Easy Prey

grind some more on Rodriguez, but I thought you’d want to know he was collecting cash.”
    “That’s one more thing,” Towson said when Lucas told them about Mallard’s call. “And it’s a good one. We’ve got to slow him down, though.”
    “So what do we do?” Rose Marie asked.
    “Some lawyer shit,” Del said, looking at Towson.
    “The IRS,” Towson said. “Tell them about the dope—maybe they can do something about the money he’s got coming.”
    Rose Marie said, “So we push on Rodriguez, and we keep baiting Olson. Everybody agree?”
    Everybody nodded.
    “Best we got,” Lester said.

21
    DEL TOOK A call from Narcotics and headed that way. Lucas borrowed a uniformed cop from the patrol division, put him in plainclothes, and sent him to relieve Lane.
    On the phone to Lane, he said, “When he gets there, I want you to brief him, then go on over to the county attorney’s office, talk to Tim Long, and look at all that loan paperwork on Spooner. Spooner’s critical: If he knows anything at all about Rodriguez, then he probably knows about everything. If we crack him, we may have enough.”
    “How much paper?” Lane asked.
    “About a ton,” Lucas said.
    “Goddamnit, Lucas, how come I’m always the one stuck with paper?”
    “’Cause you can read; I’m not so sure about the other guys. So get your ass over here. Also, an FBI computer file just came in on Rodriguez and his money. I’ll print it out and leave it with Lester. Take it with you, see if there’s anything that, you know . . .”
    “What?”
    “Shit, I don’t know. Correlates, or something.”
     
 
WHEN HE WAS done with Lane, he got out the phone book, got the number for Brown’s, dialed, and asked for India. She came on the phone a minute later. Lucas identified himself and asked, “Are you gonna be around for a few minutes?”
    “Until six.”
    “I want to stop by,” he said.
    When he got off the phone, Lucas walked down to Homicide with the printed-out FBI file, left it with Lester. “Did you guys print those pictures of Rodriguez?”
    “Uh, yeah. . . . I think they’re down in ID. They handled it.”
    Lucas went down to the Identification division. The photo guy’s name was Harold McNeil, a former uniform cop who got tired of cold squad cars and got the photo job by lying. Photography, he said, was a longtime hobby, although he didn’t know a small-format camera from a yak. He read a book called Learn Photography in a Weekend , fooled around with the department’s cameras, and after a week or so, was better than the last guy, and kept the job.
    He had two good shots of Rodriguez: a full-frontal head shot, and one side view.
    “Got some heads I can use in a spread?” Lucas asked.
    “Yup.” McNeil turned around, opened the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, and took out a handful of photos. They found sets, front and back, of a half-dozen guys. Lucas stuck them in his pocket.
    “I’ll bring them back,” he promised.
    “That’s what everybody says. Nobody ever does,” McNeil said.
    Lucas got his coat and walked across town to Brown’s; the cold air felt good; the walking felt good. India was behind the desk and smiled when she saw him coming.
    “Did you ever see any of these guys with Sandy Lansing?” Lucas pushed the stack of photos at her. “There are two photos of each guy.”
    India took her time looking at them. Another woman came along and asked, “What’s going on?”
    Lucas said, “Police. We’re trying to see if we can find somebody Sandy Lansing might have gone out with.”
    “I’ve seen her with a guy a few times,” the other woman said.
    She stood at India’s elbow, and they went through the photos together, India slowly shaking her head. “I don’t think so,” she said finally. “This guy . . . but I don’t think it was him.”
    The other woman said, “I don’t think so, either. Sorta like that, though. If you put him in a suit.”
    “It’s not him. This guy looks a little rough,” India said.
    “You’re right,” the other woman said. She looked at Lucas. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of them.”
    Lucas looked at the one photo they’d talked about. A honey-haired white guy, round-faced, but without Rodriguez’s heft. He and Rodriguez looked nothing alike.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    Strikeout.
     
 
BACK AT THE office, Lucas had a note to call Tim Long at the county attorney’s office. He did. “You can’t count on getting anything from the IRS,”