Secret Prey

Everybody in the department knew about the shrink.
    ‘‘But eventually get back?’’ Sherrill asked.
    ‘‘Maybe,’’ Lucas said moodily. Three teenagers in reflective vests were peering through a surveying total station just off the interstate. All three wore their caps backward.
    ‘‘You know,’’ Sherrill said, plowing ahead, ‘‘you’ve really got your head up your ass in a lot of ways. You walk around with this cloud over you, mooning over her. Why don’t you do something to get her back?’’
    ‘‘I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,’’ Lucas started, a distinct chill in his voice.
    ‘‘Oh, bullshit, Lucas. If you love her, get her back. Don’t wait for her to work it out—plot something. Suck her in. The thing is, if she gets a little freaky when she sees you, then you’ve got to hang around more. Screw the shrink: the thing is, life goes on, and if you’re around all the time, and life keeps going on . . . the freakiness will go away. It’ll get boring. Tiresome. And if she basically loves you, and you love her . . .’’
    ‘‘Can we knock this off? You’re bumming me out.’’
    ‘‘Jesus, what a crock,’’ Sherrill said, angry now.
    Lucas was just as angry: ‘‘It’s a crock, all right. I should trick her back? How would I do that? Huh? Get somebody to set up a blind date, and it’s me? Hide in her closet, and pop out when she goes to iron a blouse?’’
    Sherrill rolled her eyes and nearly took the car into the oncoming lane; Lucas flinched and she jerked it back to the right. ‘‘Lucas, this is Marcy Sherrill you’re talking to. I was there when you suckered John Mail, remember? I helped you track the LaChaise women. I heard you order up a traffic stop that you knew would never be made, so when we wasted them, our asses would be covered with the press. I was there, for Christ’s sake. I heard you work it out. So don’t tell me you couldn’t work out some little scheme to get close to her. When it came time to finish off John Mail, you didn’t get moody—’’
    ‘‘Shut the fuck up,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘Fuck you.’’
    ‘‘There’s US West,’’ Lucas said, pointing to the right.
    ‘‘Maybe you don’t want her back,’’ Sherrill said. She missed the turn.
    ‘‘You missed the goddamned turn,’’ Lucas fumed.
    ‘‘I’ll make the goddamn turn,’’ Sherrill said, and she braked, looked quickly left, then did an illegal U, bouncing across a median strip.
    ‘‘Jesus Christ,’’ Lucas said, startled, bracing himself, as the muffler dragged over the curb.
    ‘‘You want the fuckin’ turn, I’ll make the fuckin’ turn,’’ Sherrill snarled and, ignoring a red light, turned left across two lanes of traffic into the US West parking area. They lurched to a stop in a visitor’s space.
    ‘‘Satisfied?’’ she asked.
    ‘‘Yeah,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Really.’’
    SHERRILL WAS OUT OF THE CAR, STEAMING TOWARD the warehouse entrance. Lucas trailed behind, deflected the door as it slammed on his face, and finally caught her at the service counter, where she flashed her ID at a guard and said, ‘‘We’re here to see Harold Hanks.’’
    ‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ the guard said. ‘‘He’s waiting up in the canteen on two.’’
    ‘‘Second floor?’’
    ‘‘Take those elevators.’’
    She steamed on back to the elevators. ‘‘Like you’re Miss Social Life,’’ Lucas said at her back.
    Then she was suddenly calm: ‘‘Lucas, I have an active social life. You just don’t see it.’’ A blatant lie, and they both knew it. The elevator went ding and they got inside.
    ‘‘Maybe Weather and I don’t recover quite as quickly as you do,’’ Lucas said, as the doors slid shut.
    ‘‘That’s a horseshit thing to say,’’ Sherrill shouted, really angry now. ‘‘You take that back.’’
    ‘‘I take it back,’’ Lucas said meekly.
    ‘‘I’d already signed off on Mike when he got killed,’’ she shouted.
    Now he just wanted to quiet her down. ‘‘I know, I know . . .’’
    ‘‘Jesus, what a jerk.’’
    THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPENED, AND A SHORT, ROTUND man in a brown suit was staring at them owlishly; he’d obviously heard the shouting. ‘‘Is there a problem?’’
    ‘‘Yeah, him,’’ Sherrill said, tossing her thumb at Lucas, who hovered, embarrassed, in the doorway.
    ‘‘There are some police officers coming up,’’ the man ventured.
    ‘‘We are the police officers,’’ Sherrill