Secret Prey (33 page)

TWENTY-SIX

MARCY SHERRILL WAS BANGING ON LUCAS’S DOOR AT
seven o’clock. He stumbled out to open up, his hair still a mess from the night, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, one sock on, one sock off; his alarm had gone off ten minutes earlier.

‘‘You look terrible,’’ she said cheerfully. ‘‘I got up early and went for a run.’’

‘‘God will someday strike you dead for that kind of behavior,’’ he said. He was not a morning person. ‘‘If I could only get the glue out of my eyes.’’

‘‘Quit pissing around; let’s get going,’’ Sherrill said. ‘‘I’ll drive. You can sleep, if you want.’’

He perked up, but just slightly. ‘‘If you drive, I might survive.’’

‘‘So, I’ll drive,’’ she said. ‘‘C’mon, c’mon. Go.’’ He turned back to the bedroom and she slapped him on the butt.

‘‘Christ, it’s like having a coach,’’ he grumbled, but he tried to hurry.

MINNESOTA IS A TALL STATE; AUDREY MCDONALD’S
hometown, Oxford, was in the Red River Valley in the northwest corner, on land as flat as the Everglades. They took Lucas’s Porsche out I-94, Sherrill driving the first two
hours, giving it to Lucas, then taking the car back four hours out. Sherrill was a cheerful companion, not given to long stretches of silence. As she chattered away about the landscape, the various road signs and small towns, the river crossings, animals dead on the road, Lucas began to wonder what, exactly, he was doing with her. He began to check her from the corner of his eye, little peeks at her profile, at her face as she talked. Over the years, he’d had relationships, longer or shorter, with a number of women, and in the transition zone between them, had often felt ties to the last woman even as the ties to the new woman were forming.

In this case, there were more than simple ties back to Weather. Weather had been something different—the love of his life, if Elle Kruger wasn’t—while Sherrill was much more like the other women he’d dated: pretty, smart, interesting, and eventually, moving on.

He wasn’t sure that he wanted a relationship with a woman who’d be moving on, especially when she really wouldn’t be out of sight. Sherrill was a cop, who had a desk right down the hall from his office: even when he wasn’t trying to see her, he saw her four or five times a day.

‘‘You sighed,’’ she said.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘You just sighed.’’

‘‘A lot of shit going on,’’ Lucas said. She patted him on the leg. ‘‘You worry too much. It’s all gonna work out.’’

They followed the interstate northwest to Fargo, crossed the Red River into North Dakota, took I-29 north past Grand Forks, then recrossed the Red into Minnesota on a state highway to Oxford.

‘‘Starting to feel it in my back,’’ Sherrill said to Lucas. Lucas was behind the wheel again. ‘‘Probably would’ve been more comfortable in my car.’’

‘‘Yeah, I’m getting too old for this thing, I need something a little smoother,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Good car, though.’’

‘‘Too small for you.

Though you’ll probably start to shrink a little, as the age comes on. You know, your vertebrae start to collapse, your hair thins out and sits lower on your head, your muscle tone goes . . .’’

‘‘You go from a 34-C to a 34-long . . .’’

‘‘Oooh. That’s mean. But I kinda like it,’’ she said.

They passed a sign warning of a reduction of speed limits; Lucas dropped from eighty to sixty as they went past the 45 sign. Past a farm implement dealer with a field of new John Deeres and Bobcats and antique Fords and International Harvesters; past competing Polaris and Yamaha snowmobile dealerships, both in unpainted steel Quonset huts; past a closed Dairy Queen and an open Hardee’s, past a Christian Revelation church and a SuperAmerica; and then into town, Lucas letting the car roll down to forty-five by the time they got to the 25 sign. Past a redbrick Catholic church and a fieldstone Lutheran church and then a liquor store that may once have been a bank, built of both fieldstone and brick.

‘‘Just like Lake fuckin’ Wobegon,’’ Sherrill said.

‘‘No lake,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Nothing but dirt.’’

