Mind Prey

thought she might be drunk, although she wasn’t drinking anything. Nancy Wolfe, in a soft, moss-colored suit, glared at him from across the room. When he looked steadily back, she bounced her hair and looked away. She was sipping from a small cognac glass, and posed in front of a nineteenth-century oil painting of a woman with cold, dark eyes, a coal-black dress, and a surprisingly sensual lower lip.
    The gofer attorney was getting drinks; a Minneapolis Intelligence cop in a plaid sportcoat and T-shirt, with a bump on his hip that was probably a large automatic, leaned in a doorway and gobbled popcorn from a plastic sack. He was waiting for the phone call that had never come, and looked bored.
    Manette stood in the center of the circle, wearing a gray suit with an Italian necktie, the knot tight at his throat. He was worn and older than he’d looked only the day before. But somehow, down in his soul, Lucas thought, watching him, Manette also enjoyed being at the center of a tragedy.
     
    “N O-GO,” THE CHIEF said to Manette, shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”
    “Shit.” Dunn turned away from them, and Lucas thought he might chuck the bourbon glass into the fireplace. Instead, he leaned against the rock-facing, head down.
    “Not a complete loss,” Dumbo said. A fine patina of sweat covered his forehead. He hated dealing with the rich, people who knew U.S. Senators by their nicknames and toilet habits. “We had him on, but we couldn’t hold him long enough. We had him for twenty seconds and he figured it out. We’ve got an idea where he is: south of the rivers, down in Eagan or Apple Valley.”
    “You’ve got projects down there,” Manette said to Dunn.
    Dunn turned around, his face sullen, a little heat lightning in his eyes, “Yeah, but I wasn’t answering any telephones down there tonight,” he growled.
    “That’s not what I meant,” Manette said, squaring off to Dunn. “I meant, you know the area.”
    Nancy Wolfe caught Tower’s jacket sleeve and pulled him back an inch, and Dunn said, “Yeah, and I know there’re three hundred thousand people in the fuckin’ area…”
    “Watch your mouth,” Manette snapped. “There are women here.”
    Lucas, now watching Wolfe, behind Manette, her hand on his sleeve, thought: Huh.
    “He, uh, mentioned Davenport,” Dumbo said, looking at Lucas. “He apparently, uh, feels Chief Davenport is”—he groped for a word, finally found one—“ responsible for the”—he groped for another one—“radio procedure.”
    “Well, he is,” Dunn said to Dumbo. “He’s the only cop I’ve talked to so far doesn’t have his head up his ass.”
    “George…” Manette said, his face still red under his shock of white hair. Dunn ignored him and stepped closer to Lucas. “I want to put up a reward. I don’t care how much. A million.”
    “Not that much,” Lucas said. “We’d have freaks coming out of the woodwork. Start at fifty thousand.”
    “Good. I’m gonna announce it right now,” Dunn said. He looked at Manette, but Manette said nothing, just shook his head with a sour, skeptical smile and turned away from them all.
     
    O N THE WAY out, the chief said, “Happy little family.”
    “Nancy Wolfe, Tower Manette, what do you think?”
    Nothing surprised Rose Marie Roux: she’d been in politics too long. After a moment of silence, she said, in a voice that was almost pleased, “It’s possible. When we briefed them last night, she touched the back of his hand.”
    “And tonight, she tried to stop him from fighting Dunn…or made a move that way. Protective.”
    “Huh,” the chief said. Then, “You know, Lucas, you have a strong feminine side.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind,” she said.
    “No, what’d you mean?” Lucas was amused.
    The chief said, “You’re more willing than most men to rely on intuition. I mean, you suspect that Nancy Wolfe and Tower Manette are having an affair.”
    “There’s no question about it,” he said. “Now that I think about it.”
    “Because she caught his sleeve.” Now Roux was amused. “That’s a pretty good leap.”
    “It was how she touched his sleeve,” Lucas said. “If that’s feminine, I accept the label.”
    “What’d you think I meant?” Roux asked.
    “I don’t know,” he said vaguely. “Maybe, you know—I had nice tits.”
    Roux started to laugh: “Christ, I’m running a fuckin’ zoo, the people I’ve got.”
     
    T HE MIDDLE OF the night, all foul-mouthed, their shirts