Silken Prey

said, “I’ll set up a press conference for three o’clock. I’ll be calling you from my hairdresser’s for the background: just e-mail me a few tight paragraphs on the whole thing. Goddamnit, I was hoping Smalls would go down.”
    “Maybe he still will,” Lucas said.
    “Maybe,” she said. “Taryn is cute, smart, and she’s got more money than Elmer.”
    “Okay . . .”
    “So how are you going to handle the investigation? Now that it’s public?”
    “Don’t know yet,” Lucas said. “I’m thinking about it.”
    •   •   •
    L UCAS WALKED OVER to his car and climbed in, and his phone went off: Porter Smalls. Lucas answered and Smalls said, “Thank you. I just talked with Elmer. I owe you big-time and I don’t forget.”
    “That makes me a little nervous,” Lucas said. “I don’t want to be owed: this is my job.”
    “I don’t care. I owe you,” Smalls said.
    When Smalls got off the phone, Lucas called Kidd: “Did you ever get a chance to look at that list of campaign members?”
    “Should be in your e-mail,” Kidd said. “There are only a dozen who might be serious contenders. There are two people of particular interest. Daniel MacGuire and Rudy Holly. MacGuire is gay and has run a gay Republicans group, but Smalls has been against gay marriage, so . . . And MacGuire is also a depressive and has anger-management issues, and is taking medication for both. Holly is a conspiracy theory guy, going back to the Clinton years and that whole blow-job business. I’ve seen some stuff he’s put on some conspiracy sites, and the thing is, he’s nuts.”
    “Any lonely middle-aged women in there?” Lucas asked.
    “Yes. You’re thinking, what?”
    “Tubbs wasn’t crazy, he was calculating. Somebody had to set the booby trap the morning that the volunteer tripped it—and that wasn’t Tubbs, because Tubbs has been backtracked by a pretty good cop: he wasn’t at the campaign office that morning. The question is, did he have a lover? Or a very close friend? Somebody he could trust with this?”
    After a moment of silence, Kidd said, “Ramona Johnson. She would be your best bet. Divorced four years ago . . . let me see here . . . until about five months ago, she was complaining on Facebook about the lack of eligible men and the problems of middle-aged women. Then she shut up.”
    “Ramona Johnson.”
    “Yes. There’s one more possibility. A Sally Fey. She’s younger, she’s thirty-one, and she has a new beau, but she’s not talking about it. From what I’ve seen of her and her e-mails . . .”
    “You’ve got her e-mails?”
    “Forget I said that. From what I’ve seen of her, she’s a very shy, quiet type, and she’s a little mousy. Doesn’t do much with her hair,” Kidd said. “But you can see the hope in her eyes.”
    “You can see her eyes?”
    “Try to stay on track,” Kidd said. “If the right guy said the right things to her . . .”
    “Tubbs could do that. He had a reputation as a ladies’ man,” Lucas said.
    “So put Fey on the list.” He spelled her name, and Lucas wrote it down.
    •   •   •
    W HEN HE GOT OFF the phone with Kidd, Lucas used his cell phone to check his e-mail, looked at the list that Kidd had shipped him. Twelve names, half men, half women. Would it be an ideologue or a lover?
    He’d track down as many of the people on the list as he could, and ask them the hard question. Did you set the booby trap? If the answer was no, Lucas would say, “You realize that Tubbs was killed for what he knew. If you’re lying, you could be next.”
    If the answer was still no, the next question would be, “If you didn’t set it, who did?”
    It
could
work.

CHAPTER 8
    T aryn Grant’s phone buzzed, a call, not an alarm. She was lying on her bed, waking up from a much-needed afternoon nap. She stretched, yawned, picked up the phone, and said, “Hello?”
    “What are you doing?” Her campaign manager, Connie Schiffer.
    “Took a nap. I just woke up.”
    “Good. We need you sharp. You’re ready for tonight?” A fund-raiser at the Wayzata Country Club. Taryn didn’t actually need the funds, but if people gave you money, they tended to support you, to feel a connection.
    “Absolutely.”
    “You’re bringing the gorgeous David?” David Wein, a commodities broker who would someday inherit his father’s firm. A small firm. David was a corn expert, but was also thoroughly grounded in soybeans, and sometimes dabbled in