Prey: Night Prey Part 18

"It's bulls.h.i.+t," Lucas said.

"We gotta check," Roux said.

"We'll check," Lucas said, "But we really need to catch this guy, and talking to old heart-attack victims isn't gonna do it."

"This one time, Lucas, G.o.dd.a.m.nit," Roux said, adamant. "I want you out there interviewing the guy, and I want you giving the statement to TV3."

"When the f.u.c.k did the TV start running our investigations?" Lucas asked.

"Jesus, Lucas-we're entertainment now. We're cheap film footage. We sell deodorant and get votes. Or lose votes. It's all a big loop; I've been told you were the first guy to realize that."

"Christ, it wasn't like this," Lucas said. "It was more like one hand was.h.i.+ng the other. Now it's . . ."

"Entertainment for the unwashed."

As Lucas walked out the door, Roux called, "Lucas. Hey-don't kill this old guy, huh? When you talk to him?"

THEY TOOK A company car, all three of them, Greave sprawled in the back.

"Let me do the TV interview," he suggested to Lucas. "I did them all the time when I was Officer Friendly. I'm good at that s.h.i.+t. I got the right suits."

"You were Officer Friendly?" Connell snorted, looking over the seat at him. Then, "You know, it fits."

She said it as an insult. Lucas glanced at her and almost said something, but Greave was rambling on. "Really? I thought so. Go into all those cla.s.srooms, tell all the little boys that they'd grow up to be firemen and policemen, all the little girls that they'd be housewives and hookers."

Lucas, moderately surprised, shut his mouth and looked straight out over the wheel, and Connell said, "f.u.c.k you, Greave."

Greave, still cheerful, said, "Say, did I tell you about the deaf people?"

"Huh?"

"Some deaf people went into the St. Paul cops. They saw the thing on TV, you know, that Connell fed them? They think they saw the guy at the bookstore the night Wannemaker was taken off. Bearded guy with a truck. They even got part of his license tag."

Connell turned to look over the seat. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Unfortunately, they didn't get any numbers. Only the letters."

"Well, that'd get it down to a thousand-"

"Uh-uh," Greave said. "The letters they got were a.s.s."

"a.s.s?"

"Yeah."

"d.a.m.nit," Connell said, turning back front. The state banned license plates with potentially offensive letter combinations: there were no f.u.k, SUK, LIK, or DIK. No CNT or TWT. There was no a.s.s.

"Did we check?"

"Yup," Greave said. "There's nary a one. I personally think this old guy did it, then comes home and gives the daughter a little tickle."

"Kiss my a.s.s," Connell said.

"Any time, any place," said Greave.

A TV3 TRUCK was parked on the street in front of the Weston house, a reporter combing her strawberry-blond hair in the wing mirror, a cameraman in a travel vest sitting on the curb, eating an egg-salad sandwich. The cameraman said something to the reporter as Lucas stopped at the house, and the reporter turned, saw him, and started across the street. She had long smooth legs on top of black high heels. Her dress clung to her like a new paint job on a '55 Chevy.

"I think she's in my Playboy," Greave said, his face pressed to the window. "Her name is Pamela Stern. She's a piranha."

Lucas got out and Stern came up, thrust out her hand, and said, "I think we've got him bottled up inside."

"Yeah, well . . ." Lucas looked up at the house. The curtains twitched in an old-fas.h.i.+oned picture window. The reporter reached out and turned over his necktie. Lucas looked down and found her reading the orange label.

"Hermes," she said. "I thought so. Very nice."

"His shoes are from Payless," Connell said from across the car.

"His shorts are from Fruit of the Loom," said Greave, chipping in. "He's one of the fruits."

"I love your sungla.s.ses," Stern said, ignoring them, her perfect white teeth catching her lower lip for just an instant. "They make you look mean. Mean is so s.e.xy."

"Jesus," Lucas said. He started up the walk with Greave and Connell, and found the woman right at his elbow. Behind her, the cameraman had the camera on his shoulder, and rolling. Lucas said, "When we get to the steps, I'm going to ask the guy if he wants me to arrest you for trespa.s.sing. If he does, I will. And I suspect he does."

She stopped in her tracks, eyes like chips of flint. "It's not nice to f.u.c.k with Mother Nature," she said. And then, "I don't know what Jan Reed sees in you."

Connell said, "Who? Jan Reed?" and Greave said, "Whoa," and Lucas, irritated, said, "Bulls.h.i.+t," and rang the doorbell. Ray Weston opened the door and peeked out like a mouse. "I'm Lucas Davenport, deputy chief of police, City of Minneapolis. I'd like to speak to you."

"My daughter's nuts," Weston said, opening the door another inch.

"We need to talk," Lucas said. He took off the sungla.s.ses.

"Let them in, Ray," a woman's voice said. The voice was shaky with fear. Weston opened the door and let them in.

