Night Prey

from the newsstand, opened it, turned his back to the entrance. A second later, Koop came in and looked around. Lucas glanced at him from the corner of his eye. The store was just big enough for the two of them plus the gum counter with a bored teenager behind it. Koop took down a magazine, opened it. Lucas felt him turn toward the skyway, glanced at him again. Koop’s back was turned, and he was looking over the top of the magazine. Waiting for Jensen.
    Sloan walked by, kept going. Koop was close enough that Lucas could smell him, a light scent of aging jock-sweat. People were streaming by the doorway as offices closed throughout the building, mostly women, a few of them still wearing the old eighties uniform of blue suit and after-work running shoes. Koop never looked at Lucas: he was completely focused on the skyway.
    A man came in and said, “Give me a pack of Marlboros and a box of Clorets.” The girl gave them to him, and he paid, opened the cigarettes, and threw all but two of them in a trash can and walked away.
    “Doesn’t want his wife to know,” the girl said to Lucas.
    “I guess.” Shit. Koop would look at him.
    Koop didn’t. He tossed the magazine back on the rack and hurried out. Lucas looked after him. Just down the skyway, he saw Connell’s blond hair and Jensen’s black. He put the magazine back, and started after Koop, using the radio again.
    “They’re coming at you, Sloan. Del, where are you?”
    “Coming up from behind. Sloan said you were pinned, and I stayed back in case he came that way. I’m coming up.”
    “Elevators,” Connell grunted.
    “I’m coming,” Lucas said. “Del, Sloan, you better get your rides.”
    Sloan and Del acknowledged and Lucas said, “Greave, you guys ready?”
    “We’re ready.” They were in the van, on the street.
    “Elevator,” Lucas said. He took the bug out of his ear, put it in his pocket.
    Koop was facing the elevator door, waiting for it to return. He’d be the first on. Four other people waited, including Jensen and Connell. Jensen stood directly behind Koop’s broad back, staring at the seam at his neck, Connell was beside her. Lucas edged in, just in front of Connell.
    The elevator light went white, and the doors opened. Koop stepped in, pushed a button. Lucas stepped in beside him, turned the other way, pushed the button for Jensen’s floor. Connell moved in on the other side of Lucas, in the corner, where Koop couldn’t see her face. Lucas stood a half-step from the back of the elevator, quarter-turned toward Connell. Koop had never gotten a straight-on look at them, but they couldn’t do this again, not for a couple of days. Jensen and another woman got on last, Jensen stepping immediately in front of Koop. The doors closed and they started up. Lucas couldn’t see Koop, couldn’t look at him. He said, “Long day,” to Connell, who said, “Aren’t they all . . . I think Del’s coming down with a cold.”
    Elevator talk. The woman beside Jensen turned to look at Lucas, and Jensen stepped back a bit, her butt bumping the front of Koop’s pants. “Sorry,” she mumbled, flashing a glance back at him.
    When they got off, Lucas and Connell got off behind her. The doors closed and Koop went on up. He was parked on seven.
    “I saw that,” Connell said to Jensen, grinning. “You’re the bitch from hell.”
    “Thank you,” Jensen said.
    “Don’t do it again,” Lucas said as they walked toward the cars. “Right now, we’re golden. A little too much, and we’re screwed.”
     
     
     
    KOOP FOLLOWED JENSEN out to a small strip shopping center; waited outside while she bought groceries.
    “He’s gonna do it,” Connell said. She was watching him with the binoculars. She sounded elated and grim at the same time, like a burned survivor of a plane crash.
    “He hasn’t looked away from the door since she went in. He’s totally focused. He’s gonna do it.”
    Koop tracked Jensen back to her apartment, the pod of cops all around him, running the parallel streets, ahead and behind, switching off. Jensen rolled into the parking ramp. Koop stopped, watched for a few minutes from his truck, then began wandering, out on the interstates. He did a complete loop of the Cities, driving I-494 and I-694.
    “Go on back, you fucker,” Connell hissed at him. “Get back there.”
    At nine o’clock, they sat at a stoplight and watched two middle-aged men on a par-three golf course, one with white hair and the other with a crew