Storm Prey

Somebody else did. We got DNA from Joe, and from the killer, and Joe wasn’t the killer.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    She nodded: “That makes sense. I don’t think Joe’s got it in him to kill anybody.”
    “We might need you to tell him that. The thing is, maybe he still kidnapped Jill MacBride, I don’t know. But maybe not. If not, there’s no reason to run. He’d be in a little trouble for running, but that’s minor, compared, you know, to murder.”
    “He could come back and get the bar,” she said.
    “He might do a little time,” Lucas said.
    “But I could run the bar while he was in jail—I mostly run the place anyway.”
    “Works for us,” Jenkins said. “But first, we got to get him back.”
     
     
    THEY EXCHANGED cell-phone numbers, and she followed them in her truck, toward town, and halfway in, called and said, “I want to stop at the bar.”
    “You sure?”
    “I want to look at his face,” she said.
    The place was overrun with cops and crime-scene people; Marcy and Shrake had gone. Lucas took her through the cops, to the body, which was still on the floor. He left her with a cop, stepped over to the crime-scene guy and asked, “Could we get a plastic bag or something, over his lower body? We got his girlfriend here to do the ID.”
    When the black plastic bag was in place, Lucas led her over, holding on to her arm. She looked down, nodded, pursed her lips as though she were going to spit, and turned and pulled him away from the body. Turned a bar stool around, sat down, and stared at the bar.
    “You okay?” Lucas asked.
    “No,” she said.
    “I want to get you out of here. Send you into town with one of my guys, get a statement, and get you settled at a motel.”
    She said, “Okay. Okay. Goddamnit, that hurts. If it’s okay, I gotta go to the ladies’.”
    “Sure.”
    She wandered off toward the hallway that led to the ladies’ room, and Lucas watched her until she went through the door, then moved over to Jenkins. “I want her to trust me, so I don’t want to look like I’m watching her. I’m going down to the other end. But keep an eye on the ladies’ can until she comes out. We don’t want her running on us.”
     
     
    INSIDE THE BATHROOM, Honey Bee paused for a moment, then dug in her purse and took out a key ring with two keys—one a Schlage and one a Yale. She stood at the sink for a moment, as though she’d been looking at herself, or washing her hands, but she wasn’t: she was listening. After a few seconds, she moved quickly to a fire door set in the wall opposite two toilet stalls, opened it with the Schlage, listened again, then stepped forward to an electrical box labeled “High Voltage,” and locked with a padlock. She opened it with the Yale. Inside were two small brown paper sacks, the kind that doughnuts might have come in. She took them, snapped the lock back in place, wiped it with a piece of tissue paper, pushed the door shut with an elbow, locked it, and scurried into a stall.
    Inside, she dropped her jeans and underpants, sat down, and dug the bags out of her purse. Two solid stacks of currency—mostly twenties, she was disappointed to find. Still: eighteen thousand dollars in a quick count. Homeboy PayPal, for those hard-to-resist items that came in after midnight.
    She put it in the bottom of her purse, stood up, flushed, washed her hands, looked at herself in the mirror, splashed some water on her face, wiped it with a paper towel, and went back into the main room. She saw Davenport down at the far end. He held up a hand and came to get her; brought her to Jenkins, who’d take her to BCA headquarters for a statement.
    Lucas said, as they were leaving, “Hang on to her there, until I get back. Won’t be long.”
     
     
    HE TOOK a call from Stephaniak, the Wisconsin sheriff. “Listen, I have what might be bad news for you, but I’m not sure.”
    “I could use some bad news, since all the other news has been so good,” Lucas said.
    “Yeah, well, you might want to get yourself some stainless-steel underwear,” Stephaniak said. “You know, I told you about a bunch of guns and other stuff?”
    “Yeah?”
    “The crime-scene crew got down in there, in the tank, and they found this empty box. Military. There was one empty hand-grenade canister beside it, no grenade. It’s just possible that these guys have a whole box of M67 HE frag grenades.”
    Lucas scratched his head. He didn’t really know what to say.
    “Hello? You