Mortal Prey

on hold for another three seconds, then the phone rang once and a man’s voice said, “White.”
    “Are you reporting on the Rinker case?”
    “I’m writing a column,” White said. “Who is this?”
    “Clara Rinker.”
    A moment of silence. Then: “Bullshit.”
    “Bullshit your own self,” Rinker said. “You got something to take notes with?”
    “Yeah. But I still don’t think this is Rinker.”
    “That’s what I’m gonna prove to you, dumbhead. Just listen. There’s a cop from Minneapolis working with the FBI on this case. His name is Lucas Davenport”—she spelled it for him—“and he’s a deputy chief from Minneapolis. I had a run-in with him up there, and he chased me out of my bar in Wichita. Now he’s down here helping the federales. You got that much?”
    “Yeah.” He was typing like crazy, the computer keys rattling in the phone.
    “Okay. Here’s how I prove who I am. I called him this morning about ten o’clock from East St. Louis and talked to him about the case. He told me that his fiancée is pregnant. I called him at the FBI building.”
    “Pregnant. Jesus. Are you kidding? Is this really Rinker?” His voice was rising; he was starting to believe.
    “Yeah. This is Rinker. If you call Davenport and ask him about his fiancée, he’ll confirm that I called him and that nobody else could know about it. About that part of the discussion. Now, I have a statement, okay?”
    “Go.”
    “What?”
    “Go with the statement,” White said.
    “Oh. Okay. Um, the FBI arrested my brother Gene in California on some made-up drug charge. Gene isn’t right in the head. He never has been. He’s not stupid, but he’s just not in this world, you got that? And he’s claustrophobic. They are torturing him by putting him in jail. He’s an innocent kid, and they’re torturing him because they think that will make me surrender. But I won’t. I will tell you and everybody else this: If anything happens to Gene—he’s just like a helpless kid—if anything happens to him, the blood is on their hands and I will wash it off them, one at a time. One at a time, off them and off their families. Off the FBI people who’ve done this.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “That’s all I’ve got.”
    “You say the drug charges are bullshit?”
    “You sure swear a lot, for the telephone,” Rinker said.
    “Sorry. I’m kind of excited.”
    “Okay. Ask them, the FBI, about the charge on Gene. Gene never had more than a single doobie in his whole poor life. He never had more than ten dollars. When was the last time you saw somebody dragged from California to St. Louis in orange prison overalls and chains because he had a doobie?”
    “Okay.”
    “Oh, and something else. The FBI are all over a guy named Andy Levy from First Heartland, because they think I’m going to kill him next. But I’m not going to. Andy used to handle money for me, but he hasn’t for a long time. I just wanted to talk to him.”
    “First Heartland?”
    “Yes. Andy’s a vice president at First Heartland, and he does the banking for the Mafia here in St. Louis. The FBI knows that, and they’ve got him protected because they hope they can catch me. But they’re wasting their time. I’ve got no interest in Andy.”
    “Holy shit. First Heartland.”
    “There you go again.”
    “Sorry, but listen…. Who are you going to kill next? I’d like to send a photographer.”
    Rinker laughed—almost like a quick cough. The guy had some balls. “I gotta go.”
    “Let me read this back.”
    “I don’t have time. But you talk to Davenport.”
    “I don’t…What, uh…why in the hell is a guy from Minneapolis down here?”
    “The FBI brought him down because they think he’s the most likely guy to catch me.”
    “Are they right?”
    “Maybe. But he hasn’t caught me yet, and he’s had his chances.”
     
    RINKER ARRIVED BACK at Pollock’s in time to see Pollock climb the porch steps and then disappear inside. She pulled her car in a tight U-turn, took it down the dirt driveway to the garage, hopped out, lifted the door, and parked. When she let herself into the house, Pollock was in the kitchen. Pollock leaned into her line of sight and called, “You okay?”
    “I’m good,” Rinker said.
    “Got a hornet’s nest going,” Pollock said.
    Rinker looked at her for a minute, then said, “If you think I should go…”
    “I just think you should lay low for a few days,” Pollock said. She came out of the kitchen, wiping