Phantom Prey

she said. And, “Come in.”
    He stepped inside and said, “Just need a minute.” He had the photo in a manila envelope, slipped it out and handed it to her.
    She looked at it, and her face turned white and she blurted, “Oh, my God. It’s Loren Doyle.”
    “This is the guy? The Loren?” Lucas asked.
    “Oh my God.” Her hand was at her throat. She pushed the photo back at him and said, “That’s the guy, but I just remembered, when you handed it to me . . . I mean, I never knew him well, just saw him that once, but now I know why I remembered him.”
    Lucas spread his hands: “What?”
    “He’s dead,” she said. “He was killed in an awful boat accident on the Mississippi, right below downtown St. Paul. He was in one of those jet boats with a couple of other guys and they hit a barge. I think there were three people and they all got killed.”
    “Ah, jeez, I remember that,” Lucas said. “But that was . . .”
    “Way before Frances. I remember now. He was in one of her classes, they were on a project together, a case study for a business class. About General Electric or General Mills or General Motors. And then she told me he was killed. They weren’t close, but we were both shocked. You know how people are when it’s somebody you just met and was alive and everything?”
    “Damnit,” Lucas said. He looked at the photo. “I thought we were on to something.” He looked at her, still white. “Are you okay?”
    “It gave me such a start,” she said. “Like he came back from the grave.”
    Lucas was back on the road two minutes later, driving away with the uneasy sense that something had just gotten by him. Was it possible that Loren wasn’t dead? That Austin was lying about it? But it seemed improbable—it’d be too easy to check. He thought about it, then called Sandy: “I’ve got something else for you. I need it ASAP. This Loren guy . . .”
    He was almost back at the office when he took a call from Cheryl Weiner, the agent watching Frank Willett. “Lucas, this guy is getting ready to run,” she said. “He just brought a duffel out to his truck and he seems to be in a sweat. He was supposed to be doing a Pilates class and he skipped it. . . . Okay, here he comes again. He’s got skis.”
    “Stick with him,” Lucas said. “I’m on the way.”
    He was halfway to Minneapolis when she called back: “He’s in his truck, he’s backing out, you want me to block him? Want me to grab him?”
    “No, no, no . . . we don’t know what he’s up to, if he’s got a gun. If he’s our guy, he’s killed four people, he might feel like his back’s against the wall. Just tag him. We’ll get some help.”
    She tagged him, staying back. He showed no sign of looking behind him, in his haste to get out, she said. She took him up to I-94 and then north, as Lucas closed in from behind. He called Carol, got piped to the highway patrol district office, and asked for help. Two patrol cars were nearby and available, one north of Willett, and one south. The one on the south blew past Lucas, and Lucas, still on with the patrol’s district office, warned them that he was going to fall in behind, and he did.
    The car coming down from the north got off, waited for Willett and Weiner to pass, and then fell in behind. When the south car caught up, the two patrolmen moved on him: fell in behind, with lights and sirens, pulled him over, blocked front and back. Lucas and Weiner came in behind, waited for a lull in the traffic, and got out.
    Willett didn’t resist and was cuffed by the time they were out. He was dressed in loose nylon pants and a sweatshirt. His brown hair was undone and fell almost to his shoulders.
    “What?” he asked Lucas.
    “We’re arresting you on a California warrant for possession of marijuana, and on suspicion of murder in the death of Frances Elaine Austin,” Lucas said. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”
    Willett’s face tightened up: “What? Frances? What’re you talking about, man?”
    “. . . the right to have an attorney present during questioning . . .”
    “Man! What are you talking about?” Willett yanked his arms against the highway patrolman, who jerked him backward away from Lucas.
    “. . . cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand this, Mr. Willett?”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah. What about Frances? I didn’t have anything to do with Frances,” he said.
    “Let’s get him off the highway,” Lucas said to one