The Night Crew
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE NIGHT CREW
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1997 by John Sandford.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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ISBN: 1-101-14617-6
BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
A division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
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Berkley and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): June 2001
the night crew
john sandford
Contents
Praise for John Sandford and
T
HE
N
IGHT
C
REW
“This could be the best mystery/suspense novel of the year . . . . [An] absolutely brilliant, first-rate thriller.”
—Bookman News
“A true mystery . . . sleek and nasty—and filled with well-drawn, interesting characters.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Marvelous.”
—Anniston Star
“Fear and tension fill the pages . . . A rapidly accelerating story.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“Edgy, literate suspense with definite L.A. noir overtones.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“[
The Night Crew
] brings out the noir in Sandford.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Sandford has taken his fiction in an exciting new direction.”
—Book of the Month Club Views
“[A Sandford] novel is an unbeatable recipe for a fastpaced, you-can’t-put-this-book-down kind of read.”
—Detroit News
“Sandford whips his ingredients into a fresh and satisfying dish, the mark of a born storyteller.”
—San Diego Union
R
ULES
OF
P
REY
Sandford's smash bestselling debut—introducing Lucas Davenport…
“Sleek and nasty . . . it’s a big, scary, suspenseful read, and I loved every minute of it.”
—Stephen King
“A haunting, unforgettable, ice-blooded thriller.”
—Carl Hiaasen
S
HADOW
P
REY
Lieutenant Davenport goes on a city-to-city search for a bizarre ritualistic killer…
“When it comes to portraying twisted minds, Sandford has no peers.”
—Associated Press
“Ice-pick chills . . . excruciatingly tense . . . a doublepumped roundhouse of a thriller.”
—Kirkus Reviews
E
YES
OF
P
REY
Davenport risks his sanity to stalk the most brilliant and dangerous man he has ever known, a doctor named Michael Bekker…
“Relentlessly swift. Genuinely suspenseful . . . excellent.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Engrossing . . . one of the most horrible villains this side of Hannibal the Cannibal.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
S
ILENT
P
REY
Michael Bekker, the psychopath Davenport captured in
Eyes of Prey,
escapes…
“Superb!”
—St. Paul Pioneer Press
“
Silent Prey
terrifies . . . just right for fans of
The
Silence of the Lambs.”
—Booklist
W
INTER
P
REY
In the icy woods of rural Wisconsin, Davenport searches for a brutal killer known as the Iceman…
“Vastly entertaining . . . a furious climactic chase . . . one of the best
Preys
yet.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An intense thriller with an unlikely killer.”
—Playboy
N
IGHT
P
REY
Davenport faces a master thief who becomes obsessed with a beautiful woman—then carves her initials into his victims…
“One of the most engaging characters in contemporary fiction.”
—Detroit News
“Night Prey
sizzles . . . positively chilling.”
—St. Petersburg Times
M
IND
P
REY
Lucas Davenport tracks a vicious kidnapper who knows more about mind games than Lucas himself…
“His seventh, and best, outing in the acclaimed
Prey
series.”
—People
“Grip-you-by-the-throat thrills . . . impossible to put down.”
—Houston Chronicle
S
UDDEN
P
REY
Davenport falls prey to the purest, simplest criminal motivation: revenge…
“The story will clamp down like a bear trap on all who open its covers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Unquestionably the best [
Prey
] yet, a tale of perverse revenge that strikes very close to home.”
—Cleveland Plain Dealer
And don’t miss John Sandford's thrilling novels of stings and swindles…
T
HE
E
MPRESS
F
ILE
Kidd and LuEllen are a pair of lovers and liars plotting the ultimate scam . . . Until everything goes wrong…
“Alfred Hitchcock would have been delighted.”
—Philadelphia Inquirer
“The imaginative con scheme is clever . . . but the biggest thrills occur when events don’t go as planned.”
—Library Journal
T
HE
F
OOL’S
R
UN
Kidd and LuEllen return for a killer con in the hightech world of industrial espionage…
“A gripping, ultramodern novel . . . fast-paced and suspenseful.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Fast-paced action, high-intellect puzzle-solving, dandy characters . . . If you start guessing outcomes, you are fooled.”
—Minneapolis Star & Tribune
“Sandford is one of the most skilled thriller writers at work in this country or any other.”
