John Sandford - Secret Prey

The cops looked at each other again, and then the younger one said, "Maybe we got this wrong. We understood…"

"Yeah, I’m his wife. In two weeks we would’ve been divorced. We haven’t lived together for two years, and I haven’t seen him for a year. I don’t like him. Didn’t like him."

"Uh, could you tell us where you were…?"

She smiled at him sleepily. "When?"

"Early this morning?"

"In bed. I was out late last night, with friends."

"Could anybody vouch for you being here last night?" The older cop was pressing; once you had somebody rolling, you never knew what might come out.

But she nodded: "Sure. A friend brought me home."

"I’m talking about later, like early this morning."

"So am I," she said. "He stayed."

"Oh, okay." Neither one of them was a bit embarrassed, and she was now looking at him with a little interest. "Could we get his name?"

"I don’t see why not. Come on in," she said. "I’ll write it down."

They followed her into the apartment, noted the polished wood floors, the Oriental carpets, the tastefully colorful paintings on eggshell-white walls.

"You haven’t asked me how much I’d get from him, if he died before the divorce," she said over her shoulder.

The older cop smiled, his best Gary Cooper grin. He liked her: "How much?"

"I don’t know," she lied. "My attorney and I took him to the cleaners."

"Good for you," he said. She was scribbling on a notepad, and when she finished, she brought it over and handed it to him. "George Wright. Here’s his address and phone number. I’m going to call him and tell him about this."

"That’s up to you," the older cop said.

"That’s my number at the bottom, in case you need to interrogate me. It’s unlisted," she said. She looked at him with her blue eyes and nibbled on her lower lip.

"Well, thanks," he said. He tucked the slip of paper in his shirt pocket.

"Do I sound like a heartless bitch?" she asked him cheerfully. And as she asked, she took his arm and they walked slowly toward the door together.

"Maybe a little," he said. He really did like her and he could feel the back of his bicep pressing into her breast. Her breast was very warm. He even imagined he could feel a nipple.

"I really didn’t like him," she said. "You can put that in your report."

"I will," he said.

"Good," she said, as she ushered him out the door. "Then maybe I’ll get to see you again… You could show me your gun."

The cops found themselves in the hallway, the door closing behind them. At the elevator door, the younger one said, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You gonna call her?"

The older one thought a minute, then said, "I don’t think I could afford it."

"Shit, you don’t have to buy anything," the young one said. "She’s rich."

"I dunno," the older one said.

"Take my advice: If you call her, you don’t want to jump her right away. Get to know her a little."

"That’s very sensitive of you," the older one said.

"No, no, I just think… She wants to see your gun?"

"Yeah?"

"So you wanna put off the time when she finds out you’re packing a.22."

"Jealousy’s an ugly thing," the older cop said complacently. As they walked out on the street to the car, he looked up at the apartment building and said, "Maybe."

And even if not, he thought, the woman had made his day.

Audrey McDonald, coming in from the garage, found her husband’s orange coveralls on the kitchen floor, and just beyond them, his wool shooting jacket and then boots and trousers in a pile and halfway up the stairs, the long blue polypro underwear.

"Oh, shit," she said to herself. She dropped her purse on a hallway chair and hurried up the stairs, found a pair of jockey shorts in the hallway and heard him splashing in the oversized tub.

When Wilson McDonald got tense, excited, or frightened, he drank; and when he drank, he got hot and started to sweat. He’d pull his clothing off and head for water. He’d been drunk, naked, in the lake down the hill. He’d been drunk, naked, in the pool in the backyard, frightening the neighbor’s daughter half to death. He’d been in the tub more times than she could remember, drunk, wallowing like a great white whale. He wasn’t screaming yet, but he would be. The killing of Dan Kresge, all the talk at the club, had pushed him over the edge.

At the bathroom door, she stopped, braced herself, and then pushed it open. Wilson was on his hands and knees. As she opened the door, he dropped onto his stomach, and a wave of water washed over the edge, onto the floor, and around a nearly empty bottle of scotch.

"Wilson!" she shouted. "Goddamnit, Wilson."

He floundered, rolled, sat up. He was too fat, with fine curly hair on his chest and stomach, going gray. His tits, she thought, were bigger than hers. "Shut up," he bellowed back.

She took three quick steps into the room and picked up the bottle and started away.

"Wait a minute, goddamnit…" He was on his feet and out of the tub faster than she’d anticipated, and he caught her in the hallway. "Give me the fucking bottle."

"You’re dripping all over the carpet."

"Give me the fucking bottle…" he shouted.

"No. You’ll-"

He was swinging the moment the "no" came out of her mouth, and caught her on the side of the head with an open hand. She went down like a popped balloon, her head cracking against the molding on a closet door.

"Fuckin’ bottle," he said. She’d hung on to it when she went down, but he wrenched it free, and held it to his chest.

She was stunned, but pushed herself up. "You fuck," she shouted.

"You don’t…" He kicked at her, sent her sprawling. "Throw you down the fuckin’ stairs," he screamed. "Get out of here."

He went back into the bathroom, and she heard the lock click.

"Wilson…"

"Go away." And she heard the splash as he hit the water in the tub.

Downstairs, she got an ice compress from the freezer and put it against her head: she’d have a bruise. Goddamn him. They had to talk about Kresge: this was their big move, their main chance. This was what they’d worked for. And he was drunk.

The thought of the bottle sent her to the cupboard under the sink, to a built-in lazy Susan. She turned it halfway around, got the vodka bottle, poured four inches of vodka over two ice cubes, and drank it down.

Poured another two ounces to sip.

Audrey McDonald wasn’t a big woman, and alcohol hit quickly. The two martinis she’d had at lunch, plus the pitcher of Bloody Marys at the club, had laid a base for the vodka. Her rage at Wilson began to shift. Not to disappear, but to shift in the maze of calculations that were spinning through her head.

Bone and O’Dell would try to steal this from them.

She sipped vodka, pressed the ice compress against her head, thought about Bone and O’Dell. Bone was Harvard and Chicago; O’Dell was Smith and Wharton. O’Dell had a degree in history and finance; Bone had two degrees in economics.

Wilson had a B.A. from the University of Minnesota in business administration and a law degree from the same place. Okay, but not in the same class with O’Dell or Bone. On the other hand, his grandfather had been one of the founders of Polaris. And Wilson knew everyone in town and was a member of the Woodland Golf and Cricket Club. The vice chairman of Polaris, a jumped-up German sausage-maker who never in a million years could have gotten into the club on his own, was now at Woodland, courtesy of Wilson McDonald. So Wilson wasn’t weaponless…

She heard him thumping down the stairs a minute later. He stalked into the kitchen, still nude, jiggling, dripping wet. "What ya drinking?" he asked.

"Soda water," she said.

"Soda water my ass," he snarled. Then his eyes, which had been wandering, focused on the cold compress she held to her head. "What the fuck were you taking my scotch for?"