Secret Prey

  ‘‘The bank? God, when you called, I thought maybe . . .’’ She’d gotten up and come around the couch.

  ‘‘What?’’ He knew what.

  ‘‘You know.’’ She slipped the belt of the kimono; she was absolutely bare and pink beneath it. ‘‘I just got out of the shower.’’

  ‘‘I thought George was coming over.’’

  ‘‘Well, not for a couple of hours . . . and you gotta at least tell me what happened.’’

  ‘‘Take off the kimono.’’

  She took it off, tossed it on the couch. He was staring at her, like he always did, with an attention that both disturbed and excited her.

  ‘‘What?’’ She unconsciously touched one arm to her breastbone, covering her right breast as she did it. Bone reached out and pushed her arm down.

  ‘‘Put your hands behind you,’’ he said. ‘‘I want to look at you while I tell you this.’’

  She blushed, the blush reaching almost to her waist. She bit her lower lip, but put her hands behind her back.

  ‘‘We started out like we always do, walking back into the woods. You know how that trail goes back around the lake . . .’’

  As he told the story, he began to stroke her, his voice never faltering or showing emotion, but his hands always moving slowly. After a moment she slowly backed away, and he stepped after her, still talking. When her bottom touched the edge of a couch table, she braced herself against it, closed her eyes.

  ‘‘Are you listening?’’ he asked; his hands stopped momentarily.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ she said. ‘‘A few minutes before six and the shooting started.’’

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ he said. He pushed her back more solidly into the couch table and said, ‘‘Spread your legs a little.’’

  She spread her legs a little.

  ‘‘A little more.’’

  She spread them a little more.

  ‘‘Anyway,’’ he said, gently parting her with his fingertips. ‘‘Any one of us could have killed him. It was just a matter of climbing down from the tree, sneaking back up the path . . .’’

  ‘‘Did you do it?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘What do you think?’’

  ‘‘You could have,’’ she said. And then she said, ‘‘Oh, God.’’

  ‘‘Feel good?’’

  ‘‘Feels good.’’

  ‘‘Look at me . . .’’

  She opened her eyes, but they were hazy, a dreamer’s eyes, looking right through him. ‘‘Don’t stop now,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Look at me . . .’’

  She looked at him, struggled to focus on his dark, cool face. ‘‘Did you kill him?’’

  ‘‘Does the thought turn you on?’’

  ‘‘Oh, God . . .’’

  SUSAN O’DELL’S APARTMENT WAS A STUDY IN BLACK and white, glass and wood, and when she walked in, was utterly silent. She pulled off her jacket, let it fall to the floor, then her shirt and her turtlenecked underwear, and her bra. The striptease continued back through the apartment through her bedroom to the bathroom, where she went straight into the shower. She stood in the hot water for five minutes, letting it pour around her face. When she’d cleaned off the day, she stepped out, got a bath towel from a towel rack, dried herself, dropped the towel on the floor, and walked back to the bedroom. Underpants and gray sweatsuit.

  Dressed again, warm, she walked back to the study, stood on her tiptoes, and took a deck of cards off the top of the single bookshelf.

  Sitting at her desk, she spread the cards, studied them.

  She’d once had an affair, brief but intense, with an artist who’d taught her what he called Tarot for Scientists. A truly strange tarot method: business management through chaos theory, and he really knew about chaos. An odd thing for an artist to know, she’d thought at the time. She’d even become suspicious of him, and had done some checking. But he was a legitimate painter, all right. A gorgeous watercolor nude, which nobody but she knew was O’Dell herself, hung in her bedroom, a souvenir of their relationship.

  After she realized the value of the artist’s tarot method, he’d bought her a computer version so she could install it on her computer at work—the cards themselves were a little too strange, and a little too public, for a big bank. They’d done the installation on a cold, rainy night, and afterwards had made love on the floor behind her desk. The artist had been comically inept with the computer. He’d nearly brought down the bank network, and would have, if she hadn’t been there to save him. But she could now access electronic cards at any time, protected with her own private code word.

  Still. When she could, she preferred the cards themselves: the cool, collected flap of pasteboard against walnut. Hippielike, she thought. McDonald referred to her as a hippie, but she was hardly that. She simply had little time for makeup, for indulgent fashion, or for the flattering of men— all the things that Wilson McDonald expected from a woman. At the same time, she obviously enjoyed the company of men, and her relationship with the artist and a couple of other men-about-town had become known at the bank. And she was smart.

  As McDonald had thumbed through his box of mental labels, he’d been forced to discard housewife and helpmeet, lesbo and bimbo . When word inevitably got around about the tarot, McDonald had relaxed and stuck the hippie label on her. The label might not explain the hunting, or the manner in which she’d cut her way to the top at the bank . . . but it was good enough for him.

  Fuckin’ moron.

  O’Dell laid out the Celtic Cross; and got a jolt when the result card came up: the Tower of Destruction.

  She pursed her lips. Yes .

  She stood up, cast a backward glance at the spread of cards, the lightning bolt striking the tower, the man falling to his death: rather like Kresge, she thought, coming out of the tree stand. In fact, exactly so . . .

  She shivered, pulled a cased set of books out of the bookcase, removed a small plastic box, opened it. Inside were a dozen fatties. She took one out, with the lighter, went out to her balcony, closing the glass doors behind her. Cold. She lit the joint, let the grass wrap wreaths of ideas around her brain. Okay. Kresge was dead. She’d wanted him dead— gone, at any rate, dead if necessary, and lately, as the merger deal crept closer, dead looked like the only way out.

  So she’d gotten what she wanted.

  Now to capitalize.

  TERRANCE ROBLES HOVERED OVER HIS COMPUTER, sweating. He typed:

  ‘‘Switch to crypto.’’

  You’re so paranoid; and crypto’s boring

  . ‘‘Switching to crypto . . .’’

  Once in the cryptography program, he typed:

  ‘‘What have you done?’’

  Why?

  Oh shit. ‘‘Somebody shot Kresge today. I’m a suspect . . .’’

  My, my . . .

  Even with the crypto delay, the response was fast. Too fast, and too cynically casual, he thought. More words trailed across the screen.

  So, did you do it?

  Robles pounded it out: ‘‘Of course not.’’

  But you thought I did?

  He hesitated, then typed, ‘‘No.’’

  Don’t lie to me, T. You thought I did it

  . ‘‘No I didn’t but I wanted you to say it.’’

  I haven’t exactly said it, have I?

  ‘‘Come on . . .’’

  Come on what? The world’s a better place with that fucking fascist out of it .

  ‘‘You didn’t do it.’’

  A long pause, so long that he thought she might have left him, then: Yes I did .

  ‘‘No you didn’t . . .’’

  No reply. Nothing but the earlier words, half scrolled up the screen.

  ‘‘Come on . . .’’ A label popped up:

  The room is empty .

  ‘‘Bitch,’’ he groaned. He bit his thumbnail, chewing at it. What was he going to do? Looking up at the screen, he saw the words.

  Yes I did

  .

&n
bsp; 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 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.’’

  H
e went back into the bathroom, and she heard the lock click.

  ‘‘Wilson . . .’’

  ‘‘Go away.’’ And she heard the splash as he hit the water in the tub.

  • • •

  DOWNSTAIRS, SHE GOT AN ICE COMPRESS FROM THE freezer and put it against her head: she’d have a bruise. