Heat Lightning

They’re talking machine guns. Warren’s dead in his driveway.”
     
 
THEY TOOK Davenport’s car, and Davenport pushed it hard, out to the interstate, into Minneapolis, Del trailing behind in the state car. Warren’s neighborhood had been shut off, and two helicopters were picking through the brush with searchlights. They found a place to park, and Virgil, Del, and Davenport walked down the street to Warren’s place, where a dozen cops were milling around in the yard. Eight or ten cop cars were parked along the street and on the other side of the lake, and two hundred people from the neighborhood were out in the street, standing in clumps, watching.
    They found a Minneapolis captain named Roark who’d taken charge of the scene, who nodded at Lucas, checked out his tux, asked, “Is that the new BCA uniform?” and said, not waiting for an answer, “I hear you guys are involved.”
    Lucas nodded. “This is the lemon killings. The killers are three Vietnamese, a woman and two men. We can get prints and DNA anytime we need them—on the woman, anyway. Probably on all three. They’re running.”
    “Any idea on their vehicles?”
    Virgil shook his head. “No. But they’ll have an exit plan, so they’re twenty miles from here and moving. Or they’re getting on a plane somewhere.”
    Del asked, “You know what happened?”
    “They got him when he was uncovered for one second, getting out of his car,” Roark said. “His bodyguard swears it was one second. They don’t know where the shot came from, but we think it was from across the lake. We sent some guys over there with a flashlight, and they found a matted-down place in the brush, and a mosquito net thing, you know, a head net, and a beanbag that was probably used as a rest.”
    Virgil looked. “Easy shot, if you know guns.”
    “I talked to one of the bodyguards, he said they never thought about the other side of the lake. The lake was like a barrier, but it’s only about a hundred and forty yards.”
    “Goddamnit,” Davenport said. “They might never have been at the golf course. If they knew he was coming out tonight, that would have been enough to wait here.”
    “What about machine guns?” Virgil asked Roark. “We talked to a guy . . .”
    Roark was shaking his head. “One of the bodyguards freaked out and hosed down a ceramic statue. Blew it up, said he thought the guy had ducked for cover, so he put a couple more magazines into it.”
    “So no machine guns?”
    “We think it was one shot,” Roark said. “Big gun. Warren never knew what hit him. Blew out a good piece of his head. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
    Davenport looked at Virgil. “You think they’ll try for Knox?”
    “Yeah. They don’t know that we know where he is—in fact, they think we don’t know where he is.”
    “Better get your ass up there,” Davenport said. “I’ll get you a plane, get some guys from the Bemidji office. Take some heavy shit with you.”
    “I gotta get back to my truck. . . .”
    “We’re not doing any good here. Let’s go.”
     
 
ON THE WAY OUT, Virgil got on his phone and called Louis Jarlait at Red Lake. “Louis, We figured out the lemon killers. Three Vietnamese, two guys and a woman. They’re headed your way; they’re going after a guy up on the Rainy River, outside of International Falls. I’m flying into International Falls tonight, but I could use a little help—guys who know their way around in the woods.”
    “I could get Rudy and go up there,” Jarlait said.
    “Man, I’d appreciate it. We’re gonna get some guys from the BCA office in Bemidji, but they’ll be investigator types. We need some guys with deer rifles.”
    When he was off the phone, he said to Davenport, “You should talk to Sinclair tonight. I’m wondering if he told me what he did to flush Warren out in the open. To make a predictable move.”
    “I’ll do that. You take it easy up there.”
    As they came up to his truck, Virgil said, “I’m going to call you in about one minute—they’re probably still monitoring my truck, and I’m going to tell them I don’t know where Knox is. You might get a little pissed about that.”
    “I’ll play,” Davenport said.
     
 
IN THE TRUCK, headed down to the BCA office, Virgil got on the phone to Davenport, shouting: “Warren’s dead. They shot him at his house. . . .”
    Davenport: “Have you found Knox? Where the hell is Knox?”
    “I don’t know. His daughter says he does