—Richmond Times Dispatch
Berkley Books by John Sandford
RULES OF PREY
SHADOW PREY
EYES OF PREY
SILENT PREY
WINTER PREY
NIGHT PREY
MIND PREY
SUDDEN PREY
THE NIGHT CREW
THE EMPRESS FILE
THE FOOL’S RUN
SECRET PREY
CERTAIN PREY
For Susan, Again
one
The corner of Gayley and Le Conte, at the edge of the campus:
Frat boys cruised in their impeccably clean racing-green Miatas and cherry-red Camaro ragtops, with their impeccably blonde dates, all square shoulders, frothy dresses and big white teeth.
Two skinny kids, one of each sex, smelling of three-day sweat and dressed all in black, unwrapped Ding-Dongs and talked loud about Jesus and the Joy to Come; celebrating Him—and vanilla-creme filling.
At the Shell station, a tanker truck pumped Premium down a hole in the concrete pad, under the eye of a big-bellied driver.
And above them all, a quarter-million miles out, a buttery new moon smiled down as it slid toward the Pacific.
The Bee was impatient, checking her watch, bouncing on her toes. She was waiting at the corner, a JanSport backpack at her feet. Her face was a pale crescent in the headlights of passing cars, in the Los Angeles never-dark.
The Shell tanker driver stood in a puddle of gasoline fumes, chewed a toothpick and watched her in a casual, lookingat-women way. The Bee was dressed by Banana Republic, in khaki wash pants, a t-shirt with a queen bee on the chest, a photographer’s vest with fifteen pockets, hiking boots and a preppy black-silk ski mask rolled up and worn as a watch cap.
When she saw the truck with the dish on the roof, she pulled the mask down over her face, picked up the backpack, and stepped out to the curb. The Bee had small opaque-green eyes, like turquoise thumbtacks on the black mask.
Anna Batory, riding without her seatbelt, her feet braced on the truck’s plastic dashboard, saw the Bee step out to the curb and pointed: ‘‘There she is.’’
Creek grunted and eased the truck to the curb. Anna rolled down the passenger-side window and spoke to the mask: ‘‘You’re the Bee?’’
‘‘You’re late,’’ the Bee snapped.
Anna glanced at the dashboard clock, then back out the window: ‘‘Jason said ten-thirty.’’
Jason was sitting in the back of the truck on a gray metal folding chair, next to Louis. He looked up from his Sony chip-cam and said, ‘‘That’s what they told me. Ten-thirty.’’
‘‘It’s
now
ten-thirty-
three,’’
the Bee said. She turned her wrist to show the blue face on a stainless-steel Rolex.
‘‘Sorry,’’ Anna said.
‘‘I don’t think that’s good enough,’’ the Bee said. ‘‘We might be too late, and it’s all wasted.’’
Behind the Bee, the Shell gas-delivery man was taking an interest: a lot of people in a TV truck and a blonde in a ski mask, arguing.
‘‘You better get in,’’ Anna said. She could smell the fumes from the gas as she turned and pushed back the truck’s side
door. Louis caught it and pulled it the rest of the way. The Bee looked at the two men in the back, nodded and said, ‘‘Jason,’’ to Jason, said nothing to Louis and climbed aboard.
‘‘Around the corner to Westwood, then Westwood to Circle,’’ the Bee said. ‘‘You know where Circle is?’’
‘‘Yeah, we know where everything is,’’ Creek said. They’d been everywhere. ‘‘Hold on.’’
Creek took the truck around the corner, humming to himself, which he did when he was tightening up. Anna turned back to the Bee, found the other woman gaping at Creek, and grinned.
Creek looked vaguely like the Wookiee in
Star Wars:
sixseven, overmuscled and hairy. He was wearing a USMC sweatshirt with the sleeves and neck torn out. Tattoos covered his arms: just visible through the reddish-blond hair on his biceps was an American flag in red, blue and Appalachiawhite skin, deeply tanned, with the scrolled sentiment, ‘‘These colors don’t run.’’
‘‘Hello?’’ Anna lifted a hand to break the stare. The Bee tore her eyes away from Creek. ‘‘We need some facts and figures,’’ Anna said. ‘‘How many people on the raid, where you’re based, what specifically you object to—like that.’’
‘‘We’ve got it all here, but we’ve got to hurry,’’ the Bee said. She dug into the backpack, came up with a plastic portfolio, and took out a sheet of crisp white paper. Anna flicked on the overhead reading light.
