Hidden Prey

finished, he sighed and said, “Shoot. I was hoping you might know her.”
    She leaned back in her chair, and if she’d been wearing pants, might have put her feet up. “I’ve been reading about this whole thing in Duluth—that was you up there, wasn’t it? The spy thing? I remembered the name about fifteen seconds ago.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Your case against this boy—it sucks.” She smiled when she said it.
    “You only say that because you’re a defense attorney,” Lucas said.
    “You mean the prosecutors haven’t told you?” she asked.
    Lucas grinned back at her: “They’ve hinted that additional information would be welcome.”
    “I’ll bet. Like any additional information.” she said. “The kid have a good attorney?”
    Lucas shrugged. “Public defender. So yeah, I’d guess he’s probably pretty good. Why, you want it?”
    “No, no. I do civil stuff,” she said, hastily. “Guys beating wives, wivesbeating guys. The welfare department beating wives and guys out of their rightful checks . . .”
    Lucas stood up, yawned, and stretched. “Poop. Listen, thanks for your time.”
     
    G OING DOWN IN the one-floor elevator, Lucas thought about Annabelle Ramford. Working for her old man’s law firm, wearing her little pearls and her little green dress, worrying about “poor people” between charity benefits. Doing pro bono because it made her feel good and she didn’t need the money. Her old man, he thought, was probably the kind of asshole who bought six-thousand-dollar Italian suits.
    Still, there was something about Annabelle Ramford that tickled his bullshit meter. He just couldn’t think what it might be.
     
    A NNABELLE STOOD IN the window outside her office and watched him stroll away down the street. She felt a little sorry for him. The case against the Walther kid was weak. If news reports were correct, the FBI was pressuring state prosecutors to make a deal that would let the kid out in a couple of years, in exchange for information . . .
    It didn’t have to be that way. The whole case against Walther would come together if Davenport could find Trey.
    But Trey was gone for good. Not even Annabelle would know where to find her, not now, not ever again. Davenport turned the corner, and Annabelle Ramford went back to her office, dropped three pennies and a nickel into a half clamshell, sat down behind her computer, and put the whole thing out of her mind.
     
    O UTSIDE ON THE STREET , Lucas looked around, thought about going back to the office. He could call Kelly and tell him aboutRamford, and maybe plot a little strategy in Carl Walther’s case. On the other hand, he could just go home and see Sam.
    Walther had fired shots at cops, so he’d do some jail time. A couple of years, at a minimum. And who was to say that Carl hadn’t been abused, having spent so much time with that crazy old man? The snarled-up history of the Walther spy ring was another matter, and finding an equitable resolution for that case was beyond him. Probably beyond anybody.
    Lucas yawned. Whatever happened would happen. If he wanted nice neat endings, he was in the wrong business. And he’d been at the office too much, lately. He was getting stale. Worse than that, he was investigating horses.
    He turned the corner, back toward the parking ramp. Better to go home and see Sam, he thought.
    And he did.
    •  •  •
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