ask you-you knew these people better than anyone-do you know anyone that Hanson might have been talking to? Did you ever have any feeling that he was worried about it, that there was anything going on there?"

Daniel took a sip of his coffee, then leaned back and closed his eyes, silent for so long that Lucas thought he might be into a serious senior moment; then he opened his eyes and said, "Hanson had some kind of a family problem. Something criminal, and it involved s.e.x. Not here, though-not in Minneapolis. I remember hearing that he was maneuvering around, trying to get something done, and I had somebody tell him to take it easy. You know, unofficially. Be careful about asking for favors."

Lucas said, "Really."

"You're not surprised."

"There are some indications, if you have a suspicious mind, that suggest the killer was close to Hanson. I saw a picture of his kid, when the kid was still young, a teenager, and he sort of looks like the description of Fell, except that he wasn't fat. And the guy who shot Marcy had a black beard-and I've been told that Hanson's son can't grow a beard."

"Maybe if you were planning to gun somebody down in a quiet neighborhood, where it'd get noticed, you'd want to invest two dollars in a disguise," Daniel said.

"Could happen," Lucas said. "Do you remember anything else at all?"

Daniel leaned back, looked out the window for a minute-a young mom pus.h.i.+ng a stroller, looking satisfied with herself-and took a hit on his coffee. Turning back to Lucas, he said, "You know, I don't. It was something serious, but not for us. Brian fixed it somehow-talked to some pals, got a lawyer. Never had any hint that his kid might have been involved in the Jones case. I think Brian would have told us, if he thought that. But if you you think Hanson's death might be involved, I'd take a look at the kid." think Hanson's death might be involved, I'd take a look at the kid."

"That's the biggest hint we've gotten so far," Lucas said.

"And that's all I got for you," Daniel said. "I wish I had more. Marcy being killed . . . G.o.dd.a.m.nit, I can't get it off my back. I didn't know her long, before I retired, but she was a comer. I keep thinking about her. I keep seeing her."

Lucas nodded: "So do I. I keep wanting to call her up, tell her some stuff."

LUCAS DROVE BACK to the BCA and found Sandy. She was wearing one of her long light hippie dresses, and a pair of round sungla.s.ses that she thought made her look like Yoko Ono or somebody, but actually made her look like one of the three blind mice. He told her what he needed, and in one minute, she'd found Hanson's kid's driver's license information, including his current address, in a nice neighborhood in St. Paul. In two minutes, they'd downloaded his driver's license photo. They printed it; he told Sandy he needed everything they could get on him, and headed back to his car.

His cell phone rang as he was getting in: Sandy. "I dug through the records. He's got a Chevy van, white in color."

"Ah, jeez . . . Sandy Sandy!"

DORCAS RYAN, the onetime ma.s.sage parlor hooker, worked the second s.h.i.+ft, so she should be home, he thought. Twenty minutes later, he parked in front her house, and through the kitchen window, saw her looking out at him.

He walked up the sidewalk; she was opening the door as he came up. He didn't go inside: he simply handed her the digital copy of Hanson's driver's license photo, without saying a word. She took it, peered at it, said, "Just a minute," retreated back inside, returned with a pair of reading gla.s.ses, put them on her nose, and looked again at the picture.

She said, "Ah. It's been a long time."

"The kid . . . is that Fell?"

"It could be," Ryan said. "If I were in a court, and they asked me to swear to it, I don't think I could. I could say it could be. But it's been a long time."

"Don't tell anybody about this. If he's the killer, we want to snap him up."

"Who would I tell?" Ryan asked.

"Anybody," Lucas said. "You tell a friend, and she tells somebody else, and they call Channel Three . . . there you are."

"Won't tell a soul," Ryan said. "Not until I hear he's dead."

"He might not be dead-"

She snorted. "A cop killer, is what I hear on TV. A lady-cop killer. What are his chances?"

Lucas walked away, thinking, Everybody thinks we're gonna kill Fell. Everybody thinks we're gonna kill Fell. He remembered Letty's warning: gotta be cool. He remembered Letty's warning: gotta be cool.

AFTER LEAVING RYAN, he headed back toward the BCA, got on his cell phone as he drove, and called Del. Del had just gotten up, was eating breakfast. "I got a break," he said.

"I thought something was up," Del said. "I told Shrake and Jenkins to hang loose."

"See you at the office," Lucas said.

He started by pulling all of Hanson's DMV information. At the time of the Jones killings, he had been twenty-seven. Just right, Lucas thought. He ran the information through the NCIC and came up empty: Hanson had no criminal record.

Del showed up, and Lucas told him about Hanson. "If he's the one . . . you think he killed his old man? I mean, Jesus."

"If he's the one, he's a fruitcake. A psycho," Lucas said. "His old man was a cop, and Daniel says, knowing Hanson, if he smelled it on his kid, he'd have let us know. And the kid might have known that. This was a guy who set up that whole Dr. Fell routine . . . he's a planner."

Sandy came in. "Hanson went to the University of Minnesota, here in the Cities. Got a degree in horticultural science. Last job I can find was at a place called Clean Genes, whatever that means."

"Not quite right," Del said.

Lucas said to Del, "Did I tell you he drives a white van?"

"That's something," Del said to Lucas.

"Nothing to say horticultural scientists can't read nursery rhymes," Lucas said.

LUCAS ASKED SANDY, "How'd you do this? Some kind of weird computer s.h.i.+t?"

"I looked him up on Facebook," Sandy said. "His Facebook page says he graduated from the U, and I took a quick peek at his records-don't tell anybody about that. He did pretty well."

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DEL ASKED, "What are we doing?"

"I want to look in Hanson's house," Lucas said. "Brian Hanson's. See what I can see. See if there's anything that would point us at the kid."

"St. Louis Park's been inside of it, when the deputies called from up north," Del said. "We could give them a call."

Lucas called St. Louis Park, talked to a Lieutenant Carl Wright. "I think we can get you in-I'd have to check with the chief," Wright said. "Part of the investigation into his disappearance?"

"That's exactly what it is," Lucas said. "When you went in the first time, did you move stuff around, or just walk through?"

"Walked through-for all we knew, he'd be coming back, so we didn't disturb anything."

"Excellent," Lucas said. "We'll start your way. If there's a problem, give me a call on my cell phone. Also, I don't want the relatives to know about this, if they get in touch with you."

"Why's that?"

"Tell you when we get there," Lucas said.

On the way out the door, Lucas said to Del, "Let's take your car. It's a little less conspicuous."

"Why can't we be conspicuous?"

"I might want to cruise Darrell Hanson's house on the way back. See if he's around."

ST. LOUIS PARK was a few minutes west of Minneapolis, and a half-hour after they left the BCA, they pulled into the redbrick police station, found Wright, who said they'd been cleared to walk through Hanson's house. "I'll be coming with you, to keep everything kosher."

"Fine," Lucas said.

"So what's this about the relatives?"

"There's at least the outside possibility that one of the relatives could be a guy we're interested in. . . ." He gave Wright a quick summary, without mentioning Marcy, and Wright said, "You know, if this is a criminal investigation, maybe we ought to get a warrant."

"We're not investigating Brian Hanson for anything, other than to find out how he died," Lucas said. "We're not searching for anything-we're just looking for signs that he expected to come back to his house."

"And it's better not to ask if it's okay," Del said. "We can always apologize later."