Eyes of Prey

said.
    “I tell you, the motherfucker is dead,” Lucas said, settling back in his chair. “How’s he gonna leave a lug nut in the parking lot? How can you forget to put on a lug nut? You’ve got the bolt sticking out at you, you can’t forget. The flat tire was a setup.”
    “How old is the Jeep?” Del asked Sloan.
    Sloan shrugged. “New.”
    “See?” Lucas said with satisfaction. “Flat, my ass.”
     
    They were still arguing when Harmon Anderson leaned in the door, a piece of white paper in his hand. “You’ll never guess,” he said to Lucas. “I’ll give you two hundred guesses and betcha a million bucks you don’t get it.”
    “You don’t got a million bucks,” Swanson said. “What is it?”
    Anderson dramatically unfolded the paper, a Xerox copy, and held it up like an auctioneer at an art sale, pivoting, to give everybody a look.
    “What is it?” Del asked.
    The Xerox showed a painting of a one-eyed giant with a misshapen head, half turned, peering querulously over a hill, a naked sleeping woman in the foreground.
    “Ta-da,” Anderson said. “The Bekker killer, as seen by Mrs. Bekker’s lover. A cyclops, is what it is.”
    “What the fuck?” Sloan said, taking the paper, frowning at it, passing it to Lucas.
    “We got it in the mail—actually, this is a copy, they’re looking at the original for prints,” Anderson said.
    “Is the original in black and white?” Lucas asked.
    “Yeah, a Xerox. And there’s a note from Loverboy. We’re sure it’s for real, because he goes over some of the stuff he said in the first letter. Calls him a troll, not a giant.”
    “Jesus,” said Lucas, rubbing his forehead, staring at the face of the giant. “I know this guy from somewhere.”
    “Who? The troll?”
    “Yeah. I know him, but I don’t know from where.”
    The other three cops looked at Lucas for a moment; then Sloan said skeptically, “You been talking to any gruff billy goats lately?”
    “When was it mailed?” Lucas asked.
    Anderson shrugged. “Sometime yesterday, that’s all we know.”
    “Anybody know where this painting comes from?” Lucas asked.
    “Not as far as I know . . . We could check it out.”
    “I mean, if it’s from a book, maybe he got it out of the library or something,” Lucas suggested.
    Sloan and Swanson looked at each other, and then Sloan said, “Right. See, this guy is really freaked out after witnessing this killing, and he’s got about a hundred cops on his ass, so he goes down to the library and says, Here’s my card, just go ahead and put me in your permanent computer records so Lucas Davenport can come in here . . . .”
    “Yeah, yeah, it’s weak,” Lucas said, waving Sloan off.
    “It’s not fuckin’ weak, it’s fuckin’ limp.”
    Lucas looked at the photocopy. “Can I keep this?”
    “Be my guest,” Anderson said. “We only got as many as you can make on a Xerox machine.”
     
    Bekker, straight, the morning sun slashing into him, went out to a phone booth and called Druze.
    “You didn’t do the eyes,” he said, when the receiver was picked up.
    There was a long silence, and then: “No. I forgot.”
    “Jesus, Carlo,” Bekker groaned. “You’re killing me.”
     
    Lucas went home at noon, driving through a light, cold drizzle, darker clouds off to the west. He spent five minutes building a turkey sandwich with mustard, put it on a paper plate, got a Leinenkugel from the refrigerator, went and sat in the spare bedroom and stared at the wall.
    He hadn’t been in the room for months, and dust balls, like mice, half hid under the edge of the guest bed. On the walls were pinned a series of paper charts, laying out possibilities and connections: traces of the Crows case. Most of what he needed to find the men was on the charts, organized, poised, waiting for the final note. He closed his eyes, heard the gunfire again, the screams . . . .
    He stood, exhaled and began pulling down the charts, pushing the pins back into the wall. He looked over the names, remembering, then ripped the papers in halves, in quarters, in eighths, and carried them to the study and dumped them into his oversized wastebasket.
    The drawing pad was still there, and he sat down, opened it, chose with some care the precisely right felt-tip marker and began to make lists as he ate the turkey sandwich.
    Bekker, he wrote at the top of the first sheet. And underthat: Drugs, Times and Places. Friends? At the top of a second he wrote Killer. And