The press release was tight, professional, laser-printed. A two-color pre-printed logo of a running mustang set off the words ‘‘Free Hearts’’ at the top of the page.
‘‘Are these quotes from you or from the collective?’’ Anna asked, ticking the paper with a fingernail.
‘‘Anything that’s in quotes, you can attribute to either me or the Rat. We wrote the statement jointly.’’
‘‘Will we meet the Rat?’’ Anna asked. She passed the press release to Louis, who slipped it in a spring clip on the side of the fax.
‘‘He’s in the building now,’’ the Bee said, leaning left to peer past Anna out the windshield. ‘‘Turn left here,’’ she said. Creek slowed for the turn.
‘‘We’d like to get an action quote when they come out, as they release the animals,’’ Anna said.
‘‘No problem. We can accommodate that.’’ The Bee looked at her Rolex, then back out the window. They were right in the middle of the UCLA medical complex. ‘‘I’m sorry I’m so . . . snappy . . . but when Jason agreed to tenthirty, we specified
exactly
ten-thirty. The raid is already under way.’’
Anna nodded and turned to Louis. ‘‘How’re the radios?’’
Louis Martinez sat in an office swivel chair that was bolted to the floor of the truck. From the chair, he could reach the scanners and transmitters, the dual editing stations, the fax and phones, any of the screens in the steel racks.
He fiddled with the gear incessantly, trying to capture a mental picture of after-dark Los Angeles, in terms of accidents, shootings, car chases, fires, riots.
‘‘All clear,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ve got that shooting down in Inglewood, but that ain’t much. There’s a chase down south, Long Beach, but it’s heading the other way.’’
‘‘Track it,’’ Anna said. Cop chases had produced at least two famous video clips in the past couple of years. If you could get out in front of one, and catch it coming by, it was a sure sale.
‘‘I got it,’’ Louis said. He pushed his glasses up his nose and grinned at the Bee with his screwy nerd-charm. ‘‘Why’d you choose Bee?’’ he asked.
‘‘I didn’t want a warm and fuzzy animal. That’s not the point of animal rescue,’’ the Bee said. Her response was
remote, canned, and Louis’ grin slipped a fraction of an inch.
‘‘And that’s why Steve picked Rat,’’ Jason suggested.
The Bee frowned at the use of Rat’s real name, but nodded. ‘‘Yes. And because we feel a spiritual affinity with our choices.’’
In the driver’s seat, Creek grunted again, shook his head once, quick. Anna was watching him, taking his temperature: He didn’t like these people and he didn’t like the professional PR points—the press release, the theatrical ski mask. Too much like a setup, and Creek was pure.
A smile curled one corner of Anna’s mouth. She could read Creek’s mind if she could see his eyes. Creek knew that. He glanced at her, then deliberately pulled his eyes away. And said, quickly: ‘‘There’s a guy on the corner.’’
Ahead and to the right, a woman in a ski mask was standing on the corner, making a
hurry-up
windmilling motion with one arm.
‘‘That’s Otter,’’ she said. ‘‘And that’s the corner of Circle. They must be out—turn right.’’
Creek took the corner, past the waving woman. The street tilted uphill, and a hundred yards up, a cluster of women spilled down a driveway to the street, two of them struggling with a blue plastic municipal garbage can. A security guard was running down from the top of the hill, another one trailing behind.
‘‘Got them coming out,’’ Anna said, over her shoulder. A quick pulse ran through her: not quite excitement, but some combination of pleasure and apprehension.
Nobody ever knew for sure what would happen at these things. Nothing much, probably, but any time you had guards with guns. . . . Did the guards have guns? She took a halfsecond to look, but couldn’t tell.
As she looked, she reached behind her, lifted the lid on the steel box bolted on the back of her seat, pulled the Nagra
tape recorder from its foam nest. Jason was looking past her, through the windshield at the action, and she snapped: ‘‘Get ready.’’
‘‘Yes, Mom,’’ he said. He fitted a headset over the crown of his head, plugged in the earphone. Creek was driving with one hand, pulling on his own headset.
‘‘Everybody hear me?’’ Anna asked, speaking into her face mike. The radios were one-way: Anna talked, everyone else listened.
Creek said, ‘‘Yeah,’’ and took the truck over the curb, one big bounce and a nose-down, squealing, full stop. Jason had braced himself, and Louis had swiveled to let the chair take the jolt. The Bee toppled over and yelped, ‘‘Shit.’’
