Secret Prey

either.’’
    ‘‘You told goddamned Dick . . .’’
    ‘‘Well, you started it . . . the whole fantasy thing.’’
    ‘‘I was joking,’’ Robles insisted. ‘‘I didn’t want him dead . . .’’
    ‘‘You got him.’’
    ‘‘But I was joking . . .’’
    ‘‘Too late now. You tell the cops about me, I’ll tell them about you.’’
    Robles left the bar, sweating, half drunk. Okay, she was lying. But she’d never admit it. She was crazy. Almost for sure . . .
    Terrance Robles had made just shy of a half-million dollars the previous year, and he’d spent only a small part of it. With his access to information, he could grow his stake at twenty to thirty percent per year, on top of earnings. If he could hang on for another five years, he could quit. Get out. Buy an old used Cray computer somewhere, and do some serious shit.
    But he had to hold on.
    He could turn Bonet in. Or, alternatively, he could kill her—nothing else would shut her up. She was having too good a time.
    Robles bit on a thumbnail, stumbled along the street.
    LATE NIGHT: THE MIXED SMELLS OF VINEGARANDGASoline, one pungent, one metallic; the combination smelling like blood. The vinegar went into the washtub and down the drain, followed by a steady stream of water that would carry it away.
    A glass cutter: this had been in the book, which went on to say that it was probably unnecessary, but why take chances? Deep scored lines up and down the bottle, then more, horizontally, until the bottle was checkered with shaky, intersecting lines. Then the bottle sprayed with Windex, carefully and meticulously wiped with paper towels. No fingerprints here.
    Now the gasoline, mixed in the bottle with two fourounce cans of chain saw oil. A strip of old T-shirt for a wick.
    The bottle was heavy; a little better than seven pounds.
    But it wouldn’t have to be thrown far.
    Just far enough .

SEVEN

    ‘‘NOW WE’RE GETTING SOME HEAT,’’ SAID ROSE MARIE Roux. She was drinking coffee from a bone china cup; a matching saucer sat on her desk, and on the saucer, a wad of green chewing gum. ‘‘Harrison White called, and said if you need to interview Wilson McDonald, or if you would like to bring him before a grand jury, McDonald will come over anytime and testify. Without immunity. He will answer any questions, without reservation. Under oath.’’
    ‘‘And if we don’t need him to do that?’’ Lucas asked. He was facing Roux’s window, the sun streaming in. Another good day. Cold.
    ‘‘Then knock off the innuendos—the snooping around asking other people about him. White says the snooping could cost McDonald the top job at the bank, and if it does, he’ll see that the city picks up the difference in what he makes now, and what he would have made in twenty-some years as bank president. He thinks it might be forty or fifty million.’’
    Lucas grinned. ‘‘Would we have to pay it all up front?’’ Roux smiled back: ‘‘He didn’t say. But he also talked to a couple of people on the city council, and McDonald’s father has been calling around . . . but fuck them. Do what you need with McDonald. I thought you should know that glaciers are starting to move.’’
    ‘‘Thanks,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘And, of course, what White says is true. McDonald could be completely innocent, and we could be screwing him out of his lifetime job. In fact, we could even have been set up to do it, with the letter.’’
    ‘‘Tell you what,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Let me talk to White. I wanted McDonald bumped, I wanted him nervous, but I don’t need to push much harder. We could back off a bit.’’
    ‘‘Whatever you think,’’ Roux said. She finished the coffee, peeled the gum off the saucer, and popped it back in her mouth. ‘‘Nicotine,’’ she said. ‘‘Too expensive to throw away before I chew it out.’’
    ‘‘So I’ll . . .’’ Lucas was getting to his feet.
    ‘‘Sit down,’’ Roux said. She probed her desk for a moment. ‘‘We have a couple of things to talk about. First, the opium ring . . .’’
    ‘‘Oh, shit,’’ Lucas groaned.
    ‘‘And then Capslock has put in for thirty hours accumulated overtime for investigating it.’’
    ‘‘Rose Marie . . .’’
    ‘‘He’s your guy, goddamnit. Now, this thirty hours. He took the thirty hours when he was supposedly on disability leave after the pinking shears incident. Now what I’m trying to figure is how . . .’’
    ‘‘Aw, Rose Marie, c’mon . .