Certain prey

Lucas was laying a very mild hustle on Malone, while Mallard tried to steer the conversation back to police work. Malone didn't want to know about police work, but when Lucas suggested that they dance, she said, 'I don't dance like that.'

'Is that a philosophical position?'

'I just don't dance to rock or country. I never learned. I can foxtrot; I can waltz. I can't do that kind of boppity… you know.'

'Too self-conscious,' Lucas said. He was about to go on when a woman stopped at the table and said, 'You all doing all right here?'

'All right,' Lucas said, looking up at her. She wasn't a waitress. 'Who're you?'

'I'm the owner, Clara. Making sure that everybody's being treated right.'

'Good bar,' Lucas said. 'You oughta open another one like it, up in

Minneapolis.'

'You're from Minneapolis?'

'I am,' Lucas said. 'These folks are from back east.'

'Glad to have you in Wichita/ Rinker said. She started to step away, but Malone, who'd perhaps had one more beer than she was accustomed to, said, 'Your band doesn't play waltzes, does it?'

Rinker grinned and said, 'Why, no, I don't believe they do, honey. You wanna waltz?'

'This guy's got the urge to dance,' Malone said, pointing at Lucas with her long-neck, 'And I can't dance to rock. Never learned.'

'Well, you oughta,' Rinker said. She looked quickly around the bar and then said to Lucas, 'I'm not doing anything at the minute, and I like dancing. You want to?'

They were dancing for five seconds and Lucas realized he was out of his depth.

'You're a dancer, a professional,' he said, and Rinker laughed and said, 'I used to be, kinda.'

'Well, slow down, you're making me look bad. And I'm a lot older than you are.'

'Ah, you dance fine,' Rinker said, 'For a Minneapolis white guy.'

Lucas laughed and turned her around; she was good-looking, he thought, one of those tough-cookie smart blondes who'd been around a bit, liked a good time, and could run a spreadsheet like an accountant. Maybe was an accountant.

'Are you an accountant?' he asked.

'An accountant?'They were shouting at each other over the music. 'Why would you think that?' 'I don't. Just making up a story in my head.' 'A story? You're not a reporter, are you?' 'Nah, I'm a cop. Just going through. I stopped to talk to some friends.'

'You don't look like a cop. You look like a… movie guy, or something.'

'Flattery will get you everywhere,' Lucas shouted back.

She laughed, and they danced.

But late that night, an hour after the bar closed, Rinker climbed in her car and headed for Kansas City. She would not break the routine: she would not make a business call from Wichita. She arrived in KC in the early morning hours, pulled into a convenience store and started dropping coins in a pay phone. When she had enough, she dialed Carmel; and Carmel, sleep in her voice, answered on the second ring. The cell phone, Rinker thought, must have been on the bed stand.

'We've got another problem,' Rinker said.

'What's that?'

'I just gaily danced the night away with your friend and mine.. .' She let it hang.

'Who?'

'Lucas Davenport. Right here in River City.'

'Goddamnit,' Carmel said. She ripped off a piece of thumbnail, snapped at it; she could hear her own teeth grinding in the telephone earpiece. 'He's working on some kind of information. I don't know enough about you or your friends to know where it might be coming from…'

'It's more complicated than that,' Rinker said. 'He had no idea who I was. He must be there for something – I mean, what are the chances of a coincidence?

Zero? Less than zero, I'd say…'

'So would I.'

'He had no idea who I was,' Rinker repeated. 'I was hoping you might get something from your sources in the police department.'

'Not much chance,' Carmel said. 'My guy thinks of himself as a kind of harmless leaker of information that's gonna get out anyway. He really wouldn't tell me anything that he thought might get somebody hurt…'

'So maybe we need to put some pressure on him.'

'Listen to this: he did tell me that they keep coming back to me. Even my source is getting a little strange with me. He thinks Davenport's got something, and I think it has to do with that kid.'

'Damnit. Even if the kid told him something… oh, shit.'

'What?'

'Just had a thought. If the kid for some reason got the tag number on that rental car… I told you that I use fake credit cards and IDs to rent them. I told you about that?'

'Yeah. You keep the cards good by using them…'

'I've paid them from Wichita. I've been careful, but I've gotten bank drafts here to pay those bills.'

'You think?'

'I don't see how the kid could have gotten the number. It was dark, and she was back inside when we left, and we were way down the block.'

'Maybe it wasn't the kid. Maybe… wasn't there a guy on a bike?'

'From upstairs? Why would he take our tag number?' Rinker asked.

'I don't know. But that would explain a few things. Can you come up here?'

'Yeah. I'm in KC now. I'll be up there tomorrow.'

'Bring your… tools,' Carmel said. 'We may have to talk to somebody. And I gotta think about this. Maybe by the time you get here, I'll have some ideas.'

Chapter Seventeen

Lucas stayed in Wichita for two days, tracking 'Lopez and listening to the FBI taps. The longer he listened, the more convinced he became that Lopez was a small-time dealer, supplementing the flower shop take with a little side money.

The side money, Lucas decided, was going straight into his arm.

A woman named Nancy Holme, carried on Lopez' state tax forms as an employee, did virtually all the work, showing up early to take deliveries of fresh-cut flowers, staying late over a hot computer. Lopez would arrive sleepy, nod off at midday, and leave sleepy. The Feebs couldn't decide whether Holme was in on the game or not. She never took delivery of drugs. Lucas suggested that they look at her as the killer. They did, and rapidly concluded that she wasn't.

The night before he left for Minneapolis, Lucas, Malone and Mallard went back to the Rink. The woman he'd danced with, the owner, wasn't working, he was told.

'She's got to travel on business a couple of times a year, and this is one of those times. Too bad, she liked you,' a waitress told them, her over-active eyebrows semaphoring a tale of two ships passing in the night.

'A tragedy,' Malone said, when the waitress left with their orders. 'Davenport leaves another broken heart in a dusty western town.'

Rinker was in the Twin Cities. Carmel met her at the hotel, and at Rinker's direction, had ridden up three extra floors on the elevator, and had taken the stairs down to Rinker's floor. Rinker, when she let Carmel in, was wearing a black wig.

'How do I look? Mexican?' Rinker asked as she closed the door.

'You're too pale,' Carmel said. 'You could maybe make Italian.'

'I'll go back to the redhead, then,' Rinker said.

Carmel had been thinking about Davenport: 'Somehow, they're tracking you. And for some reason, they're pushing on me. I thought about your car, and the possibility that they're tracking it, but that doesn't seem likely. That would mean that they had to have two pieces of luck: to get onto Tennex, and to get the tag number. I don't believe it. What I'm wondering is, could they have found a connection with your St. Louis friends? Could they be squeezing somebody?'

'Only one guy in St. Louis knows exactly who I am and what I do, and there are maybe two more who suspect – a couple brothers who run a bar down there. And the brothers wouldn't know who you are. The one guy would… he knows your name.

He's the guy Rolo called.'