Wicked Prey

is that she could interview an underage hooker about giving blow jobs to Republicans.”
    Lucas thought he felt a vein pop out in his temple. “Aw, for Christ’s sakes.”
    “Hey. She’s got the eye and she’s got the balls,” Carey said. “And she’s apparently got the source.”
    “Aw, sweet bleedin’ Jesus,” Lucas said. “Where is she?”
    “Downtown St. Paul, somewhere,” Carey said. “You’ve got her cell phone?”
    “Yeah. Have you tried it?”
    “No, because then she’d know that I was the one who told you,” Carey said. “I rather she didn’t know that.”
    “Okay. Good-bye. Hey—thanks.”
    * * *
    LETTY ANSWERED on the third ring. “Hello, Dad?”
    “Where are you?”
    “Up at the Capitol,” Letty said. “The big march is about to start, there are about a million people, I’m watching these black-flag guys . . .”
    “Go home,” Lucas said.
    “What?”
    “Go home. I’m going to call your mom to pick you up,” Lucas said.
    “I’m on my bike,” Letty said. “But I can’t go right now.”
    “Letty, go right now.”
    After a long silence, Letty asked, “Who told you? Lois?”
    “Just go home, Letty,” Lucas said.
    “Bullshit. I’m going to march with my bike,” she said. “I might not ever get to do this again for the rest of my life. Then I’ll go home. I’m not with Juliet anymore.”
    “Letty, goddamnit . . .”
    “I’m turning off my phone,” she said, “Since you can’t seem to handle this in an adult manner.” She was gone.

    THE WOMEN in Lucas’s life reduced him to a chattering-chipmunk state about once a month. If not Letty, then Weather; if not Weather, then Jennifer Carey, mother of his other daughter; if not Carey, then Elle Kruger, a nun and lifelong friend; if not her, then Carol, his secretary. They were, he sometimes thought, when he had time to think about it, all crazier than a barrel of hair. All of them together, and also taken as individuals. But this, he thought, took the everlasting triple-decker chocolate-fudge cake.
    He was already rolling into downtown Minneapolis, thinking about the best way to get turned around to head back to St. Paul, when it occurred to him that if he went back, he (a) wouldn’t find her in the crowd, and (b) if he found her, what would he do with her bike? He was driving a Porsche, and (c) if he did find her, would he try to force her into the car? Knowing Letty, she’d probably start screaming for help.
    Well, maybe not that. She’d just be . . . disappointed in him and she’d probably cry. That would break his heart.
    Besides, she said she wasn’t with the hooker anymore. She didn’t usually lie to him, though she did sometimes. She was the toughest kid he’d ever met, and also the most levelheaded.
    Still. He took a deep breath, relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. “Hell to pay when I get home,” he muttered to himself. He stopped looking for a place to turn around, and headed into the Minneapolis loop.

    JOHN WILSON was sitting upright in bed, his bludgeoned left eye unwrapped and looking like he’d been hit with an electric sander. He’d just gotten a strawberry shake when Lucas arrived, and was sucking a blob of whipped cream through a straw. Jones was leaning against the air conditioner and said, “Hey.” Wilson’s assistant, Lorelei Johnson, and Bart Spellman, the third victim, were propped in bedside chairs.
    Lucas told the three of them about the murder of Charles Dee: “You guys were pretty lucky, in a way,” Lucas said. “They banged you around a little, but now they’ve killed someone. We know it and they know we know it. The next people who run into them might not be so lucky.”
    “So Rick said you had an idea,” Wilson said, nodding at Jones.
    Lucas put a finger to his lower lip, thought a moment about how to lay it out, then said, “Okay. Somewhere back down the line—days ago, weeks ago—somebody gave Cohn information on where you’d be staying, when you’d be there, how much money you’d be carrying, and probably, how long you’d be carrying it.”
    Quick series of glances, but Lucas held up his hand and said, “Hold on . . . I’m not asking for a statement, I’m speculating on how this must have happened. Somebody knew those things and could point Cohn at you. The question is, who would have that information, on both of you? The details of where you’d be staying?”
    Wilson and Spellman looked at each other, frowning, then Johnson suggested,