Wicked Prey

Five, maybe? We’ll see. Look for reaction on TV, watch the targets, see if they get bodyguards, whatever.”
    “Who watches them?” Lane asked.
    “I do, basically. I’ve got a file on each of them,” Cruz said. “They’re schmoozers, they want to make sure they get the credit for the cash they’re handing out, they’ll be hooking up with people all the time.”
    “You’re going into the convention?” McCall asked.
    “No. Neither will these guys. The security is super-tight and they don’t want to get caught with a hundred thousand in small bills,” Cruz said. “So they do the business at the hotels. Two of the guys are thirty seconds apart in the same hotel; we can do them both at the same time—and they’re two of the biggest money guys. The third guy and the fourth guy we’ll have to check. If we see any reaction from the cops, we quit and go on to the second part.”
    “Which is?” Lane asked.
    “A hotel job. The night McCain gets nominated there’s a big ball at the St. Andrews Hotel downtown. We hit the strong room afterwards. Three in the morning. I’m thinking twenty million in jewelry, maybe a million or two in cash.”
    “You got a guy inside?” McCall asked.
    “Had one. A guy in Washington. Worked for the committee that sets up room assignments.”
    “What about at the hotel?”
    “I couldn’t find anybody there that I could risk recruiting,” Cruz said. “The Secret Service is all over the place. I stayed there a couple of times, a week at a time, did a lot of scouting . . . put my stuff in a safe-deposit box, I’ve been in and out of the strong room a half-dozen times. I know the hotel, top to bottom.”
    “Lot of people coming and going in a hotel,” Lane said.
    “That can be handled,” Cruz said. “There’s no more risk than an armored car or a bank. And I’m working a little thing that’ll keep the cops occupied while we’re inside.”
    Nobody said anything for a moment, and she added, “Guys, this is it: this is one where we all get out. If we get two million from the political guys and a million from the hotel and twenty million in diamonds, that’d be another seven or eight in cash—and we’ll get at least that, I swear to God—we can quit. Shake hands and walk.”
    They’d worked with her on a dozen jobs and she’d never been wrong. And they’d talked about quitting. Lane had a family, McCall had a longtime lover, Cohn was getting old, Cruz was getting nervous. Past time to quit. Lane and McCall glanced at each other again, McCall tipped his head and said, “All right; we can get the details later. Right now, we need those white-trash bags.”
    * * *
    RANDY WHITCOMB, strapped into the back of the van, with Juliet Briar at the wheel, Ranch sitting in a fog layer in the passenger seat, rolled past Lucas Davenport’s house every few minutes, until they saw the girl getting out of a private car. She waved at the driver and headed up the driveway to Davenport’s house. She was a rangy blond teenager, dressed conservatively in dark slacks, a white blouse, and sandals.
    “Maybe a babysitter,” Ranch said.
    “She’s got a key,” Briar pointed out. “They don’t give keys to babysitters.”
    “Then it’s gotta be his daughter,” Whitcomb said. “Too young for him to be fuckin’. Daughter’d be good.”
    “Never done anything to us,” Juliet said, doubtfully.
    “ Davenport did this to me,” Whitcomb said, whacking his inert legs. “Set it up. Started it all.”
    “The girl didn’t . . .”
    “Davenport set me up,” Whitcomb said. He watched the girl disappear into the house. “I’m gonna get him back. No fun just shootin’ him. I want to do him good, and I want him to know what I done, and who done it. Motherfucker.”
    “Motherfucker,” Ranch said, and the word made him giggle, and then he couldn’t stop giggling, even when Whitcomb started screaming, “Shut up, shut up, you fuckin’ scrote.” He didn’t mention it, but he was also frightened of Davenport, who he thought was crazy.
    They went back to the house, Ranch trying to suppress the urge to laugh, but cloudbursts of giggles broke through anyway.
    Because Ranch was crazy.

2
    LUCAS DAVENPORT ROLLED IN HIS PORSCHE through the August countryside, green and tan, corn and beans, the blue oat fields falling in front of the John Deeres, weeping willows hanging over the banks of black-water ponds, yellow coneflowers climbing the sides of the road-cuts, Wisconsin farms with