Easy Prey by John Sandford Page A

and unique to the bog; traces of blood in the trunk of the car, confirmed as the same blood type as Bentoin’s; a history of death threats by Al-Balah against Bentoin; a lack of any alibi. . . .
    Al-Balah had been in prison for a little more than a month, looking at a life sentence for first-degree murder.
    â€œWhat about the blood in the car?” Lucas asked.
    â€œTrick didn’t know about any blood,” Del said. “He said he had a deal going in Panama, this rich guy who thought he could play gin rummy, so he took off. He never heard anything about the trial. Wasn’t that big a deal in Panama.”
    Lucas scratched his head. “Well, shit. I’ll call the county attorney. He ain’t gonna be happy. He got a lot of good ink out of that trial.”
    â€œYou know what’s worse? That asshole Al-Balah is gonna be back on the street.”
    â€œWhat’d Trick think about that?”
    â€œHe said, ‘Leave him in there. You know he’s killed somebody.’”
    â€œGot that right,” Lucas said.
    DOWN THE STREET, TV lights came up, and Lucas peeked: Silly Hanson was being interviewed, posed in her black dress against her expansive lawn. After a second, the lights went down again, and a couple of different cameramen began scrambling around with portable lights. They’d have a roadside studio set up in a moment.
    â€œGoddamnit,” Lucas said.
    â€œGonna be a circus,” Del said.
    â€œI know it. . . . Hanson told me she didn’t know about any drugs.”
    â€œWhat’d you expect?” Del said. “But the only guy who wasn’t putting something up his nose or into his arm was too drunk to do it.”
    â€œYou know any of the people at the party?”
    â€œOnly by sight. None of them knew me, of course.” Swanson stuck his head out on the porch, looking for Lucas. “Rose Marie called,” he said. “You got a meeting at six-thirty, her office.”
    â€œOkay.” Lucas turned back to Del.
    â€œYou gotta talk to Internal Affairs right away,” he said.
    â€œWhen you get clear, talk to the dope guys and nail down every dealer who might have been selling to Maison or her friends. Find out where she got the shit she put in her arm last night. Did she buy it here, or did she bring it with her?”
    Del nodded. “Okay.”
    â€œThe real problem for us is, if the media finds out you were at the party, they’re gonna want to break you out,” he said. “You get your face on the nightly news, you’ll have to find a new job. Giving out tickets for illegal lane changes.”
    â€œNo, no, no. I ain’t going on TV,” Del said. “I gotta stay out of this.”
    â€œI’ll do what I can, but if the word leaks, we might need a major plane crash. And you know how the goddamn department leaks.”
    â€œPlane crash wouldn’t do it,” Del said gloomily, looking at the lights down the street. “Not with Alie’e Maison dead. Beautiful, rich, famous, and strangled. It’s a CNN wet dream. They’re gonna run down everybody who had anything to do with her. Once my cat gets outa the bag . . . shit. We got to find this guy.” He nodded toward the house, meaning the killer. “We got to find him quick.”

4
    ROSE MARIE ROUX had lost thirty pounds on a new all-protein diet and now was thinking about a face-lift. “Just a couple of snips, to pull me up around the sides,” she told Lucas. Rose Marie was the chief of police. She put her fingertips on her face just below her cheekbones and pushed the skin back until it began pulling on her lips. The mayor stepped into her office, looked at her and said, “What?”
    She let go of the skin, and her face slid back to its usual shape. “Face-lift,” Lucas said. He yawned; he liked late nights, but not early mornings.
    â€œI been thinking about getting some hair,” the mayor said. He was