Free The Empress File by John Sandford Page A

wall, with a newspaper dipped in the paint, STEAL THE CITY BLIND. LuEllen splashed out, YOU DIE PIGGY on another two, and CROOK-CROOK-CROOK. We wrote some more garbage, hitting every wall in the house and most of the ceilings. The last of the paint we poured on the living room carpets.
    "Dump the can, and let's go," LuEllen said. We checked the street from the house. Clear. We ran the garage door up and back down and were gone.
    "I've never done anything like that," LuEllen said. "It didn't feel that good."
    "I know."
    We both were private people. Maybe even pathologically so. What we'd just done to Dessusdelit was close to rape. There'd been a point to it, though: We wanted to hurt her financially, beyond stealing her little stash. We wanted her angry, and a little frightened, and disposed to flex her machine muscle. We wanted her scraping for cash when a big opportunity came along...
    LuEllen dropped the three stones into a Ziploc bag and put them under the passenger seat as we headed back to the Wal-Mart. "How much?" I asked.
    "No way to tell," she said. "Everything depends on quality. If they're a good investment grade, anything between thirty and a hundred thousand."
    "Not so good," I said. "There must be more somewhere."
    We switched cars at the Wal-Mart, moving to the Continental, the twin to Ballem's car. Next we checked the City Hall. The parking lot was still full, and this time Duane Hill's personal Toyota pickup was in the lot.
    "So we got him inside," LuEllen said. "Hope the meeting lasts."
    "There's a public hearing. Marvel said it should be a couple of hours at least."
    Ballem's car hadn't moved from the spot in front of his office. We stopped at a second public phone on the way to Ballem's house and made the call. When there was no answer, I nipped the phone receiver, and we started toward Ballem's.
    "There's going to be hell to pay about those phones," LuEllen said, tongue in cheek. "We're fucking with Ma Bell..."
    Two blocks from the phone a cop car turned a corner in front of us, coming in our direction. As we passed, the driver lifted a hand in greeting. The Continental's windows were lightly tinted, so I doubt that he could see much, but I returned the wave.
    "He thinks we're Ballem," I said.
    "He's supposed to..."
    We went on another block when we saw the cop car's taillights come up.
    "He's turning into a driveway," LuEllen said.
    "Quite the trick. He should be on The Tonight Show," I said, the sudden tension forcing out a bad joke. LuEllen paid no attention.
    "He's backing out; he may be coming back this way," LuEllen said.
    "Do I turn or keep going?" I asked. The cop car was two blocks behind us, then two and a half, and I picked up his headlights.
    "Go straight. Let's see what he does. We've got nothing in the car-"
    "Except your bag with the wrecking bar and the zapper. And your coke."
    "He's got no probable cause..." But she dug into a shirt pocket and took out a half dozen red coke caps. If the cops got too close, they'd go out the window.
    "This is the fuckin' Delta, LuEllen. That's probable enough." The lights were still back there but not closing. Then they swerved, off to the side of the road.
    "He was looking at something else," she said, the relief warm in her voice. "Let's get out of sight..."
    Three minutes later, we were at Ballem's.
    "Love those fuckin' automatic garage door openers," LuEllen said as the garage door rolled up. She broke another cap.
    "Christ..."
    "Shut up."
    I'm always tense when I work with LuEllen, and the cocaine made it worse. She loved it, the rush of the work and probably, I was afraid, the rush of the coke. She'd have done it all for free...
    "Have you ever done a triple-header before?" I asked as we pulled into the garage and waited for the door to roll down.
    "Not exactly. One time I went into a players' locker room during an NBA play-off game and hit every fuckin' locker in the place. That was about a twenty-header... if that counts." The door hit with a bump,