Hidden Prey

spotted and processed the window, and confirmed that the blood was in fact Carl’s.
    Still, if they could get the knife into evidence—not a sure thing—nobody believed that the blood-on-the-window alibi would hold up.
    If Duluth couldn’t get Carl for killing Reasons, they would be somewhat satisfied with a life sentence on the Oleshev murder.
    Yet another complication: Roger Walther was still missing. The feds said that Janet Walther was now blaming everything on him.
     
    “J UST BETWEEN YOU and me,” Harmon told Lucas, “I think perhaps the best we can hope for is to identify this entire Soviet ring and debrief all the participants. I don’t think there will be much jail time—too many lawyers involved now. The cooperation of Janet Walther is critical to that end.”
    He was wheedling.
    “That would be the best deal for you spooks,” Lucas agreed. “For the rest of the world, including both Russia and the United States, the best deal would be to nail Carl Walther for murder. We’ve got to get him for something  . . .”
    Harmon was fifteen hundred miles away in Washington, but Lucas could almost hear the shrug. “If we can.”
     
    M ORE TIME PASSED . Del nailed the McDonald’s thefts, and Neil Mitford, the governor’s aide, came down to shake his hand. “Fuck a bunch of Russian agents, this McDonald’s thing was important.”
    “I oughta get a certificate or something,” Del said, cutting his eyes toward Lucas, who yawned.
    “You should,” Mitford agreed. He took a dollar out of his pocket. “Here. It’s even signed by the secretary of the treasury.”
     
    F OUR WEEKS AFTER Carl was shot, Lucas got a note from Nadya.
    “Thank you very much for your hospitality; I enjoyed my time working with you,” the note said. Blah-blah-blah. She sounded like an exchange student, Lucas thought. The laser-printed portion of the note seemed to have been written with the idea that carbon copies would be filed somewhere. The real meat came at the very end, handwritten in blue ink. “My fellow bureaucrats were most impressed with my wounds, so I thank you also for the photograph. Love, Nadya.”
    The note was signed Lt. Colonel Nadezhda Kalin.
    “Our girl got a promotion,” Lucas told Weather. He went around all day feeling pleased, although he didn’t exactly know why.
     
    S IX WEEKS AFTER Carl was shot, Lucas was sitting in his office, feet on his desk, reading about a series of snipings in which the victims were horses.
    Somebody—some nut—would shoot the animals in the stomach, often several times, with a .22, and even if the shooting didn’t kill the animal, the horse would have to be put down by a veterinarian.
    Nine horses had been killed in three counties, and horse lovers were in an uproar. The governor wanted it fixed, and quick. Mitfordput it this way: “In the whole universe of politically sensitive shootings, if Carl Walther and his shootings and a Russian spy ring is a three, then the horses are a nine. Right up there with the McDonald’s heist.”
    “Horses are more important than cops getting killed,” Lucas said.
    “ I wouldn’t say so, but the fact is, cops get shot from time to time. Nothing you can do about it,” Mitford said. “But don’t fuck with horses. Or dogs. The voters’ll rip your fuckin’ heart out. I’ll tell you, Lucas, if you can catch this guy, the governor would be really, really grateful . . .”
     
    S O HE WAS sitting there, reading horse files, when the phone rang. He picked it up, and was told it was Kelly, the cop from Duluth.
    “Guess what?”
    “How many guesses?”
    “Well, fuck it. I’ll just tell you. The crime-scene guys finally unrolled that bubble-wrap mattress and found a fingerprint. Nice, neat, clear.”
    Lucas sat up: “No shit. Is there a name?”
    “That’s the interesting part. There is a name. Attached to a drunk-driving arrest there in St. Paul about nine years ago, a college student named Annabelle Ramford. We’ve looked her up, and she’s apparently a lawyer there in St. Paul. Got a phone and everything.”
    “A lawyer? She’s supposed to be a bum.”
    “Beats the shit out of me. I don’t know what it means,” Kelly said.
    “There’s a John Ramford, he’s like a really bigshot lawyer downtown . . .”
    “I’d call him up and ask about Annabelle, then . . . and if you could do it, the Duluth Police Department will be in your debt.”
    “Like I need that,” Lucas said.
     
    B UT AS SOON as he