Chosen Prey

me lock the door behind you.”
    The front of the store was an open bay, with quilt frames made out of brightly painted one-by-two lumber leaning against the walls, and another lying flat on a series of sawhorses. All held quilts in various stages of completion.
    “I give classes,” she said.
    “This is a really nice quilt,” Del said, and he meant it. The quilt was a traditional log-cabin style, but the colors had been carefully chosen and placed, so that light seemed to be falling across the quilt from one side to the other; it was almost as if the quilt were spread across a bed by a sunlit window.
    Barstad picked up on his sincerity and asked, “Do you have quilts?”
    “Two of them,” Del said. “My sister-in-law makes them. Nothing like this, though.”
    They spent a moment looking at the quilt, bonding. And then Barstad, flattered, said, “What can I do for you? Is there a problem?”
    Del said, “Let’s get some chairs.” There were several chairs scattered around the room, and he reached for one.
    “Why don’t you come in back,” she said. “I can make some coffee, if you don’t mind microwave.”
    She did live in the place. The back part of the commercial space had been carefully divided into small rooms with drywall partitions. She might have done it herself, Lucas thought: A green Army-type tool bag and a drywall square sat in one corner of the main room, on a white-plastic bucket of drywall compound.
    He could see one end of a bed in a side room, and a toilet and sink in a corner between the bedroom and the living room space. A kitchen had been carved out of another corner and equipped with a half-sized office refrigerator, an old electric stove, and what once had been a standard industrial sink. Shelves and cupboards were fashioned from chromed industrial kitchen racks. Altogether, he thought, it looked snug, artsy-craftsy, and even a little snazzy.
    As she got cups, Lucas said, “You were at the ME’s office with James Qatar.”
    “Yes. James and I have been dating.”
    “We are doing . . . research . . . on Mr. Qatar,” Lucas said. “He’s basically the guy we want to talk about.”
    “Do you think he killed his mother?”
    Lucas looked at Del, who shrugged, and Lucas asked, “Where did that question come from?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “His mother’s dead in a weird way, and the cops show up and ask questions. Was she murdered?”
    “We think she may have been,” Lucas said. “Was there anything in particular that caused you to ask the question?”
    “Yes,” she said. “James is a would-be clothes horse. He loves to get dressed up. When I was studying fabric I did quite a bit with fashion, you know, and I never met anybody with as much need to project himself through clothing as James does. . . . It’s like when he tries to picture himself, the main thing he sees are clothes, but he never has enough money to get the really good ones.” She reached out and touched Lucas’s jacket. “He would love something like this.”
    “Uh . . .”
    “Just a minute, I’m getting there,” she said. The microwave beeped, and she took the three cups out and passed them around. Watching her talk and move around, Lucas had concluded that she was an attractive woman hiding behind a plain facade—part of the curious Minnesota female ethic of dressing down. She went on: “Anyway, he called me after his mother was found, said he needed moral support to look at her body. So I went with him, and we identified her, and he was all weepy when you showed up. I felt like I was a prop. But I’ll tell you, the weeping stopped one minute after we left, and we went on a shopping spree. For him. He paid two thousand dollars for a pinkie ring, for God’s sake. Probably three thousand dollars more in Saks and Neiman’s, and he just doesn’t have that kind of money. I think it came from his mother’s house.”
    “Huh. Not a lot of grief,” Lucas suggested.
    “Not when he wasn’t around the medical examiner’s or you police,” she said.
    Del said, “Look, we don’t want you to betray a friendship—”
    “Of course you do,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”
    Lucas cocked his head. “I get the impression that you’re not all that friendly.”
    “We’ve been sleeping together for three weeks—but it’s just about to end, to tell you the truth. He’s not exactly the package I was looking for. I think . . .” She paused, and actually seemed to