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Wicked Prey

Wicked Prey

Titel: Wicked Prey Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: John Sandford
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suddenly brighter.
    “Old lady says she saw a guy going through with two women. Tall, thin, dark hair, mustache. She said the woman looked like a Filipino, but that seemed close enough—the picture you gave us does look sort of like something else. So I showed her the mug shots, and she’s not sure on the woman, but she’s fairly sure about Cohn. She said it’s him.”
    “Terrific. This is terrific,” Lucas said. “You said Park Vista? Where’s that at?”
    The cop told him, and Lucas said, “Hell, you’re right down the street.”
    “It’s Park Vista Two, exactly. It’s the door on the left. This old lady was no dummy—I got a good feeling about it, man.”
    “Okay. I’m coming over, I’m bringing my guys, I’m cranking up the SWAT.”
    “Listen, I can watch the lobby and the door, but my partner thinks you should bring the SWAT in through the basement,” the cop said. “They can bring their van right down the front ramp—it’ll take a Sprinter van, the manager says, so the SWAT stuff should fit. From there, it’s either up the elevators or up the stairs.”
    “I’ll hook you up with the SWAT guy. His name is Able Peterson, you can talk him in. This is good work, man.”
    * * *
    HE CALLED the SWAT commander: “Able, we need you.”
    “Goddamnit, Lucas, you got them? Where?”
    Lucas gave them the address off Mears Park. “It’s the new ones, the ones with the colored panels. It’s the one on the left as you look at them from the front. I’ve got the name of a guy who can let you into the basement level, the parking level.”
    “It’ll take me twenty minutes to break off here, get my guys ready to go.”
    He gave Peterson the cop’s phone number, and then called Shrake and Jenkins: “We’ve got a line on them.”
    “Where at?” Jenkins asked.
    “Park Vista—those big twin buildings on Mears Park.”
    “That’d be about right. Half-full, big buildings . . .”
    “Two minutes,” Lucas said.
    * * *
    LETTY DECIDED that she had no choice: or rather, she had a choice, but both options were bad. One was bad for Briar, one was bad for Lucas, and that tipped the balance. You took care of your own.
    She’d gotten Whitcomb’s phone number the first day; now she rode her bike across town to the Capitol lawn as the evening came on. There were a couple thousand people floating around, after some kind of event, maybe a music thing. A Channel Three van was parked at the bottom of the hill, on the street. Among the crowd she spotted a group of frat boys from the University of Minnesota, who were towing some sorority girls around in little red wagons, tiny floats for Obama. She chained her bike to a tree and jogged over.
    One of them, a tall young man with green soap-spiked hair that made him look a little like the Statue of Liberty, was wearing a homemade button that said “Greeks for Obama,” and Letty grabbed him.
    “You wanna be a TV star?” she asked him.
    “Shit, yes.”
    “Try not to say ‘shit’ when you’re on camera,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
    She jogged down the hill to the van and knocked on the door.
    Lois looked out at her: “Letty,” she said. She seemed abashed, having ratted Letty out a couple days before. “Are you supposed to be here?”
    Letty said, “Could we do a minute on some kids from the U? They’re pretty funny . . . Frats for Obama . . .”
    Lois said, “If they’re coherent . . .”
    Letty said, “Get a camera . . .” and she headed back up the hill to the frat boys. They did a minute, and then Letty told Lois that she better head home, but she wanted one last look around. Lois said, “Okay. And that frat boy stuff—not too bad.”
    “At least he didn’t say ‘shit’ on TV,” Letty said.
    * * *
    ALIBI.
    Two minutes later, she was on her bike, the streets not so well-lit now, but she had her switchblade and the confidence that she could move quickly enough, and in the dark, that nobody could move on her. She was right.
    From an outdoor phone at Metro U, six blocks from Whitcomb’s house, she made the call: tried to put on an accent that she’d picked up from HBO specials on hookers. A male voice, and she said, “Randy, you know that bitch of yours is hanging out with the Davenport kid? Thought you’d like to know.”
    “What? What?”
    “That bitch of yours is hanging out with the Davenport kid, told her what you were up to. You take care.”
    “This ain’t Randy. Wait a minute.”
    Letty groaned. Wrong guy. Then

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