Read Online Phantom Prey by John Sandford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Sandford
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phone from his pocket, calling home. “Go ahead and eat without me,” he told Weather. “I’ll grab a sandwich. I’m doing some running around on Alyssa Austin.”
“Anything I should know?” Weather asked.
“There’s a mystery woman,” Lucas said.
“That’s always good,” she said.
“I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
He stopped at a sandwich shop across the street from the supermarket. He got a free newspaper on the way in; from order to delivery, through eating and reading, a half hour drained away. When he walked across the street to his car, it was fully dark. Mike’s was ten minutes away. He got tangled up around a minor traffic accident, and another ten minutes disappeared.
Mike’s was a wedge-shaped store stuck into the corner of a 1920s building with fake brown-brick siding made of tar shingles, neon beer signs in the windows, bars under the glass. A young woman was sitting on a stool behind the counter, talking on her cell phone, a pudgy salon-blonde with a thumbprint-sized bruise under one eye, a scattering of acne across her nose. She took the phone away from her face for a moment and asked, “D’you need help?”
Lucas held up his ID. “Need to talk to you about Roy.”
She said into the 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 feeble-minded. “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 Dinkytown? 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 to the cop, as
“Anything I should know?” Weather asked.
“There’s a mystery woman,” Lucas said.
“That’s always good,” she said.
“I’ll tell you about it tonight.”
He stopped at a sandwich shop across the street from the supermarket. He got a free newspaper on the way in; from order to delivery, through eating and reading, a half hour drained away. When he walked across the street to his car, it was fully dark. Mike’s was ten minutes away. He got tangled up around a minor traffic accident, and another ten minutes disappeared.
Mike’s was a wedge-shaped store stuck into the corner of a 1920s building with fake brown-brick siding made of tar shingles, neon beer signs in the windows, bars under the glass. A young woman was sitting on a stool behind the counter, talking on her cell phone, a pudgy salon-blonde with a thumbprint-sized bruise under one eye, a scattering of acne across her nose. She took the phone away from her face for a moment and asked, “D’you need help?”
Lucas held up his ID. “Need to talk to you about Roy.”
She said into the 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 feeble-minded. “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 Dinkytown? 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 to the cop, as
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