Mortal Prey

calls will pay for a pretty expensive phone. Ask the St. Louis cops.”
    “I’ll do that. Can you get down?”
    “I’ll drive down tomorrow,” Lucas said.
    “No problem with Weather?”
    “Nope. She’s pretty interested in the whole project, and she’s far enough out on the pregnancy that she doesn’t really need me here.”
    “See you then. I’m flying the first thing in the morning.”
     
    THE FBI CONTINGENT was housed in a block of rooms at the Embassy Suites Hotel, a couple of blocks off the waterfront. There was no garage, but Lucas found a spot within direct eyeshot of the front door, parked, and carried his bag inside to the reception desk.
    “FBI?” asked the woman behind the desk, looking him over.
    “No,” Lucas said. So everybody knew the feds were in town. He pushed his American Express card at her. “I’d really appreciate something comfortable.”
    “That’s not a problem,” she said pleasantly. Her accent came from farther down the river. She was looking at a computer screen as they talked, and said, “I see you have a message.”
    She stepped to the left, looked through a file, produced an envelope, and passed it to him.
    “Are there a lot of FBI people in the hotel?” Lucas asked.
    “Mmm,” she said. Then: “They think that lady killer is here—Clara Rinker.”
    “Here in the hotel?” She was nice-looking, a fair-skinned black woman, and Lucas thought a little moonshine couldn’t hurt, especially with a southerner.
    She picked up on it and smiled at him. “Not in the hotel, silly. In St. Louis.”
    “I’ll look out for her.”
    They chatted as she checked him in, the kind of light southern flirting that established a mutual pleasure in the present company, with no implications whatever. The room was decent: The space was okay, with a small sitting room, the bed was solid, and if he pressed his forehead to the window, he could see the towboats working up the river. One was working up the river the first time he looked, maybe one of the same tows he’d see from his place in St. Paul. Not bad.
    He dumped his bag on the bed, powdered his nose, splashed water on his face, and opened the envelope. The note said, “We’re at the local FBI office. Easy to get to, too far to walk. Ask at the desk.”
    Though it was warm, he got a jacket, a crinkled cotton summer-weight, before he headed out. Downstairs, the southerner was working the desk and he asked, “Can you tell me where the FBI office is?”
    She looked at him, a little warily—was he hustling her, trying to extend the FBI comment?—and he said, “Really. I have a meeting.”
    “Big fibber,” she said. “You said you weren’t—”
    “No, no, I’m not FBI. I just have a meeting.”
    “Well…if you’re really not fibbing…”
    “Really.”
    “Okay. If you were, it’s only ninety-nine dollars federal rate for your room. You save fifty dollars.”
    She paused, but he shook his head. “Okay, the FBI building. It’s about, ummm, twenty blocks from here. You want to go out this way to Market….” She pointed him out the door. He retrieved the Porsche, found Market, took a right, and five minutes later was easing into a parking space outside the FBI building. He’d expected a high-rise office with security. He got a low, flat fifties-look two-or three-story building that must have covered a couple of acres, with big green windows, a well-trimmed lawn, and a steel security fence on the perimeter. Lights were burning all through the building.
    Inside the front door, a guard checked him off a list. Lucas declared no weapon, and the guard said, “We have a weapon pass for you, Mr. Davenport.”
    Lucas shrugged. “I thought it’d be better to leave it for now.”
    “Fine. I’ll show you the conference room. Mr. Mallard is there now with the rest of the Special Studies Group.” He handed Lucas a plastic card with a metal clip. “Put this on.”
    The guard led him to an elevator, while another guard took the desk. The first guy was older, mid-fifties, Lucas thought, with a mildly unfashionable haircut and a nose that might have been broken twice. “You ever a cop?” Lucas asked, as they got in the elevator.
    The guard glanced at him. “Twenty-two years, City of St. Louis.”
    “You let these FBI weenies get on top of you?”
    The guard smiled pleasantly, showing his eyeteeth. “That doesn’t happen. You a cop, or a consultant, or what?”
    “Deputy chief from Minneapolis. I’ve bumped into