Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(50)

All four saw the driver of the pickup, a fat man in a loose, short-sleeved black shirt and a bright gold ball cap, jump uninjured from the truck, stop for a second in the pool of light cast from a pole on the far side of the intersection, and run back up Randolph, across the street from the Temple of Aaron, and down an alley.

No one thought to chase him, during the first minute after the crash; they were all gawking, reaching for their cell phones, running to look at Weather. The skater had dropped his board when the driver ducked into the alley and had run after him, but never saw him again.

The St. Paul cops had a car there in two minutes; an ambulance arrived in six. Weather was still in the car, unconscious, when an EMT and a cop wrenched open the passenger-side door, slipped in the end of a stretcher, cut the safety belt still looped over Weather’s chest, and eased her on the stretcher.

A moment later, she was on her way to Regions Hospital, the EMT advising the driver, “Drive fast, man . . . Let’s get her there . . . Drive faster . . .”

A patrol sergeant recovered her purse and had opened her wallet, looking for an ID, when another cop hurried up to him and asked, “You know who she is?”

The cop looked at the driver’s license. “Weather . . . Karkinnen.”

“Yeah, and I ran the plates. The car’s registered to her and her husband, Lucas Davenport.”

“Ah, shit,” the sergeant said. “Listen—get onto the BCA, get a phone number for Davenport. If they don’t have it, get one for a Del Capslock. Tell him what happened. He’s a friend of Davenport’s.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Get more cars here. Lots of cars. The guy’s on foot; we’re gonna track him down if it takes all night.”



* * *



—

LUCAS HAD NEVER WORKED for the St. Paul cops but had lived in the city for better than twenty years and was well known around the St. Paul Police Department. He might not have been the best-liked guy, but a cop’s wife is a cop’s wife.

The sergeant got more cars to the crash scene, and the cops crawled the neighborhood with flashlights and dogs, but they never found the driver. They had his truck, though, and the license plate went to an Alice B. Stern. Alice Stern’s house, on St. Paul’s east side, was dark and quiet. There was no response to persistent knocking. A neighbor said Stern worked at a nearby bar, as a waitress. They found her there, serving drinks. She had been at the bar since four o’clock.

When questioned, she admitted owning the Tacoma. She used the old truck for cruising yard sales on Thursday mornings and for selling stuff at the flea market on Saturdays. For daily driving, she had a Corolla, which was still in the bar’s parking lot.

She also had a boyfriend.

“I can’t believe Doug would have taken it—he can’t drive,” she told the St. Paul sergeant. “I mean, he can drive, but he’s not allowed to. He just got out of Lino Lakes on his last DWI.”

The sergeant gave her a look, and she said, “Oh, no . . .”



* * *



—

THREE COP CARS went back to her house. She let them in, and together they found Douglas Garland Last in the garage, dead in a flea-market-bound office chair, a bullet hole in his head, a .38 on the floor next to his hand, along with a bright gold Iowa Hawkeyes ball cap. The sergeant called everybody. When all was said and done at the Medical Examiner’s, Last was found to have a blood alcohol content of 2.1, well over twice the legal limit.

The same old story. Call Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Again. Not that it would do much good—Douglas Last had never been elected to anything.

Before they ever found Last, they’d found Capslock. Del knew exactly where Lucas was.



* * *



—

LUCAS WAS SITTING on his bed, paging through a tattered book of American haiku, when Del got through to him.

Del didn’t screw around with preliminaries. “Man, Weather’s been in an auto accident. She’s on her way to Regions. She’s hurt bad. I’m on my way now, but you better get back here.”

Lucas, heart racing, was on his feet, looking for his pants. “What happened? Where’d it happen? How bad? Del . . .”

“She got hit on Mississippi River Boulevard, couple of blocks from your house. The other driver ran off, but they got his truck. That’s all I know. I’ll call you back . . .”

Lucas turned cold. He had to get back there.

The front desk hooked him up with an air charter service at Dulles International. He gave them a credit card number, he invoked Senator Smalls by name. The operator said they could leave as soon as the card cleared. He called the desk again for a cab, got dressed, stuffed his Dopp kit, all his various phones, his computer, and his camera in his backpack, did a quick survey of the room to make sure he had everything involving the case, and sprinted out the door. At the desk, he told them to hold his room, that he would be back but didn’t know when, and to let Bob or Rae in the room if they asked.

During the forty-minute trip to Dulles, he called Bob, told him what had happened.

“I don’t know how bad she is but she is hurt, from what I can tell. I’ll be gone for a while. You guys stay. I’ll let you know when I’m heading back . . . if I come back.”

He next called his daughter Letty, at Stanford. He told her what Del had said, and she said, “I’m on my way. I’ll get back to you.”