Wicked Prey

and Jenkins trooped into the house together, and the housekeeper fixed them up with cold fried chicken, apple pie from the pie place on the corner, and milk and coffee.
    “I want to suggest something,” Lucas began, poking a drumstick at them. “That is, they must know the jig is up on these moneymen robberies. We ambushed them on the last one, and even if somebody got away, we killed one of them. They won’t do another one.”
    Jenkins and Shrake both nodded.
    “So, at this point, now that they know we have Shafer, there are really only two possibilities,” Lucas continued. “First, they take off. They have a rep for being bold on strategy and careful on tactics. If they’re gone, then there’s nothing we can do about it. Put together what we’ve got, try to get as much publicity as we can, and let somebody else catch them.”
    “That’s boring,” Shrake said.
    Lucas held up a finger: “The second option is, they go ahead with whatever they’re planning. They know we’re looking, they know we got to Shafer. But they also probably figured out how we got to Shafer—through Diaz’s house in Venice. And they still were setting us up, taking a look at us. I think they were going ahead with whatever it is. They were checking on Shafer’s status, and now they know.”
    “But what the hell is Shafer for?” Jenkins asked.
    “I got one possibility,” Lucas said. “It looks like they were lying to him from the start. He really doesn’t have anything to do with the main job. But what if he’s a diversion? Like this: they get him to come up here, go around to some quarries where he’s sure to attract attention—he’s shooting a .50-cal, for Christ’s sake. They drag him through the gun stores, while they stay out of sight. They plant some shells, with his prints on them, up on the hillside . . .”
    Jenkins picked it up: “So when they do whatever it is, they call nine-one-one and say they’ve seen Shafer with his gun. Cops rush in from all over.”
    “And the target is clear. Whatever it is. The commo guys start screaming about Shafer, and everybody starts running. There’s panic . . .”
    “What are they going to hit?” Shrake asked, as much to himself as to the others, looking up at the ceiling. “They do banks and armored cars. God knows there’s enough cash floating around.”
    “We need to scout some places. Armored-car warehouses. Someplace with . . . big money. Big money. We scout them, like we were going to hold them up—and then, if we find a couple of places that look particularly ripe, we set up ambushes.”
    They thought about it through their pie; halfway through, Shrake mumbled, “You know what? They’re still here.”
    * * *
    LETTY HAD been lying on her bed, thinking about her next move, when they arrived, and she wandered into the kitchen as they were talking. Shrake said, “Hello, sweet thing,” and Jenkins said, “The movie star.”
    Letty patted Shrake on his broad back and said, “If only you were forty years younger,” which made Lucas laugh so hard that he choked. “A piece of chicken breading went up my nose,” he said. Shrake pretended to sulk: “For Christ’s sakes, I am only forty.”
    “And in good shape,” Letty said. “For a guy that old.”
    “What’re you up to?” Lucas asked.
    “Not much going on tomorrow. I’m going to write the Mockingbird essay tonight, I guess.”
    “Better than messing around with hookers,” Lucas said. He gave a short recap to Shrake and Jenkins.
    “Sounds like a good story to me,” Shrake said.
    “You get better-looking by the minute,” Letty said.
    Jenkins squinted at her: “How old are you?”
    “Fourteen.”
    Jenkins looked at Lucas and shook his head: “Jesus Christ, Lucas, you attract trouble. You’re a fuuuhhh . . . trouble magnet.”
    “Was that a French trouble magnet?” Letty asked. “A freaky trouble magnet? A fancy trouble magnet? A . . .”
    “Fuck off, kid,” Jenkins said.
    * * *
    AFTER TRADING a few more insults with Jenkins and Shrake, Letty got a single-serving milk bottle and walked back up to her bedroom, sat on the bed and thought about it some more.
    What if Randy killed Juliet? If he did, it’d be Letty’s fault. The thought went round and round like a carousel, and always came back, no matter how she twisted it up.
    What if Randy did something so awful . . .
    And yet she had the feeling that Randy was too manipulative for that. He’d fly into a rage, he’d beat Juliet,