Secret Prey

did it, your old lady’d kill you anyway, so you wouldn’t need a job.’’
    ‘‘I’m talking in theory,’’ Sloan said.
    ‘‘Did you pick out the guilty guy on Saturday? In theory?’’
    Sloan shook his head. ‘‘They’re a pretty tough group. Robles was in a sweat, but I think he might sweat everything. Bone seemed to think that Kresge getting murdered was mildly amusing; he was cooperative, though. And he had to stop to think at all the right places. O’Dell was almost too busy figuring out the consequences to talk to me about whether she did it . . . and that made me think she didn’t. If she had, she’d have already figured out the consequences. I had a harder time getting a reading on Mc-Donald. He acted like the whole thing was a plot to personally inconvenience him.’’
    ‘‘Cold? Sociopathic?’’
    ‘‘Mmmm.’’ Sloan scratched his chin. ‘‘No . . . If he is, he covers it,’’ he said after a minute. ‘‘I’d say he’s more like . . . unpleasant. Arrogant.’’
    ‘‘So what’s it all mean?’’
    ‘‘If Robles did it, we might get him, eventually. If it’s one of the others, forget it. Unless the guy does something really stupid, like tell somebody else about it. Or if it was a group effort. But that’s . . .’’
    ‘‘Unlikely,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘More like ridiculous.’’
    ‘‘Perfect crime?’’
    ‘‘Just about,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘Lots of people probably heard the shot, but nobody thought anything about it. Nobody was looking for the shooter. Once he was off the scene . . . there’s no way we’re gonna get him. The only chance to get him was to have somebody see it happen, and recognize the shooter. That was it.’’
    ‘‘But we know some stuff,’’ Lucas said. He leaned back in the chair and put his feet on the edge of Sloan’s desk. ‘‘The shooter knew his way around there, in the dark. And he knew which tree stand Kresge would be in. That means that he was either close to Kresge or he worked for him, maybe out at the cabin. Is Krause checking any employees out there?’’
    ‘‘Yeah. There were only two or three people—a handyman who’d do maintenance work around the place, an old guy who patrols some of the cabins, just checking on them two or three times a day. And some guy who plows out the driveway in the winter. None of them had any apparent problem with Kresge. The sheriff doesn’t think they’re suspects.’’
    ‘‘If this was a movie, the handyman would have done it,’’ Lucas said, staring blankly at the ceiling. ‘‘He’d be like a Stephen King character, a secret psycho who everybody thinks is retarded . . .’’
    ‘‘. . . but who’s really pretty smart, but only behaves the way he does because he couldn’t get a date to the prom, which is why he burned down the high school.’’
    ‘‘How about Sherrill? Is she around?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know. She was working yesterday, but I haven’t seen her today. I know she was going to try to nail down people in Kresge’s office and talk to the ex-wife.’’
    ‘‘All right . . .’’
    ‘‘But suppose it is somebody close to Kresge,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘Suppose we find a guy who hated Kresge, but knew the farm, knew where the tree stand was, knew Kresge would be in it, and we can prove that he has a rifle, is a great shot, and has no alibi for opening day. You know what? We got all that, and we still ain’t got shit.’’
    ‘‘There might be one more way,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘Like what?’’
    ‘‘We build a pattern around him.’’
    ‘‘Good luck.’’
    ‘‘Rose Marie got some mail this morning,’’ Lucas said. He leaned forward and slid the copies across Sloan’s desk. ‘‘One letter nominates O’Dell, the other one McDonald.’’
    Sloan read them slowly, then read the McDonald letter a second time, and finally looked up at Lucas: ‘‘Two more dead ones, huh? But we’d need more than a pattern. We’d have to push him out in the open.’’
    ‘‘That could be done,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘If it’s McDonald.’’
    ‘‘Are you buying into the case?’’ Sloan asked.
    ‘‘Rose Marie asked me to take a look . . . if you don’t mind. If Sherrill doesn’t mind.’’
    ‘‘I don’t mind,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘I’ve got the Ericson file. I could use some extra time.’’
    ‘‘I thought the boyfriend did it—the Ericson thing. I thought he admitted it.’’
    ‘‘Not exactly,’’ Sloan said. ‘‘He