John Sandford - Rules of Prey

Lucas sat down on the mattress. "I think-I'm not sure-but I think if he hits her, he'll come after dark but before midnight. He's careful. He won't want to walk around at a time when people will notice him, but he'll want the dark to hide his face. I expect he'll try to get in the house while she's gone and jump her when she comes back. That's the way he did it with Ruiz. The other possibility would be to catch her right at the door as she's going in. Sap her, push her right inside. If he did it right, it would look like he was meeting her at the door."

"We thought he might try some kind of con," said one of the surveillance cops. "You know, go up to the door, say he's a messenger from the station or something. Get her to open the door."

"It's a possibility," Lucas said. "I still like the idea-"

"Here she comes," said the cop at the window.

Lucas got up and half-crawled, half-walked to the window and looked out. A red Toyota sports car pulled up to the curb directly in front of McGowan's house, and a moment later she got out, carrying a shopping bag. She self-consciously didn't look around and marched stiffly up to the house, unlocked the door, and went inside.

"In," said the first surveillance cop. The second shone a miniature flashlight on his wristwatch and counted. Thirty seconds. A minute. A minute and a half. A minute forty-five.

The phone rang and the first surveillance cop picked it up.

"Miss McGowan? Okay? Good. But keep the beeper on until you go to bed, okay? Have a good night."

"You coming up every night?" Henley asked casually.

"Most nights, midweek. For three hours or so, nine to midnight or one o'clock, like that," Lucas said.

"You do it for too long, you wind up brain dead."

"And if the surveillance doesn't do it, this fuckin' elevator music will," Lucas said. The easy-listening music still oozed from the boombox.

One of the surveillance cops grinned and nodded at his partner. "Compromise," he said. "I like rock, he can't stand it. He likes country and I won't listen to all that hayseed hillbilly tub-thumping. So we compromised."

"Could be worse," Henley chipped in.

"Not possible," Lucas said.

"Ever listen to New Age?"

"You win," Lucas conceded. "It could be worse."

"Oh, God damn, folks, she's doing it again."

"What?" Lucas crawled off the mattress toward the window.

"We thought maybe she didn't realize there's a crack in the curtains," the cop said. His partner had his binoculars fixed on McGowan's house and said, "C'mon, babee." Lucas nudged the first cop away from the spotting scope and peered through it. The scope was focused on a space in the curtains on a second-story window. There was nothing to see at first, then McGowan walked through a shaft of light coming from what Lucas supposed was a bathroom. She was brushing her hair, her arms crossed behind her head. She was wearing a pair of white cotton underpants. Nothing else.

"Look at that," whispered the cop with the binoculars.

"Give me the fuckin' things," said Henley, trying to wrench them away.

"Goddamn one-hundred-percent all-American TV-reporter pussy," the surveillance cop said reverently, passing the binoculars to the vice cop. "You think she knows we're watching?"

She knows, Lucas thought, watching her face. It was flushed. Annie McGowan was turned on. "Probably not," he said aloud.

Five days of surveillance produced nothing. No suspicious cars checked her home, no approaches on the street. Nothing but falling leaves and cold winds rattling the tiles on the architect's roof. The curtain never closed.

"Red Horse?" It was midday and Lucas was calling from his home.

"Yeah, Annie. This is no hot tip, but I was out in the neighborhoods and noticed something you might be interested in. One of the women's business clubs is going to hear a lecture from a university shrink about-I'm reading this from a flier-'the relationship between sexual-social inadequacy and antisocial activity, with comments about the serial killer now terrorizing the Twin Cities.' That sounds like it could be good. Maybe you'd want to get a camera over to see this guy before he gives his speech."

"That sounds pretty relevant. What's the name?"

"Lucas?" It was Jennifer, a little breathless.

"Jennifer. I was going to call. How are you feeling?"

"I'm getting a little queasy in the morning."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"Jesus, Lucas, I'm okay. It's only morning sickness. I just hope it doesn't get much worse. I almost lost my breakfast."

"With the breakfasts you eat, I believe it. You've got to get off that eggs-and-sausage and butter-toast bullshit. It'll kill you even if it doesn't give you morning sickness. Your cholesterol is probably six hundred and eight. Buy some oatmeal or some Malt-O-Meal. Get some vitamins. I can't figure out why you don't weigh two hundred pounds. For Christ's sakes, will you-?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listen, I didn't call you for culinary advice. This is an official call. I've been hearing strange rumors. That something heavy is happening with the maddog. That you know who he is and that you're watching him."

"Absolutely wrong," Lucas said flatly. "I can't prove it, obviously, but it's not true."

"I won't ask you for Boys Scout's honor, because that's personal and this is an official call."

"Okay, listen, as the woman who is carrying my kid, I don't want you to run around and get exhausted, okay? So on a purely personal basis, I tell you, Boy Scout's honor, we've got no idea who he is."

"But you're doing something?"

"That's an official question. I can start lying again."

Jennifer laughed and Lucas felt cheered. "I read you like an open book," she said. "I bet I find out what's going on within, say, a week."

"Good luck, fat lady."

Anderson and Lucas were talking in Lucas' office when Daniel edged in. He had never seen Lucas' office before. "Not bad," he said. "It's almost as big as my closet."

"There's a trick wall and it opens into a full-size executive suite, but I only do it when I'm alone," Lucas said. "Don't want to make the peons jealous."

"We were going over the case," Anderson said, looking up at the chief. "It's been ten days since the maddog's last hit. If the shrinks are right, he should be coming up on another one. Probably next week."

"Christ, we gotta do something," Daniel said. He was wringing his hands and Lucas thought he had lost weight. His hair was uncharacteristically mussed, as though he had forgotten to brush it before he left home. The maddog was bearing him down.

"Nothing on the McGowan thing?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Lucas. Tell me something."

"I don't have anything specific. We might be able to cool the media. I'm thinking that we should release some information about him. Something that would make it harder for him to pick up his victims."

Daniel paused. "Like what?"

"A flier listing the type of woman he goes after-dark hair, dark eyes, young to middle-aged, attractive. Then maybe a few hints about him. That he's light-complected, dark-haired, a little heavy, maybe recently moved in from the Southwest. That he dressed like a farmer at least once, but that we believe him to be a white-collar worker. Appeal to women who fit the type, and who feel approaches from men like that, and ask them to call us."

"Christ, you know how many calls we'd get?" Anderson asked.

"Can't be helped," Lucas said. "But we're not getting anywhere, and if he takes another one next week… We'd be better off if the press thought we were doing something about it."

Daniel pursed his lips, staring blankly at the pebbled plaster on Lucas' office wall. Eventually he nodded. "Yes. Let's do it. At least we're doing something."