Mortal Prey

early computer games, how that drifted into simulations for police 911 systems…
    “Holy shit, you’re rich,” Andreno said.
    “Comfortable,” Lucas said.
    “Bullshit, you’re rich,” Andreno said happily. “Why don’t you give me this car when you leave? I’d look great in it—clubs in the passenger seat, kind of casual-like, driving along with my sunglasses and the Rolex.”
    “Couldn’t do that. You have to have a certain level of sexual magnetism before you’re allowed to drive a Porsche,” Lucas said.
    “And I’d have to get a Rolex,” Andreno said. He pointed at a slot near the curb, a half-block from the BluesNote. “Put it there. Then it’ll be close if we have to run for it.”
    “Run…?”
    “Pulling your weenie,” Andreno said. “John’s actually an okay guy, if you like crooked barkeeps who suffer from clinical depression and progressive hair loss.”
    “Think he’ll be there?”
    “He always is. He’s got nowhere else to go.”
     
    THE BLUESNOTE WAS only a couple of blocks from Lucas’s hotel, one of a collection of nineteenth-century brick buildings called LaClede’s Landing. Bars, mostly, a couple of music spots, all kinds of restaurants, tourist junk shops selling St. Louis souvenirs. Cobblestone streets. Like that; what you got in any older city when the city engineers decided to do something hip. At the door to the BluesNote, Andreno said, “Stay close behind me. Place is kinda dim.”
    They went in fast, straight to the back, though the kitchen doors and up a flight of stairs that had a “Private” sign above the first step, and at the top of the stairs. Andreno went straight on, across the landing, and pushed open the door at the top. “John…,” he said.
    John Sellos was a thin man, tired-looking, worn down, sitting behind a wooden desk in the screen glow of a cheap laptop computer. He looked at Andreno, and Lucas behind him, and said, “Ah, shit.” He said it in a quiet way, as though Andreno, or somebody like him, had been expected. Then: “What’re you doing? You’re not on the force anymore.”
    “I’m showing my friend around,” Andreno said. “This is Lucas Davenport—he’s a deputy chief from Minneapolis and is working now with an FBI task force on Clara Rinker. You heard of her?”
    “I heard of her,” Sellos said uncomfortably. He leaned back and crossed his legs. “What do you want?”
    Andreno glanced at Lucas, who looked at the two chairs in front of Andreno’s desk, carefully brushed off the seat of one of them, and sat down. “John…Can I call you John?”
    “You can.”
    “John,” Lucas said. “You helped set up Nanny Dichter to be murdered by Clara Rinker. We know that and you know that. And you know what the penalty is for felony murder in Missouri.” Lucas made a delicate slashing gesture across his throat. When Sellos didn’t immediately answer, Lucas knew that they were on the right track. So did Andreno. He moved off to lean against a wall, and nodded at Lucas, his chin dipping a quarter-inch. “We’ve got Nanny’s phone records, John,” Lucas continued. “We know you called him—we’ve got a witness who can put you on the phone. We’ve got Clara’s phone number, though she isn’t answering it. We know where the phone came from, and pretty soon we’re gonna know who stole it, and that person is gonna get on the witness stand and he is gonna put you on death row.”
    “I better get a lawyer,” Sellos said. His voice lacked enthusiasm, and he didn’t reach for a phone.
    “The question is, do you need a lawyer?” Andreno said, pushing away from the wall. “You don’t for me, because I’m not a cop anymore. Lucas, here, isn’t exactly official. We’re just a couple of street guys trying to come up with some information.”
    “So?” They were projecting rays of light, and all Sellos saw was bullshit and lies.
    “So we talk,” Lucas said, shrugging. “No need for everybody to get excited about a telephone. I mean, if the feds find you later, that’s their problem and your problem. But we’re not gonna talk to them about it. We got our own thing going.”
    Sellos turned skeptical. “You’re not going to tell them?”
    Andreno shook his head. “Nope. If you’ll help us out, I’ll give you my beeper number, and if Clara calls, you beep us. That’ll be it.”
    “But you’ve gotta tell us the rest of it now,” Lucas said. “Otherwise…you’re gonna need a lawyer—a really good