Night Prey

heavy.”
    “She’s nuts,” Weston said again. “How can they believe that stuff?”
    “They don’t,” Lucas said.
    Outside, Stern was waiting, microphone in hand, the camera rolling, when Lucas, Connell, and Greave left the house. “Chief Davenport,” she said. “What have you learned? Will you arrest Ray Weston, father of Elaine Louise Weston-Brown?”
    Lucas shook his head. “Nope. Your whole irresponsible story is a crock of shit and a disgrace to journalism.”
     
     
     
    GREAVE WAS LAUGHING about Stern’s reaction on the way back, and even Connell seemed a little looser. “I liked the double take she did. She was already rolling with the next question,” Greave said.
    “It won’t seem so funny if they put it on the air,” Connell said.
    “They won’t do that,” Lucas said.
    “The whole thing is like some weird feminist joke,” Greave said. “If there is such a thing as a feminist joke.”
    “There are lots of feminist jokes,” Connell said.
    “Oh. Okay, I’m sorry. You’re right,” Greave admitted. “What I meant to say is, there are no funny feminist jokes.”
    Connell turned to him, a tiny light in her eye. “You know why women are no good at math?” she asked.
    “No. Why?”
    She held her thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “Because all their lives they’re told this is eight inches.”
    Lucas grinned, and Greave let a smile slip. “One fuckin’ funny joke after thirty years of feminism.”
    “You know why men give names to their penises?”
    “I’m holding my breath,” Greave said.
    “ ’Cause they don’t want a complete stranger making all their important decisions for them.”
    Greave looked into his lap. “You hear that, Godzilla? She’s making fun of you.”
    Just before they got back, Connell asked, “Now what?”
    “I don’t know,” Lucas said. “Think about it. Read your files some more. Dredge something up. Wait.”
    “Wait for him to kill somebody else?”
    “Something,” Lucas said.
    “I think we ought to push him. I think we ought to publish the artist’s drawing. I couldn’t find anybody to confirm it, but I’d bet there’s some resemblance.”
    Lucas sighed. “Yeah, maybe we should. I’ll talk to Roux.”
     
     
     
    ROUX AGREED. “IT’LL give us a bone to throw them,” she said. “If they believe us.”
    Lucas went back to his office, stared at the phone, nibbling at his lower lip, trying to find a hold on the case. The easy possibilities, like Junky, were fading.
    The door opened without a knock, and Jan Reed stuck her head in. “Whoops. Was I supposed to knock? I thought this was an outer office.”
    “I’m not a big enough deal to have an outer office,” Lucas said. “Come on in. You guys are killing us.”
    “Not me,” she said, sitting down, her legs crossed to one side. She’d changed since he saw her in the morning, and must’ve gotten some sleep. She looked fresh and wide awake, in a simple skirt with a white silk blouse.
    “I wanted to apologize for Pam Stern. She’s been out there a little too long.”
    “Who turned up the original story?”
    “I really don’t know—it was phoned in,” she said.
    “The therapist.”
    “I really don’t know,” she said, smiling. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
    “Ah. Ethics raise their ugly head.”
    “Is there anything new?” she asked. She took a short reporter’s notebook out of her purse.
    “No.”
    “What should I look for next?”
    “The autopsy. Evidence of the killer’s semen or blood. If we get that, we’ve got something. There’s a good chance that he’s a prior sexual offender, and the state’s got a DNA bank on prior offenders. That’s next.”
    “All right,” she said. She made a few notes. “I’ll look for that. Anything else?”
    Lucas shrugged. “That’s about it.”
    “Okay. Well, that’s it, then.” And she left, leaving behind her scent. There’d been just the tiniest, microscopic pause after she’d said “Okay.” An opportunity to get personal? He wasn’t sure.
     
     
     
    CONNELL CAME BY late in the afternoon. “Nothing from the autopsy yet. There’s a bruise on her face where it looks like somebody pinched her, and they’re bringing in a specialist to see if they can lift a fingerprint. No great hopes.”
    “Nothing else?”
    “Not yet. And I’m drawing blanks,” she said.
    “How about the PPP guy, the convict who saw the tattoo? What was his name—Price? If nothing comes up, why don’t we