Secret Prey

at least for the time being. Maybe take out an ad in the Star-Tribune.’’
    ‘‘I once talked to a guy, a lawyer—defense attorney— whose son was arrested for stealing some stereo gear from a Best Buy,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘The kid was one of those ineffectual audiovisual freaks, didn’t know which way was up. Anyway, the judge gave him six months in the county jail, and this was a first offense.’’
    ‘‘Oops.’’
    ‘‘Yeah. And this attorney tells me, he knows it was because the judge didn’t like him , the attorney. Thought he was sleazy, because he did personal injury and DWI and made a lot of money at it. So anyway, the kid does most of the time, like four months, and gets out, and he’s okay. But the attorney spent the whole time worrying that he was gonna hang himself in his cell or something.’’
    ‘‘Something to worry about, with kids like that,’’ Del said.
    ‘‘The attorney’d go down every day to visit the kid, keep him connected. But he still worried. And what he told me was that he decided in the middle of the kid’s jail term that if the kid killed himself, he’d kill the judge. He made the decision, he worked it all out. He wasn’t irrational about it, it wasn’t a big macho thing. He’d just do it, and try not to get caught. The first thing he’d do was, he’d wait two years before he made his move. Wait until his son’s death was way in the past. Then he’d find a way to kidnap the judge—he said that in his fantasies, he had to explain to the judge why he was going to kill him, he couldn’t sleep if he didn’t do that—and then he was gonna tie him up or chain him to a tree, and douse him with gasoline and set him on fire.’’
    ‘‘Jesus.’’
    ‘‘Yeah. He said he’d decided this, but when his kid got out okay, it wasn’t necessary, so he let it go. He hates the judge, but he says he’ll get at him politically, he doesn’t have to burn him up.’’
    ‘‘What you’re saying is . . .’’
    ‘‘What I’m saying is, I hope it’s not something like that,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I hope it’s not somebody I bumped into years ago, took care of business, didn’t even think about it. And he’s been plotting all this time.’’
    ‘‘We checked all recent prison releases.’’
    ‘‘That’s what I mean. What if it’s not recent? What if it’s somebody from ten years ago, somebody I busted on a solid felony, say, who did a couple of years but figures I ruined his life and his family? And now he’s coming after me, by going after my family? I mean, I might never figure out who it is.’’
    A TENTATIVE KNOCK INTERRUPTED THE THOUGHT. Del looked at the door, then back at Lucas, show-shrugged. ‘‘Come in,’’ Lucas called.
    A woman stepped inside. He remembered her face instantly, and her last name. He pointed a finger at her and said, ‘‘The bridal shop, Mrs. Ingall.’’
    ‘‘Annette,’’ she said.
    ‘‘This is Detective Capslock,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Del, this is Mrs. Ingall; her husband disappeared in that yacht up on Superior. The McDonald case.’’
    ‘‘Oh, sure.’’
    Lucas: ‘‘Sit down. What can we do for you?’’ Ingall looked doubtfully at Del, who tried to smile pleasantly without showing too much of his yellowed teeth, and sat in the chair beside him, clutching her purse on her lap. ‘‘I saw on TV Three about your friend the nun who was attacked last night. I hope she’s going to be okay.’’
    ‘‘She should be,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘I’ve been bothered by it all day,’’ she said. ‘‘It kept nagging at me, and nagging at me, and finally I said, ‘ Annette, go over and talk to Chief Davenport for goodness’ sake, and let him worry about it.’ ’’
    ‘‘Well . . .’’ Lucas spread his hands, waiting, an edge of impatience barely suppressed.
    ‘‘After you told me that Wilson McDonald was probably responsible for killing Andy . . .’’
    ‘‘Mrs. Ingall, I didn’t exactly say—’’
    She waved him down and continued: ‘‘. . . I was pretty satisfied, because it made a nice pattern. He killed George Arris, shooting him with a gun. Then he killed Andy, by sabotaging the yacht. And then he killed Dan Kresge, shooting him, and Susan O’Dell, shooting her .’’
    ‘‘Yes?’’
    ‘‘But then—this is what was nagging me—when I read about what happened with you, with your fiance
    ´e firebombed,and then this morning, with your friend the nun being hurt . .