Phantom Prey

that when Frank Willett came out the door with an old lady. Willett was six feet tall, Lucas thought, narrow shoulders, no hips at all, probably weighed a hundred and sixty pounds, and all of it was muscle: like a snake. He was wearing sweats with a hood folded back on his shoulders, gym shoes, and a black ball cap; round, steel-rimmed glasses; and he dangled a gear bag from his left hand.
    Jackson started whaling on the camera the moment they came out the door. The outside walks were made of flagstone, and Willett and the old lady chattered along as they ambled toward the street, and then took a right toward the parking lot. Lucas said to Jackson, “Short hair,” but when they turned, he spotted a short ponytail sticking out the back of Willett’s ball cap. “Shit. Ponytail.”
    “Hair’s black, though, like you wanted,” Jackson grunted. “Suck-ass license photo, it could have been any color.”
    In the parking lot, Willett patted the old lady on the shoulder and walked across to his car, a gray Land Rover LR3. “Get the plates,” Lucas said to Jackson.
    Jackson did, but said, “Just as easy to look them up.”
    “The guy’s a personal trainer,” Lucas said. “Where does he get money for a Land Rover? It might not be his.”
    Jackson was shooting: “Well, there’s ways . . .”
    “And I know one of them,” Lucas said. “You take fifty thousand dollars off Frances Austin.”
    When they were gone, Lucas said, “Let’s get these back and get some prints. Need them quick.”
    “You can have them in two minutes, if you want,” Jackson said.
    “Yeah?”
    Jackson pulled open the bottom drawer of the chiffonier, took out a Canon photo printer about the size of a carton of milk, and plugged in his memory card. Lucas picked out four photos on the small LCD screen, and Jackson printed them as 5x7 glossies.
    “Christ, this place is like a photographer’s dream,” Lucas said, as the photos pooped out of the tiny printer.
    “And when some asshole tries to take it away from me, I’m counting on you to back me up,” Jackson said.
    “Absolutely,” Lucas said.
    The run across town was delayed by construction, and Lucas, pissing on his own shoes for choosing the wrong route, took an hour to get to the Riverside State Bank in Maplewood. As he was pulling into the parking lot, he took a call from Carol:
    “Not only does our man have a history, there’s an outstanding warrant from San Francisco,” she said. “He never showed up for a court date on a sale-sized pot bust, so he is fair game. We can bag his tight little ass anytime we want.”
    “How much did he have?” Lucas asked. “How do you know he has a tight ass?”
    “Six ounces. And Dan got back and showed me some of his shots.”
    “Well, shit, that’s not much of a sale.”
    “The information out there claims he was providing it to meditation clients to smooth them out,” she said. “He was teaching in a program called Action Zen, where you’d jump out of an airplane or climb a cliff, and then smooth out on dope.”
    “Sounds weird,” Lucas said.
    “Sounds fun,” Carol said. “But the important thing, like I said, is that he’s fair game.”
    Emily wau, the banker, looked at the photographs for three minutes, shuffled them around on her desk in different configurations, then said, “No.”
    “No?”
    “I think I would have remembered this one, for sure,” she said. “Is he married?”
    “Jeez, Emily, give me a break. I’m not a dating service,” Lucas said.
    “Maybe you should be—you’re not doing that well as a cop,” she said, but she smiled when she said it.
    Lucas thought about it for a few minutes, as he drove away from the bank, then put in a call to Alyssa Austin. “I need to talk to you about Frank Willett.”
    There was a moment of silence, then, “Uh-oh.”
    “Where are you at?”
    “In St. Paul. I can be home in fifteen minutes. If we have to talk about him, I’d rather do it at home, than here.”
    Somebody was sitting across her desk, Lucas thought. “Half hour,” he said.
    On the way down, he called the number he had for McGuire and Robinson, the couple who were setting up the website. Robinson answered, and he identified himself and said, “Did you ever meet a friend of Frances named Frank Willett?”
    “Uh . . . maybe.”
    “Maybe?”
    “Yeah. We went out to a place in Stillwater, last summer, a restaurant down on the water.”
    “The Dock,” Lucas said.
    “Yes, that’s it,”