‘‘If I had to live here, I’d shoot myself just for the entertainment value,’’ Sherrill said.

‘‘Ah, there’re lots of good things out here,’’ Lucas said.

‘‘Name one.’’

Lucas thought for a moment. ‘‘You can see a long way,’’ he said finally, and they both started to laugh. Then Sherrill pointed out the windshield at the left side of the street, to a white arrow-sign that said, ‘‘Proper County–Oxford Government Center.’’

The Proper County Courthouse and Oxford City Hall had been combined in a building that resembled a very large Standard Oil station—low red brick, lots of glass, an oversized nylon American flag, and a large parking lot where a grassy town square may once have been. Lucas spotted three police cruisers at one corner of the parking lot, and headed that way.

‘‘Watch your mouth with these people, huh?’’ Lucas said, as they got out of the car.

‘‘Like you’re Mr. Diplomat.’’

‘‘I try harder when I’m out in the countryside,’’ he said. ‘‘They sometimes resent it when big-city cops show up in their territory.’’

THE OXFORD POLICE DEPARTMENT WAS A STARKLY
utilitarian collection of beige cubicles wedged into a departmental office suite twenty-four feet square. The chief’s office, the only private space in the suite, was at the back; the department itself seemed deserted when Lucas and Sherrill pushed through the outer door.

‘‘A fire drill?’’ Sherrill asked.

‘‘I don’t know. What’s that?’’ An odd, almost musical sound came from the back; they walked back between the small cubicles, and spotted a man in the chief’s private office, hovering over a computer. As they got closer, they could hear the boop-beep-thwack-arrghh of a computer action game. Sherrill gave Lucas an elbow in the ribs, but Lucas pushed her back down the row, walking quietly away. Then: ‘‘Hello? Anybody home?’’

The boop-beep-thwack stopped, and a second later a young man with a round face and a short black mustache stepped out of the chief’s office.

‘‘Help you folks?’’

‘‘We’re looking for the chief of police, or the duty officer . . .’’

‘‘I’m Chief Mason.’’ The young man hitched up his pants when he saw Sherrill, and walked down toward them. Lucas took out his ID and handed it over. ‘‘I’m Deputy Chief Lucas Davenport from Minneapolis, and this is Detective Sherrill . . .’’

He explained that they had come up to review documents and interview people who might have any information about the death of George Lamb, Audrey McDonald’s father, twenty-four years earlier. The chief, who had been staring almost pensively at Sherrill’s breasts, started shaking
his head. ‘‘I been a cop here for four years; nobody in the department has been here more than twelve. Better you should go up and talk to the county clerk, she might be able to point you at some death records or something.’’

‘‘Second floor?’’ Lucas asked.

‘‘Yee-up,’’ the chief said.

THE COUNTY CLERK WAS EVEN YOUNGER THAN THE
chief, her hair dyed an unsuccessful orange: ‘‘Okay, twenty-four years. About this time of year, you say?’’

‘‘About this time.’’

‘‘Okay . . . We’re computerizing, you know, but all this old paper is hard to get on-line,’’ she said, as she dug through a file cabinet. ‘‘Here we go. George Lamb? Here it is.’’

‘‘You got anything in there on an Amelia Lamb? George’s wife? Four years after George?’’

She went back to the cabinet, dug around, then shook her head. ‘‘Nothing on an Amelia.’’

She straightened up, stepped to the counter, pushed a mimeographed form across the counter at them, said to Marcy, ‘‘I really like your hair,’’ and Marcy said, ‘‘Thanks. I just got it changed and I was a little worried about doing it . . . used to be longer.’’

The death form was filled out on a typewriter, and signed by a Dr. Stephen Landis. Lucas scanned the routine report and asked, ‘‘Is Dr. Landis still practicing here?’’

‘‘Oh, sure. He’s over at the clinic, right down the street to Main, take a left two blocks.’’

Marcy looked over Lucas’s arm: ‘‘Heart attack?’’

‘‘That’s what it says.’’

