Secret Prey

person in the world, and you weren’t divorced when Dan was killed.’’
    ‘‘I can be discreet when I wanna be,’’ she said. ‘‘Look at us.’’
    ‘‘Okay.’’
    ‘‘Besides, a woman cop did come around and talk to me—Sherrill, her name was. Last name. She had that big-tit look you go for. And hell, I told her everything.’’
    ‘‘But not about us.’’
    ‘‘She didn’t ask.’’
    Bone stood up, turned. ‘‘Anyway: I think McDonald’s in trouble. We know O’Dell’s gonna get a certain number of votes, and I’ll get mine, but it’s McDonald’s that are up for grabs.’’
    ‘‘How’s McDonald in trouble?’’
    ‘‘This cop—Lucas Davenport, assistant chief . . .’’
    ‘‘I know him, actually.’’
    ‘‘He thinks McDonald’s involved. I’ve talked to him a couple of times and he’s a smart guy. He’s talking to McDonald’s pals and the word is getting out. If there’s even a whiff of involvement, the board’ll drop him like a hot rock.’’
    ‘‘So anything that would encourage Davenport to look at McDonald . . . that would help.’’
    ‘‘As long as it didn’t turn back on us.’’
    ‘‘I’ll see what—’’ The doorbell rang, and Kresge turned her head.
    Bone stepped across the room and opened the heavy paneled door. Kerin Baki was there, struggling with an oversized briefcase. As she brought it in, her glasses slipped down her nose, and she jabbed them back as though they’d mutinied. She saw Kresge on the couch and said, ‘‘Mrs. Kresge. Have you spoken to Mr. O’Grady?’’
    ‘‘We were just talking about that,’’ Kresge said pleasantly. ‘‘Your boss was giving me a very hard time.’’
    Baki turned, said, ‘‘Mr. Bone, you should listen to Mrs. Kresge on this.’’
    ‘‘Christ, you’re conspiring against me,’’ he said.
    ‘‘ Working for you,’’ Baki said. ‘‘I printed everything I could find on the mortgage company performance since McDonald took over. There are a few things we can use— not necessarily his fault, but you know how mortgages have been performing . . .’’
    ‘‘Let me get a Coke,’’ Bone said. ‘‘What would you like, Kerin? Marcia already has a—’’
    ‘‘Bloody Mary,’’ Kresge said. ‘‘And it’s all gone. I’ll help you . . .’’
    ‘‘Just sparkling water,’’ Baki said. She began spreading her papers on a coffee table as Bone and Kresge went to the kitchen to get drinks. When Baki finished with the papers, she heard Kresge laugh, a low, husky laugh with a little sex in it; she could see them moving around Bone’s small kitchen, inside each other’s personal space, casually bumping hips.
    Their relationship had been clear to Baki for a while now; she wouldn’t tolerate it much longer. She got so deep into that calculation—the end of Bone’s relationship with Marcia Kresge—that she almost didn’t notice them walking toward her.
    ‘‘Kerin?’’ Bone said curiously. ‘‘Are you home?’’
    He was standing next to her, holding out a glass and a bottle of lime-flavored Perrier. ‘‘Oh. Sure. Preoccupied, I guess.’’ She pushed the Perrier aside and went to the papers. ‘‘This stack of papers is the annualized return on . . .’’
    BONNIE BONET DYED HER HAIR BLACK, THE DENSE, sticky color of shoe polish. She dressed in black from head to toe, wore blue lipstick, and carried thirty-five extra pounds. But she was almost smart and could write poetry in Perl-5. She sat across the table from Robles and said, ‘‘Because the motherfucker was going to kill a couple of thousand people, that’s why.’’
    ‘‘I know you’re lying,’’ Robles said. He’d broken a sweat.
    ‘‘No you don’t. I’m not lying.’’
    ‘‘So tell me what kind of a gun you used,’’ he said.
    ‘‘My father’s .30–30.’’
    ‘‘Bullshit. You never fired a gun in your life.’’
    She sneered at him: ‘‘You think I couldn’t figure out a gun? Every redneck in Minnesota can shoot a gun, but I can’t?’’
    ‘‘I’m gonna tell the cops about this,’’ Robles said.
    ‘‘Go ahead,’’ she said. ‘‘You’ve got no proof.’’
    ‘‘Jesus Christ, Bonnie. I know you’re lying, but you’re pushing me into a corner. You get this fantasy going, you’ll tell somebody else, like one of your fuckin’ novels . . .’’ Bonet laughed but looked away. Robles said, ‘‘Oh, Jesus, who’d you tell?’’
    ‘‘He doesn’t believe me