Mind Prey

calm at all times, except when he was talking about the President of the United States, whom he referred to as that socialist shit-head or, occasionally, that fascist motherfucker , depending on his mood.
    “Bad news,” Sherrill said. A little stream of water ran off her hair and unerringly down her spine. She straightened and shivered. She was a tall, slender woman with a long nose, kinky black hair, soft breasts, and a secret, satisfying knowledge of her high desirability rating around the department.
    “Mmmm,” Black said. Then, “You ever get in his shorts? Davenport’s?”
    “Of course not,” Sherrill said. Black had an exaggerated idea of her sexual history. “I never tried.”
    “If you’re gonna try, you better do it,” Black said laconically. “He’s getting married.”
    “Yeah?”
    The Porsche parked sideways on some clearly painted parking-space lines and the door popped open as its lights died.
    “That’s what I heard,” Black said. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the grass bank just off the parking lot.
    “He’d be nine miles of bad road,” Sherrill said.
    “Mike’s a fuckin’ freeway, huh?” Mike was Sherrill’s husband.
    “I can handle Mike,” Sherrill said. “I wonder what Davenport…”
    There was a sudden brilliant flash of light, and the feet sticking out from under the car convulsed. Hendrix said, “Goldarnit.”
    Sherrill looked down. “What? Hendrix?”
    “I almost electrocuted myself,” said the man under the car. “This rain is a…pain in the behind.”
    “Yeah, well, watch your language,” Black said. “There’s a lady present.”
    “I’m sorry.” The voice was sincere, in a muffled way.
    “Get out of there, and give us the fuckin’ shoe,” Sherrill said. She kicked a foot.
    “Darn it. Don’t do that. I’m trying to get a picture.”
    Sherrill looked back across the parking lot. Davenport was walking down toward them, long smooth strides, like a professional jock, his hands in his coat pockets, the coat flapping around his legs. He looked like a big broad-shouldered mobster, a Mafia guy with an expensive mo-hair suit and bullet scars, she thought, like in a New York movie.
    Or maybe he was an Indian or a Spaniard. Then you saw those pale blue eyes and the mean smile. She shivered again. “He does give off a certain”—Sherrill groped for a word—“pulse.”
    “You got that,” Black said calmly.
    Sherrill had a sudden image of Black and Davenport in bed together, lots of shoulder hair and rude parts. She smiled, just a crinkle. Black, who could read her mind, said, “Fuck you, honey.”
     
    D EPUTY C HIEF L UCAS Davenport’s trench coat had a roll-out hood like a parka, and he’d rolled it out, and as he crossed the lot, he pulled it over his head like a monk; he was as dry and snug as Black. Sherrill was about to say something when he handed her a khaki tennis hat. “Put this on,” he said gruffly. “What’re we doing?”
    “There’s a shoe under the car,” Sherrill said as she pulled the cap on. With the rain out of her face, she instantly felt better. “There was another one in the lot. She must’ve got hit pretty hard to get knocked out of her shoes.”
    “Real hard,” Black agreed.
    Lucas was a tall man with heavy shoulders and a boxer’s hands, large, square, and battered. His face reflected his hands: a fighter’s face, with those startling blue eyes. A white scar, thin like a razor rip, slashed down his forehead and across his right eye socket, showing up against his dark complexion. Another scar, round, puckered, hung on his throat like a flattened wad of bubble gum—a bullet hole and jack-knife tracheotomy scar, just now going white. He crouched next to the feet under the car and said, “Get out of there, Hendrix.”
    “Yes, yes, another minute. You can’t have the shoe, though. There’s blood on it.”
    “Well, hurry it up,” Lucas said. He stood up.
    “You talk to Girdler?” Sherrill asked.
    “Who’s that?”
    “A witness,” she said. She was wearing the good perfume, the Obsession, and suddenly thought of it with a tinkle of pleasure.
    Lucas shook his head. “I was out in Stillwater. At dinner. People called me every five minutes on the way in, to tell me about the politics. That’s all I know—I don’t know anything about what you guys got.”
    Black said, “The woman…”
    “…Manette,” said Lucas.
    “Yeah, Manette and her daughters, Grace and Genevieve, were leaving the