Wicked Prey

work those first.”
    “Gonna need some more guys,” Shrake said.
    “That could be tough,” Lucas said. “Everybody’s on the streets. We need investigators. Not uniforms. I’ll talk to Harrington, see if they can spring me a couple of guys.”
    “Harrington’s up to his ass in alligators,” the FBI agent said. Harrington was the St. Paul chief of police.
    “We can handle it,” Lucas said.
    “You might not have to,” Rivers said. He handed Lucas the phone. “Tell Mark to play the call for you.”
    Lucas listened to the replay, said, “Thanks,” to the tech, handed the phone back to Rivers and said to Shrake and Jenkins: “She’s on her way to the motel. She says she’ll be there in an hour. We gotta run.”
    * * *
    NEITHER CRUZ nor Cohn had been in a hospital for years, and they talked about possible hospital security, about bullshitting their way in, about what to do if they were kicked out . . . but when they got to Regions, they found a reception desk, asked a volunteer lady, got a room number and directions.
    “What if he starts screaming?” Cruz asked, as they went up in the elevator. She basically liked Cohn’s idea; it appealed to her sense of humor.
    “I’ll strangle the little motherfucker,” he said.
    “Brute . . .”
    “I’m going in money-first,” Cohn said. He held up a pack of hundred-dollar bills. “Pimps are always willing to talk about money.”
    They found Whitcomb’s room, a double, with Whitcomb on the window side. The near bed was empty, and the hooker they’d seen the night before was sitting at the end of Whitcomb’s bed, reading a Betty & Veronica comic book. She looked up, saw them, then recognized Cohn and stood up, her hand to her mouth, and said, “Ohhh.”
    “Shut up,” Cohn snapped, and her mouth snapped shut.
    He looked around the divider curtain as Whitcomb turned toward them. Whitcomb frowned, and Cohn held up the money and said, “Two thousand bucks.”
    “You fuck,” Whitcomb said, finally recognizing him. Whitcomb looked clean and very white, in a hospital gown, tucked in with white blankets.
    “Call me a fuck again and I’ll throw you out the fuckin’ window,” Cohn said, and they both looked toward the window. Then Cohn held up the money again. “Two thousand bucks, hundreds, in cash.”
    Whitcomb said, “For trying to kill me?”
    “No, asshole. I could have walked away from that,” Cohn said. “But I felt bad, you being handicapped and all. I also need to borrow your woman for an hour.”
    They both looked at Briar. Then Whitcomb asked, “What has she got to do?”
    “Entertain a pal of mine. He likes young pussy. A guy up here from Oklahoma. I don’t know any entertainers locally. I saw you last night, looked you up in the paper, and here I am. Two thousand for my friend, and to keep your mouth shut if the cops catch up with me.”
    Briar said to Whitcomb, “Randy, I need to stay by you.”
    Whitcomb said to Cohn, looking at the money in Cohn’s hand, “Just a quick one-time job?”
    “Just a little . . . friendship,” Cohn said, letting himself smile. “He’ll think it’s funny.” He turned to Briar. “You’ll like him. He’s a nice guy. Clean.”
    Briar said, “Randy . . .”
    Whitcomb said, “Shut up.” To Cohn: “Where is this guy?”
    “He’s in a motel in Bloomington . . . but the thing is he likes the schoolgirl look. You know, a ponytail.” He turned to Briar. “Could you pull your hair back in a brown ponytail?”
    Whitcomb took the money, then flipped the hospital blanket back and pushed himself up. To Briar, he said, “We’re getting out of here. Unfold my chair and tell the nurse we’re going.”
    “Randy, you can’t—you’re hurt.”
    “My foot’s hurt. The rest of me is okay. Now shut the fuck up and get that fuckin’ nurse in here.”
    * * *
    WHITCOMB’S VAN rolled out of the parking garage and Cruz fell in behind them. “We’re late,” she said. “The checkout took too long.”
    Cohn said, “Worth the wait. She doesn’t look that much like you, but with the ponytail, she’s about the right height, the right coloring, the sunglasses . . .”
    “She’s about thirty pounds heavier than I am,” Cruz said.
    “That’s disguised by her dress, at least some.”
    “I don’t know.”
    Cruz grinned at her: “I don’t know, either, but, either some cops get a surprise, or Shafer does.”
    * * *
    THEY GATHERED in an empty motel room, seven of them, including four BCA SWAT guys