Eyes of Prey

working.”
    “Huh,” Lucas said. “He could be the type who gets hit hard, if the right woman came around.”
    “That’s what I thought, but she sounded pretty positive.”
    “Are you going to talk to her again, today?”
    “For a few minutes, anyway,” Sloan said, nodding. “Checking in, see if she forgot to tell me anything. We got along pretty well. That Wisconsin sheriff called her with the news, she’s got some neighbors over there with her. Her brother’s going out to identify the body.”
    “Mind if I tag along when you go?”
    “Sure, if you want,” Sloan said. He looked at Lucas curiously. “What’ve you got?”
    “I want to look at his books . . . .”
    “Well, shit, I’m not doing much,” Sloan said. “Let’s take the Porsche.”
     
    Philip George had lived in St. Paul, in a two-block neighborhood of radically modern homes nestled in a district of upper-middle-class older houses, steel and glass played against brick and stucco, with plague-stricken elms all around. Three neighborhood women were with his wife whenSloan and Lucas arrived. Sloan asked if he could speak to her alone, and Lucas asked if he could look at George’s books.
    “Yes, of course, they’re right down there, in the study,” she said, gesturing at a hallway. “Is there anything . . . ?”
    “Just wondering about something,” Lucas said vaguely.
    While Sloan talked to George’s wife, the neighbor ladies moved into the living room and Lucas walked through the study, a converted bedroom, looking at books. George had not been an adventuresome reader. He owned a hundred volumes on various aspects of the law, a few histories that appeared to be left over from college, a dozen popular novels that went back almost as many years, and a collection of Time-Life books on home repair. No art books. Lucas didn’t know much about art, but he knew that most of the work on the walls was of the professional-decorator variety. Nothing remotely like Odilon Redon.
    On the way back to the living room, Lucas scanned the framed photographs hung in the connecting hall. George at bar association meetings, accepting a gavel. George looking uneasy in new hunting clothes, a shotgun in one hand, a dead Canada goose in the other. In two photos, one black-and-white, the other color, he was singing in different bars, arms outstretched, beery faces laughing in the background. Overhead in one, a banner said “St. Pat’s Day Bad Irish Tenor Contest” in the other, a cardboard sign said “Bad Tenors.”
    Annette George, tired, slack-faced, was sitting at the kitchen table talking to Sloan when Lucas returned from the tour. She looked up, red-eyed, and said, “Anything?”
    “Afraid not,” Lucas said, shaking his head. “Was your husband interested in art at all? Painting?”
    “Well, I mean . . . no. Not really. He thought maybe he’d like to try painting sometime, but he never had the time. And I guess it would have been out of character.”
    “Any interest in a guy named Odilon Redon?”
    “Who? No, I never heard of him. Wait, the sculptor, you mean? He did that Thinker thing?”
    “No, he was a painter, I don’t think he did sculptures,” Lucas said, now confused himself.
    She shook her head. “No . . .”
    “There’re a couple of photographs in the hall, your husband singing in bad-Irish-tenor contests . . . .”
    “Yes, he sang every year,” she said.
    “Was he good? I mean, was he a natural tenor, or what?” Lucas asked.
    “Yes, he was pretty good. We both sang in college. I guess if he had an art form, that was it.”
    “When he sang in college, what part did he sing?” Lucas asked.
    “First tenor. I was an alto and we sang in a mixed choir, we’d stand next to each other . . . . Why?”
    “Nothing. I’m just trying to picture him,” Lucas said. “Trying to figure out what happened.”
    “Oh, gosh, the things I could tell you,” she said, staring vacantly at the floor. “I can’t believe that he and Stephanie . . .”
    “If it helps any, I don’t believe it, either,” Lucas said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that under your hat for the moment.”
    “You don’t believe?” she asked.
    “No, I don’t . . .”
    Later, when Sloan and Lucas were leaving, she asked, “What am I going to do? I’m fifty . . . .”
    One of the neighbor ladies, looking at Lucas as if the question were his fault, said, “Come on, Annette, it’s all right.”
     
    Sloan looked