Phantom Prey

probably,” Brandt said.
    “Did you know her?”
    “Not as far as I know. My friends are more from, you know, the south side and over toward Edina. Roy’s friends were more the university group.”
    “Do you know Patricia Shockley or Leigh Price?” Lucas asked.
    She looked over at him in the dark, her moon face almost luminescent. “Well, yeah. I do. Are they involved?”
    He explained about Frances Austin, and she said, “Okay. If you hook up with a Goth, and they talk to you, you can follow a chain around to all the Goths in the Cities, and probably all over the country. So I know Leigh and Pat one way, and I know Roy another way, but if they know each other . . . I don’t know.”
    November was a charcoal-colored concrete-block building with a long scrawling November above the doors in red neon. The parking lot had two dozen cars in it. Worried about getting parked in, Lucas left the Porsche on the street, a block away. Jean led the way back, and as they passed the parking lot, said, “That’s Roy’s car.” She pointed at an aging red Camry parked at the back of the lot.
    “Excellent,” Lucas said.
    Inside the door, they stopped to scan the main room—black leatherette booths, around a U-shaped bar with subdued light, a harsh black-and -white six-foot photo enlargement of Edvard Munch’s The Scream on the wall above the back bar. Jean turned to Lucas and said, “This way,” and headed for a booth with two couples, all Goth.
    She asked one of the men, “Have you seen Roy?”
    The Goth looked around, “Yeah, he’s here.”
    “Is his friend with him?”
    “Yeah. They’re right here.” He sat up a bit and craned his neck, looking toward the back room. “Maybe they went in the back?”
    They went into the back, found more booths, scattered around a twenty-by-twenty dance floor, no music yet, and only three couples in the booths. Jean went to one of the couples and asked, “Did you see Roy?”
    “He was just here,” the man said. The woman flicked her finger toward a hall on one side. “Restroom. Just a minute ago.”
    Lucas said, “Thanks,” to Jean, and headed toward the hall that led to the restrooms. The men’s room was empty; Jean saw him back out and said, “Let me look,” and went into the women’s restroom. A second later, she was back. “Only one person, and it’s not her.”
    “You’re sure?”
    She said, “Roy called her a fairy. This woman”—she tipped a finger at the restroom door—“is a plus size. Maybe two-plus.”
    The hall went on past the restroom, and Lucas followed it out, thinking it might lead outside; but it was a loop, leading back to the 7 main room, at the front. They stood there for a moment, peering at the tables, then one of the men they’d first spoken to saw them and pointed at the door.
    They stepped over to the booth, and he said, “You talk to them? They just went out. Just now.”
    There were only two people on the street, both guys, ambling down toward them, apparently heading for the club. Lucas looked in the parking lot, around to the side. The Camry was still there. He walked down to the corner, a hundred feet away, looked up and down the street. There were people about, no odd couple, no tall redheaded guy with a diminutive fairy girl.
    Where in the hell had they gone?

6
    Fairy and loren took the Honda, a five-year-old black Prelude SH with a stick shift and some engine work. Small, what car nuts called a q-ship: mild-looking but with a serious bite, put together by some nice Asian boys from St. Paul. With its high-revving engine and tight suspension, it felt, under Fairy’s butt, like the Batmobile.
    They went west on I-494, up 35E, west on I-94, and off on Nicollet, cutting through back streets, driving with the stick, braking with the engine, spotting a street-parking spot under an elm tree. As she backed into the parking place, Loren said, “I bet he’s early. He’s eager.”
    “Can you still feel Frances on him?”
    “I can,” he said. “I can feel her spirit, her hand on his shoulder.” Fairy looked in the rearview mirror, saw the lights from a car turning into the November parking lot. A moment later, Roy Carter walked out of the lot, slowly, combing his hair, patting it down with one hand, straightening his shirt, tucking it in. “There he is.”
    “Then, let’s go.”
    She popped the door, got out, shook out her skirt. Her purse had once been an art deco silver-and-onyx cigarette case, and held her driver’s