Secret Prey

need plastic surgery. In fact, she might be getting it right now.’’
    ‘‘Ah, Christ. Okay, I’ll be in.’’
    ‘‘No rush. She won’t be able to talk for a couple hours, as close as I can tell.’’
    LUCAS WENT BACK TO THE BEDROOM, WHERE SHERRILL was still curled under the covers. ‘‘What?’’ she asked.
    Lucas told her: ‘‘McDonald’s dead. Shot to death by his old lady in a drunken fight. Or maybe, while her old man was beating her. Like that.’’
    Sherrill sat up, letting the blankets fall away. Lucas decided she was beautiful. ‘‘How can that be right?’’
    ‘‘What do you mean?’’
    ‘‘It solves too many problems,’’ she said.
    ‘‘Yeah.’’ He nodded and remembered his talk with the St. Paul fingerprint specialist—remembered saying that the discovery of McDonald’s prints was just too easy. ‘‘But it happens that way.’’
    ‘‘The first time it happened to me was with that Bonnie Bonet chick. And that was on this case too. Weird case . . . Are you going in?’’
    ‘‘Got to,’’ he said. He dropped down on the bed next to her. ‘‘But not this exact moment.’’
    ‘‘Oh, God, morning sex,’’ she said. ‘‘I never understood what men see in it. I think they just wake up with hard-ons and don’t know where else to put them.’’ She yawned and said, ‘‘My mouth tastes really bad. Like that drawer in Sex that Rigotto used to spit into.’’
    ‘‘Sweet image. You oughta be a fuckin’ writer,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘A fuckin’ scribe.’’
    ‘‘A fuckin’ hack. Anyway, I got a new toothbrush you can use,’’ he said.
    ‘‘Yeah, you would.’’
    ‘‘Hey . . .’’ He was offended.
    ‘‘Sorry. I make, like, a total retraction.’’ She rolled her eyes.
    ‘‘You should. Anyway, you could brush your teeth and then I could show you the shower again.’’
    She brightened. ‘‘That’s not a bad idea; I only got part of the tour last night.’’
    ‘‘Did we get to the soap on a rope?’’
    ‘‘I don’t believe we did . . .’’
    LUCAS HAD NEVER THOUGHT OF HIMSELF AS A CHEERFUL person, because he wasn’t; he wasn’t usually morose either. He simply lived in a kind of police-world me´lange built of cynicism, brutality, and absurdity, leavened by not infrequent acts of selflessness, idealism, and sacrifice. If a cop brought a continuing attitude of good cheer to that world, there was something wrong with him, Lucas thought. His own recent problems he recognized as involving brain chemicals: he could take other chemicals to alter his mental state, but he was afraid to do that. Would the brain-altered Davenport actually be himself? Or would it be some shrink’s idea of what a good Davenport would look like?
    All that aside, he was feeling fairly cheerful when he arrived downtown, alone. Sherrill would not get in the car with him: she would not arrive downtown at the same time.
    ‘‘If we keep doing this, they’re gonna know anyway,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘Yeah. Later. And that’s what I want. Later.’’
    ‘‘But you want to keep doing it?’’
    ‘‘Oh jeez, yeah. I mean, if you do,’’ she said. ‘‘A couple, three times a week, anyway. Don’t think I could handle every night.’’
    ‘‘Don’t have to worry about that,’’ Lucas grunted, as he looked in a dresser mirror to tie his necktie. ‘‘Another night like last night’d probably kill me.’’
    ‘‘You’re in pretty good shape for an old fuck,’’ Sherrill said. She was still lounging on the bed, pink as a baby.
    ‘‘If you make me think of things to say, I won’t remember how to tie a necktie,’’ he said, fumbling the knot.
    ‘‘Who picked out your suits?’’ she asked. She hopped off the bed to look in the closet. Not only was she beautiful, he thought, her ass was absolutely glorious; and she knew it.
    ‘‘I did. Who else?’’
    ‘‘You’ve got pretty good taste.’’ She pulled out a suit, looked at it, put it back, pulled out another. ‘‘I can remember, you always wore good suits, good-looking suits, even before you were rich.’’
    ‘‘I like suits,’’ he said. ‘‘They feel good. I like Italian suits, actually. I’ve had a couple of British suits, and they were okay, but they felt . . . constructed. Like I was wearing a building. But the Italians—they know how to make a suit.’’
    ‘‘Ever try French suits?’’
    ‘‘Yeah, three or four times. They’re okay, but a little . . . sharp