LaChaise should be getting to Capslock's place.
CAPSLOCK'S WIFE WAS A NURSE AT RAMSEY GENERAL Hospital, according to her insurance file. She finished her shift at three o'clock.
LaChaise stopped at a Tom Thumb store, bent his head against the storm, punched in her phone number--the insurance forms had everything: address, employer, home and office phones--and waited for an answer.
Like Butters, LaChaise carried two pistols with him, but revolvers rather than automatics. He didn't care about the noise he made, so he didn't have to worry about a silencer; and he liked the simplicity of a revolver. No safeties or feed problems to think about, no cocking anything, just point and shoot.
Cheryl Capslock answered on the fourth ring. ''Hello?''
''Uh, Mrs. Capslock?'' LaChaise tried to pitch his voice up, to sound boyish, cheerful. ''Is Del in?''
''Not yet. Who is this?''
''Terry--I'm at the Amoco station on Snelling. Del wanted, uh, he wanted to talk to me and left a number. Could you tell him I'm around?''
''Okay, your name is Terry?''
''Yeah, T-E-R-R-Y, he's got the number.''
''I'll tell him,'' Cheryl Capslock said.
MARTIN WALKED ACROSS THE STREET TO THE CAR LOT. The Firebird was in a display stand, forty feet from the main side window on the dealership. He walked once around the car, then again, then bent to look in the side window.
As he rounded the car the second time, he saw a salesman, in the lighted room, pulling on a coat. Martin took the knife out of the sheath and put it in the right side pocket of his coat. Ten seconds later, the salesman, shoulders humped against the snow, trotted out to the car. His coat hung open, showing a rayon necktie.
''She's a beaut,'' he said, tipping his head at the car.
''You're Mr. Sherrill?'' asked Martin.
''Yeah, Mike Sherrill. Didn't we meet last week sometime?''
''Uh, no, not really . . . Listen, I can't see the mileage on this thing.''
Sherrill was in his mid-thirties, a onetime athlete now running to fat and whiskey. A web of broken veins hung at the edges of his twice-broken nose, and his once-thick Viking hair had thinned to a blond frizz. ''About fifty-five thousand actual. Let me pop the door for you.''
Sherrill skated around the car, used a gloved hand to quickly brush the snow off the windshield, then fumbled at the locked keybox on the door. Martin looked past him at the dealership. Another salesman stood briefly at the window, looking out at the snow, then turned away.
''Okay, here we go,'' Sherrill said. He got the key out of the keybox and unlocked the car door.
Martin didn't mess around, didn't wait for the better moment. He stood to one side as Sherrill opened the door. When Sherrill stepped back, he moved close against the other man,put one hand on his back, and with the other, delivered the killing thrust, a brutal upward sweep, like a solar plexus jab.
The knife took Sherrill just below the breastbone, angling up, through the heart.
Sherrill gasped once, wiggled, started to go down, his eyes open, surprised, looking at Martin. Martin guided his falling body onto the car seat. He pushed Sherrill's head down, caught Sherrill's thrashing legs and pushed them up and inside. Sherrill was upside down in the car, his feet over the front seat, his head hanging beneath the steering wheel. His eyes were open, glazing. He tried to say something, and a blood bubble came out of his mouth.
''Thanks,'' Martin said.
Martin pushed down the door lock, slammed the door and walked away. There was nobody in the dealership window to see him go.
BUTTERS WAITED UNTIL THE MAN IN THE WHITE SHIRT had a customer and the woman was free. He walked into the store, his hand on the silenced pistol. At the back of the store, near the door to the storeroom, was a display for DirecTV. He headed that way, and Elaine Kupicek followed. She was a nice-looking woman, Butters thought, for a cop's wife.
''Can I help you?'' She had a wide, mobile mouth and long skinny hands with short
CAPSLOCK'S WIFE WAS A NURSE AT RAMSEY GENERAL Hospital, according to her insurance file. She finished her shift at three o'clock.
LaChaise stopped at a Tom Thumb store, bent his head against the storm, punched in her phone number--the insurance forms had everything: address, employer, home and office phones--and waited for an answer.
Like Butters, LaChaise carried two pistols with him, but revolvers rather than automatics. He didn't care about the noise he made, so he didn't have to worry about a silencer; and he liked the simplicity of a revolver. No safeties or feed problems to think about, no cocking anything, just point and shoot.
Cheryl Capslock answered on the fourth ring. ''Hello?''
''Uh, Mrs. Capslock?'' LaChaise tried to pitch his voice up, to sound boyish, cheerful. ''Is Del in?''
''Not yet. Who is this?''
''Terry--I'm at the Amoco station on Snelling. Del wanted, uh, he wanted to talk to me and left a number. Could you tell him I'm around?''
''Okay, your name is Terry?''
''Yeah, T-E-R-R-Y, he's got the number.''
''I'll tell him,'' Cheryl Capslock said.
MARTIN WALKED ACROSS THE STREET TO THE CAR LOT. The Firebird was in a display stand, forty feet from the main side window on the dealership. He walked once around the car, then again, then bent to look in the side window.
As he rounded the car the second time, he saw a salesman, in the lighted room, pulling on a coat. Martin took the knife out of the sheath and put it in the right side pocket of his coat. Ten seconds later, the salesman, shoulders humped against the snow, trotted out to the car. His coat hung open, showing a rayon necktie.
''She's a beaut,'' he said, tipping his head at the car.
''You're Mr. Sherrill?'' asked Martin.
''Yeah, Mike Sherrill. Didn't we meet last week sometime?''
''Uh, no, not really . . . Listen, I can't see the mileage on this thing.''
Sherrill was in his mid-thirties, a onetime athlete now running to fat and whiskey. A web of broken veins hung at the edges of his twice-broken nose, and his once-thick Viking hair had thinned to a blond frizz. ''About fifty-five thousand actual. Let me pop the door for you.''
Sherrill skated around the car, used a gloved hand to quickly brush the snow off the windshield, then fumbled at the locked keybox on the door. Martin looked past him at the dealership. Another salesman stood briefly at the window, looking out at the snow, then turned away.
''Okay, here we go,'' Sherrill said. He got the key out of the keybox and unlocked the car door.
Martin didn't mess around, didn't wait for the better moment. He stood to one side as Sherrill opened the door. When Sherrill stepped back, he moved close against the other man,put one hand on his back, and with the other, delivered the killing thrust, a brutal upward sweep, like a solar plexus jab.
The knife took Sherrill just below the breastbone, angling up, through the heart.
Sherrill gasped once, wiggled, started to go down, his eyes open, surprised, looking at Martin. Martin guided his falling body onto the car seat. He pushed Sherrill's head down, caught Sherrill's thrashing legs and pushed them up and inside. Sherrill was upside down in the car, his feet over the front seat, his head hanging beneath the steering wheel. His eyes were open, glazing. He tried to say something, and a blood bubble came out of his mouth.
''Thanks,'' Martin said.
Martin pushed down the door lock, slammed the door and walked away. There was nobody in the dealership window to see him go.
BUTTERS WAITED UNTIL THE MAN IN THE WHITE SHIRT had a customer and the woman was free. He walked into the store, his hand on the silenced pistol. At the back of the store, near the door to the storeroom, was a display for DirecTV. He headed that way, and Elaine Kupicek followed. She was a nice-looking woman, Butters thought, for a cop's wife.
''Can I help you?'' She had a wide, mobile mouth and long skinny hands with short
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