Ahead of them, the women carrying the garbage can were jerking and twisting down the driveway, doing the media polka—looking for the cameras, running for the lights, trying to stay away from the guards.
The raiders had gone into the back of the building, over a loading dock; the dock was contained inside a fence, with a concrete patio big enough for fifteen or twenty cars. At least a dozen women, all masked, milled around the patio; then a man ran out of the medical building, carrying a small, squealing, black-and-white pig. Then another woman, carrying boxes, or maybe cages.
As the truck settled, as Bee yelped, Anna was out and running, the Nagra banging against her leg. Jason was two steps behind her with the backup Sony, and Creek was out the driver’s door, his camera up on his shoulder, off to Anna’s left. Bee, a little out of shape, sputtered in their wake.
Then Creek lit up and Anna yelled at the man with the pig, ‘‘Bring the pig. Bring the pig this way . . . Bring the pig.’’ The man saw them coming and walked toward them, and she had the Nagra’s mike pointed at the squealing pig and Jason lit up.
The security guards saw the camera lights and the first one turned to the man trailing, yelled something to the other, who ran back up the hill. The first one continued down, and shouted at Creek, ‘‘Hey, no cameras here, no cameras.’’
A group of masked women headed toward him, walled him off from the rest of the milling crowd, pushed him toward the ramp. Frustrated, he climbed up the loading dock and hurried to the open door. Just as he was about to go through the door, he jumped back, and a young man in a blue oxford cloth shirt and jeans ran out of the building and headed toward the lights.
Anna said to the microphone, her voice calm, even, ‘‘Creek, there’s a kid coming in, watch him. Jason, stay with the pig.’’
Creek backpedaled. When Anna spoke into his ear, he’d looked up from his eyepiece and spotted the kid in the blue shirt: trouble, maybe. Trouble made good movies. The kid was striding toward them, a dark smear under his nose, one hand cupping his jaw. He seemed to be crying.
‘‘They were gonna kill this pig, for nothing—for soap tests or something, shampoo,’’ the masked pig-man shouted at Jason’s camera. The pig was freaking out, long shrieking bleats, like a woman being stabbed. ‘‘She’s gonna live now,’’ pig-man shouted, as the pig struggled against him. ‘‘She’s gonna live.’’
The patio was chaos, with the cameras and the pig-man, the women with cages, all swirling around: Blue shirt arrived and Anna saw that he
was
crying, tears running down his cheeks as Creek tracked him with the lens. The dark smear was blood, which streamed from his nose and across his lips and chin.
‘‘Give me that pig,’’ he screamed, and he ran at the pigman. ‘‘Gimme that.’’ The animal women blocked him out, not hitting him, just body blocking. Both Creek and Jason
tracked the twirling scrum while Anna tried to stay out of their line; she kept the Nagra pointed, picking up the overall noise, which could be laid back into the tape later, if needed.
The Bee caught Anna’s arm: ‘‘He’s just a flunky, forget him,’’ she shouted, over the screams and grunting of the struggle. ‘‘But we’re gonna do the mice now. Get the mice, in the garbage cans.’’
The women with the blue garbage can were waiting their turn with the lights, and Anna spoke into the mike again: ‘‘Jason, get out of there. Go over to that blue garbage can, it’s full of mice, they’re gonna turn them loose.’’ Jason took a step back, lifted his head, spotted the garbage can. ‘‘Creek, stay with the kid,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Stay with the kid.’’
As Jason came up, the women with the garbage can, who’d been waiting, popped the lid and tipped it, and two hundred or three hundred mice, some black, some white, some tan, scurried down the sides and ran out onto the patio, looked around and headed for the nearest piece of cover.
Jason hung close and then the kid in the blue shirt went that way, screaming, ‘‘Gimme those,’’ and, sobbing, tried to corral the mice. They were everywhere, running over his feet, over his hands, avoiding him, making the break. He finally gave up and slumped on the ground, his head in his hands, the mice all around.
Jeez: this is almost too good,
Anna thought. As Creek tracked him, the Bee came back with her nagging voice: ‘‘Do you want an on-camera statement?’’
And Anna thought,
Who’s running this thing?
But she had to smile at the other woman’s effective management: ‘‘Yeah, but we’d better hurry,’’ Anna said. ‘‘The cops’ll be coming.’’