Silent Prey

exulted. No question at all.
    Dink.
    The intercom bell. It cut through the sense of jubilation, brought him down. Old bitch. Mrs. Lacey got up early, but habitually slumped in front of the television until noon, watching her morning shows.
    Dink.
    He went to the intercom: “Yes?”
    “Come quick,” she squawked. “You have to see, you’re on the television.”
    What? Bekker stared at the intercom, then went quickly to the bed, picked up his robe, wrapped himself, put fluffy slippers on his feet. The old lady didn’t see very well, didn’t hear very well, he could pass . . . and he still had on his makeup. On television? As he passed the dresser he slipped two tabs off the tray, popped them, as brighteners. What could she mean?
    The first floor was dark, musty, a thin orangish morning light filtering through the parchmentlike window shades. The second floor was worse, the odor of marijuana hanging in the curtains, a stench of decaying cat shit, the smell of old vegetables and carpet mold. And it was dark, except for the phosphorescent glow of the tube.
    Mrs. Lacey was standing, staring at the television, a remote control in her hand. Bekker was there on the screen, all right. One of the photos that had plagued him,had kept him off the street. But in this photo, he was a woman and a blonde. The details were perfect:
    “ . . . credited to Detective Barbara Fell and former Minneapolis Detective Lieutenant Lucas Davenport, who had been brought to New York as a consultant  . . .”
    Davenport. Bekker was struck by a sudden dizziness, a wave of nausea. Davenport was coming; Davenport would kill him.
    “But . . .” said Mrs. Lacey, looking from the screen to Bekker.
    Bekker steadied himself, nodded. “That’s right, it is me,” he said. He sighed. He hadn’t expected the old woman to last this long. He stepped carefully across the carpet to her.
    She turned and tried to run, a shuffling struggle against age and infirmity, gargling in terror. Bekker giggled, and the cats, hissing, bounded across the overstuffed furniture to the highest shelves. Bekker caught the old woman at the edge of the parlor. He put the heel of his left hand against the back of her skull, the cup of his right under her chin.
    “But . . .” she said again.
    A quick snap. Her spine was like a stick of rotten wood, cracked, and she collapsed. Bekker stared down at her, swaying, the brightener tab coming on.
    “It is me,” he said again.

CHAPTER
21
    Most visitors came through O’Dell’s office; when the knock came at Lily’s unmarked office door, she looked over the top of her Wall Street Journal and frowned.
    There was another light knock and she took off her half-moon reading glasses—she hadn’t let anyone see them yet—and said, “Yes?”
    Kennett stuck his head in. “Got a minute?”
    “What’re you doing down here?” she asked, folding the paper and putting it aside.
    “Talking to you,” he said. He stepped inside the door, peeked through a half-open side door into O’Dell’s office, and saw an empty desk.
    “He’s at staff,” Lily said. “What’s going on?”
    “We’ve papered the town with the female Bekker picture,” Kennett said, dropping into her visitor’s chair. Small talk. He tried a smile, but it didn’t work. “You know Lucas got it, the cross-dressing thing. It wasn’t Fell.”
    “I thought maybe he did,” Lily said. “He wants Fell to do well.”
    “Nice,” he said, his voice trailing off. He was looking at her as though he were trying to see inside her head.
    “Let’s have it,” she said finally.
    “All right,” he said. “What do you know about this Robin Hood shit that O’Dell is peddling?”
    Lily was surprised—and a small voice at the back of her head said that was good, that look of surprise. “What? What’s he peddling?”
    Kennett looked at her, eyes blinking skeptically, as though he were reevaluating something. Then he said, “He’s been putting out shit about Robin Hood, the so-called vigilantes. I’ve got the feeling that the fickle finger is pointed at my ass.”
    “Well, Jesus,” Lily said.
    “Exactly. There aren’t any vigilantes. It’s all bullshit, this Robin Hood business. But that doesn’t mean he can’t fuck me up. If they think they’ve got a problem . . .” He pointed a thumb at the ceiling, meaning the people upstairs, “And they can’t find anybody, they might just want to hang somebody anyway, to cover their