Rules of Prey

Sloan,” Sloan said as they drove away.
    A curator at the art institute took one look at the mouse, whistled, and said, “That’s a good one. Let’s get the books.”
    “How do you know it’s a good one?” Lucas asked as he tagged along behind.
    “Because it looks like it might walk around at night,” the curator said.
    The search took time. Sloan was wandering through the photo gallery when Lucas returned.
    “What?” he said, looking up.
    “Eight thousand,” Lucas said to him.
    “For what? For the mouse or for all fifteen?”
    “For the mouse. That’s his low estimate. He said it could be twice as much at an auction. So if it’s eight thousand and the others are as good, Nester paid a man dying of cancer five hundred dollars for netsukes worth something between a hundred and twenty thousand dollars and a quarter-million.” He said “net-skis.”
    “Whoa.” Sloan was nonplussed. The amounts were too big. “That’s what they are? Net-skis?”
    “I guess. That’s what the curator was saying.”
    “I didn’t know.”
    “I bet Alan Nester does.”
     
    They stopped at Rice’s house.
    “Eight thousand dollars?” she said in wonderment. A tear trickled down one cheek. “But he bought fifteen of them . . .”
    “Mrs. Rice, I expect that when your husband asked Mr. Nester to come over here, all he really wanted was an evaluation so he could sell them later, isn’t that what you told us?” Lucas asked.
    “Well, I don’t really remember . . .”
    “I remember your saying that in the first interview,” Sloan said insistently.
    “Well, maybe,” she said doubtfully.
    “Because if he did, then he cheated you,” Lucas said insistently. “He committed a fraud, and you could recover them.”
    “Well, that’s what he come over for, to valuate them,” Mary Rice said, nodding her head vigorously, her memory suddenly clearing up. She picked up the mouse, handling it tenderly. “Eight thousand dollars.”
     
    “Now what? Get a warrant?” Sloan asked. They were on the walk outside Rice’s house again.
    “Not yet,” Lucas said. “I don’t know if we have enough. Let’s hit Nester first. Tell him what we’ve got, ask him to cooperate on the gun thing. Tell him if he cooperates, we’ll let it go as a civil matter between his attorney and Rice’s attorney. If he doesn’t, we get a warrant, bust him, and put it in the press. How he ripped off a man who was dying of cancer and was trying to leave something for his wife.”
    “Oooh, that’s ugly.” Sloan smiled. “I like it.”
     
    “Where’s Nester?”
    The man behind the counter was small, dark, and much younger than Nester.
    “He’s not here,” the man said. There was a chill in theair; Lucas and Sloan didn’t look like customers. “Might I ask who is inquiring?”
    “Police. We need to talk to him.”
    “I’m afraid you can’t,” the young man said, raising his eyebrows. “He left for Chicago at noon. He’ll already be there and I have no idea where he’s staying.”
    “Shit,” Sloan said.
    “When’s he due back?” Lucas asked.
    “Tuesday morning. He should be in by noon.”
    “Do you have any netsukes?” Sloan asked.
    The young man’s eyebrows went up again. “I believe we do, but you’d have to ask Alan. He handles all the more expensive items.”

CHAPTER
22
    Lucas took off his coat and tossed it on the mattress. The two surveillance cops, one tall, one short, were sitting on folding chairs, facing each other, with another chair between them. They were playing gin, the cards laid out on the seat of the middle chair. One of the cops watched the window while the other surveyed his hand. They were good at it. Their shift covered the prime time.
    “Nothing?” asked Lucas.
    “Nothing,” said the tall cop.
    “Anything from the cars?”
    “Not a thing.”
    “Who’s in them?”
    “Davey Johnson and York, up north, behind McGowan’s. Sally Johnson and Sickles, out east. Blaney is over on the west side with a new guy, Cochrane. I don’t know him.”
    “Cochrane’s that tall blond kid, plays basketball in the league,” the short cop chipped in. He fanned his cards, dropped them on the seat of the chair between them, and said, “Gin.”
    A radio against one wall played golden-oldie rock. A police radio sat silently next to it.
    “He’s about due,” Lucas said, peering out into the street.
    “This week,” the short one agreed. “Which is odd, when you think about it.”
    “What’s