Eyes of Prey

since. And she said that after Sloan went away after the first visit, she went straight back to her husband and asked him. He denied it. Still denies it. And she believes him.”
    “Has she got a job of her own?” Lucas asked, handing him a cup of hot coffee.
    “Sloan thought of that,” Del said. “And she does—she’s a lobbyist for the Taxpayers’ Forum and a couple of otherconservative interest groups. She’s got a law degree, Sloan says, and she probably makes a pretty good buck.”
    “So she doesn’t need a meal ticket.”
    “Guess not. Anyway, she suspected that Stephanie was having an affair. They never talked about it, but there were some pretty heavy hints. And she says she thinks they never talked about it because she probably knew the guy, and maybe the guy’s wife, and Stephanie didn’t know how she’d react. Like she was afraid Miller’d freak out or something.”
    “So she says it’s not her husband, but probably somebody they know . . . .”
    “Yeah.”
    “Did Sloan get a list of possibilities?”
    “Naturally. Twenty-two names. But she said some of them were pretty remote possibilities. Sloan’s looking at the most likely ones today, the rest of them tomorrow . . . but he got something else you might be interested in.”
    Lucas raised his eyebrows. “What?”
    “Bekker apparently had an affair sometime back, two or three years ago. A nurse. Common talk around the hospital. Sloan got her name and address, went over to see her. She told him to get lost. He pulled the badge, but you know Sloan, he likes people a little too much . . . .”
    “Huh. You think . . . ?”
    “What I think is, you’d be the perfect guy to talk to her,” Del said.
    “Why not you?”
    “I’d like to come along, but I don’t look right to do it by myself,” Del said, shaking his long black hair. “I look a little too much like Charlie Manson. People don’t let me in the door, even, unless they’re assholes. But you—when you put on one of those gray suits, you look like the fuckin’ Law.”
     
    Cheryl Clark didn’t want to let them in.
    “This is about a murder, Miss Clark,” Lucas said, cool andofficial, his ID in her face. “You can talk to us, and the chances are about ninety percent that we’ll walk away. Or you can refuse to talk, and we’ll take you downtown and let you call a lawyer, and we’ll talk to you that way.”
    “I don’t have to talk.”
    “Yes you do. You don’t have the right to refuse to talk. You have the right not to incriminate yourself. If you think you’re going to incriminate yourself, then we’ll go downtown, you can call a lawyer, we’ll get you a grant of immunity from prosecution—and then we’ll talk. Or you’ll go to jail for contempt of court,” Lucas said. His voice warmed up a couple of notches. “Look, we don’t want to be jerks—if you haven’t done anything criminal, I’m telling you, it’d be a lot easier just to have an informal chat right now.”
    “I really don’t have anything to say,” she protested. Her eyes skittered past Lucas to Del, who waited at the foot of the stoop, looking at a motorcycle.
    “We’d like to ask anyway,” Lucas said.
    “Well . . . all right. Come in. But I might not answer,” she said.
     
    Her apartment was tidy but impersonal, almost like a motel room. A television was the most prominent piece of furniture, dominating one wall, facing a couch. The couch was covered with a thick green baize that might have been taken off a pool table. A sliding door led to a tiny balcony, with a view toward the Mississippi River valley.
    “Is that your boyfriend’s Sportster outside?” Del asked, friendly.
    “It’s mine,” Clark said shortly.
    “You ride? Far out,” Del said. “And you smoke a lot of dope?” He stood in front of the balcony doors, looking out at the river. He was wearing a long-sleeved paisley shirt under a jean jacket, and dirty black jeans with a silver-studded black biker’s belt.
    “I don’t . . .” Clark, dressed in her white nurse’s uniform, sat rigidly on her couch. Her eyes, sunk deep in her pale face, were underlined by black smudges. She looked at Lucas. “You said . . .”
    “Don’t bullshit us,” Del said, but in a friendly voice. “Please. I don’t give a fuck about the dope, just don’t bullshit us. You could get a goddamn contact high off these things.” He flicked the curtains with his fingers.
    “I don’t . . .” she