Easy Prey

like him.
    “You’re the police?” As if he doubted it. “Do you have identification?” He had a perfect, round, baritone English voice.
    “Yeah, but you usually don’t want to flash the old buzzer in a high-class joint like this,” Lucas said, looking around the room, as if the ceiling tiles might turn hostile. India’s eyes cut sideways at him, and the corners of her mouth twitched. Lucas flipped open his ID, held it in front of the manager’s eyes, and said, “We can lay some paper on you if you want. Otherwise, I’ll just take a quick gander at Derrick’s desk.”
    “Well, I don’t think you need a search warrant. We’re all anxious to help find out what happened with Derrick,” the manager said. He tilted his head back, the better to peer down his nose. “He’d reformed, you know. He was doing so well.”
    Lucas shrugged. “So maybe it was an accident.”
    The manager lifted an eyebrow, just one. “We heard he was found locked in a car trunk, with his face smashed in.”
    Lucas nodded judiciously. “Maybe you’re right. Probably wasn’t an accident. I never thought so, myself.” He was getting tired of it. “So I can look around?”
    “I’d like to leave a staff member with you.” Prince Philip tipped his head at India.
    “Sure . . . no problem.”
    When he was gone, India giggled and asked, “Where’d you get that accent?”
    “Where’d he get his?” Lucas asked as they walked down to Deal’s desk.
    “Same place as Cary Grant.”
    “Really? Cary Grant?”
    “They were both born in Bristol. England.”
    “Yeah?” He’d spotted an old-fashioned plastic Rolodex on Deal’s desk. “And this”—he touched the Rolodex—“is what I’ve been looking for.”
    He found a name, two-thirds of the way through the Rolodex. He checked it twice: Terrance Bloom. He checked the printed party list to confirm it, then called Lester at Homicide.
    “I’m looking at Derrick Deal’s Rolodex and I find the name Terrance Bloom, and Bloom is on the party list.”
    “Give me the address and phone number,” Lester said.
    Lucas read them off the Rolodex, and Lester, rattling on some computer keys, said, “Hang on a sec. I’m just bringing the screen up. . . .” Then: “Yup, that’s him.”
    “We gotta get on him,” Lucas said. “This could be something.”
    “Hang on, hang on. . . .” Lucas hung on for another moment, listening to the computer keys at the other end of the line, then Lester again: “He’s not on Lansing’s phone list.”
    “Shit.”
    “Well—that could be deliberate, if he’s her guy. She probably wouldn’t need it, and he wouldn’t want her carrying it.”
    “Yeah, but . . . listen, put somebody good on it. This is the first hint we’ve had.”
    “Absolutely. Did you hear about Marcy? I mean, going into intensive care?”
    “Yeah, that’s the last I heard.”
    “Same with me. . . . She’s gonna make it.”
    “If there’s any goddamn justice in the world. Talk to you later.”
    Lucas spent fifteen minutes with India, going through Deal’s computer, but Deal apparently didn’t use e-mail, and Lucas couldn’t find any data files. There had to be some, but they could be on a removable disk. He closed the computer down, stuck a handwritten note that read, “Don’t use—Minneapolis police” on the monitor screen, and said, “I’m sending a computer guy over here to take a look at this thing. Don’t let anybody touch it, okay?”
    “I’ll tell Philip,” she said.
    “Who’s he?”
    “The manager?”
    “Honest to God? Philip?”
     
 
DEL CALLED WHEN Lucas was on the way back to the hospital. “I got the game. Started last night, continues until five A.M. tomorrow. Twenty-five grand to get in.” That was good. They had Bloom’s name now, but there was no guarantee that Bloom was their guy. They still needed Trick—and Al-Balah.
    “Where at?”
    “Pat Kelly. Remember him?”
    “Yeah. . . . Where’s he at now?”
    “Bought a place down on the south end, right on Minnehaha Creek. He’s got a brand-new two-story fully-heated triple garage in his backyard. The word is, it’s upstairs in the garage.”
    “Going on now?” Lucas asked.
    “Yup. Want to meet me?”
    “Absolutely. Let’s get . . . uh, what’s Franklin doing?”
    “He’s still with Corbeau,” Del said.
    “How about Loring?”
    “I saw him early today, so he’s probably off—but he’s always up for overtime.”
    “Give him a ring. I’ll meet you at