Night Prey by John Sandford Page B

When I said we only had one fact about him, the cop thing, I was wrong. You came up with a bunch of them: he was strong, he smokes—”
    “Unfiltered Camels,” Lucas said.
    “Yeah? Well, it’s interesting. And now these ideas . . . I haven’t had anybody bouncing ideas off me. Are you gonna let me work with you?”
    He nodded. “If you want.”
    “Will we get along?”
    “Maybe. Maybe not,” he said. “What does that have to do with anything?”
    She regarded him without humor. “Exactly my attitude,” she said. “So. What are we doing?”
    “We’re checking bookstores.”
    Connell looked down at herself. “I’ve got to change clothes. I’ve got them in my car. . . .”
     
     
     
    WHILE CONNELL WENT to change, Lucas called Anderson for a reading on homicide’s preliminary work on the Wannemaker killing. “We just got started,” Anderson said. “Skoorag called in a few minutes ago. He said a friend of Wannemaker’s definitely thinks she was going to a bookstore. But if you look at the file when she was reported missing, somebody else said she might have been going to the galleries over on First Avenue.”
    “We’re hitting the bookstores. Maybe your guys could take the galleries.”
    “If we’ve got time. Lester’s got people running around like rats,” Anderson said. “Oh—that Junky Doog guy. I got lots of hits, but the last one was three years ago. He was living in a flop on Franklin Avenue. Chances of him being there are slim and none, and slim is outa town.”
    “Give me the address,” Lucas said.
     
     
     
    WHEN HE FINISHED with Anderson, Lucas carried his phone book down the hall, Xeroxed the Books section of the Yellow Pages, and went back to his office for his jacket. He had bought the jacket in New York; the thought was mildly embarrassing. He was pulling on the jacket when there was a knock at the door. “Yeah?”
    A fleshy, pink-cheeked thirties-something man in a loose green suit and moussed blond hair poked his head inside, smiled like an encyclopedia salesman, and said, “Hey. Davenport. I’m Bob Greave. I’m supposed to report to you.”
    “I remember you,” Lucas said as they shook hands.
    “From my Officer Friendly stuff?” Greave was cheerful, unconsciously rumpled. But his green eyes matched his Italian-cut suit a little too perfectly, and he wore a fashionable two days’ stubble on his chin.
    “Yeah, there was a poster down at my kid’s preschool,” Lucas said.
    Greave grinned. “Yup, that’s me.”
    “Nice jump, up to homicide,” Lucas said.
    “Yeah, bullshit.” Greave’s smile fell away, and he dropped into the chair Connell had vacated, looked up. “I suppose you’ve heard about me.”
    “I haven’t, uh . . .”
    “Greave-the-fuckup?
    “Don’t bullshit me, Davenport.” Greave studied him for a minute, then said, “That’s what they call me. Greave-the-fuckup, one word. The only goddamned reason I’m in homicide is that my wife is the mayor’s niece. She got tired of me being Officer Friendly. Not enough drama. Didn’t give her enough to gossip about.”
    “Well . . .”
    “So now I’m doing something I can’t fuckin’ do and I’m stuck between my old lady and the other guys on the job.”
    “What do you want from me?”
    “Advice.”
    Lucas spread his hands and shrugged. “If you liked being Officer Friendly . . .”
    Greave waved him off. “Not that kind of advice. I can’t go back to Officer Friendly, my old lady’d nag my ears off. She doesn’t like me being a cop in the first place. Homicide just makes it a little okay. And she makes me wear these fuckin’ Italian fruit suits and only lets me shave on Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
    “Sounds like you gotta make a decision about her,” Lucas said.
    “I love her,” Greave said.
    Lucas grinned. “Then you’ve got a problem.”
    “Yeah.” Greave rubbed the stubble on his chin.
    “Anyway, the guys in homicide don’t do nothing but fuck with me. They figure I’m