Wicked Prey

been opened . . .
    No answers yet: maybe he’d get some from the crime-scene people.
    * * *
    ROSE MARIE ROUX, his boss, was getting out of her Buick when he pulled into the BCA parking lot. She waited for him, squinting against the early morning sun, and when he caught up with her, said, “The governor’s going to call Benson’s folks this morning.”
    “All right.”
    “You good?” she asked.
    “Aw . . . you know.”
    She nodded. She’d been a cop before she was a lawyer, and a politician. “Let a little of it out, when you’re talking to the cameras. Get angry. Makes better tape—you’ll get better distribution on the pictures.”
    He half-laughed—snorted—and said, “Pretty fucking pathetic when you have to pull that bullshit.”
    “Modern times,” she said.
    * * *
     
    NELLY CASSESFORD from Channel Three was walking up the sidewalk from the Channel Three van, carrying a cable of some sort. She saw Lucas and Rose Marie and slowed down to wait for them.
    “We need to get started right on time, because we’re up to our necks in convention stuff,” she said. She was a slight, dark-haired woman with warm brown eyes. “Lots of trouble last night, lots of tape.”
    “We’re good,” Lucas said. “Did you talk to your guys about getting this out to LA?”
    “Yup. Larry Johnston called them last night. They like that LA connection with the woman, don’t care so much about the convention, so you’ll get some time. Did you talk to everybody?”
    Lucas nodded. “Yeah. I just hope they don’t kiss us off.”
    “They won’t. This is great stuff—manhunt. Woman-hunt. Unknown killers. Good-looking femme fatale. Appeal to the public for help.” She didn’t say, “Dead cops,” which was good.
    * * *
    THERE WERE four cameras and a cooperative light setup in the BCA conference room. Del, Jenkins, and Shrake, all looking tired and ruffled, were clustered in the back of the room, and Mitford was talking to a St. Paul political reporter. He spotted Lucas and Lucas went that way, and Mitford asked, “You all set?”
    “Yeah. You gonna say anything for the governor?”
    “No. I’ll leave it to you,” Mitford said. “You know he’ll be calling Benson’s folks . . .”
    “Rose Marie told me,” Lucas said. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes to six. Time to do it.
    * * *
     
    ROSE MARIE went first, the usual political platitudes about tragedy and a life dedicated to government service. Then Lucas went on, and he did let it out, as Rose Marie had suggested, and though it felt a little calculated, he found it pretty easy to do.
    “A murder gang is operating in the Twin Cities and they’ve killed two police officers and an innocent woman, and we need to take these people off the street right now,” he said through his teeth. “We’re distributing photos of two of the people involved. We don’t know who the woman is, but we believe that she’s in St. Paul and that she may have come from the Los Angeles area. If you see her, or if you know where or who she is, we need to find her. She may have been involved in the death of a young and innocent Spanish man whom she seduced and then possibly murdered in Washington, D.C. . . .”
    Let it out. From the intent expressions of the reporters, he figured it was working; gonna be good tape.
    When he was done, he bounced a few questions, and then said, “We’ll keep you up on this. I understand that the governor will have a comment later. He personally knew and valued Agent Benson and he’ll be talking to Benson’s folks this morning.”
    He saw Rose Marie nod and he was done.
    * * *
    WHEN THE reporters were heading out, Del asked, “What next?”
    Lucas said, “We’ve got about a million cops out there. Let’s get some guys, and get these pictures to every one of the cops. Tell them, you know, if they’re standing around, to talk to people—shop owners, bank tellers, whatever, ask if they’ve seen these guys. Maybe something will pop up. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
    “I hate it when we have to get lucky.”

    COHN AND the other three had done some drinking over the night, a couple of bottles of blended whiskey, ginger ale, and ice cubes, an old-fashioned way to get hammered, and also to overfill the tank. Lane woke at seven o’clock, hungover, and had to pee so bad he was almost afraid to move. He first thought about McCall, and the dread of a close-by death hung on him. He coughed, and stirred and pushed himself up and staggered off