Chosen Prey (15 page)

"Have you seen photographs that look like the bodies in these drawings?"

"Well, sure, the drawings . . . those are all pretty standard poses," he said.

"I mean specifically: photos that could have been used for these drawings."

Ware shook his head. "I couldn't tell you that. I'm not out on the Internet that much. You oughta ask Tony Carr."

Carr was the computer tech who'd been at Ware's when the door was kicked. "What about him?" Sloan asked.

"He knows all the sites. What he does is, he loots them, then he burns the images onto CDs and peddles the CDs. He's basically interested in money, not the porn, but he knows about every site out there."

"How about Henrey?" Lucas asked.

"He's just a hired gun. He's not particularly creative, and he's no good with lights--not good enough for product photography or anything hard, anyway. He can do boudoir stuff okay."

"So he's not much."

Ware shook his head. "He's a dummy."

MARCY HAD RETURNED during the interrogation, and was at her desk when Lucas and Sloan finished with Ware. Lucas told Baxter that they might need to talk again; Baxter agreed, and escorted Ware out of the office. Sloan said he'd get back with a transcript for the file; he scrubbed Marcy's head with his knuckles, and left.

"Get anything?" Marcy asked.

"We need to talk to Anthony Carr again. You'll find him in the Ware file. Call him up and tell him to come in."

"All right. . . . Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, it's gonna have to be tomorrow. We're running out of time today. How was your lunch with Kidd?"

Marcy looked up at him, thinking, and then her eyes drifted past to a blank wall. After a couple of seconds, she nodded: "He's a pretty good guy. He's a hardass, though. He's one of those guys who's gonna do what he's gonna do and he doesn't care much about what anybody else thinks about it. He's a lot more of a hardass than you are."

"He's supposed to be a good painter."

"I called up a woman I know. Over at the Institute. She said Kidd paints six or eight paintings a year and gets maybe fifty thousand bucks each. He's in all the big museums. She asked me if I was going out with him and I said we'd been to lunch, and she sounded like she wanted to crawl through the phone and choke me. I think in that world, you know, the guy is eligible."

Lucas said, "Huh. You gonna see him again?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. He kinda liked me."

"Did you let him touch your gun?"

"Not yet."

LUCAS TOOK THE Menomonie files home with him, meaning to look through them during the evening. Weather arrived a few minutes after he did, and they went for a walk along the river, enjoying the cold. Then they walked back to Lucas's house and ate small triangular sandwiches of cheese, onions, and sardines, with tomato-herb soup, at the dining room table. He told her about Jim Wise, the bullet-headed man who was not the killer; about Ware and his priest; and about Kidd.

"You think Marcy and this Kidd guy . . . ?"

"She likes the type," Lucas said. Then he asked, "How can a sandwich that stinks this bad taste so good?"

"It's a great mystery," Weather said. "So is Kidd a good-looking guy?"

"Not as good-looking as me."

"We could hardly expect that," she said.

"But . . . I don't know. Not bad-looking. Sort of beat-up. Big shoulders: Looks like he could pick you up, put you over his shoulder, and carry you right up to his nest in the tree. I suspect he gets laid a lot."

"Hmm. I'm feeling a little tingle myself," Weather said.

"Marcy did, for sure," Lucas said. He looked over his empty plate at hers. "You gonna eat that triangle?"

WEATHER HELPED HIM with the dishes, and afterward, they hiked a mile to a used-book store and hauled a dozen books back. While Weather paged through a book on human osteology, Lucas went back to the file from Menomonie. At the back, there were Xerox copies of perhaps thirty or forty photographs. Most of them were police photos taken in Laura Winton's apartment or in Nancy Vanderpost's trailer home by crime-scene crews. One set was mostly of a young woman, identified in notes as Winton, Marshall's niece. She was shown walking in the woods, and then standing on a sidewalk somewhere. There was a gap in the trees behind her, and Lucas thought it looked a lot like the Mississippi River Valley between Minneapolis and St. Paul, but there were no identifying landmarks, only a small semicircular stone wall.

He handed the photo to Weather. "Think that's around here?"

She looked at it for a long moment, then said, "Could be. Who is it?"

He explained, and she said, "Then it might be in Menomonie. There's a river and a big lake there, pretty deep valley. . . . Could be there."

"Feels like here."

He had to page back through the file to find the spot where he'd taken the photo out, and there was something about the pictures taken in the woods. Were the woods close by? Maybe they went with the stone wall photo, something that he walked by often enough to ring a bell. . . .

He paged through them again. Then he tumbled: "Holy shit."

Weather looked up, hearing a tone in his voice. "What?"

"These pictures . . . they look like the place where Aronson's body was found."

"What?"

"These pictures of Winton. They look like they're taken where Aronson was found. I went down there the other day." He went through them again. "Goddamnit, Weather, I think it's the same place."

MARSHALL MIGHT KNOW something.

Lucas looked at his watch: twenty minutes to eleven. Still early enough. He went back through the file and found Marshall's business card, with a home phone number scrawled on the back. Marshall had said to call anytime.

He dialed, and the phone rang four times before a man answered, a harsh rasping cigarette voice, thick with sleep. " 'Lo?"

"Terry Marshall?"

"Yeah . . . who's this?"

"Terry, I apologize for calling you at this time of night, but this is Lucas Davenport, the deputy chief you talked to."

"Yeah, Chief, what's going on?"

"I've been reading your files, looking at the pictures in the back. Those pictures of your niece in the woods, where did those come from?"

"Just a minute, let me get my feet on the floor. . . . Uh, the pictures. We think, uh . . . I think that they might have been taken by the killer. When she came up missing, and the story got in the papers, the owner of a local drugstore called and said she'd left some film to be developed. We picked it up and got those pictures--her housemates said she'd gone on a hike with the guy, had been talking about a hike out in the woods. What's going on?"

