Wicked Prey

Cruz said. She was a good-looking woman of no particularly identifiable age, who’d taken care to make herself mousy. She wore no makeup, had done nothing with her hair.
    Cohn had once seen her in Dallas, where women dressed up, and she’d astonished him with her authentic Texas vibe: moderately big hair, modestly big lipstick, two-inch heels, stockings with seams down the back; her twice-great-grand-uncle might have died at the Alamo. Cruz, when working, dressed for invisibility. She fit in Dallas, she fit in Minnesota, she fit wherever they worked—she was wallpaper, she was background. She took the driver’s side, and he sat on the passenger side, fiddling with the seat controls to push it all the way back. At six-foot-six, he needed the legroom.
    “Give me your passport and documents,” Cruz said, when the air conditioning was going.
    He took a wallet out of his breast pocket and handed it over. Inside were a hundred pounds, fifty euros, fifty dollars, an American passport, a New York State driver’s license, two credit cards, a building security card with a magnetic strip, and a variety of wallet detritus.
    The whole lot, except for the passport and currency, had been taken from the home of the real John Lamb by his building superintendent, who was a crook. Since the credit cards would never be used, no one would be the wiser. The passport had been more complicated, but not too—a stand-in had applied by mail, submitting a photograph of Cohn, and when it came to Lamb’s apartment, it had been stolen from the mailbox. As long as the real Lamb didn’t apply for another one, they were good.
    Cruz took out the currency and handed it back to Cohn, tucked the wallet under the car seat and handed over another one, thick with cash. “William Joseph Wakefield—Billy Joe. Everything’s real, except the picture on the driver’s license. Don’t use the credit cards unless it’s an emergency.”
    “Billy Joe.” Cohn thumbed through the cash. “Two thousand dollars. Three nights at a decent hotel.”
    “We’re not staying at a decent hotel,” Cruz said. She reached into the backseat, picked up a baseball cap with a Minnesota Twins logo, and said, “Put this on and pull it down over your eyes.”
    He did, and with his careful British suit, it made him look a bit foolish. She wouldn’t have given it to him without a reason, so he put it on, and asked, “Where’re we set up?”
    She backed carefully out of the parking space and turned for the exit. “At the HomTel in Hudson, Wisconsin, just across the state line from here. Thirty miles. Two hundred and twenty dollars a night, for two rooms for you, adjoining, which is twice as much as they’re worth, but with the convention in town, you get what you can. I’m upstairs and on the other side of the motel.”
    “Where’re the boys?”
    “Jesse’s across the street at the Windmill, Tate is at the Cross Motel, Jack is at a mom-and-pop called Wakefield Inn, all in Hudson. All within easy walking distance from the HomTel.” Multiple nearby rooms in different hotels made it easier to get together, and also easier to find an emergency hideout if the cops made one or another of them. They could be off the street in minutes, in a motel where they’d never been seen by the management.
    Standard operating procedure, worked out and talked over in prisons across the country. Cohn nodded and said, “Okay.”
    “I almost went home when you invited Jack back in,” Cruz said, threading her way through the concrete pillars of the parking ramp.
    “Better to have him inside the tent pissin’ out, than outside the tent pissin’ in,” Cohn said.
    “I don’t know what that means,” she said.
    “It means that when he gets picked up—and I do mean when , it’s only a matter of time—he’ll try to cut a deal,” Cohn said. “We’re one of the things he’s got. I need to talk to him.”
    “He’d cut a deal whatever we do.”
    “No. Not really. I’ve thought on that,” he said, in an accent that spoke of the deep southern part of Yorkshire. “There are circumstances in which he would not cut a deal, no matter what the coppers might have offered to him.”
    “You’ve got to lose that bullshit British syntax, right now ,” Cruz said. “You’re Billy Joe Wakefield from Birmingham, Alabama. You need khakis and golf shirts.”
    “Give me two minutes listening to country music,” Cohn said. “That’ll get ’er done.”
    “Anyway, about Jack . .