Secret Prey

a matter of going over the whole pistol, that could wait until morning.’’
    Ashler took the bag and said, ‘‘I’ll call you in ten minutes—you’ll be in your office?’’
    ‘‘Yeah . . .’’
    ‘‘We could come back after the movie and take a look at the pistol, if you’re willing to pay the OT.’’
    ‘‘That’d be good—but tomorrow morning, early, would be okay.’’
    ‘‘I’ll do it tonight. Dick can hang around. Then I can sleep in tomorrow.’’
    ‘‘I like fingerprinting,’’ Dick said cheerfully. He was a letter carrier and had a six handicap in golf. ‘‘I’d just as soon watch her fingerprint as go to a movie.’’
    ‘‘Well, we’re going to the movie,’’ Ashler said.
    ‘‘Art movie,’’ said Dick, as his wife started off down the dimly lit hall. ‘‘Made by some Jap.’’
    ‘‘You have my sympathy,’’ said Lucas.
    ‘‘Coulda been worse: coulda been a Swede,’’ Dick said, looking after his wife. ‘‘Gotta go: I guess I’m just a goddamn culture dog.’’
    LUCAS HEADEDDOWNTOHIS OFFICE, FLIPPEDONTHE lights, pulled off his coat and hung it on the antique government-issue coatrack. Then he walked up and down his ten-foot length of carpet a couple of times, rubbing his hands, looking at the phone, waiting. Wanted to call someone, but there was no one to call.
    Sherrill. Where in the hell was she? If she’d been in Bloomington, she should be here. Or close. He’d left the door open, and he stepped out and looked up and down the hall. Nobody: he could hear a radio playing somewhere, a Leon Redbone piece. He listened for a moment, groping for the name, pulling it from the few muted notes flowing down the hall. Ah: ‘‘She Ain’t Rose.’’
    Despite what Sherrill had argued earlier, knowing that McDonald was the killer was a huge advantage. If they could pull together enough bits and pieces on all the killings, they could indict him on several counts of murder, let the jury throw a couple of them out, and nail him on the easiest one. All they needed was one. One first degree murder was thirty years, no parole. McDonald was unlikely to pull the full load. He’d die inside.
    So one was enough.
    Lucas hummed to himself, caught it: Jesus, he hadn’t been humming to himself in months. And with all the shit happening, he should be . . . He listened to the back of his mind. No static. Not much going on back there. He let himself smile and took another turn around the carpet, looked at his watch.
    And the phone rang.
    He snatched it up, said, ‘‘Davenport,’’ and at the same time, heard footsteps in the hall.
    ‘‘This is Harriet Ashler. There’s nothing on the shell. It looks like it was lifted out of the box, maybe with gloves, loaded up, and fired. It’s absolutely clean. Polished, almost.’’
    Sherrill appeared in the doorway, saw him talking. He gestured for her to come in as he said, ‘‘Damn it: I was hoping . . . Well, check the gun. I thought maybe he didn’t think about the shell, just like he didn’t think about the other one.’’
    ‘‘Not this time,’’ Ashler said. Sherrill stepped into Lucas’s office, pulled the door shut, and took off her leather jacket as Ashler continued: ‘‘I took a look at the pistol, and I think I can see some smudges. As soon as I get back I’ll start processing them. Ogram over in St. Paul sent Mc-Donald’s prints over this afternoon, so I can give you a quick read.’’
    ‘‘Good, I’ll be at home. Call me whenever.’’
    Lucas hung up and said, ‘‘No prints on the shell, but there’s something on the pistol. She’s gonna process it tonight.’’
    ‘‘He’d have to be suicidal to leave prints on the pistol but not on the shell,’’ Sherrill said. She tossed her coat in a corner, and the motion of the coat in the air stirred up a slight scent, something light, like Chanel No. 5. ‘‘And why’d he carry the pistol back to the cabin? He could’ve pitched it into the woods, and who’d ever find it?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know why,’’ Lucas said. He leaned back against his desk. ‘‘But why would anybody carry a pistol back to the cabin? Anybody , no matter who it is?’’
    Sherrill shrugged: ‘‘Maybe they got it there, and thought if they put it back, nobody would know.’’
    ‘‘Leaving a fired shell in the chamber?’’
    ‘‘That’s a question,’’ she admitted.
    Lucas scratched his head and said, ‘‘We’ll ask him, if we can’t figure something