Night Prey

past them, the old men as unmoving, unblinking as the Union soldier.
    George Beneteau’s office was in the back, off a parking lot sheltered by tall, spreading oaks. Lucas and Connell were passed through a steel security door and led by a secretary through a warren of fabric partitions to Beneteau’s corner office.
    Beneteau was a lanky man in his middle thirties, wearing a gray suit with a string tie under a large Adam’s apple, and a pair of steel-rimmed aviator sunglasses. He had a prominent nose and small hairline scars under his eyes: old sparring cuts. A tan Stetson sat on his desk in-basket. He showed even, white teeth in a formal smile.
    “Miz Connell, Chief Davenport,” he said. He stood to shake hands with Lucas. “That was a mess over in Lincoln County last winter.”
    The observation sounded like a question. “We’re not looking for trouble,” Lucas said. He touched the scar on his throat. “We just want to talk to Joe Hillerod.”
    Beneteau sat down and steepled his fingers. Connell was wearing sunglasses that matched his. “We know that Joe Hillerod crossed paths with our killer. At least crossed paths.”
    Beneteau peered at her from behind the steeple. “You’re saying that he might be the guy?”
    “That’s a possibility.”
    “Huh.” He sat forward, picked up a pencil, tapped the pointed end on his desk pad. “He’s a mean sonofagun, Joe is. He might kill a woman if he thought he had reason . . . but he might need a reason.”
    Lucas said, “You don’t think he’s nuts.”
    “Oh, he’s nuts all right,” Beneteau said, tapping the pencil. “Maybe not nuts like your man is. But who knows? There might be something in him that likes to do it.”
    “You’re sure he’s around?” Lucas asked.
    “Yes. But we’re not sure exactly where,” Beneteau said. His eyes drifted up to a county road map pinned to one wall. “His truck’s been sitting in the same slot since you called yesterday, down at his brother’s place. We’ve been doing some drive-bys.”
    Lucas groaned inwardly. If they’d been seen . . .
    Beneteau picked up his thought and shook his head, did his thin dry smile. “The boys did it in their private cars, only two of them, a couple of hours apart. Their handsets are scrambled. We’re okay.”
    Lucas nodded, relieved. “Good.”
    “On the phone last night, you mentioned those .50-caliber barrels you found in that fire. The Hillerods have some machine tools down in that junkyard,” Beneteau said.
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.” Beneteau stood up, looked at a poster for a missing girl, then turned back to Lucas. “I thought we oughta take along a little artillery. Just in case.”
     
     
     
    THEY WENT IN a caravan, two sheriff’s cars and an unmarked panel truck, snaking along a series of blacktop and gravel roads, past rough backwoods farms. Mangy cud-chewing cows, standing in patchy pastures marked by weather-bleached tree stumps, turned their white faces to watch the caravan pass.
    “They call it a salvage yard, but the local rednecks say it’s really a distribution center for stolen Harley-Davidson parts,” Beneteau said. He was driving, his wrist draped casually over the top of the steering wheel. “Supposedly, a guy rips off a good clean bike down in the Cities or over in Milwaukee or even Chicago, rides it up here overnight. They strip it down in an hour or so, get rid of anything identifiable, and drop the biker up at the Duluth bus station. Proving that would be a lot of trouble. But you hear about midnight bikers coming through here, and the bikes never going back out.”
    “Where do they sell the parts?” Connell asked from the backseat.
    “Biker rallies, I guess,” Beneteau said, looking at her in the rearview mirror, “Specialty shops. There’s a strong market in old Harleys, and the older parts go for heavy cash, if they’re clean.” They topped a rise and looked down at a series of rambling sheds facing the road, with a pile of junk behind a gray board fence. Three cars, two bikes, and two trucks faced the line of buildings. None of the vehicles were new. “That’s it,” Beneteau said, leaning on the accelerator. “Let’s try to get inside quick.”
    Lucas glanced back at Connell. She had one hand in her purse. Gun. He slipped a hand under his jacket and touched the butt of his .45. “Let’s take it easy in there,” he said casually. “They’re not really suspects.”
    “Yet,” said Connell.
    Beneteau’s eyes flicked up