Phantom Prey

away with it. But there was no need to do the knife that same night. If we’d had time to think, we could have directed Davenport at Frank, without giving up the knife. We would have been better with the ambiguity . . . but the knife is a hard fact. There has to be an answer to it.”
    “Helen,” Alyssa said after a while. “Helen knew that I was sleeping with Frank. We used to come here in the afternoons, send her off to the other end of the house. But she knew what was happening. ”
    “Could we set her up if we need to? Point Davenport at Frank?” Loren wondered.
    “He’s already looking in her direction. If he comes to us for more information—we give it to him,” Alyssa said. She refilled the wineglass, shook out the last couple of drops. “We tell him that she knew about Frank Willett. And this fifty thousand dollars that he’s been looking for . . . all of Frances’s important mail came here. Bank statements. Estate stuff. Who’d be better placed to intercept them than Helen?”
    She frowned and asked, “Is Helen that smart?” A little drunk, answered her own question: “Maybe she is.”
    Then, continuing, “So we can push him at Helen.”
    Loren said, “We can push him at Helen, but what if he doesn’t bite? There’s always the question of alibi. If Helen has a hard alibi for even one of the killings, then . . . that’s a big problem.”
    Fairy: “A problem that we can take care of. We take care of Davenport.”
    ALYSSA: "There’s a bad idea. Lucas is good-looking and gentlemanly and all that, but one inch below the surface, there’s a thug. And he’s also a police officer.”
    Fairy: “My impression of him is this: he’s doing this in his head. He’s running on instinct. He’s not filing the paperwork. He doesn’t have any paperwork. Paperwork is for other people. If he begins to suspect us and shows it—we pop him. Who could possibly expect that the beautiful Alyssa Austin, heiress and rich woman, could shoot a thug like Lucas Davenport and get away with it? Who’d believe that she could even think of it?”
    “Shoot?” Alyssa said.
    “A knife won’t work,” Fairy said. “If he begins to suspect, he won’t let us get close enough. And like you said, he’s big and tough. He’s not some skinny Goth kid.”
    “How then?”
    “The best way would be to watch him and catch him when he’s going out at night,” Fairy said. “Do the jogger routine again. Shoot him, and run. One shot in the heart. It won’t make any difference how tough he is, he won’t live through that.”
    Alyssa closed her eyes: “God, it gives me a headache, thinking about it. We’re much better off trying to tie it to Helen.”
    Loren nodded: “Absolutely. But take Fairy’s point, with my point, and put them together—if Helen has a hard alibi, then it doesn’t leave a lot of candidates for the other three killings. There are people who have seen you, as Fairy, and he has talked to some of them. Eventually, he may get around to having them look at you. But he’s the only one who would do that. These other people, the Minneapolis cops, have no idea about you.”
    “I could do it,” Fairy said. “I could do it just like I did the car.”
    “The car was just a lump of metal—it wasn’t big and mean, it wasn’t carrying a gun, it wasn’t alive,” Alyssa said.
    “I don’t care. I can do it,” Fairy said. “I’m not saying we should, I’m just saying that if worse comes to worse, I can do it.”
    Alyssa, really feeling the wine now—the last glass had done it— looked at Loren.
    “Well, what are you doing?” she asked.
    “What do you mean?”
    “What are you doing? Right now?”
    He caught on, and smiled. “You want to go upstairs?”
    “You might talk me into it.”
    The sex wasn’t perfect—it never was, in her experience, there was always something not right, and in Loren’s case, it was that his body, including his tongue, was cold as ice.
    But it was good enough for the moment, for an evening otherwise alone.
    An evening where she would, she thought, inevitably have to think about Lucas Davenport. But for now, she didn’t think about anything.
    For now, she let the pleasure flow.
    Davenport was for some other time.

22
    Investigating frank willett was like chewing on a bad cheeseburger: the longer you worked at it, the worse the taste became. The crime-scene people pulled Willett’s apartment to pieces, and in addition to the knife, came up with one aging pack of