Certain Prey

one for drinking and talking, and the second for drinking and dancing. The dance floor was polished maple, taken from a bankrupt karate studio, and probably the best dance floor in any bar in Wichita; all surrounded by deep-backed booths upholstered in Naugahyde. When Davenport and his friends arrived, the band—live music on weekends—had been taking a break. They were setting up for their third and final set when Rinker cruised through.
    She worked all the booths around the dance floor, talking with people she knew or had often seen in the bar, mostly under-forties white-collar; the band played soft rock and crossover country. She bought a beer for a guy who’d walked away from a car wreck earlier in the day, and for a couple who were out for the first time since a kid was born. She listened to a guy-walks-into-a-bar joke:
    Guy walks into a bar, and the bartender says, “Boy, I didn’t expect to see you today, after last night—you were really bummed out.” And the guy says, “I was so bummed out that I went home and looked in my medicine cabinet. I had a big bottle of a thousand aspirins in there, and I decided to kill myself by taking them all at once.” The bartender says, “So what happened?” And the guy says, “Well, after the first two, I didn’t feel so bad.”
    She laughed and tracked Davenport between the heads of the dancers, who were just moving out on the dance floor again as the band cranked into a country dance piece. Davenport was in a front-room booth, facing her through the smoky atmosphere. He was paying no attention to her at all, or to anybody else in the bar, as far as she could tell. He was a good-looking guy, in a hard way, just starting to get a little gray around the temples. She drifted toward him.

    L UCAS WAS LAYING a very mild hustle on Malone, while Mallard tried to steer the conversation back to police work. Malone didn’t want to know about police work, but when Lucas suggested that they dance, she said, “I don’t dance like that.”
    “Is that a philosophical position?”
    “I just don’t dance to rock or country. I never learned. I can fox-trot; I can waltz. I can’t do that kind of boppity . . . you know.”
    “Too self-conscious,” Lucas said. He was about to go on when a woman stopped at the table and said, “You all doing all right here?”
    “All right,” Lucas said, looking up at her. She wasn’t a waitress. “Who’re you?”
    “I’m the owner, Clara. Making sure that everybody’s being treated right.”
    “Good bar,” Lucas said. “You oughta open another one like it, up in Minneapolis.”
    “You’re from Minneapolis?”
    “I am,” Lucas said. “These folks are from back east.”
    “Glad to have you in Wichita,” Rinker said. She started to step away, but Malone, who’d perhaps had one more beer than she was accustomed to, said, “Your band doesn’t play waltzes, does it?”
    Rinker grinned and said, “Why, no, I don’t believe they do, honey. You wanna waltz?”
    “This guy’s got the urge to dance,” Malone said, pointing at Lucas with her longneck. “And I can’t dance to rock. Never learned.”
    “Well, you oughta,” Rinker said. She looked quickly around the bar and then said to Lucas, “I’m not doing anything at the minute, and I like dancing. You want to?” T HEY WERE DANCING for five seconds and Lucas realized he was out of his depth.
    “You’re a dancer, a professional,” he said, and Rinker laughed and said, “I used to be, kinda.”
    “Well, slow down, you’re making me look bad. And I’m a lot older than you are.”
    “Ah, you dance fine,” Rinker said, “for a Minneapolis white guy.”
    Lucas laughed and turned her around; she was good-looking, he thought, one of those tough-cookie smart blondes who’d been around a bit, liked a good time, and could run a spreadsheet like an accountant. Maybe was an accountant.
    “Are you an accountant?” he asked.
    “An accountant?” They were shouting at each other over the music. “Why would you think that?”
    “I don’t. Just making up a story in my head.”
    “A story? You’re not a reporter, are you?”
    “Nah, I’m a cop. Just going through. I stopped to talk to some friends.”
    “You don’t look like a cop. You look like a . . . movie guy, or something.”
    “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Lucas shouted back.
    She laughed, and they danced.
    • • •

    B UT L ATE THAT NIGHT, an hour after the bar closed, Rinker climbed into her