Rules of Prey

he made arrangements for backup with the patrol division and headed home in time for the six-o’clock news. McGowan looked wonderful as she delivered her scoop. After two minutes of videotaped interview outside the detention center, the cameras cut back to McGowan in the studio.
    “Now Report Eight has also learned that police believe the real killer is sexually impotent and the women may actually have been raped using some kind of blunt object because he is incapable of raping them himself.”
    She turned to the anchorman and smiled. “Fred?”
    “Thanks for that exclusive report, Annie . . .”
    Lucas turned to Channel Four. The last story of the broadcast was a recap of McGowan’s, obviously stolen: “We have just learned that Jimmy Smithe, who was arrested in the investigation of the multiple murders of three Twin Cities women, has been released and that police apparently now believe him to be innocent of the crimes . . .”
    Jennifer was on the phone five minutes later.
    “Lucas, did you feed her that?”
    “Feed who what?” Lucas asked innocently.
    “Feed McGowan the Smithe release?”
    “Has he been released?”
    “You jerk, you better be wearing your steel jockstrap the next time I’m over, because I’m bringing a knife.”
     
    Late that evening, he cruised Lake Street in an unmarked departmental pool car, watching the night walkers, the drinkers, the hookers, looking for any one of a dozen faces. He found one just before ten.
    “Harold. Get in the car.”
    “Aw, lieutenant . . .”
    “Get in the fuckin’ car, Harold.” Harold, a dealer in free-market pharmaceuticals, got in the car.
    “Harold, you owe me,” Lucas said. Harold weighed a hundred and thirty pounds and was lost in his olive-drab field jacket.
    “What do y’ want, man?” he whined. “I haven’t been talking to anybody . . .”
    “What I want is for you to go into Frankie’s and do some light drinking. On me. But light. Wine, beer. I don’t want you hammered.”
    “What’s the bad part?” Harold asked, suddenly looking perkier.
    “They’re going to put some young puss up on the bar. Real young. When they do, I want you to walk out and tell me. I’ll be up the block. You come out as soon as she starts, hear? Not two minutes later, just as soon as she starts.” He handed Harold a ten.
    “Ten? You want me to stay in there drinkin’ on ten?” he complained.
    Lucas gripped the front of Harold’s field jacket and shook him once. “Listen, Harold, you’re lucky I don’t charge you for the privilege, okay? Now, get your lame ass in there or I’m going to rip your fuckin’ face off.”
    “Jesus, lieutenant . . .” Harold got out, and Lucas slumped in the seat, watching the passersby. Most were drinking or already drunk. A few drug cases walked by. A pimp and one of his string; Lucas knew him, and put his head down further, his hand up to block a view of his face. The pimp never looked toward him. A pusher, a pusher, a fat-faced boy who might just have come in from the country, and a drunk salesman. He watched the parade for a half-hour before Harold eased up to the car.
    “There’s one on and she’s real young,” he whispered.
    “Okay. Take off.” Harold vanished. Lucas used the radio to make a prearranged call for patrol backup, pulled on a tweed shooting hat and a pair of windowpane glasses, got out of the car, locked it, and headed down the street to Frankie’s.
    Frankie’s smelled of old beer and cheap wine. The front room, next to the street, was empty except for two unhappy-looking women sitting across from each other in a red leatherette booth. The bartender was wiping glasses and casuallywatched Lucas pick his way through the empty tables to the entry arch into the back room.
    The back room was jammed, thirty or forty men and a half-dozen women in a cloud of cigarette smoke, clapping to the rock music that poured out of a jukebox. The girl was dancing on the bar, stripped down to a tiny brassiere and a pair of translucent blue underpants. Lucas shouldered his way through the crowd and spotted Frankie himself behind the bar, pushing out plastic glasses of beer as fast as the tap would pour them. Lucas tilted his head up at the girl. Eleven? Twelve? She did a bump and reached behind her back with one hand, her teeth biting her lower lip in a semiprofessional grin. She was feeding off the crowd’s enthusiasm. With another bump, she popped the brassiere and slowly peeled it off,