Stolen Prey

those rumors are true.”

“Half hour,” Lucas said. “Did you call Bob Shaffer?”

“Naw, he’s an asshole,” Morris said. “You can call him if you want.”

“Did the dead guy have any ID on him?”

“We haven’t completely unwrapped him yet. He’s wrapped in a plastic tarp.”

“Well, his name is probably Richard Pruess, and he was a vice president for Polaris National Bank over in Minneapolis. He was probably killed because some Mexican narcos think he stole a bunch of money from them.”

“Huh. So I got nothing left to detect,” Morris said.

“You could detect where the killers are,” Lucas said. “We have no idea.”

“Okay. Get your ass over here. And call Shaffer.”

Lucas did, but Shaffer lived in one of the far north suburbs, and his wife said he was out running. “He left his cell phone here. He doesn’t like to be disturbed,” Shaffer’s wife said.

“Well, tell him to call me,” Lucas said. “I need to disturb him.”

Then he called Rivera, who was eating breakfast, and gave him an address, and headed for the shower. Thirty-one minutes after he took the call, he pulled up to the St. Paul crime-scene tape and got out of the Porsche, held his ID up for the rookie who was minding the tape, and went through the line.

Morris, a fat black guy in a pink dress shirt and black slacks, was looking with discouragement into the dumpster, while a crime-scene guy walked around the area with a video camera. Morris’s partner, who was standing on a nearby front porch, talking to the home owner, raised a hand, and Lucas waved back. Lucas walked up to Morris and said, “I really like you in pink, sweetie.”

“Fuck you. You don’t look this good in your dreams.” He tipped his head toward the dumpster. The body was still folded inside, but had been partially unwrapped.

Lucas looked in, winced, turned back to Morris and said, “Same guys.”

“Yeah, I thought maybe. I saw all that stuff on TV. They cut his fingers off at the joints, and the pieces are rolling around like unchewed chunks of Dubble Bubble gum.”

“Nice simile,” Lucas said. “Kinda literary.”

“I’m a literary kind of guy, but … who’re these people?” Morris was looking back over Lucas’s shoulder.

Lucas turned and saw Rivera and Martinez walking up to the crime-scene line. He shouted down to the cop, “Let them in,” and said to Morris, “Mexican cops. They’re up here to observe, see what they can pick up.”

Rivera walked up, looking unsettled: a kind of after-sex look, and Lucas glanced at Martinez, who looked a little glassy herself, and thought, Hmm. Rivera had told him he was married to a nice hometown girl.

Rivera said, “Thank you for the call,” and Lucas introduced him to Morris. Rivera looked in the dumpster, then called Martinez up with a crook of his finger, and they both looked in for a moment. Then Martinez turned to Morris and said, “This is the Agua Prieta group. The same people.”

“Mexicans?” Morris asked.

Rivera nodded and said, “Yes. We think somebody robbed one of their drug laundries, and they are either trying to get their money back, or are on a punishment mission.”

“Well, hell. I am definitely nonplussed,” Morris said.

“As we all are,” Lucas said. “Let’s find a place to sit down, and we’ll fill you in.”

“One thing,” Morris said. “We found a clue.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really. C’mere.” He led the way to his car, opened the door, took out a big plastic bag. “This was inside the wrapper right by the face. It’s a napkin with a smear of blood on it, and what smells like a little dog shit.”

“Dog shit?” Lucas, Rivera, and Martinez were looking through the transparent plastic.

“The body was found when a woman opened the dumpster to throw in a bag of dog shit. I guess they all go around picking up dog shit in this neighborhood,” Morris said. “Anyway, she threw it in, and it landed on the head part … but when we unwrapped, we found this. Looks like somebody used it to wipe up some blood or something. It’s a napkin from Zapp’s.”

Lucas said, “Jesus, it is. It’s like a clue. Like somebody dropped a matchbook from a bar.”

“Whatever,” Morris said. “Anyway, the crime-scene guys are gonna work this, and I’m gonna run over to Zapp’s. You’re welcome to come, if you want. It’s as much your case as mine.”

Lucas was in Zapp’s every month or so. He looked at his watch. “Not open yet.”

“I called John Sappolini, he’s gonna meet us there. He’s calling his crews in.”

“Let’s go,” Lucas said.

Morris rode over with Lucas, and Lucas filled him in on the murders in Wayzata. “I’ll send you the book. But it’s the same guys.”

“I don’t want that shit starting up here,” Morris said.

“I hear you,” Lucas said.

Shaffer called, Lucas told him about Pruess, and Shaffer said he’d be down as soon as he could make it. Lucas gave him Morris’s cell phone number, but didn’t mention that he was riding along.

When he got off, Morris said, “I wish I wasn’t gonna be working with him.”

“Something personal?”

“Just style. He’s one of those ball-bearing guys, who goes ricocheting around banging into people,” Morris said. “He’s got no sense of humor. No style.”

“He’s sort of a cowboy guy,” Lucas said. “He and his wife used to teach line dancing. They came down to the office a few times and gave lessons to guys who wanted them, and their wives. Everybody was wearing cowboy boots.”

“Now, see, that’s something I didn’t know,” Morris said. “I can’t believe that guy can dance. Not that line dancing is really dancing.”

“Of course it is, and it’s very romantic,” Lucas said. “I actually got addicted to it, for a while.”

Morris bit: “Really? I never would’ve thought you were that kind of guy.”

Lucas nodded. “Got so bad my shrink put me in a two-step program.”

Morris tried not to laugh, but finally let it out, and they laughed for a block or two, until Lucas’s cell phone rang. He looked at the screen: Virgil Flowers.

“What’s up?” Lucas asked.

“Got a minute?”

“Yeah, I’m just riding around with Roger Morris. He’s wearing a hot-pink short-sleeved dress shirt.”

“Tell him he looks fabulous,” Flowers said.

Lucas passed the word, then said, “Roger gives you the sign of the horns, and knowing your second ex-wife, he’s probably right. Anyhow…”

“I found out that there are roughly a million riding stables out here, or people with horses, anyway,” Flowers said. “Using my quick intellect, I called up everybody I knew, and I’m starting to get some serious vibes from the Waseca area. Horse people there have seen them. Hauling horse shit on an old Ford flatbed.”

“Man, that’s terrific,” Lucas said. “What’s next?”

“I’m going over there, talk to the various sheriffs, the county agents, anybody else. I don’t have anything definite, though-I’m basically checking in. Wanted you to know I’m not out fishing, even though it is Saturday, and my day off.”

“Hey, Virgil-find them for me. Honest to God, I’ll introduce you to one of my old girlfriends.”

“Thanks anyway,” Flowers said. “But she’d be too old for me. I’ll call you tonight or tomorrow, soon as I get anything.”