Neither Ray nor Myrna Weston knew anything about the killings; Lucas, Connell, and Greave agreed on that in the first five minutes. They spent another half hour pinning down times on the Wannemaker and Lane killings. The Westons were in bed when Lane was taken, and were watching The Wild Ones with friends when Wannemaker was picked up.

"Do you think you can get these b.u.ms off our back?" Ray Weston asked when they were ready to leave.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "That stuff your daughter's giving them-it's pretty heavy."

"She's nuts," Weston said again. "How can they believe that stuff?"

"They don't," Lucas said.

Outside, Stern was waiting, microphone in hand, the camera rolling, when Lucas, Connell, and Greave left the house. "Chief Davenport," she said. "What have you learned? Will you arrest Ray Weston, father of Elaine Louise Weston-Brown?"

Lucas shook his head. "Nope. Your whole irresponsible story is a crock of s.h.i.+t and a disgrace to journalism."

GREAVE WAS LAUGHING about Stern's reaction on the way back, and even Connell seemed a little looser. "I liked the double take she did. She was already rolling with the next question," Greave said.

"It won't seem so funny if they put it on the air," Connell said.

"They won't do that," Lucas said.

"The whole thing is like some weird feminist joke," Greave said. "If there is such a thing as a feminist joke."

"There are lots of feminist jokes," Connell said.

"Oh. Okay, I'm sorry. You're right," Greave admitted. "What I meant to say is, there are no funny feminist jokes."

Connell turned to him, a tiny light in her eye. "You know why women are no good at math?" she asked.

"No. Why?"

She held her thumb and forefinger two inches apart. "Because all their lives they're told this is eight inches."

Lucas grinned, and Greave let a smile slip. "One f.u.c.kin' funny joke after thirty years of feminism."

"You know why men give names to their p.e.n.i.ses?"

"I'm holding my breath," Greave said.

" 'Cause they don't want a complete stranger making all their important decisions for them."

Greave looked into his lap. "You hear that, G.o.dzilla? She's making fun of you."

Just before they got back, Connell asked, "Now what?"

"I don't know," Lucas said. "Think about it. Read your files some more. Dredge something up. Wait."

"Wait for him to kill somebody else?"

"Something," Lucas said.

"I think we ought to push him. I think we ought to publish the artist's drawing. I couldn't find anybody to confirm it, but I'd bet there's some resemblance."

Lucas sighed. "Yeah, maybe we should. I'll talk to Roux."

ROUX AGREED. "IT'LL give us a bone to throw them," she said. "If they believe us."

Lucas went back to his office, stared at the phone, nibbling at his lower lip, trying to find a hold on the case. The easy possibilities, like Junky, were fading.

The door opened without a knock, and Jan Reed stuck her head in. "Whoops. Was I supposed to knock? I thought this was an outer office."

"I'm not a big enough deal to have an outer office," Lucas said. "Come on in. You guys are killing us."

"Not me," she said, sitting down, her legs crossed to one side. She'd changed since he saw her in the morning, and must've gotten some sleep. She looked fresh and wide awake, in a simple skirt with a white silk blouse.

"I wanted to apologize for Pam Stern. She's been out there a little too long."

"Who turned up the original story?"

"I really don't know-it was phoned in," she said.

"The therapist."

"I really don't know," she said, smiling. "And I wouldn't tell you if I did."

"Ah. Ethics raise their ugly head."

"Is there anything new?" she asked. She took a short reporter's notebook out of her purse.

"No."

"What should I look for next?"

"The autopsy. Evidence of the killer's s.e.m.e.n or blood. If we get that, we've got something. There's a good chance that he's a prior s.e.xual offender, and the state's got a DNA bank on prior offenders. That's next."

"All right," she said. She made a few notes. "I'll look for that. Anything else?"

Lucas shrugged. "That's about it."

"Okay. Well, that's it, then." And she left, leaving behind her scent. There'd been just the tiniest, microscopic pause after she'd said "Okay." An opportunity to get personal? He wasn't sure.

CONNELL CAME BY late in the afternoon. "Nothing from the autopsy yet. There's a bruise on her face where it looks like somebody pinched her, and they're bringing in a specialist to see if they can lift a fingerprint. No great hopes."

"Nothing else?"

"Not yet. And I'm drawing blanks," she said.

"How about the PPP guy, the convict who saw the tattoo? What was his name-Price? If nothing comes up, why don't we drive over to Waupun tomorrow and talk to him?"

"Okay. What about Greave?"

"I'll tell him to work his own case for the day. That's all he wants to do anyway."

"Good. How far is Waupun?"

"Five or six hours."

"Why don't we fly?"

"Ah . . ."

"I can get a state patrol plane, I think."

WEATHER'S HEAD WAS snuggled in under Lucas's jaw, and she said, "You should have driven. You don't need the stress."

"Yeah, but I sound like such a chicken."