Rules of Prey

hall,” Hart said. He came with him to his office door and pointed. “And jeez, Louis, thanks a lot.”
    Thank you, the maddog thought as he left. The whole charade had been an excuse to walk through the door on the fifth floor. He hesitated before he pushed through. This was critical. If there were people outside in the hallway, and if one of them happened to wander along behind as he went out through the parking ramp, he would have to call it off. He took a breath and pushed through the door. The hallway was empty.
    The maddog walked the width of the building to the parking ramp, stopped before the steel fire door, took out the coat and hat, put them on, and stepped outside. The ramp had its own elevator, but the maddog took the stairs, looking down each flight before he took it. At the ground floor he kept his head down and strode out onto the sidewalk a full block from the entrance to Hart’s building. He crossed the street, jaywalking, walked into another office building, up one floor, and into one of the remotest skyways in the system. He walked for two minutes and glanced back. There was nobody behind him.
    He was alone.
     
    The maddog called for a cab and took it directly to a used-car lot on University Avenue, a mile from his apartment.
    He looked over the row of cars and picked out a brown Chevrolet Cavalier. “$1,695” was written on the windshield in poster paint. He peered through the driver’s-side window.The odometer said 94651. A salesman approached him crablike through the lot, rubbing his hands as though they were pincers.
    “How do you like this weather, really something, huh?” the salesman said.
    The maddog ignored the gambit. The car was right. “I’m looking for something cheap for my wife. Something to get through the winter,” he said.
    “This’ll do ’er, you betcha,” the salesman said. “Good little car. Uses a little oil, but not—”
    “I’ll give you fourteen hundred for it and you pick up the tax,” the maddog said.
    The salesman looked him over. “Fifteen hundred and you pick up the tax.”
    “Fifteen hundred flat,” said the maddog.
    “Fifteen and we split the tax.”
    “Have you got the title here?” the maddog asked.
    “Sure do.”
    “Get somebody to clean the paint off the windshield and take the consumer notice off the side window,” the maddog said. He showed the salesman a sheaf of fifties. “I’ll take it with me.”
    He told them his name was Harry Barber. With the stack of fifties sitting there, nobody asked for identification. He signed a statement that said he had insurance.
    On the way back to his apartment, the maddog stopped at a salvage store and bought a two-foot length of automobile heating hose, a bag of cat litter, a roll of silver duct tape, and a pair of work gloves. As he was going past the cash register he saw a display of tear-gas canisters like the one Carla Ruiz had used on him.
    “Those things work?” he asked the clerk.
    “Sure. Works great.”
    “Give me one.”
    In the car, he wrapped the open end of the heating tube with the duct tape until it was sealed, then poured the tube full of cat litter and sealed the other end. When he was done, he had a slightly flexible two-foot-long weighted rubber club.He put the club under the seat and the tape in the bag with the cat litter.
    Then, if he remembered right from his university days . . .
    The motel vending machines were all gathered in a separate alcove. He dropped in the coins and got the single-pack Kotex and stuffed it in his pocket. A few more coins bought two slim roles of medical adhesive tape.
    He dumped the sack of kitty litter and the duct tape in a motel garbage can, locked everything else in the trunk of the car, and drove quickly but carefully back to his own neighborhood. He parked on a side street three blocks from his apartment, carefully checking to make sure he was in a legal space. The car should be fine for a few days. With any luck, and if his nerve held, it wouldn’t have to wait for more than a few hours.
    He glanced at his watch. He’d been out of Hart’s office for an hour and a half. If he wanted to attempt the pinnacle of gaming elegance, he would go back to Hart’s office on the fifth floor, walk down the stairs, and exit past the receptionist. There was a chance—even a good chance—that the cops would never have made inquiries about where he was.
    But if they had, and knew he had left Hart’s office, then a faked return would tip them