Stolen Prey

they’ve got nothing to lose by shooting as many cops as they see. They’ve probably got an arsenal with them, and they’ve had lots of practice.”
    Morris said, “Huh. Better talk to SWAT.”
    “Better talk to everybody,” Lucas said. “You don’t want a lot of patrol cops rolling around sticking their noses into everything. If somebody finds them just sort of spontaneously, he’ll probably be killed. I think you put together a good crew, start working the neighborhood, but you gotta be discreet. You don’t want to scare them off, but you don’t want to get anybody killed, either. No impetuosity.”
    “No impetuosity,” Morris repeated.
    W HEN THEY’D extracted everything they could from the Zapp’s crews, they broke up. Lucas headed over to the BCA, and Morris went back to the murder scene—from there he’d head to police headquarters, which was about five minutes away, to arrange for a careful survey of the neighborhoods around Zapp’s.
    R IVERA AND M ARTÍNEZ went back to their car, and Rivera dug his pistol out from under the front seat and said to Martínez, “You drive.”
    “To where?”
    “Up and down these streets. If he walked, he is not far. We’ll circle the streets, go out for a kilometer—”
    She said, “This is crazy. We—”
    “We know the car. This neighborhood, most of the cars are on the street,” Rivera said. “I predict that we will find them.”
    “Then what?”
    “Then we will see,” Rivera said.
    “You are too crazy,” Martínez said. She bit her lip, as though she feared she’d gone too far.
    All Rivera said was, “Drive.”
    T HE NEIGHBORHOOD around Zapp’s Pizza was all old. From north to south, it varied from rich, south of Grand Avenue, to increasingly poor, north of Summit Avenue, to poor, next to I-94. Grand Avenue itself was mostly commercial and apartments.
    Rivera didn’t think the shooters would be in an apartment. Somebody, he thought, had probably arranged a house. The house wouldn’t be on Summit, because those houses were basically mansions. This would be more discreet, in a neighborhood where people might be a bit more reluctant to ask questions.
    The streets stepped back from the expressway were the most likely place, he told Martínez. The faces on the sidewalks were of every shade of black, brown, and white, from African to Scandinavian to Latino and American Indian. The Mexicanos would fit here, he said.
    Even so, there were a lot of streets to look at, in the grid around Zapp’s. They started a little after ten o’clock in the morning. Rivera was a little surprised when it took them only three hours to find them; or that they found them at all.
    After several false alarms—it seemed that half the people inSt. Paul drove oversized SUVs—and a stop for a quick lunch and to fill up the car’s gas tank, they spotted the Tahoe sitting down a driveway, tight between two aging white houses.
    “There it is,” Rivera said suddenly. Martínez looked that way, and saw the truck. “There. Keep going, keep driving … Yes, Texas plates.” He was sweating with excitement. “Go to the corner.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “Look in the window,” Rivera said. “See what is what.”
    “Crazy,” Martínez said. “David, don’t do this.”
    “You sound like an American, like Shaffer,” Rivera said. “Pull over, pull over.”
    She pulled over and Rivera jacked a round into the chamber of the single-action pistol, and said, “When you see me look at the window, call Lucas. Do not call before you see me look in.”
    “David, please, please don’t do this. Let me call the police. You watch them. I will call—”
    “I won’t be made a fool. I will look before we call. I’ll know that I am right.”
    “All you will do is look in?”
    “The situation could develop,” Rivera said. “Be ready.”
    “Ah, no, David…” She grabbed his jacket sleeve. “Don’t go, don’t go—”
    “Call Lucas when you see me look in,” Rivera said again, and he hopped out. She watched him down the street, a stout man with a dark face behind his sunglasses, his street-side hand under his jacket. He walked right past the house, only glancing at it, but she shook her head. He did not look like a pedestrian: he looked like a cop giving the place the once-over.
    R IVERA’S HEART was pounding like a trip hammer. He gave the house what he thought was a casual glance, went on by. The house was small, shabby, probably built after World War