Night Prey

said.
    Lucas watched for a moment, then said, “Speaking of asses, some deaf people thought they saw the killer’s truck. They were sure of it. But they gave us an impossible license plate number. A number that’s not issued—ass, as in A-S-S. ” He touched her ass.
    “I swear to God, Lucas, just ’cause you’ve got me helpless . . .”
    “Why would they be so sure, and then have such a bad number?”
    Weather stopped scrubbing for a moment and said, “A lot of deaf people don’t read English.”
    “What?”
    She looked at him from under her armpit, her head still in the sink. “They don’t read English. It’s very difficult to learn English if you’re nonhearing. A lot of them don’t bother. Or they learn just enough to read menus and bus signs.”
    “Then what do they do? To communicate?”
    “They sign,” she said.
    “I mean, communicate with the rest of us.”
    “A lot of them aren’t interested in communicating with the rest of us. Deaf people have a complete culture: they don’t need us.”
    “They can’t read or write?” Lucas was astonished.
    “Not English. A lot of them can’t, anyway. Is that important?”
    “I don’t know,” Lucas said. “But I’ll find out.”
    “Tonight?”
    “Did you have other plans?” He touched her ass again.
    She said, “Not really. I’ve got to get to bed.”
    “Maybe I’ll make a call,” he said. “It’s not even ten o’clock.”
     
     
     
    ANNA LISE JONES WAS a sergeant with the St. Paul Police Department. Lucas got her at home.
    “We had an intern do the translating. A student at St. Thomas. He seemed to know what he was doing,” she said.
    “Don’t you have a regular guy?” Lucas asked.
    “Yeah, but he was out.”
    “How do I get the names of these people? The deaf people?”
    “Jeez, at this time of night? I’d have to call around,” Jones said.
    “Could you?”
     
     
     
    AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK he had a name and address off St. Paul Avenue. Maybe two miles away. He got his jacket. Weather, in bed, called sleepily, “Are you going out?”
    “Just for a while. I gotta nail this down.”
    “Be careful. . . .”
    The houses along St. Paul Avenue were modest postwar cottages, added-to, modified, with small, well-kept yards and garages out back. Lucas ran down the house numbers until he found the right one. There were lights in the window. He walked up the sidewalk and rang the bell. After a moment, he heard voices and then a shadow crossed the picture-window drapes, and the front door opened a foot, a chain across the gap. A small, elderly man peered out. “Yes?”
    “I’m Lucas Davenport of the Minneapolis Police Department.” Lucas showed his ID card and the door opened wider. “Does Paul Johnston live here?”
    “Yes. Is he all right?”
    “There’s no problem,” Lucas said. “But he went in and talked to the St. Paul police about a case we’re working on, and I need to talk to him about it.”
    “At this time of night?”
    “I’m sorry, but it’s pretty urgent,” Lucas said.
    “Well, I suppose he’s down at the Warrens’.” He turned and called back into the house, “Shirley? Is Paul at the Warrens’?”
    “I think so.” A woman in a pink housecoat walked into the front room, clutching the housecoat closed. “What happened?”
    “This is a policeman, he’s looking for Paul. . . .”
     
     
     
    THE WARRENS WERE a family of deaf people in Minneapolis, and their home was an informal gathering spot for the deaf. Lucas parked two houses away, at the end of a line of cars centered on the Warrens’ house. A man and a woman were sitting on the front stoop, drinking beer, watching him. He walked up the sidewalk and said, “I’m looking for Paul Johnston?”
    The two looked at each other, and then the man signed at him, but Lucas shook his head. The man shrugged and made a croaking sound, and Lucas took out his ID, showed them, pointed toward the house and said, louder, “Paul Johnston?”
    The woman sighed, held up a finger, and disappeared inside. A moment later she came back, followed by a stringy blond teenage girl with a narrow face and small gray eyes. The first woman sat down again, while the blonde said, “Can I help you?”
    “I’m a Minneapolis police officer and I’m looking for a Paul Johnston who contacted the St. Paul police about a case we’re working on.”
    “The killings,” the girl said. “We’ve been talking about that. Nothing ever happened.”
    “I understand St.