Secret Prey by John Sandford Page A

was he going to do? Looking up at the screen, he saw the words.
    Yes I did
    .
    MARCIA KRESGE OPENED HER APARTMENT DOOR AND found two uniformed cops standing in the hallway.
    ‘‘Yes?’’
    ‘‘Mrs. Kresge?’’ The cops looked her over. Late thirties, early forties, they thought. Very nice looking in a rich-bitch way. She was wearing a black fluffy dress that showed some skin, and was holding a lipstick in a gold tube. She had a lazy look about her, as though she’d just gotten out of bed, not alone.
    ‘‘Yes?’’
    They kept it straightforward: her husband had been killed in a hunting accident.
    ‘‘Yeah, I heard,’’ she said, leaning against the doorpost. Her eyes hadn’t even flickered; and to the older cop they looked so blue he thought he might fall in. ‘‘Should I do something?’’
    The cops looked at each other. ‘‘Well, he’s at the county medical examiner’s office. We thought you’d want to make, er, the funeral arrangements.’’
    She sighed. ‘‘Yeah, I suppose that would be the thing to do. Okay. I’ll call them. The medical examiner.’’
    The older of the two cops, his experience prodding him, tried to keep the conversation going. ‘‘You don’t seem too upset.’’
    She thought about that for a moment. ‘‘No, I’d have to say that I’m not. Upset. But I’m surprised.’’ She put one hand on her breast, in a parody of a woman taken aback. ‘‘I thought the asshole was too mean to get killed. Anyway, I just don’t . . . mmm, what that’s colorful redneck phrase you policemen always use in the movies? I don’t give a large shit.’’
    The cops looked at each other again, and then the younger one said, ‘‘Maybe we got this wrong. We understood . . .’’
    ‘‘Yeah, I’m his wife. In two weeks we would’ve been divorced. We haven’t lived together for two years, and I haven’t seen him for a year. I don’t like him. Didn’t like him.’’
    ‘‘Uh, could you tell us where you were . . . ?’’
    She smiled at him sleepily. ‘‘When?’’
    ‘‘Early this morning?’’
    ‘‘In bed. I was out late last night, with friends.’’
    ‘‘Could anybody vouch for you being here last night?’’ The older cop was pressing; once you had somebody rolling, you never knew what might come out.
    But she nodded: ‘‘Sure. A friend brought me home.’’
    ‘‘I’m talking about later, like early this morning.’’
    ‘‘So am I,’’ she said. ‘‘He stayed.’’
    ‘‘Oh, okay.’’ Neither one of them was a bit embarrassed, and she was now looking at him with a little interest. ‘‘Could we get his name?’’
    ‘‘I don’t see why not. Come on in,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll write it down.’’
    They followed her into the apartment, noted the polished wood floors, the Oriental carpets, the tastefully colorful paintings on eggshell-white walls.
    ‘‘You haven’t asked me how much I’d get from him, if he died before the divorce,’’ she said over her shoulder.
    The older cop smiled, his best Gary Cooper grin. He liked her: ‘‘How much?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know,’’ she lied. ‘‘My attorney and I took him to the cleaners.’’
    ‘‘Good for you,’’ he said. She was scribbling on a notepad, and when she finished, she brought it over and handed it to him. ‘‘George Wright. Here’s his address and phone number. I’m going to call him and tell him about this.’’
    ‘‘That’s up to you,’’ the older cop said.
    ‘‘That’s my number at the bottom, in case you need to interrogate me. It’s unlisted,’’ she said. She looked at him with her blue eyes and nibbled on her lower lip.
    ‘‘Well, thanks,’’ he said. He tucked the slip of paper in his shirt pocket.
    ‘‘Do I sound like a heartless bitch?’’ she asked him cheerfully. And as she asked, she took his arm and they walked slowly toward the door together.
    ‘‘Maybe a little,’’ he said. He really did like her and he could feel the back