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For twenty-five years the unsolved kidnapping of two young girls has haunted Minneapolis homicide detective Lucas Davenport. Today, the bodies have been found. Today, he returns to a crime—and a nightmare—darker than any before.
If they felt a bandage, and wanted to look at it . . . they find a bullet wound. It’d be taking a big chance.” “Hmm.” Lucas thought about it, looked at the clock: a little after one A.M. “Tell you what: we’re gonna need people around tomorrow, I think, and I’m buying what you’re saying. Why don’t you sit until two, then go on home. We’ll see you at work tomorrow morning.” “Jenkins was coming on at eight.” “I’ll call him in the morning,” Lucas said. “I’ll have him check, and if Hanson isn’t
him, was maybe half a second. All I was thinking of, was to knock him down and get him away from her.” THE SURGEON WAS RIGHT about the recovery being uncomfortable: the discomfort started when he got home, and Weather cornered Del and demanded details on how, exactly, Lucas had gotten hurt. When she found out, she chewed Lucas down to a stump, and then ordered him to bed. With cuts on both his face and back, he found that there was almost no comfortable way to lie in bed, and wound up half
he drove down to Kenny’s bar and introduced himself to the manager, Kenny Katz, who was sitting in a back office working over an old-fashioned mechanical adding machine. He looked at Lucas’s badge and pointed him at a chair, and Lucas told him the story about John Fell and the panhandler named Scrape. “John usually comes in about six or seven, stays for an hour or so,” Katz said. “He showed up here three weeks or a month ago, and maybe every other night since. Usually around six or seven. He’s
wouldn’t. I think I could get him to come out.” The man looked at Cruz, who shrugged again and said, “Brett’s got us by the nuts—we can’t get in, we can’t shoot in, we can’t even gas in, without knowing who else is in there. We know there are at least two more. . . .” They both looked at Del, and then the negotiator said, “I’ll give you a couple minutes with him, if he comes back on the phone.” THEY GOT BRETT BACK on the line, and after a little back-andforth, the negotiator gave the phone
on, you’re clear.” “I told you,” Hanson said, and his wife started weeping again, and half shouted, “You ruined our house.” Lucas waved them down: “But—you’re closely related to the killer.” Now it was Hanson’s turn: “What?” “You probably share a grandfather,” Lucas said. “Who would it be?” Hanson looked at his wife, then at the floor, and then his wife muttered something that Hanson didn’t catch, and he looked around and said, “Oh, good Lord.” “Who is it?” Lucas asked. “We’re a big