Chosen Prey

them.
    Money. She had fifty dollars in her purse; he took forty, left ten. And she kept money under the cup in the flour canister in the kitchen. He opened the canister, lifted the cup, and found three hundred and fifty dollars in tens. The money lifted his heart, and he hurried up the stairs. She accumulated money in a variety of ways—maybe even stole some of it from the museum, he thought—and squirreled it away. He didn’t know where, exactly, but he thought the bedroom. . . .
    And it was in the bedroom, in the closet, under the carpet, in a hole in the floor. He would never have found it if he hadn’t been on his hands and knees, checking her shoes. A corner of the carpet was pulled up, just enough that he reached over and gave it a tug. A square of it came away, too easily, and when he looked . . .
    A wad of cash. He pulled it out, and his heart leapt when he saw that most of the bills were fifties and hundreds. There must be thousands. He rolled out of the closet and counted, eyes bent close to the cash, stopping to wet his index finger on his tongue, the better to count. He counted once, could not believe the total, and counted again. Eight thousand dollars?
    He closed his eyes. Eight thousand. Everything he wanted, all right here. . . .
    Back down the stairs. He found a flashlight in a drawer by the sink, turned off all the house lights, and headed out.
    The night was cold and moonless. He drove the four blocks to the museum and parked on the street. Sat watching, letting an odd car pass by. A few minutes before nine, he got out, walked once entirely around the museum, then tried her key in the side door. It slipped in easily, and he was inside.
    There were safety lights at either end of the hall, and in the deadly silence he walked down to the office, let himself in, walked carefully past the secretary’s desk into his mother’s private space. Okay, he thought. This would work.
    He left the door unlocked and walked back out to the car, took a look around, then lifted her out and carried her across the lawn under one arm, as though he were humping a rug into the building. Inside, he put her in her chair.
    Got her cup, in the light of the flash, went down the hall to the men’s room, filled it with water, found a pack of instant coffee next to the microwave in the secretary’s office, and stirred the coffee into the cup. When it was all ready, he sat her in the chair, put her fingers around the cup handle, then pushed her onto the floor.
    She went over easily, dragging the cup with her.
    He looked around. What else?
    Nothing. Simple was better, and anything elaborate would take more time. And it really looked good, he thought; she was on her side, as if she’d gone to sleep. There was no trace of violence, just a little old lady who’d gone to sleep. The way she’d have wanted to go. . . .
    With a last look around, he left the building, locking the door behind him. Out to the car. A nice night, he thought. Money in his pocket.
    A half-million in Fidelity?
    Too bad about Mom.
    But she was old.

19
    L UCAS WAS TALKING with Rose Marie Roux the next morning when her secretary poked her head in the door, looked at Lucas, and said, “A hysterical woman is on the phone, looking for you. She says it’s an emergency.”
    “Switch it in here,” Rose Marie said. The secretary backed out of her office, and a few seconds later, Rose Marie’s phone burped. She took the receiver off the hook and handed it across the desk to Lucas.
    “Lucas Davenport.”
    “Officer Davenport, this is Denise Thompson. . . .” The woman seemed to be falling apart, her voice pitched high and wobbly with stress.
    “Denise . . . ?”
    “Thompson, Helen Qatar’s secretary. You know she died—”
    “What?” He stood up, scowling, astonished. “She died? How’d she die?”
    “She died at her desk. I don’t know, I don’t know, she just died. She was at her desk with a cup of coffee and she must have had a stroke or something.”
    “Did she call out or—”
    “No, no, I wasn’t here, it was before anybody got here this morning. I saw her door open and her light on and so I went in, and I just saw her legs on the floor and I went around to see . . . she was gone. I called 911 . . .” Now she did break down and began a breathy weeping.
    Lucas let her go for a few seconds, then said, “Okay, okay, Mrs. Thompson. Police came?”
    “And the ambulance, but it was too late. I could see it was too