Secret Prey

Bone.’’
    ‘‘The cops need to know that,’’ Wyte said, with an effort at sincerity. ‘‘I mean, even if we weren’t trying to . . . to
. . . help Susan, they’d need to know that. Dan’s death is worth millions to her, and opens the top job for her lover.’’
    ‘‘That’s what I thought,’’ Kent said, leaning back on the couch, sucking on the cinnamon.
    Two hours later, O’Dell ushered Compton into the elevator, the last of them to go, and stepped pensively back into her apartment. Kent was a rat: she’d have to remember that. Starting now. The other two should be okay . . .
    She spotted her rifle case, dumped in the corner Saturday morning. The case was empty: the Garfield sheriff still had the rifle. She picked it up, carried it back to a storage closet, and slipped it inside. Stuck on the wall of the same closet was an instant-open gun safe. Acting on impulse, she jabbed at the number pads, rolling her hand like a piano player, and the door popped open. Inside lay an Officer’s Model Colt. She took it out, pulled the magazine, pulled the slide back to make sure the chamber was empty, let it slam forward.
    She moved slowly through the apartment, dry-firing the pistol from various hiding spots and corners; corny but fun. After ten minutes, she carried the pistol back to the safe, reseated the magazine, and shut the safe door.
    She’d have to get out to the range one of these days; she was losing her edge.
    MARCIA KRESGE WAS GETTING COMFORTABLE ON James T. Bone’s couch: ‘‘Are you going to get the job?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know. O’Dell’s pretty strong.’’
    ‘‘How about McDonald?’’
    ‘‘We can handle McDonald.’’
    ‘‘Good. He’s an asshole. O’Dell, you know, smokes dope.’’
    ‘‘So what?’’ Bone said. ‘‘So do you.’’
    ‘‘I’m not trying to get to be a bank president,’’ Kresge said.
    ‘‘I don’t think that’s enough to disqualify her,’’ Bone said.
    ‘‘It would if she was arrested for possession,’’ Kresge said. ‘‘The board wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.’’
    ‘‘You’d really wish that on her?’’ Bone asked with real curiosity.
    ‘‘I’d like to see you get the job,’’ Kresge said. ‘‘And I could fix the bust.’’
    ‘‘How?’’
    ‘‘We’ve got the same dealer,’’ Kresge said.
    Bone laughed despite himself. ‘‘How’d that happen?’’
    She shrugged, not seeing anything funny in the coincidence. ‘‘You know, we all hang out at the same places, and word gets around. This guy, Mark, used to be a waiter at The Falls. He’s working his way through college.’’
    ‘‘Selling grass?’’
    ‘‘Grass, speed, acid, coke, heroin, ecstasy. PCP probably. Anyway, he deals to Susan. If somebody tipped off the police, maybe they could catch him making a delivery. You know, socialite dope ring. The cops would like that.’’
    ‘‘What if they got your name?’’ Bone asked.
    She shrugged. ‘‘I’d get rid of everything before I tipped them, and I wouldn’t buy any more. What’re they going to do? If they even got my name, I’d sue their butts off if they let it out.’’
    ‘‘Listen,’’ Bone said, now serious, leaning toward her: ‘‘Forget it. I swear to God, Marcia, if anybody tips off the cops about Susan, I’ll whip your ass.’’
    ‘‘Oooh . . . that could be fun,’’ she said lightly.
    ‘‘No. It wouldn’t be fun,’’ he snapped.
    Sometimes he frightened her, just a bit, she thought. But a bit more than she found pleasant. ‘‘You’re not gonna get this job by looking pretty, you know,’’ she snapped back.
    ‘‘I know that. I’m working on it,’’ he said.
    ‘‘I could talk to a couple of people.’’
    ‘‘Anything you could do I’d appreciate . . . but let me know first.’’
    ‘‘Hey: If I go into banker’s-wife mode, I could probably deliver two or three votes off that board. That damn Jack O’Grady has been trying to get my pants off for fifteen years: I bet he could pull a couple votes for you.’’
    ‘‘I think Jack’s already with me,’’ Bone said. ‘‘But encouragement would be good.’’
    ‘‘Even if I have to take my pants off?’’
    ‘‘How big a change would that be?’’ he asked.
    A pause. Then Kresge, smiling prettily, said, ‘‘Really great fuckin’ thing to say, Bone.’’
    ‘‘Tell you the truth, I’m surprised the police haven’t spent more time with you. You’re not the most discreet