Eyes of Prey

that women feared him: that he was too rough, even when he didn’t mean to be. But her tone cut. He put a hand against her chest and shoved, and she went back against the wall of the corridor, her head snapping back. “Shut up . . .” he snarled.
    “You fuck . . .” He thought she was going to swing, and stepped back, then realized that she was frightened and that her hand, coming up, was meant to block a punch. Her wrist looked thin and delicate, and he put up his hands, palms out.
    “Just listen,” he said, his voice dragging out in a hoarse near-whisper. “I’m tired of this shit. More than tired. I can’t stand it anymore. In the past couple of days, I went through to the other side. So I’m telling you: I’m ready to quit. I’m ready to get out. You’ve been jerking me around for months and I can’t deal with it and I won’t deal with it. I’m not gone yet, but if you ever want to talk, you better decide soon, because I’ll tell you what: You wait much longer and I ain’t gonna be there to talk to.”
    She shook her head, tears starting, but they were tears ofanger, and he turned and walked down the corridor. A TV3 producer stepped out into the hallway and looked down toward Jennifer, still flattened against the wall, looked into Lucas’ face as he went by, then looked back at Jennifer and said, “Jen, you okay? Jen? What happened?”
    As he went out on the steps to meet the cameras, Lucas heard Jennifer answer, “Nothing happened.”
     
    All five stations did quick interviews, Lucas standing on the City Hall steps for four of them, suppressing his anger with Jennifer, aware as he talked that it was slowly leaking away, leaving behind a cold hollowness. He did the fifth interview on the street, leaning against his Porsche. When the camera was done, Lucas stepped around the hood of the Porsche to get into the car, looking carefully for Jennifer, half hoping she’d be there, not believing she would be. She wasn’t. Instead, a Star Tribune reporter came after him, a dark-haired, overweight man with a beard who always carried a pocketful of sliced carrots wrapped in waxed paper.
    “Tell me something,” the reporter said. He waggled a carrot slice at Lucas, in a friendly way. “Between you and me—background, not for attribution, whatever. Are you looking forward to hunting this guy?”
    Lucas thought for a second, glanced at the last television reporter, who was out of earshot, and nodded. “Yeah. I am. There’s not been much going on.”
    “After busting the Crows, the other stuff must seem small-time . . . .” The reporter gobbled the carrot stick in two quick bites.
    “Nah,” Lucas said. “But this is . . . interesting. People are dying.”
    “Will you get him?”
    Lucas nodded. “I don’t know. But we’d be better off if we could get to Stephanie Bekker’s lover. He knows things he doesn’t know he knows . . . .”
    “Wait a minute,” the reporter said, slipping a slender notebook out of the breast pocket of his sport coat. “Can I attribute this last part? Can we go back on the record just for that?”
    “Okay. But just that bit: Mrs. Bekker’s friend—quote me as calling him a friend—has actually seen the guy. He might think he’s told us about her, calling nine-one-one, sending the note, but he hasn’t. A good interview team would find things in his memory that he has no idea are there. And I’m not talking about giving him the third degree, either. If I could get him ten minutes on the telephone, or if Sloan could . . . I think we’d have a hundred-percent-better chance of breaking this thing in a hurry.”
    The reporter was scribbling notes. “So you want him to come in.”
    “We want anything we can get from him,” Lucas said. He unlocked the Porsche’s door and opened it. “Off the record again?”
    “Sure.”
    “Loverboy’s our only handle, that’s how bad we need him. There’s something wrong with this case, and without his help, I don’t know how we’ll find out what it is.”
     
    His anger with Jennifer came back as he drove across town, replaying the scene in the hall. She knew about scenes, knew about drama, knew psychology. She didn’t have to be the one who asked him for an interview. She was jerking him around, and it was working. The optimism, the lift of the last few days, was gone. He accelerated out the Sixth Street exit onto I-94. Go home and go to bed, he thought. Think it over. But his eye caught the