Eyes of Prey

Mr. Davenport,” Bekker said, nodding at a breakfast bar with stools. The microwave beeped, and he took out the cups, the coffee steaming hot, carried them to the bar and sat down opposite Lucas. “You were saying?”
    “Your wife’s death . . .”
    “I’ll miss her, but to be honest, I didn’t love my wife very much. I’d never hurt her—I know what the police think, Stephanie’s idiot cousin—but the fact is, neither of us was much of a factor in the other’s life. I suspected she was havingan affair: I simply didn’t care. I’ve had female friends of my own . . . .” He looked for reaction in Lucas’ face. There was none. The cop accepted the infidelity as routine . . . maybe.
    “And that didn’t bother her? Your other friends.” Lucas sipped at the coffee. Scalding.
    “I don’t believe so. She knew, of course, her friends would have seen to that. But she never spoke to me about it. And she was the type who would have, if she cared . . . .” Bekker blew on his coffee. He was wearing a tweed jacket and whipcord pants, very English.
    “So why not a divorce?” Lucas asked.
    “Why should we? We got along reasonably well, and we had this”—he gestured at the house—“which we couldn’t maintain if we split up. And there are other advantages for two people living together. You share maintenance chores, run errands for each other, one can take care of business when the other one is gone . . . . There wasn’t any passion, but we were quite well adapted to each other’s habits. I’m not much interested in marriage, at my age. I have my work. She couldn’t have children; her fallopian tubes were hopelessly tangled, and by the time in vitro came around, she was no longer thinking about children. I never wanted any, so there wasn’t even that possibility.” He stopped and seemed to reflect, took a sip of the scalding coffee. “I suppose other people wouldn’t understand the way we were living, but it was convenient and comfortable.”
    “Hmp.” Lucas sipped his own coffee and looked the other man straight in the eyes. Bekker gazed placidly back, not flinching, and Lucas knew then that he was lying, at least about part of it. Nobody looked that guiltless without deliberate effort. “I suppose a prosecutor could argue that since you had no interest in each other, and it made no difference to you whether she lived or died, her death would be very . . . convenient. Instead of having half of this”—his gesture mimicked Bekker’s—“you’d have all of it.”
    “He could . . . if he were particularly stupid or particularly vicious,” Bekker said. He flashed a smile at Lucas, a thin rim of white teeth. “I invited you for coffee because of the people you’ve killed, Mr. Davenport. I thought you’d likely know about death and murder. That would give us much in common. I study death as a scientist. I’ve studied murder, both the victims and the killers. There are several men who consider themselves my friends out at Stillwater prison, serving life sentences. From my research I’ve drawn two conclusions. First: Murder is stupid. In most cases, it will out, as somebody British once said. If you’re going to commit murder, the worst thing you can do is plan it and commit it in league with another person. Conflicts arise, the investigators play one against another . . . . I know how it works. No. Murder is stupid. Murder plotted with someone else is idiotic. Divorce, on the other hand, is merely annoying. A tragedy for some couples, perhaps, but if two people genuinely don’t love each other, it’s mostly routine legal procedure.”
    Bekker shrugged and went at the coffee. When he extended his perfect pink lips to the cup, he looked like a leech, Lucas thought.
    “What’s the second thing you know about murder? You said there were two things,” Lucas asked.
    “Ah. Yes.” Bekker smiled again, pleased that Lucas was paying attention. “To plan and carry out a cold-blooded murder—well, only a madman could do it. Anyone remotely normal could not. Serial killers, hit men, men who plot and kill their wives: all crazy.”
    Lucas nodded. “I agree.”
    “I’m glad you do,” Bekker said simply. “And I’m not crazy.”
    “Is that the real reason you invited me in? To tell me you’re not nuts?”
    Bekker nodded ruefully and said, “Yes, I guess it is. Because I thought you might understand the totality of what I’msaying. Even if I had wanted to