"You don't know where this is?" Lucas asked.

"No, no, it's just woods."

"I'll tell you what, Terry, I may be going crazy, but I think these pictures were taken at the same spot that Aronson's body was found. There's something about them. The way the hill sits, the trees. I may be fucked up . . ."

A long moment of silence, then: "Oh, brother. I never went down to the site. I went to New Richmond, but not to the others."

"Think about this," Lucas said. "If you're a killer, and if you find one good spot, why go looking for another one?"

"A graveyard," Marshall said.

"That's what I'm thinking," Lucas said.

"You gonna look?" Marshall asked.

"I'll get something started as soon as I get in tomorrow."

"I'm coming up," Marshall said.

"No point in coming up tomorrow. I'll have to talk to the sheriff down in Goodhue and get some technical guys together. I don't see us getting down there until the day after tomorrow, at the earliest."

"I'll be there. Jesus. Jesus. Why didn't I look at that site? I looked at everything else. . . ."

"It's your file, man. Never would have come up without your file."

Chapter
9.

WEATHER LEFT EARLY the next morning, as she always did, driving out through a cold rain. Lucas thought early-morning operations were crazy--why get everybody up at five-thirty?--and was told that it had to do with nursing shifts. When she was gone, he cleaned up, got in the Tahoe, and drove south out of town to the hill where Aronson had been found.

He learned nothing. He walked the hillside in his rain suit, stood for a long time looking at the hole where Aronson had been found, but could find nothing else about the hillside distinctive enough to be sure.

"Feels right, though," he said to himself. He looked around. A graveyard? He felt a chill, and kept moving.

DOWNTOWN, THE OFFICE was full of cops who didn't want to go out in the rain. Lucas had changed his rain suit for an umbrella, and was shaking it out when Anthony Carr, Ware's computer programmer, came by and took a look at the drawings. Marcy tried to embarrass him, but Carr wasn't embarrassed.

"I see so much of this shit that I can't remember what goes with who," he said. "All of it looks familiar."

"We have an art expert who says the drawings are probably made from projected images," Marcy said. "So the bodies would be exactly like the drawings. We'd like you to check around, see if you can match any of them."

Carr shrugged. "All right, I'll look. I can't promise. One time I tried to figure out how many of these pictures are out there, but I gave up after a while--but there gotta be hundreds of thousands of them."

WHEN HE WAS gone, Lucas turned to Marcy and said, "Kidd ever call back?"

"Like it's any of your business," Marcy said.

"Please tell us," said Black, her former partner. Black had given up any effort at work, and was punching a lemon-colored Gameboy console with his thumbs. "If you don't, we'll start rumors that it was Carr who caught your eye."

"Asshole," Marcy said. To Lucas: "He did. We agreed that it might not be a bad idea to have dinner sometime."

"So it's a little indefinite," Lucas said.

"If you want to call getting picked up at seven o'clock tonight indefinite," she said.

"Be nice if the rain stopped. You know, big date and all," Lucas said.

"We can always find a place to get warm," she said.

He never won.

LUCAS TALKED TO the Goodhue County sheriff. He promised he'd get permission to enter the property around the Aronson grave site.

"It's probably nothing," Lucas said. "But if it is something . . . it's gonna be ugly."

"Glad you called."

When he'd set up a rendezvous by the Goodhue grave site, Lucas called around until he found an engineering consultant who used ground-penetrating radar to look for pipelines, missing utilities, old cemeteries, and ancient campgrounds. The guy's name was Larry Lake, and he ran a three-man company called Archeo-Survey, Inc.

"Last time I worked for you guys, it took two months to get paid," Lake said. "I had to threaten to have your patrol cars attached."

"That's 'cause you didn't find anything and nobody wanted to be blamed for the bill when you didn't find anything. It was a pretty big bill."

"I'm a certified civil engineer, not a burger flipper," Lake said. "If I bring fifteen thousand or twenty thousand bucks' worth of equipment out in the rain, I need to get paid."

"I promise you," Lucas said. "You'll get the money in a week. If it pans out, of course, you'll be famous. Probably get on one of those forensic TV shows."

"You think?"

"It could happen."

THAT EVENING, WEATHER showed up with a big black leather Coach travel bag for her sixth consecutive sleepover. Lucas dropped The Wall Street Journal on the floor next to his chair and said, "I've figured it out. You hate me and you're trying to fuck me to death."

"In your dreams," she said. "The fact is, I'm gonna get pregnant. You volunteered. The second fact is, I'm right around my fertile period and I'm trying to blanket it."

"Blanket it."

"Yes. So if you don't mind, bring yourself back to the bedroom. It'll all be over in a few minutes."

THE RAIN CONTINUED overnight, spitting against the windows, but by morning had changed from a steady pelting storm to a steady miserable drizzle. Weather left early, as usual, and Lucas got another hour of sleep before he climbed out of bed, cleaned up, and rolled out of the driveway in his Tahoe.

Del was waiting in his driveway, under the eaves of the garage, already dressed in a rain suit. His wife stood beside him, wearing a heavy sweater. "You guys be careful," she said. "The roads are slippery. Get some decent lunch somewhere. Eat something with vegetables, like a salad or something."

In the truck, Del said, "Jesus Christ--vegetables."

The drive to south Dakota County took forty-five minutes, a slow trip against rush traffic, "Money, Guns, and Lawyers" bumping out of the CD player, the wipers beating time. The roadside ditches were showing long strips of water, and Del told a story about a Caterpillar D-6 that once sank out of sight, was never recovered, and was presumably on its way to China after encountering a bog in weather just like this.