Rules of Prey

ain’t gonna roust me?”
    “Not if you stay cool.”
    “All right. How about this bullshit charge here?”
    MacElreney shook his head. “We can process you out in ten minutes if Minneapolis doesn’t want you.”
    “We don’t want him,” Lucas said. He turned back to Sparks. “But we do want you back in the Cities. If you start trolling the other Iowa cities on your route, we’ll roust you out of every one of them. Get back up to Minneapolis.”
    “Sure. Be a relief. Too much corn down here for the likes of me.” He glanced at MacElreney. “No offense.”
    MacElreney looked offended.
     
    Lucas had unlocked the door of the rental car when MacElreney shouted at him from the steps of the police station. Sparks was right behind him and they walked down the sidewalk together.
    “I thought of what was weird about that dude,” Sparks said. “It was his haircut.”
    “His haircut?”
    “Yeah. Like, when they walked away from me toward the motel, he took his hat off. I couldn’t see his face or anything, only the back of his head. But I remember thinking he didn’t have a farmer haircut. You know how farmers always got their ears stickin’ out? Either that, or it looks like their old lady cut their hair with a bowl? Well, this guy’s hair was like styled. Like yours, or like a businessman or a lawyer or doctor or something. Slick. Not like a farmer. Never seen a farmer like that.”
    Lucas nodded. “Okay. Blond guy, right?”
    Sparks’ forehead wrinkled. “Why, no. No, he was a dark-haired dude.”
    Lucas leaned closer. “Sparky, are you sure? Could you make a mistake?”
    “No, no. Dark-haired dude.”
    “Shit.” Lucas thought it over. It didn’t fit. “Anything else?” he asked finally.
    Sparks shook his head. “Nothin’ except you’re getting old. I remember when I first knew you, when you beat up Bald Peterson. You had this nice smooth face like a baby’s ass. You gettin’ some heavy miles.”
    “Thanks, Sparks,” Lucas said. “I needed that.”
    “We all be gettin’ old.”
    “Sure. And I’m sorry about your lady, by the way.”
    Sparks shrugged. “Women do get killed. And it ain’t like there’s no shortage of whores.”
     
    The drive back took the rest of the day. After a stop near the Iowa line for a cheeseburger and fries, Lucas put the cruise control on seventy-five and rolled across the Minnesota River into Minneapolis a little after eight o’clock. He dropped the rental car at the airport and took a taxi home, feeling grimy and tight from the trip. A scalding shower straightened out his bent back. When he was dressed again, he got beer from the refrigerator, went down to the spare bedroom, put the beer can on the floor next to the bed, and lay back, looking at the five charts pinned to the wall.
    Bell, Morris, Ruiz, and Lewis. The maddog. The dates. Personal characteristics. He read through them, sighed, got up, pinned a sixth sheet of paper to the wall, and wrote “Brown” at the top with his Magic Marker.
    Hooker. Young. Dark hair and eyes. The physical description was right. But she was killed in a motel, after being picked up on the street. All the others had been attacked in private places, their homes or apartments, or, in Lewis’ case, the empty house she was trying to sell.
    He reviewed the other features of the Brown murder, including her appearance in court. Could the maddog be a lawyer? Or even a judge? A court reporter? How about a bailiff or one of the other court personnel? There were dozens of them. And he noted the knife. The maddog brought it with him for this killing. Chicago Cutlery was an expensive brand, and it was widely sold around the Twin Cities in the best department and specialty stores. Could he be some kind of gourmet? A cooking freak? Was it possible that he bought the knife recently and that a check of stores would turn up somebody who’d sold a single blade to a pudgy white guy?
     
    Lucas looked at the notes on the maddog chart. That he was well-off, that he could be new to the area. Up from the Southwest. Office job. Sparks had confirmed that he was fair-skinned. The business about the dark hair was a problem; Carla was sure that he was very fair, and that suggested lighter hair. There were some black-haired Irish, and some Finns would fit the bill, but that seemed to be stretching. Lucas shook his head, added “dark hair?” At the end of the list he wrote “Expensive haircut. Dark hair? Wig? Wears disguises (farmer).