Secret Prey

.’’
    ‘‘Yes, yes.’’
    ‘‘Look: There were two other incidents which helped Wilson McDonald’s career, that nobody probably told you about, because they didn’t involve anybody being killed at the bank, where it would be obvious.’’
    ‘‘Two others?’’ Lucas leaned forward, now interested.
    ‘‘Two weird . . . accidents,’’ Ingall said. ‘‘One involved a man named McKinney, who was in the investments department and was also competitive for promotions with Wilson. They were sort of neck and neck. This is way back, when Wilson was still selling out of the investments division, before he went to mortgages. And all of a sudden, this other man’s son was killed in a hit-and-run accident. If I remember, he was riding home in the evening on his bike, in the summer, I think he had a paper route or something, and he was hit and killed and they never found out who did it. Anyway, McKinney just fell apart. He couldn’t do anything, and when the job came up, which was right after that, Wilson got it.’’
    ‘‘Huh,’’ Lucas said. Del was looking at Ingall with interest.
    ‘‘Then, and this must’ve been, oh, about 1990, there was sort of a bank recession going on. Lots of banks were restructuring and jobs were being cut. Wilson was one of a half-dozen people in the mortgage division as a vice president, and people knew some jobs were going to be cut over there. The man who was in charge of the cuts was named Davis Baird, and he had an assistant named Dick McPhillips. Davis Baird didn’t like Wilson, he thought he was a fat pompous oaf. He might have cut him. But Dick McPhillips was always under the influence of Wilson’s father. If Davis Baird had wanted to cut Wilson, McPhillips couldn’t stop it. But . . .’’ She paused dramatically.
    ‘‘But,’’ Lucas said, and Del nodded at her.
    ‘‘But, while they were working out the cutbacks, all of a sudden Baird’s parents were killed in a fire at their cabin up north. I thought about this because of the firebomb at your friend’s house. Something exploded in the Bairds’ house—they even called it a firebomb in the paper, I think—and they were killed, and Baird had to take time off to deal with all of it. McPhillips was in charge of making the cuts, and he got rid of two of the five vice presidents over there . . .’’
    ‘‘But not Wilson,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘Not Wilson.’’
    ‘‘Go ahead,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘So I started thinking, this took a strange mind. Not to attack the principal target directly, but to incapacitate the principal by attacking someone close to them. Distracting them in a really awful way. And I thought, you know, that’s what’s happening to Chief Davenport. He’s investigating these murders, and suddenly his fiance´e’s house blows up, and then an old friend is almost killed. If Wilson McDonald weren’t dead, I would say he was doing it for sure. Especially since Andy’s death almost might be an accident, and Arris’s death was also easy to blame on somebody else— that gang. Nothing is what it looks like.’’
    ‘‘Wilson McDonald is dead,’’ Del said.
    ‘‘Yes. Shot to death,’’ Ingall said. ‘‘And that’s very curious.’’
    Lucas closed his eyes, rubbed his face: ‘‘Jesus.’’
    ‘‘Do you think this line of thought might be useful?’’ Ingall asked.
    ‘‘I don’t know,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘But you are a very smart lady.’’
    ‘‘Yes, I’ve always thought so,’’ she said.

TWENTY-FOUR

    MOST OF THE FILE ON AUDREY MCDONALD HAD BEEN developed since she killed Wilson: name, age, weight, distinguishing marks. She had a number of scars; too many, Lucas thought. Her only prior contact with police had been two traffic tickets, one for speeding, one for failure to yield, which had resulted in a minor collision.
    He made quick calls to the Department of Natural Resources and the Department of Public Safety: she’d never had a hunting license, never taken gun safety training, never applied for a handgun permit.
    She’d graduated from St. Anne’s. That was interesting— she’d know her way around out there, she’d know what would happen if she called the Residence. She might even have overlapped with Elle Kruger, if just barely. He made a note to ask. After college, she’d worked as a librarian, then with a couple of charitable organizations.
    He mulled over the file for a few minutes, then glanced at his watch. Almost time to see Elle. But