Broken Prey

you think about the Big Three? Is that just bullshit, or did they really do something with Pope?”
     
    LUCAS GOT A COUPLE of beers and a step stool for Grant to sit on, and while Lucas hauled some work lights and tools out to the truck, Grant unwound a tangled coil of orange extension cord, plugged it into a garage outlet, and trailed it out to the truck. Lucas crawled back underneath and went to work on the wiring harness, while Grant sat on the stool, handed him tools, and they talked about Pope, the Big Three, and Mike West.
    “I was pretty skeptical about Charlie, when I heard about it. But then, I heard about the reaction from Lighter and Taylor, and I thought—okay, I’ll buy that, somewhat. But Charlie might tend to drift. They could wind him up and send him out, but after a while, he’d sorta . . . run down. So I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s somebody else involved. A battery kind of guy. Somebody to provide the energy.”
    “Mike West?”
    “I don’t know. I mean, I really don’t know—I didn’t have much contact with him.”
    “But two guys makes sense to you.”
    “More than Charlie by himself. You need something or somebody to provide the intensity. If you had that, I don’t doubt Charlie would go along. These murder scenes you laid out for us . . . I can see Charlie enjoying all that.”
    “Hand me that small Phillips.” Grant handed him the screwdriver, and Lucas asked, “But if Pope is doing all of this, with or without the West guy, and if one or both of them were programmed by the Big Three . . . why did they wait so long before they started killing? You think they’d come right out, when the programming was the strongest . . .”
    “I don’t know. To get organized? To locate targets?”
    “Mmm.”
    “We don’t even know if they were programmed. That might all be bullshit,” Grant said.
    Lucas tightened the last screw and pushed out from under the car. “That’s not bullshit. They did something. You had to be there to see it—those motherfuckers are involved,” Lucas said.
     
    THEY PUT THE TOOLS AWAY , and Grant handed Lucas his empty beer bottle. “Give me your bottom line,” Lucas said.
    Grant shrugged: “Something’s wrong. Something stinks. For one thing, you should have caught Charlie by now. He’s the kind of guy who would flee on a Greyhound bus.”
    “You worry me.”
    “I’m not a cop, so I don’t know how you work, or how, mmm, efficacious your methods are. But if I were you, I’d at least consider the possibility that Charlie Pope is working with somebody. That there’s a second man out there.”
    “A second man.”
    “Or woman.” Grant touched his chin with steepled fingers, as though he’d surprised himself with the thought. “A woman. A woman adds a sexual element to the equation.”
    “You think . . .”
    Grant said, “Listen, Lucas: the right woman could do anything with Charlie Pope that she wanted. Anything.”
     
    LATE THAT NIGHT , Lucas sat in a pool of light in his study, eyes closed, listening to the tape Grant had brought with him. Grant had a sly interviewing technique. He would profess ignorance of some point, or some event, or make an assertion that was clearly faulty, and then he’d let Charlie Pope straighten him out.
    Charlie Pope said:
    “. . . They tease you all the time. They drive you out of your mind. I used to try to take care of myself, I’d get all cleaned up and shaved and put on new shoes, but nobody would ever go out with me. A man’s gotta have some sex, and what was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to go hire a hooker somewhere? That’s how you get AIDS, all the hookers in the Cities got AIDS or some other disease.
    “. . . It’s like advertising, they wear these skirts and these tight pants and these see-through blouses and show off their legs and their asses and their tits, and then what? They don’t think a guy is gonna want what they’re advertising?
    “. . . I whacked her around a little bit but I didn’t plan to kill her or nothing, that’s just what the cops said. I mean, I did fuck her, but I was just trying to hold her down on her chest and the cops said it was around her neck. I didn’t want her to scream . . .
    “. . . I tried to talk to her, and she didn’t want to talk to me. I mean, look at me. I’m not a good-looking guy. When I was a kid I’d look in the mirror and try to make myself good-looking. I’d think, well, you’re not bad- looking,