Rules of Prey

run get you outside the ramp.”
    “It’s your ass,” said his partner, looking through the long lens. “He just started the Racing Form. You maybe got a few minutes.”
    Lucas saw the fat cop slip out of the van and dash into the Pillsbury Building. He grinned to himself. He was tempted to stroll away, knowing the cop in the van would have to follow and strand the fat guy. But it would create complications. He would rather have them where he was sure of them.
    When the fat cop got back, four minutes later, the van was still there. His partner glanced over at him and said, “Nothing.”
    Since Lucas hadn’t done anything yet, the photos they took had never been developed. If they had been, they would have found that Lucas’ middle finger was prominent on most of the slides and they might have decided that he had spottedthem. But it didn’t matter, since the film would never be developed.
    As the fat cop scrambled back into the van and Lucas sprawled on the grass, paging through the poetry again, they were very close to the end of the surveillance.
    Lucas was reading a poem called The Snake, and the fat man was peering at him through the lens of the Nikon when the maddog killer did another one.

CHAPTER
3
    He had first talked to her a month before, in the records department of the county clerk’s office. She had raven-black hair, worn short, and brown eyes. Gold hoop earrings dangled from her delicate earlobes. She wore just a touch of scent and a warm red dress.
    “I’d like to see the file on Burhalter-Mentor,” she told a clerk. “I don’t have the number. It should have been in the last month.”
    The maddog watched her from the corner of his eye. She was fifteen or twenty years older than he was. Attractive.
    The maddog had not yet gone for the artist. His days were colored with thoughts of her, his nights consumed with images of her face and body. He knew he would take her; the love song had already begun.
    But this one was interesting. More than interesting. He felt his awareness expanding, reveled in the play of light through the peach fuzz of her slender forearm . . . . And after the artist, there had to be another.
    “Is that a civil filing?” the clerk asked the woman.
    “It’s a bunch of liens on an apartment complex down by Nokomis. I want to make sure they’ve been resolved.”
    “Okay. That’s Burkhalter . . .”
    “Burkhalter-Mentor.” She spelled it for him and the clerk went back into the file room. She’s a real-estate agent, the maddog thought. She felt his attention and glanced at him.
    “Are you a real-estate agent?” he asked.
    “Yes, I am.” Serious, pleasant, professional. Pink lipstick, just a touch.
    “I’m new here in Minneapolis,” the maddog said, stepping a bit closer. “I’m an attorney with Felsen-Gore. Would you have a couple of seconds to answer a real-estate question?”
    “Sure.” She was friendly now, interested.
    “I’ve been looking around the lakes, down south of here, Lake of the Isles, Lake Nokomis, like that.”
    “Oh, it’s a very nice neighborhood,” she said enthusiastically. She had what plastic surgeons called a full mouth, showing a span of brilliantly white teeth when she smiled. “There are lots of houses on the market right now. It’s my specialty area.”
    “Well, I’m not sure whether I want a condo or a house . . .”
    “A house holds its value better.”
    “Yeah, but you know, I’m single. I don’t really want to hassle with a big yard . . .”
    “What you really need is a bungalow on a small lot, not much yard. You’d have more space than you would in an apartment, and you could sign up for a lawn service for thirty dollars a month. That’d be cheaper than the maintenance fee on most condos, and you’d maintain resale value.”
    The maddog got his file and waited until she got a photocopy of the liens. They drifted together along the hall to the elevators and rode down to the first floor.
    “Well, hmm, look, in Dallas we had this thing, it was called the multiple list, or something like that?” said the maddog.
    “Yes, multiple listing service,” she said.
    “So if I were to drive around and find a place, I could call you and you could show it to me?”
    “Sure, I do it all the time. Let me give you my card.”
    Jeannie Lewis. He tucked her card into his wallet. As soon as he turned away and stepped out of her physical presence, he saw the artist again, her face and body as she walked