Eyes of Prey

behind his desk. Law school, George . . . he glanced at his watch. One-thirty. George: Basic Torts, MWF 1:10-3:00.
    He would be in class. Bekker picked up the phone, called the law school office and twittered at the woman who answered: “Phil George? In class? I see,” he said, putting disappointment in his voice. “This is a friend of his over at Hamline, I’m just leaving town, terrible rush, we were supposed to meet one of these nights, and I’m trying to get my schedule together . . . . Do you know if he has classes or night meetings the rest of the week? . . . No, I can’t really wait, I’ve got a seminar starting right now, and it runs late, then I’ve got a plane. Tried to call Phil’s wife, nobody home . . . Yes, I’ll hold . . . .”
    The law secretary dropped the receiver on her desk and Bekker could hear her walking away. A minute passed, then another, and then she was back: “Yes, tomorrow night, seven to ten, he has preparation for moot court. The other nights are clear here at the school.”
    “Thank you very much,” he said, still twittering. “You’ve been very kind. What is your name? . . . Thank you very much, Nancy. Oh, by the way, where is the moot-court prep going to be? . . . Okay, thanks again.”
    He hung up and leaned back in his chair, making a steeple of his fingers. George would be working late. That could be useful. What’d he drive? It was a red four-wheel-drive of some kind, a Jeep. He could cruise by George’s house later on. He lived in Prospect Park and probably left the car in the street . . . .
    • • •
    Druze was sure that Bekker was using, but he wasn’t sure what it was. An ocean of cocaine flowed through the theater world, but Bekker wasn’t a cokehead; or if he was, there was something else involved. At times he was flying, his beautiful face reflecting an inner joy, a freedom; at other times, he was dark, reptilian, calculating.
    Whatever it was, it moved through him quickly. He’d been manic when Druze arrived at the hospital. Now he was like ice.
    “He’ll be out tomorrow night,” Bekker said. “I know that’s not much time . . . . He drives a red Jeep Cherokee. Fire-engine red. He’ll be parked behind Peik Hall.”
    He explained the rest of it and Druze began shaking his head. “Happy accident? What kind of shit is that?”
    “It’s the only way,” Bekker said calmly. “If we try to pull him out, set him up, we could spook him. If he thinks we might come after him . . . I can’t just call him, cold, and ask him to meet me down at the corner. He’s got to be a little afraid—that somebody might figure him out, that the killer might come after him . . . .”
    “I just wish there was some other way,” Druze said. He looked around and realized he was in some kind of examination room. Bekker had met him at a side door, normally locked, and led him down a dimly lit hallway to a red metal door, and had opened it with a key and pulled him inside. The walls were lined with stainless-steel cabinets, a stainless cart sat against one wall, and a battery of overhead lights hung down at the center of the room. Their voices ricocheted around the room like Ping-Pong balls. The room was cold. “It seems pretty . . . uncertain.”
    “Look, the hardest thing to investigate is a spur-of-the-moment thing, between strangers. Like when you did that woman in New York. How can the cops find a motive, how can they find a connection? If you try to set something up, itleaves traces. If you just go there, where he is, and do it . . .”
    “You know he’ll be there?” Druze asked.
    “Yes. He’s got the moot court. He plays the part of the judge, he has to be there.”
    “I guess it’s got to be done,” Druze said, running his fingers back through his hair. “Jesus, I don’t like it. I like things that can be rehearsed. Your wife, that was no problem. This . . .”
    “It’s the best way, believe me,” Bekker said intently. “Look for his car. It should be in the parking lot right behind the building. There’s a lot of foliage around the lot—I checked. If he parks there, try to get close to the car, let the air out of one of his tires. That’ll give the students time to get away from the building and it’ll keep him busy changing the tire while you come up on him . . . .”
    “Not bad,” Druze admitted. “But God damn, Michael, I’ve got the feeling that we’ve kicked the tarbaby. One