Certain Prey

the connection. She also had a safety margin. Neither her connection nor the shooter could tell the cops about their involvement, because that would make them as guilty of first-degree murder as Carmel herself was. The shooter, even if she were eventually run down, would be eminently defensible in court: as a competent professional, she was unlikely to leave obvious clues, and would have no apparent previous connection with the victim.
    So Carmel was probably safe; but after a few moments of reflection, drink in hand, she decided to stay away from Hale Allen for a while. Let him recover from the murder; let the cops talk to him—they would, of course. Since she’d never demonstrated her infatuation to Hale, there was no reason to think she’d become involved from that direction.
    She was working out the various possibilities, her thumbnails red with blood, and raw, when Rinker called. T HE LINE WAS Carmel’s unlisted home-business number, and nobody called who didn’t already know her. “Yes?” she said, picking up the receiver.
    “I need to get some money from you.” The woman on the other end had a dry, mid-South or Texas accent, the corners of words bitten off. But there was also an undertone of good humor.
    “Are you okay?” Carmel asked.
    “I’m just fine.”
    “You make me a little nervous,” Carmel said. “I’d prefer to see you in a public place.”
    The woman chuckled, a pleasant, homey sound rattling down the phone line, and she said, “You lawyers worry too much—and you ain’t gonna see me, honey.”
    “Maybe,” Carmel said. “So how will we do it?”
    “You have the money with you?”
    “Yes, that’s what Rolo said.”
    “Good. Get in your Volvo, drive down to the University of Minnesota parking lot at Huron and Fourth Street. That’s a big open lot, lots of students coming and going. There’s a ticket-dispensing machine at the entrance. Park as far as you can from the pay booth, but park in a spot where there are other cars around you. Don’t lock the driver’s-side door. Leave the money in a sack—one of those brown grocery sacks would be best—on the floor on the driver’s side. Walk over to Washington Avenue . . . Do you know your way around over there?”
    “Yes. I went to school there.” She’d spent seven years at the university.
    “Good. Walk over to Washington, then walk down to the river. After you get to the river, it’s up to you. Whenever you want, walk back to the car. I’ll lock it when I leave it. And all the time, you’ll be out in the open, in public. Safe.”
    “What if somebody takes the money before you get there?”
    Again, the pleasant chuckle: “Nobody will take the money, Carmel.” The woman said “CAR-mul,” while Carmel always pronounced it “car-MEL.”
    “When?”
    “Right now.”
    “How’d you know I have a Volvo?”
    “I’ve been watching you off and on for a week or so. You drove it down to that Rainbow store the day before yesterday. I wouldn’t have bought that sweet corn, myself; it looked a couple of days too old.”
    “It was,” Carmel said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
    • • •

    C ARMEL DID EXACTLY as Rinker asked, taking an extra few minutes in her walk along the Mississippi. When she got back to the car, the door was locked and the money was gone. She drove straight back to her apartment, and when she walked in, the phone was ringing.
    “This is me,” the dry voice said.
    “I hope everything went all right,” Carmel said.
    “Went fine. I’m leaving town, but I wanted you to know that your credit is good. Do you have a pencil?”
    “Yes.”
    “If you ever need me again, call this number”—the woman recited a phone number with a 202 area code that Carmel recognized as downtown Washington, D.C.—“and leave a message on the voice mail that says, ‘Call Patricia Case.’ ”
    “Patricia Case.”
    “Then I’ll call you back within a day.”
    “I don’t think I’ll ever need this.”
    “Don’t count on it; you lawyers have strange ways . . .”
    “Okay. And thanks.”
    “Thank you. ” Click—and the dry voice was gone. T HE PHONE RANG again before she had a chance to turn away.
    “Carmel?” And for the second time that day, her heart was in her throat.
    “Yes?”
    “This is Hale.” Then, like she might not be able to sort out her Hales, he added, “Allen.”
    “Hale. My God, I heard about Barbara. How terrible.” She leaned into the telephone, vibrating with the