Winter Prey (34 page)

“Back in the truck.”

“Better go get ’em. The heater ain’t working quite right.”

They took off three minutes later, Lucas pulling on the pac boots. “What’s wrong with the heater?” he shouted.

“Don’t know yet,” the pilot shouted back. “The whole goddamn chopper’s a piece of shit.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The pilot smiled, his teeth improbably white and even. “Little pilot joke,” he said.

A half hour after takeoff, the pilot got a radio call, answered, and then said, “You’ll have a guy waiting for you. Domeier?”

“Yeah, good.”

They put down at a general aviation airport at the north end of the city. The pilot would wait until ten o’clock, he said. “Got that storm coming in. Ten o’clock shouldn’t be a problem, but if you were as late as midnight, I might not get out at all.”

“I’ll call,” Lucas promised, pulling off the pac boots and slipping on his shoes.

“I’ll be around. Call the pilots’ lounge. There’s a guy waving at us, and I think he means you.”

Domeier was waiting at the gate, hands in his pockets, chewing gum.

“Didn’t expect to see you,” Lucas said. “I was told you were off.”

“Overtime,” Domeier said. “I got a daughter down at Northwestern, exploring her potentialities, so I need the fuckin’ work. What’re we doing?”

“Talking to Bobby McLain again,” Lucas said. “About a thing called an offset negative.”

McLain was at home, with a woman in a red party dress. The woman sat on a couch, eating popcorn from a microwave bag. She had dark hair and matched her hair color with too much eye liner.

“ . . . suppose he could have it,” McLain said. “He’ll kill me if I send you out there, though.”

“Bobby, you know what we’re dealing with,” Lucas said. “You know what could happen.”

“Jeez . . .”

“What could happen?” asked the woman on the couch.

“Some people have been killed. If Bobby doesn’t help us out, you could say he’s an accomplice,” Domeier said. He shrugged, and looked sorry about it.

The woman’s mouth hung open for a minute, then she looked at Bobby. “Jesus Christ, you’re dragging your feet about Zeke? The guy would trade you in for a fifty-watt light bulb.”

“Zeke?” said Lucas.

“Yeah. He’s a teacher out at the vo-tech,” the woman said. She tried a winning smile, unsuccessfully. “He does all our printing.”

“At the vo-tech?”

“Sure. He’s a teacher there. He’s got all this great equipment. And if we’re not using it, it just sits there all night, doing nothing.”

“Who buys the paper?” Domeier asked.

McLain’s eyes shifted. “Mmm, that’s part of his price.”

“Part of the price? You mean the vo-tech is buying your printing paper?”

McLain shrugged. “The price is right.”

McLain drove the grape-colored van; Lucas and Domeier followed him west through the suburbs. The vo-tech was a one-story orange-brick building surrounded by parking lots. A cluster of thirty or forty crows was settled around a heap of snow at one end of the building, like lost lumps of coal.

McLain parked and used an electric lift to get himself out the side door of the van. He was in a power chair this time, and rolled along in front of them, up a ramp, and down a long cold hallway lined with student lockers. Zeke was alone in his classroom. When McLain rolled through the door, he straightened, started a smile. When Lucas and Domeier followed McLain through the door, the smile vanished.

“Sorry,” McLain said. “I hope we can maintain our business relationship.”

Domeier said, “Milwaukee PD, Zeke.”

“I just . . . I just . . . I needed . . .” Zeke waved his hand, unable to find the right word, and then said, “Money.”

They were standing in his office, a cool cubicle of yellow-painted concrete block, with a plastic-laminated desk and two file cabinets. Zeke was short and balding, wore his hair long and combed it in oily strands over his bald spot. He wore a checked sport coat and his hands shook when he talked. “I just . . . I just . . . Should I get a lawyer?”

“You gotta right . . .” Domeier started.

Lucas broke in: “I don’t care about your goddamn printing business. I just don’t have time to fuck around. I want the goddamn negatives or I’ll put some handcuffs on you and we’ll drag you outa the school by your fuckin’ hair, and then we’ll get a search warrant and we’ll tear this place apart and your house and any other goddamn thing we can find. You show me the fuckin’ negatives and I’m gone. You and Domeier can make any kind of deal you want.”

Zeke looked at Domeier, and when the Milwaukee cop
rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, he said, “I keep the negatives at home.”

“So let’s go,” Lucas said.

“How about me?” McLain asked.

“Take off,” said Domeier.

Halfway to his house, Zeke, in the backseat of Domeier’s Dodge, began to weep. “They’re gonna fire me,” he gasped. “You’re gonna put me in jail. I’ll get raped.”

“Do you print for more than Bobby McLain or is he the only one?” Domeier asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror.

“He’s the only one,” Zeke said, his body shuddering.

“Shit. If there was more, you had some names, maybe we could work something out.”

The weeping stopped and Zeke’s voice cleared. “Like what?”

An aging black labrador with rheumy eyes met them at the door.

“If I went to jail, what’d happen to Dave?” Zeke asked Domeier.

The dog wagged his tail when his name was mentioned. Domeier shook his head and said, “Jesus Christ.”

The dog watched as they went through a closet full of offset negatives. The negatives were filed in oversized brown envelopes, with the name of the publication scrawled in the corner. They found the right set and the right negative, and Zeke held it up to the light. “Yup, this is it. Looks pretty sharp.”

They trooped back to the vo-tech. The printer was the size of a Volkswagen, but the first print was done in ten minutes. Zeke stripped it out and handed it to Domeier.

“That’s as good as I can get it,” he said. “It’s still a halftone, so it won’t be as sharp as a regular photograph.”

Domeier glanced at it and handed it to Lucas, saying, “Same old shit. You wasted your time.”

The print was still black-and-white, but considerably sharper. Lucas put it under a table light and peered at it.
A man with an erection and a nude boy in the background. Nothing on the walls.

“The guy’s leg looks weird.” He took the folded newsprint version out of his pocket. The leg was so washed-out that no detail was visible. “Is this . . . whatever it is . . . is this the picture or is there something wrong with his leg?” Lucas asked.

Zeke brought a photo loupe over to the table, put it on the print, bent over it, moved it. “That’s his leg, I think. It looks like it’s stitched together or something, like a quilt.”

“Goddamn,” Lucas said. His throat tightened. “Goddamn. That’s why he wants Weather. She must’ve fixed his leg.”

“You got him?” asked Domeier.

“Got something,” Lucas said. “Is there a doc around I can talk to?”

“Sure. We can stop at the medical examiner’s on the way to the airport. There’ll be somebody on duty.”

“Can I go home now?” asked Zeke.

“Er, no,” Domeier said. “Actually, we gotta go get a truck, the two of us.”

“What for?”

“I’m gonna take every fuckin’ envelope out of your house, and we’re gonna find somebody to print them up for us. And I’m gonna want those names.”

Lucas stopped on the way out of the house to call the airport, and got the pilot in the general aviation lounge. “It didn’t take long. I’m on my way.”

“Hurry. That storm’s coming in fast, man,” the pilot said. “I want to get out of here quick.”

The assistant medical examiner was sitting in his office, feet on his desk, reading a
National Enquirer.

He nodded at Domeier, looked without interest at Lucas and Zeke. “Breaks my heart, what the younger women have done to the British Royal Family,” he said. He balled up the paper and fired it at a wastebasket. “What the fuck do you want, Domeier? More pictures of naked dead women?”

“Actually, I want you to look at my friend’s photograph,” Domeier said.

Lucas handed the doc the print and said, “Can you tell what’s wrong with his leg?”

Zeke asked, “You don’t really have pictures of naked dead women, do you?”