Rules of Prey

Sloan. “I told him everything that happened between Mr. Rice and myself.”
    “I had a very strong feeling that you were holding back,” Sloan said. “I’m not usually wrong.”
    “Well. Frankly, I thought if you learned about the price paid for the netsukes, which was the price Mr. Rice asked—let the seller beware—that you might feel it was . . . inappropriate. I was not hiding it, I was merely being discreet.”
    Lucas grimaced. “If you had told us that, or even suggested it, we wouldn’t have hassled you,” he said. “We’re trying to trace the gun Rice had. We’re running down everybody who talked to him while he had it.”
    “I never saw a gun and he never mentioned a gun or offered to sell one,” Nester said. “I didn’t see anyone else while I was there, not even Mrs. Rice. We didn’t talk. I went in and said I would be interested in looking at the netsukes. He backed his wheelchair up, got them from a box and gavethem to me, and went back to his reading. I asked how much, he said five hundred dollars. I gave him a check and left. We didn’t exchange more than fifty words.”
    “That doesn’t sound like Rice,” Sloan said. “He was supposed to be quite a talker.”
    “Not with me,” Nester said.
    Lucas looked at Sloan and shook his head.
    “I think because he was so involved with his will,” Nester continued. “He had to read it and sign it before his attorney picked it up.”
    “His attorney?” Lucas asked. He turned to Sloan. “His attorney?”
    Sloan started paging through his workbook.
    “He said his attorney was on his way,” Nester said, looking from one to the other. “Does that help?”
    “We don’t show any attorney,” Sloan said.
    Lucas felt his throat tighten. “Did he say what his attorney’s name was?”
    “No, nothing like that. Or I don’t remember,” Nester said.
    “We may want to talk to you some more,” Lucas said, standing up. “Come on, Sloan.”
     
    Sloan pumped a quarter into the pay phone. Mary Rice picked it up on the first ring.
    “Your husband’s will, Mrs. Rice, do you have a copy of it there? Could you get it? I’ll wait.”
    Lucas stood beside him, looking up and down the street, bouncing on the balls of his feet, calculating. A lawyer. It would fit. But this was ridiculous. This would be too easy. Sloan shifted from foot to foot, waiting.
    “Did you look in the top drawer of your dresser?” Sloan said finally. “Remember you told me once you’d put stuff there . . . Yeah, I can wait.”
    “What is she doing?” Lucas blurted. He wanted to rip the phone away from Sloan and shout the woman into abject obedience.
    “Can’t find it,” Sloan said.
    “Let’s run down there and shake down the house or—”
    Sloan put up a hand and went back to the phone. “You did? Good. Look at the last page. Is the lawyer’s name there? No, not the firm, the lawyer. There should be a signed name with the same name typed underneath . . . . Okay, spell it for me. L-o-u-i-s V-u-l-l-i-o-n. Thank you. Thank you.”
    He wrote the name in his book, Lucas looking over his shoulder. “Never heard of him,” Lucas said, shaking his head.
    “Another call,” Sloan said. He took a small black book from his shirt pocket, opened it, found a number, and dug in his pocket for a quarter. He came up empty.
    “Got a quarter?” he asked Lucas.
    Lucas groped in his pockets. “No.”
    “Shit, we gotta get change . . .”
    “Wait, wait, we can use my calling card, just dial zero. Here, give me the phone. Who is this, anyway?”
    “Chick I know up at the state Public Safety.”
    Lucas dialed the number and passed the receiver to Sloan when it started to ring. Sloan asked for Shirley.
    “This is Sloan,” he said, “over at Minneapolis PD. How are you? . . . Yeah. Yeah. Great. Listen, I got a hot one, could you run it for me? . . . Right now? . . . Thanks. It’s Louis Vullion.” He spelled it for her. He waited a moment, then said, “Yeah, give me the whole thing.”
    He listened, said, “Aw, shit,” and, “Whoa,” and, “Hey, thanks, honey.” He hung up the phone and turned to Lucas.
    “Yeah?”
    “Louis Vullion. White male. Twenty-seven. Five ten, one ninety, blue eyes. And some good news and some bad news. What do you want first?”
    “The bad news,” Lucas said quickly.
    “Sparks is positive he had dark hair. He doesn’t. He’s a fuckin’ redhead.”
    Lucas stared at Sloan for a moment, licked his lips.