Broken Prey

it’s something like that.”
    Sloan suggested Andy Sanders, and Dove pointed her finger at him and said, “That’s it. Exactly.”
    “Nobody else.”
    She turned down the corners of her mouth and said, “Nope. Not that I can think of.”
    “Think harder.”
    She tried to put a thinking look on her face, but shook her head. “Do you guys . . . I mean, do you think whoever did it comes to the bar? This girl up in the Twin Cities, was she working?”
    “We don’t know any of that,” Lucas said. “You might think of taking a vacation for a couple weeks, though. Until we get him.”
    “You’re sure you’re gonna get him.” A small edge of skepticism?
    “We’ll get him,” Lucas said. “We just don’t know how many more people he’ll kill before we do.”
    She shivered and said, “The paper said Adam was mutilated.”
     
    WITH LUCAS PUSHING HER , Dove took them down to the next two rooms, rented by Andi and Aix; both, like Dove, were thin, a little flabby, and unnatural blondes. Andi claimed that she hardly remembered Rice and wasn’t even sure she’d had sex with him.
    Aix had had sex with him, twice, she thought, and with some prodding, said, “I did see him talking to a pretty strange guy, once. Kind of a snaky guy. He looked like a pool hustler, or something, somebody who works at night or maybe was in prison, because he was like dead white. Adam didn’t know him, but he was teasing Adam about being such a fresh-faced guy hanging around with the likes of me . . . this guy knew, I guess, you know, even though I never went with him or anything.”
    “How often did you see the guy?”
    “That was the last time,” Aix said. “I might have seen him once before, shooting pool. He said he used to be a sailor, and sailed yachts. I’m like, right, a yachtsman right here at the Rockpit.”
    “Rockyard,” Sloan said.
    Her little joke: “Pit. You look at the place?”
    “Their idea of culture is a wet-T-shirt contest,” Dove said, snapping her fingers, as though flicking a flea off her shirt.
    “This guy, this sailor . . . you said he was snaky. How? What do you mean?” Lucas asked.
    “Like he was thin, but he looked strong, wiry, you could see these muscles working in his arms. Black hair but really pale white. Oh: he had a tattoo, one of those barb-wire dealies that go around your biceps.”
    “A biker,” Lucas suggested.
    She nodded and wrinkled her nose: “He might’ve known his way around a Harley,” she said. “But he never mentioned anything.”
    They all sat looking at her for a moment, then Sloan said to Lucas, “Not much.”
    “No.”
    Aix shook her finger at him: “But it was something. You know? There was something going on. One of those things you think might go on and be a fight. The guy kept teasing Adam about his fresh face . . . This newspaper story made me think there might have been something gay going on . . .”
    “What made you think that?”
    “Just . . . something. You know how you can tell sometimes? And the thing is, the thing that was going on with the snaky guy . . . there was something a little gay in that, too. Neither one of them looked gay, or talked gay, but there was something there.”
     
    A FEW MORE MINUTES of pushing got them nothing. Lucas turned to Sloan and said, “You happy?”
    “I guess.”
    Dove said, “You’re not going to arrest us, are you?”
    Lucas shook his head. “Nah. But really—maybe take a vacation?”
    And to Aix: “If you see the snaky guy again, call us. And if you see him, get somebody to walk you out to the parking lot. Somebody you know.”
    Andi, shivering: “You really think he’s around here?”
    Sloan stood up and said, “Listen, if any of you’d seen the woman up in Minneapolis, you wouldn’t want to take any chance. Any chance.”
     
    THEY ALL NODDED , and Lucas and Sloan backed out of the room. As they walked down to the car Sloan said, “If you wind up in Room twenty-seven at the Y’All Duck Inn, you probably made a bad career choice somewhere.”
    “What if everybody in three counties calls you Booger?”
    “Another bad sign,” Sloan said. “A bad sign.”

7
    THE PRESS CONFERENCE was held in a beige-walled, tile-floored, odor-free, windowless meeting room with a podium and rostrum at one end, in front of a blue Minnesota state flag that hung slightly askew on the wall behind the rostrum. The room was full of cheap Chinese plastic chairs with loud steel feet, which