Night Prey

more than an hour,” Connell said grimly.
    “We can’t take that chance,” Roux said. “We’d be crazy to take that chance.”
    “I don’t know,” Troy said. “If he even showed a knife—that’d be the ball game.”
    “So we should wait?”
    Lucas looked at Connell, then shook his head. “I think we should take him.”
    “Why?” Connell asked. “Getting him for five or six years, if we’re lucky?”
    “We’ve only been watching him for two days and a night. What if he’s got somebody down in his basement right now? What if he goes in the house and kills her while we’re sitting outside? We know that he kept at least one of them for a while.”
    Connell swallowed, and Roux straightened and said, “If that’s a possibility . . .”
    “It’s a very remote possibility,” Lucas said.
    “I don’t care how remote,” Roux said. “Take him now.”

29
    KOOP WAS IN Modigliani’s Wine & Spirits off Lyndale Avenue when the cops got him. His arm was actually in the cold box, pulling out a six-pack of Budweiser, when a red-faced man in a cheap gray suit said, “Mr. Koop?” Koop realized a large black man had stepped to his elbow, and a uniformed cop was standing by the door. They’d appeared as if by magic; as if they had a talent for it, popping out of nowhere.
    Koop said, “Yeah?” And straightened up. His heart beat a little faster.
    “Mr. Koop, we’re Minneapolis police officers,” the red-faced man said. “We’re placing you under arrest.”
    “What for?”
    Koop stood flat-footed, hands in front of him, forcing himself to be still. But his back and arm muscles were twitching, ready to go. He’d thought about this possibility, at night, when he was waiting to go to sleep, or watching television. He’d thought about it a lot, a favorite nightmare.
    Resisting a cop could bring a heavier charge than anything else they might have on you. In the joint, they warned you that if the cops really wanted you, and you gave them a chance, they just might blow you away. Of course, it was mostly the spooks that said that. White guys didn’t see it the same way. But everybody agreed on one thing: your best shot was a decent defense attorney.
    The red-faced cop said, “I think you know.”
    “I don’t know,” Koop protested. “You’re making a mistake. You’ve got the wrong guy.” He glanced toward the door. Maybe he should make a run for it. The red-faced guy didn’t look like that much. The black guy he could outrun, and he’d take the guy at the door like a bowling pin. He had the power . . . but he didn’t know what was outside. And these guys were armed. He sensed the cops were waiting for something, were looking at him for a decision. Everything in the store was needle-sharp, the rows of brown liquor bottles and green plastic jugs of mix, stacks of beer cans, the tops of potato chip bags, the black-and-white checkered tiles on the floor. Koop tensed, felt the cops pull into themselves. They were ready for him, and not particularly scared.
    “Turn around, please, and place your hands on the top of the cooler,” Red-face said. Koop heard him as though from a distance. But there was a hardness in the guy’s voice. Maybe he couldn’t take them. Maybe they’d beat the shit out of him. And he didn’t know yet what he was being arrested for. If it wasn’t too serious, if it was buying cocaine, then resisting would bring him more trouble than the charge.
    “Turn around. . . .” Peremptory this time. Koop gave the door a last look, then let out a breath and turned.
    The cop patted him down, quickly but thoroughly. Koop had done it often enough at Stillwater to appreciate the professionalism.
    “Drop your hands behind you, please. We’re going to put handcuffs on, Mr. Koop, just as a precaution.” The red-faced man was crisp and polite, the prefight tension gone now.
    The black cop said, “You have the right to see an attorney. . . .”
    “I want a lawyer,” Koop said, interrupting the Miranda. The cuffs closed over his wrists and he instinctively flexed against them, pushing down a spasm of what felt like claustrophobia, not being able to move. The red-faced cop took him by the elbow and pivoted him, while the other finished the Miranda.
    “I want a lawyer,” Koop said. “Right now. You’re making a mistake, and I’m gonna sue your butts.”
    “Sure. Step over this way, we’ll go out to the car,” the red-faced cop said.
    They walked down a row of potato chips and