Eyes of Prey

picture, but she knew about it and that there was something weird about it. And she was positive about the lover, by the way. She was being mysterious, but I think she knows. I think they’re sleeping together, she’s getting pillow talk . . . .”
    “Damn.” Bekker gnawed on a fingernail. “You know what we’ve got to do? We talked about doing a number three before George came along? I think we’ve got to do it. We’ve got to do somebody that doesn’t make any sense for either one of us. Somebody completely off the wall.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know. That’s the whole point. Somebody at random. The goddamned shopping-mall parking lots are full of women. Go get one.”
    There was a moment of silence and then Druze said, “I’m really hanging out there, man.”
    “And so am I,” Bekker snapped. “If there is some kind of drawing of you—if Stephanie’s friend sent them something—and if this actress person sees it, then we’ve got serious trouble.”
    “Yeah, you’re right about that. She sees me every goddamned day and night of my life . . . .”
    “What’s her name again?” Bekker asked.
    “Cassie Lasch. But if we do her . . .”
    “I know. We couldn’t do it now, but later, next week . . . . If we can get the cops to go hounding offsomewhere, maybe she could have an accident. Something unrelated. What floor is she on? High up?”
    “Six, I guess. And she did once try to commit suicide . . . .”
    “So maybe if she went out a window . . . I don’t know, Carlo. We’ll work something. But we’ve got to get the cops going somewhere else. Something not related to the theater or to the university or antiques . . .”
    “So . . . are you serious? A mall?” Druze sounded confused, uncertain.
    “Yeah. I am. Pick one out on the edge of town. Burnsville would be good. Maplewood. Roseville. You’re bright, figure out some way . . . . Pick somebody who looks like she’s on a big shopping trip. Get her at her car. Then dump the car with all the packages. Be sure you do the eyes. The thing is, we’ll want it to look like it’s totally random . . . . You know what? Maybe you could cruise the lots. See if you could get somebody with Iowa plates or something.”
    “I don’t know . . . . I gotta have time to think about it.”
    “If the lover’s out there, we don’t have time,” Bekker urged. “We’ve got to lead them away from us, at least until we can pinpoint the guy.”
    “Jesus, I wish . . .”
    “Hey. We had to get rid of them. We deserved to be rid of them. Now we just have to clean up a little bit. Okay?”
    Silence.
    “Okay?” Bekker demanded.
    “Okay, I guess. I gotta go . . . .”
     
    Druze was getting sticky: Bekker would have to move on him.
    On the way back to his office, Bekker stopped at a men’s room and urinated. He went to a sink and was washing his hands when a student came in, looked at him, then casuallymoved to a urinal. A heavy canvas bookbag hung from his shoulder.
    The student looked a little odd, Bekker thought. The jeans and cardigan were okay, the oxford-cloth shirt was all right . . . . He glanced at the student again as he went out.
    It was the shoes, he thought, pleased that he’d picked it out. The kid must have just gotten out of the army or something. You didn’t see students wearing that kind of black, shiny-toed, oxford anymore. Not since Vietnam, anyway.
    In the restroom, the student listened to Bekker’s heels hitting the concrete floor, moving away, then took the radio out of his bag. “I got him,” he said. “He was in the can. He’s on the basement level, on his way up the west stairs.”
     
    At the elevators, another student was waiting to go up, reading one of the free entertainment newspapers. He had shoes like the kid in the restroom. A new trend? A signal to buy oxford stock? On the other hand, neither of the kids looked exactly like fashion trend-setters . . . .
    Back to the office, or up to see the patient? Bekker glanced at his watch. He had time, and nobody coming to see him. A small thrill pulsed through him. Might as well do some serious work.
    Bekker rode up to Surgery, nodded to a nurse, and went into the men’s locker room, peeled his clothes off and dressed himself in a lavender scrub suit. Technically, he didn’t need a scrub suit; he wouldn’t be going into Surgery or Burns, where they were most useful. But he liked them. They were comfortable. And he