‘‘You know, Sheriff Mason would’ve been a deputy back then; I bet he would know about it,’’ the clerk said, reading the file upside down. She tapped a line on the file with her fingertip. ‘‘This address isn’t right in town—it’s out at County A—so they would have been the law enforcement arm involved in a death.’’

‘‘We just talked to a
Chief
Mason,’’ Sherrill said. ‘‘They’re not the same guy?’’

‘‘Second cousins, though you could never tell,’’ the clerk said. ‘‘Sheriff John Mason’s grandparents on his father’s side, and Chief Bob Mason’s great-grandparents on his father’s and grandfather’s side, are the same people, Chuck and Shirley Mason from Stephen.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Where can we find the sheriff’s office?’’

‘‘Down the hall all the way to the end.’’

As they left, Sherrill asked, ‘‘Are Chuck and Shirley still alive?’’

‘‘Well, sure,’’ the clerk said. ‘‘Hale and hearty. Course, they’d be down in Arizona right now.’’

THE SHERIFF WAS OUT, THE RECEPTIONIST SAID, BUTIF
it was a matter of importance, he’d be happy to come right back. Lucas identified himself, and the receptionist’s eyebrows went up, and she punched a number in her telephone. A minute later, the phone rang, and she picked it up and said, without preamble, ‘‘There’re some Minneapolis police officers here, looking for you.’’

The sheriff was a chunky, weathered man, going bald; he wore an open parka and was carrying a blaze-orange watch cap when he stepped into the office five minutes later.

‘‘You want to see me?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Lucas said. He introduced himself, produced his ID, and mentioned the death of George Lamb.

‘‘George Lamb? You mean about a hundred years ago, that George Lamb?’’ The sheriff’s voice picked up a hint of wariness.

‘‘Twenty-four years,’’ said Lucas.

‘‘Come on back,’’ the sheriff said. And to the receptionist: ‘‘Ruth, go get Jimmy and tell him to come back too.’’

To Lucas: ‘‘You folks want some coffee?’’

‘‘That’d be fine,’’ Lucas said. They were passing a coffeepot
in a hallway nook, and Sherrill said, ‘‘I’ll get it. Sheriff? Sugar?’’

As the sheriff settled behind his desk, and Sherrill brought the coffee, Lucas said, ‘‘We’re sorta digging through the background on Lamb. The county clerk said you were around at the time, I don’t know if you’d remember it or not.’’

‘‘Yeah, I do. He used to be a mail carrier outa here, he had the rural route. Died of a heart attack. Why’re you looking into that? If I might ask?’’

‘‘We’ve got a case going on in the Cities, woman just shot her husband,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘She’s charged second degree, but that could get dismissed as self-defense. We’re looking into all the deaths that have been associated with her, and we found out that both her father and mother died young . . .’’

‘‘I know the woman,’’ the sheriff said. ‘‘Audrey. McDonald. Used to be Lamb. Been reading about the case in the
Star-Tribune.
What the heck is a chief of police doing way up here on a case like that?’’

‘‘Actually, uh, Marcy and I are friends,’’ Lucas said, tipping his head toward Sherrill. ‘‘We were both working the case, and we sorta wanted to get away for a weekend . . . and we were sorta curious about Lamb.’’

The sheriff glanced at Marcy and then back at Lucas, nodded as if everything was suddenly clear. ‘‘I didn’t take the first call on Lamb, but when we got word that somebody out there was dead, I came in,’’ the sheriff said. He spun in his office chair, looking out of the office window toward the back of a line of Main Street stores. ‘‘This was early in the morning. I mean real early, like four o’clock. He was dressed in gray long johns, and he was laying on the kitchen floor. One of the girls had called us—Audrey I think, the other one was still pretty young—and the two little girls had their mom out in the living room, and she was sitting on the couch all wailing away. And Lamb was deader’n a mackerel. It was his practice to wake up in the morning by breaking a raw egg in a double-shot glass, then
pouring the glass full with rye, and drinking it down. We found him laying on the floor in a puddle of rye, with the egg all over his face. Took him off quick.’’