Silent Prey

because he talked to you,” she said, sucking her heavy lips in and out.
    “No. He got done because he called this asshole Bekker, who he was protecting, and told him that we’d interviewed him,” Lucas said. “Bekker knows me. He didn’t want to take any chances.”
    “So what do you want from me? I gave you everything.”
    “How’d you get in touch with Whitechurch when you needed to?” Lucas asked.
    “I never needed to. When he had something good, he’d bring it over. Otherwise—shit, I don’t handle hospital stuff. I handle shit you can sell, cheap. Suits. Neckties. Telephones. I wouldn’t know what to do with no hospital stuff.”
    Fell pointed a finger at her: “You took down Simpson-McCall, what, two months ago . . . ?”
    Arnold looked away. “No. I don’t know nothing about that.”
    Fell studied her for a moment, then looked at Lucas. “Brokerage moves to a new building, one of those over-the-weekend moves. Trucks coming and going all night with files, computers, telephones, furniture, putting it in. The only thing is, not all of the trucks were hired by the brokerage. Some assholes rented trucks, drove them up to the loading docks, and disappeared over the horizon. . . . One of them took off six hundred brand-new beige two-button phones. Somebody else got fifty Northgate IBM compatibles, still in the boxes.”
    “Really?” said Arnold, faintly distressed. “Computers?”
    Fell nodded, and Lucas looked back at Arnold. “If you had to get to Whitechurch, what’d you do?”
    Arnold shrugged. “Call him at the hospital. Wasn’t no big secret where he worked. Nights only, though.”
    “Did he have a special number?”
    “I don’t know, man, I never called him.”
    “Did . . .”
    Fell’s beeper went off. She took it out of her purse, glanced at the readout. “Where’s the phone?” she asked Arnold. To Lucas, she said, “I bet they got him.”
    “Over there, at the end of the counter, underneath . . .” Arnold said, pointing.
    As Fell punched the number into the telephone, Lucas went back to Arnold. “Did he work with anybody?”
    “Man, I bought telephones from him, four dollars apiece,” Arnold said impatiently. “Boxes of pens and pencils. Notepads. Cartons of Xerox paper. Cleaning supplies. He once came in with two hundred bottles of ERA, you know, the laundry soap. I don’t know where he got it, I didn’t ask any questions. And that’s all I know about him.”
    “Yeah, this is Fell, you beeped?” Fell said into the phone. And then, voice hushed, “Jesus. What’s the address. Huh? Okay.” She hung up and looked at Lucas. “Bekker did another one, another woman. Ten minutes from here, walking.”
    Lucas pointed a finger at Arnold: “Did you hear that? Think about Whitechurch. Anything you think of, call us. Anything.”
    “Man, there’s nothin’ . . .”
    But Lucas and Fell were out the door.
     
    The body was in a dead-end alley off Prince. Uniforms blocked the mouth of the alley, kept back the curious. Fell and Lucas flashed their badges and went through. Kennett and two other plainclothesmen were there, staring into a window well. Kennett’s hands, gripping the rail around the well, were white with tension.
    “Goddamn maniac,” he said as Lucas and Fell walked up. The crime-scene techs had dropped a ladder into the well. Lucas looked over the railing and saw a small woman’s body at the bottom of the well, nude, crumpled like a doll, the techs working over her.
    “No question it was Bekker?” Lucas asked.
    “No, but it’s different. This doesn’t look so scientific. She’s pretty slashed up, like he . . . I don’t know. It looks like he was having fun.”
    “Eyes?”
    “Yeah, the eyes are cut and the doc says it looks like his work. The eyelids gone, very neat and surgical. The sonofabitch has a signature.”
    “How long has she been down there?” Fell asked.
    “Not long. A few hours at the most. Probably went in before dawn, this morning.”
    “Got an ID?” asked Lucas.
    “No.” Kennett looked at Fell, who was lighting a Lucky. “Could I bum one, I . . .”
    “No.” Fell shook her head, carefully not looking at him.
    “God damn it,” Kennett said. He stuck one hand in his jacket pocket, put two fingers of the other between his shirt buttons, over his heart. He caught himself, pulled them out, looked at his hand and finally stuck it in the other jacket pocket. “Fuckin’ do-gooders.”
    “Anything on the