Read Online Phantom Prey by John Sandford - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Sandford
Ads: Link
phone, "I've got a cop here. I don't know, it's about Roy. . . . I don't know, hang on." To Lucas, with the phone on her shoulder: "What about Roy?"
"Could you get off the phone for a minute?" Lucas asked.
To the phone: "He wants me to get off the phone? Yeah, he is." Lucas thought he'd heard a tinny "asshole" from the phone, and he rubbed his forehead. She picked that up and said, "Call you back." Hung up and said, "Yeah?"
"I'm looking for an employee of yours named Roy," Lucas said.
"He went home."
"You got a phone number for him?" Lucas asked.
"I'm not allowed to give that out."
"I'm a cop. You're allowed to give it to me," Lucas said.
She rolled her eyes, as though she were being tried by the feebleminded. "I'm not allowed to give to anybody."
"You want to stop giving me a hard time here?"
"Me? You're the asshole."
Lucas looked at her for a moment; she was enjoying herself, jerking around a cop. He contemplated her for a second, then took out his cell phone, hit a speed-dial number, waited for a second, then said, "This is Lucas Davenport, with the BCA. . . . Yeah, hi, Rog. Look, could you send a squad around to Mike's Liquor on Fourteenth, over in Dinky - town? I'm working that Ford murder thing, I got a witness giving me a hard time. I'd like to get the name and a number for the owner, I might want to pick him up later. Yeah, thanks. Just probably transport her downtown, give her some time in the tank to think about it. Yeah. Yeah. Talk to you."
He hung up the phone and she shouted, "Transport me?" Lucas turned away, walked over to the door and looked out. She shouted, "Wait a minute. Transport me? What the fuck are you talking about?"
Lucas crossed his arms, looked down the street.
"Hey, fuckhead. Are you talking about me?"
He was getting a headache, but turned toward her. "When did Roy leave?"
Her eyes were bulging, her face the color of a Coke can, but she gave it up: "Half an hour ago."
A squad car pulled into the curb and a cop got out. "How do I get in touch with him?"
"You can't," she snarled. "He's on a date."
"Where's he going?"
"How'n the fuck should I know?" she asked. "I'm not his mother."
"Where does he live?"
She rolled her eyes again and Lucas resisted the impulse to jump over the counter and slap the shit out of her. "I don't know. In Uptown."
"So what's his phone number?"
"I'm not allowed to give it out," she said.
The Minneapolis cop came through the door, nodded at Lucas and asked, "What's up?"
"Ah, for Christ's sakes," the woman said. Lucas held a finger up t o t he cop, as she pulled a clipboard out from under the counter, looked down a list, and read off the phone number.
Lucas had his notebook ready and jotted it down. "What's his last name?"
"Carter."
Lucas wrote it down, said to the cop, "We're good to go. Madonna here was giving me a raft of shit."
They stepped toward the door and she shouted, "Fuck you again."
They both flinched and the cop said, "Jesus," and they were out on the sidewalk.
"Sorry about this," Lucas said. "She had me whipped. I was just trying to get a number for a guy whose name I didn't know."
They heard a last "fuck you," faintly, through the closed door, and the cop said, "She definitely needs to take a couple aspirin," and, as he walked around the nose of his squad, "Have a nice day."
Lucas called Roy Carter from the car, hoping that the number would go to a cell phone; but the phone rang twenty times with no answer. He took fifteen minutes getting across Minneapolis, found Carter's apartment in a big old house that had been cut into four crappy apartments. He went up the central hall to the second floor, saw light under Carter's door. He knocked on the door, which rattled in the frame, knocked again, knocked a third time. Felt empty; not even a creaking floorboard.
Back at the car, he thought about heading home; then took out the list of names that Alyssa Austin had given him and scanned down it. The first time he looked, he'd noticed
"Could you get off the phone for a minute?" Lucas asked.
To the phone: "He wants me to get off the phone? Yeah, he is." Lucas thought he'd heard a tinny "asshole" from the phone, and he rubbed his forehead. She picked that up and said, "Call you back." Hung up and said, "Yeah?"
"I'm looking for an employee of yours named Roy," Lucas said.
"He went home."
"You got a phone number for him?" Lucas asked.
"I'm not allowed to give that out."
"I'm a cop. You're allowed to give it to me," Lucas said.
She rolled her eyes, as though she were being tried by the feebleminded. "I'm not allowed to give to anybody."
"You want to stop giving me a hard time here?"
"Me? You're the asshole."
Lucas looked at her for a moment; she was enjoying herself, jerking around a cop. He contemplated her for a second, then took out his cell phone, hit a speed-dial number, waited for a second, then said, "This is Lucas Davenport, with the BCA. . . . Yeah, hi, Rog. Look, could you send a squad around to Mike's Liquor on Fourteenth, over in Dinky - town? I'm working that Ford murder thing, I got a witness giving me a hard time. I'd like to get the name and a number for the owner, I might want to pick him up later. Yeah, thanks. Just probably transport her downtown, give her some time in the tank to think about it. Yeah. Yeah. Talk to you."
He hung up the phone and she shouted, "Transport me?" Lucas turned away, walked over to the door and looked out. She shouted, "Wait a minute. Transport me? What the fuck are you talking about?"
Lucas crossed his arms, looked down the street.
"Hey, fuckhead. Are you talking about me?"
He was getting a headache, but turned toward her. "When did Roy leave?"
Her eyes were bulging, her face the color of a Coke can, but she gave it up: "Half an hour ago."
A squad car pulled into the curb and a cop got out. "How do I get in touch with him?"
"You can't," she snarled. "He's on a date."
"Where's he going?"
"How'n the fuck should I know?" she asked. "I'm not his mother."
"Where does he live?"
She rolled her eyes again and Lucas resisted the impulse to jump over the counter and slap the shit out of her. "I don't know. In Uptown."
"So what's his phone number?"
"I'm not allowed to give it out," she said.
The Minneapolis cop came through the door, nodded at Lucas and asked, "What's up?"
"Ah, for Christ's sakes," the woman said. Lucas held a finger up t o t he cop, as she pulled a clipboard out from under the counter, looked down a list, and read off the phone number.
Lucas had his notebook ready and jotted it down. "What's his last name?"
"Carter."
Lucas wrote it down, said to the cop, "We're good to go. Madonna here was giving me a raft of shit."
They stepped toward the door and she shouted, "Fuck you again."
They both flinched and the cop said, "Jesus," and they were out on the sidewalk.
"Sorry about this," Lucas said. "She had me whipped. I was just trying to get a number for a guy whose name I didn't know."
They heard a last "fuck you," faintly, through the closed door, and the cop said, "She definitely needs to take a couple aspirin," and, as he walked around the nose of his squad, "Have a nice day."
Lucas called Roy Carter from the car, hoping that the number would go to a cell phone; but the phone rang twenty times with no answer. He took fifteen minutes getting across Minneapolis, found Carter's apartment in a big old house that had been cut into four crappy apartments. He went up the central hall to the second floor, saw light under Carter's door. He knocked on the door, which rattled in the frame, knocked again, knocked a third time. Felt empty; not even a creaking floorboard.
Back at the car, he thought about heading home; then took out the list of names that Alyssa Austin had given him and scanned down it. The first time he looked, he'd noticed
Similar Books
