Secret Prey

below one of the shelves, and the entire unit swung out. Inside was an empty gun rack with space for eight long guns, and below the rack, two closely fit drawers.
    ‘‘Was this a big secret, or did everybody know about it?’’ Lucas asked Wiener.
    ‘‘Hell, all his friends knew—all the guests. It was just supposed to hide the guns from burglars. But when he had one of those parties, the cabinet’d just be standing open.’’
    ‘‘Okay.’’
    ‘‘Top drawer,’’ Mrs. Wiener said.
    ‘‘Did you move the gun?’’ Lucas asked.
    ‘‘No. I never touched it. As soon as I saw a gun in the drawer, I shut it.’’
    ‘‘She don’t like guns,’’ Wiener said, as Lucas gently pulled the drawer open.
    And there was the Contender, with a Nikon scope, sitting neatly on a black plastic pad with two boxes of .308 ammunition off to the side.
    ‘‘That goddamn Ralph,’’ Krause said. ‘‘He never opened the drawers.’’
    Lucas took a pen from his pocket, slipped it through the gun’s trigger guard, lifted it out of the drawer, and carried it over to the kitchen table and placed it carefully on the table. Then, using a paper napkin to unlock the barrel, and touching only the tip of the stock and the tip of the barrel, he pushed the barrel down and open. A spent shell ejected onto the table.
    ‘‘Don’t touch it,’’ Lucas said. He knelt and looked through the barrel, said, ‘‘Yeah. Fired and never cleaned.’’ He looked at Wiener: ‘‘Do you know anything about Kresge’s gun habits?’’
    Wiener shrugged: ‘‘He always cleaned them. Big thing, you know, sit around and bullshit about the Army and shooting and chain saws and clean the guns.’’
    Krause again said, ‘‘Goddamnit,’’ and then, a moment later, ‘‘That’s the gun, you betcha. That goddamn Ralph.’’
    ‘‘Mrs. Wiener . . .’’
    ‘‘Sophia,’’ she said.
    ‘‘Sophia, do you have any plastic bags . . . garbage bags or anything?’’
    ‘‘Sure. Right here.’’
    Sophia produced a box of kitchen garbage bags. She stripped one out and held it open, while Lucas stuck a pencil in the barrel of the Contender and gently slipped it inside. The shell went into a sandwich bag.
    ‘‘I’ll have them in the lab tonight,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘I’ll get somebody in to look at them right away.’’
    Krause was still fuming, pushing papers into his briefcase. ‘‘I gotta go. I’m gonna find that sonofabitch and I’m gonna choke him to death. He couldn’t—’’
    Sophia Wiener broke in: ‘‘You don’t have time for a roll?’’
    Krause’s eyes clicked to the tray of cinnamon rolls, cooling on the stovetop with the pan of warm frosting next to them.
    ‘‘Well,’’ he said. ‘‘Maybe one.’’

SEVENTEEN

    THE DAYS WERE GETTING SHORTER, TWO OR THREE minutes of sunlight clipped off each afternoon; and the sky had gone dark by the time Lucas was within cell phone range of the Cities. He called the dispatcher, told her to locate the fingerprint specialist and get her down to the office. A half hour out, the car phone rang and he picked it up: ‘‘Yeah, Davenport.’’
    ‘‘Lucas, this is Marcy . . . Sherrill.’’ Her voice was tentative, as though he might not know her first name. ‘‘Are you on the way back?’’
    ‘‘Yeah. I’ll be at the office in a half hour. We maybe found the gun.’’
    ‘‘What? Where?’’ Her voice suggested that she was on solider ground now, talking about the investigation.
    ‘‘In a drawer in the gun cabinet. In the cabin.’’
    After a moment of silence, Sherrill said, ‘‘Oh brother. I’m glad I’m not the one who missed it.’’
    ‘‘You oughta see the sheriff: he’s talking manslaughter . . . Anyway what’ve you got going?’’ ‘‘I’d like to stop by your office and talk about it. If you’ve got a minute.’’
    ‘‘Sure. Where are you?’’
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    ‘‘Out in Bloomington,’’ she said. ‘‘At the Megamall.’’
    ‘‘See you in a while.’’
    HARRIET ASHLERSHOWEDUPTWOMINUTES AFTER LUCAS, wearing an ankle-length wool coat and a frown, and trailed by her husband: ‘‘Dick and I were going to a movie,’’ she said.
    ‘‘Jeez . . . Is it too late to go?’’
    She looked at her watch. ‘‘If we go, we gotta be in the car in twenty minutes.’’
    Lucas handed her the cardboard box he’d used to transport the guns: ‘‘A pistol and a fired shell. If there’s anything on the shell, I gotta have it ASAP. If it’s