Free Eyes of Prey by John Sandford Page A

bigotry, even in murder. There were other reasons, too. In that neighborhood, a black guy would be noticed.
    He left Poppy at the bowling alley and headed west to Minneapolis, touched a gay bar on Hennepin Avenue, two more joints on Lake Street and finally, having learned nothing, woke up a fence who lived in the quiet suburban town of Wayzata.
    “I don’t know, Davenport, maybe just a freak. He wastesthe woman, splits for Utah, spends the money buyin’ a ranch,” the fence said. They sat on a glassed-in porch overlooking a pond with cattails. The lights from another house reflected off the surface of the water, and Lucas could make out the dark shapes of a raft of ducks as they bobbed shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the pond. The fence was uncomfortable on a couch, in his pajamas, smoking an unfiltered cigarette, his wife sitting beside him in a bathrobe. She had pink plastic curlers in her hair and looked worried. She’d offered Lucas a lime mineral water, cold, and he rolled the bottle between his hands as they talked. “If I were you,” the fence said, “I’d check with Orville Proud.”
    “Orville? I thought he was in the joint, down in Arizona or someplace,” Lucas said.
    “Got out.” The fence picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue and flicked it away. “Anyway, he’s been around for a week or so.”
    “Is he setting up again?” He should have known. Proud had been in town for a week— he should have known.
    “Yeah, I think so. Same old deal. He’s hurtin’ for cash. And you know the kind of contacts he’s got. Fuckin’ biker gangs and the muscle guys, the Nazis, everybody. So I says, ‘The word’s out that it might have been a hit, the husband brought somebody in.’ And he says, ‘That ain’t a good thing to be talking about, Frank.’ So I stopped talking about it.”
    “Huh. You know where he is?”
    “I don’t want none of this coming back,” the fence said. “Orville’s a little strange . . . .”
    “Won’t be coming back,” Lucas assured him.
    The fence looked at his watch. “Try room two twenty-one at the Loin. There’s a game.”
    “Any guns?”
    “You know Orville . . . .”
    “Yeah, unfortunately. All right, Frank, I owe you.”
    “ ’Preciate it. You still got that cabin up north?”
    “Yeah . . .”
    “I got some good deals coming on twenty-five horse Evinrudes.”
    “Don’t push your luck,” Lucas said.
    “Hey, Lieutenant . . .” Frank grinned, reaching for charm, and his teeth were not quite green.
     
    The Loin was the Richard Coeur de Lion Lounge & Motel on the strip across from Minneapolis-St. Paul International. The place started straight, lost money for a few years, then was picked up by a more creative management out of Miami Beach. After that, it was called either the Dick or the Loin, but Loin won out. As a nickname, it was felt by the people who decided such things, “Loin” had more class. The better gamblers, slicker coke peddlers, prettier whores and less discriminating Viking football players populated the bar and, most nights, the rooms in the attached motel.
    The bar was done in red velvet and dark wood with oval mirrors. There were two stuffed red foxes in the foyer, mounted on chunks of driftwood, on either side of a bad reproduction of The Blue Boy. Upstairs, the rooms had water beds and pornographic movies on cable, no extra charge.
    Lucas walked through the lobby, nodded at the woman behind the desk, who smiled, almost as though she remembered checking him in, and walked up the steps to the single hallway that ran the length of the motel. Room 221 was the last one on the left. He stood outside the door for a moment, listening, then took his .45 out of the shoulder rig and stuck it under his belt in the small of his back. He knocked on the door and stepped back across the hall, where he could be seen through the peephole. The peephole got dark for a moment; then a voice said, “Who is it?”
    “Lucas Davenport