close, but they’re both light.”
“Thanks. Keep the list active,” Lucas said. He hung up and said to Del, “Our guy owns a champagne minivan, but not a white one.”
“Eyewitnesses suck,” Del said. “Let’s go jack him up.”
They jacked up Packard about one-millionth of an inch, and then he unjacked himself. He lived in an apartment complex behind a shopping center, and came to the door in cargo shorts and a gray Army T-shirt with a sweat spot on the chest.
His hair, what was left of it, was cropped right down to the skin, giving him what looked like a cranial five- o’clock shadow. That didn’t fit with what Barker had seen.
A golf bag was leaning against the wall of the entry, and over his shoulder, in the living room, Lucas could see six-foot-tall stereo speakers: the place reeked of a post-divorce crib. Lucas and Del, standing in the hall, told him why they were calling.
“Jesus-you guys are hassling me on something I was found innocent on, more’n twenty years ago? What’s up with that?”
“We’re running down everything,” Lucas said. “Since Marcy Sherrill was killed-”
“All right. But man, you gotta get ahold of Dan Ball at Woodbury PD. You can get him through the station- he’ll be in at three o’clock, or you can call him at home. Or call Bill Garvey, he was supervising yesterday: I was in a squad starting at three o’clock, until eleven. We were sitting outside Cub eating lunch when we heard on the radio about the shooting.”
Lucas nodded. “So we’re cool. If we come by and ask for a DNA sample, you wouldn’t have a problem with it? Wouldn’t need to mention it to anybody.”
“I got no problem with that,” Packard said. “So you got nothin’?”
“We got nothin’,” Lucas said, turning away.
“I worked that Jones thing, in a squad,” Packard said. “I kinda remember you. You were on patrol. You were a couple-three years younger than me, and I mostly worked west. Wasn’t Brian Hanson big on that case?”
“Yeah. He was one of the lead guys,” Lucas said.
“Reason I mention it, see, is he died a couple days ago. Kinda weird way,” Packard said.
Lucas stopped. “Why weird?”
“Well, they know he’s dead, but they can’t find the body. They found his boat driving around in the middle of Lake Vermilion, up north, with his hat in it, but no sign of him. There’s a thing in the Star Tribune this morning, inside. His daughter says he used to pee off the back of the boat; everybody tried to stop him doing it.”
“Huh. Couple days ago?”
“Yeah. Same day the Jones girls were found. Or maybe the next day. Weird, huh?”
“Yeah, weird,” Lucas said. “Huh.”
Out in the car, Lucas said, “You know, Hanson… Wouldn’t have to be a cop-it could be a cop’s friend, just asking about the case.”
“I haven’t had any breakfast,” Del said. “Why don’t we stop over at Cub and get something? And figure this out.”
They sat in the parking lot eating deli sandwiches, and talked about Hanson, then started back to the BCA. They were a mile out when Shrake called on Lucas’s cell: “Minneapolis SWAT’s outside a place off Portland about Forty-second, not on Portland but over a block, it’s like Fifth Avenue or something, no details but the word is, the guy inside is the one who shot Marcy.”
“What?”
“That’s what we’re hearing, man,” Shrake said. “Some biker guy. Supposedly some kind of grudge thing, Marcy had been bustin’ his balls. Jenkins and I are on the way over. We’ll keep you in touch-”
“That makes no goddamn sense,” Lucas said. “That’s crazy. This doesn’t have anything to do with Marcy, it’s Barker who’s the one. That’s who the shooter was after.”
“I’m just telling you what I hear,” Shrake said. “The guy’s a doper.”
“We’re coming. We’re on 494 coming up to 94; get us some better directions. I think we’ll turn around and come up from the south.”
“Might be quicker,” Shrake said. “And you better hurry.”
“I bet they got a nine-one-one tip on the guy,” Lucas said.
“Why? We got DNA on the shooter; giving up the wrong guy won’t help him.”
Lucas said, “Yeah… maybe the guy doesn’t know about DNA. Or maybe he’s just fuckin’ with us. Or maybe he’s playing for time, maybe he’s getting his shit together and trying to get out of town.”
Minneapolis had barricaded a two-block radius from the target home on Fifth Avenue, an older white- stuccoed place on an embankment with a two-car detached garage in back. They parked outside the perimeter, walked past Jenkins’s Crown Vic and through the perimeter, flashing their BCA identification at the uniformed cops barricading the streets.
They found Jenkins and Shrake loitering outside the SWAT team’s command post. Lucas asked, “What’s happening?”
“Still in there,” Jenkins said. “They got a negotiator on the phone; he says the guy sounds pretty high.”
“Probably flushing all their junk down the toilet, what they can’t get up their noses,” Del said. “How many are in there?”
“A guy named Donald Brett and his old lady, Roxanne. Maybe a kid. Probably a kid.”
“I know that guy,” Del said.
“Asshole?” Shrake asked.
“Oh yeah,” Del said.
Lucas: “Crazy enough to kill a cop?”
“Probably,” Del said. “He’s your basic hometown psycho who’s been self-medicating with crank and cocaine for years.”
“Can’t see anything from here,” Lucas said, peering down the street at the target house.
“Couple guys went up and were getting ready to take the door down, a pit bull came around the house and started tearing up their ass, and they shot it. Dog’s still there,” Jenkins said. “When they went back to the door, Brett had pushed a table in the entryway. They can’t get the door open now.”
“That’s a handy table,” Del said.
“Probably done it before,” Shrake said.
Lucas: “I’m gonna go find the guy in charge.”
They found the guy in charge, a Xavier Cruz, sitting on a tripod stool behind a SWAT van. Inside, another guy was sitting on the floor of the van, talking into a telephone, a finger in his off-ear: the negotiator. Cruz saw them coming and said, “Davenport. Del.”
“How’d you figure the guy out?” Lucas asked.
“Got a nine-one-one tip,” Cruz said. “Guy said he was bragging to friends over at the White Nights.”
“You got the nine-one-one guy?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“He said he didn’t want to be involved,” Lucas suggested.
“Something like that,” Cruz said. “Why?”
Lucas said, “Because the guy on the phone was the killer. He did the same thing to us back on the Jones case. Did it twice; we still got the recordings.”
Cruz said, “Huh,” like, maybe yes, maybe no.
The negotiator was saying, “You gotta man up, Don. You gotta man up. You got responsibilities, you got a wife, you got kids. If you’re not involved, it won’t take long for us to figure it out.”
Del said to Cruz, “If you put me on the phone, I can probably get him out of there in a couple of minutes.”
Cruz studied him for a few seconds, then asked, “You pals?”
