Secret Prey by John Sandford Page B

of his bicep pressing into her breast. Her breast was very warm. He even imagined he could feel a nipple.
    ‘‘I really didn’t like him,’’ she said. ‘‘You can put that in your report.’’
    ‘‘I will,’’ he said.
    ‘‘Good,’’ she said, as she ushered him out the door. ‘‘Then maybe I’ll get to see you again . . . You could show me your gun.’’
    The cops found themselves in the hallway, the door closing behind them. At the elevator door, the younger one said, ‘‘Well?’’
    ‘‘Well, what?’’
    ‘‘You gonna call her?’’
    The older one thought a minute, then said, ‘‘I don’t think I could afford it.’’
    ‘‘Shit, you don’t have to buy anything,’’ the young one said. ‘‘She’s rich.’’
    ‘‘I dunno,’’ the older one said.
    ‘‘Take my advice: If you call her, you don’t want to jump her right away. Get to know her a little.’’
    ‘‘That’s very sensitive of you,’’ the older one said.
    ‘‘No, no, I just think . . . She wants to see your gun?’’
    ‘‘Yeah?’’
    ‘‘So you wanna put off the time when she finds out you’re packing a .22.’’
    ‘‘Jealousy’s an ugly thing,’’ the older cop said complacently. As they walked out on the street to the car, he looked up at the apartment building and said, ‘‘Maybe.’’
    And even if not, he thought, the woman had made his day.
    AUDREY MCDONALD, COMING IN FROM THE GARAGE, found her husband’s orange coveralls on the kitchen floor, and just beyond them, his wool shooting jacket and then boots and trousers in a pile and halfway up the stairs, the long blue polypro underwear.
    ‘‘Oh, shit,’’ she said to herself. She dropped her purse on a hallway chair and hurried up the stairs, found a pair of jockey shorts in the hallway and heard him splashing in the oversized tub.
    When Wilson McDonald got tense, excited, or frightened, he drank; and when he drank, he got hot and started to sweat. He’d pull his clothing off and head for water. He’d been drunk, naked, in the lake down the hill. He’d been drunk, naked, in the pool in the backyard, frightening the neighbor’s daughter half to death. He’d been in the tub more times than she could remember, drunk, wallowing like a great white whale. He wasn’t screaming yet, but he would be. The killing of Dan Kresge, all the talk at the club, had pushed him over the edge.
    At the bathroom door, she stopped, braced herself, and then pushed it open. Wilson was on his hands and knees. As she opened the door, he dropped onto his stomach, and a wave of water washed over the edge, onto the floor, and around a nearly empty bottle of scotch.
    ‘‘Wilson!’’ she shouted. ‘‘Goddamnit, Wilson.’’
    He floundered, rolled, sat up. He was too fat, with fine curly hair on his chest and stomach, going gray. His tits, she thought, were bigger than hers. ‘‘Shut up,’’ he bellowed back.
    She took three quick steps into the room and picked up the bottle and started away.
    ‘‘Wait a minute, goddamnit . . .’’ He was on his feet and out of the tub faster than she’d anticipated, and he caught her in the hallway. ‘‘Give me the fucking bottle.’’
    ‘‘You’re dripping all over the carpet.’’
    ‘‘Give me the fucking bottle . . .’’ he shouted.
    ‘‘No. You’ll—’’
    He was swinging the moment the ‘‘no’’ came out of her mouth, and caught her on the side of the head with an open hand. She went down like a popped balloon, her head cracking against the molding on a closet door.
    ‘‘Fuckin’ bottle,’’ he said. She’d hung on to it when she went down, but he wrenched it free, and held it to his chest.
    She was stunned, but pushed herself up. ‘‘You fuck,’’ she shouted.
    ‘‘You don’t . . .’’ He kicked at her, sent her sprawling. ‘‘Throw you down the fuckin’ stairs,’’ he screamed. ‘‘Get out of here.’’
    He went back into the bathroom, and she heard the lock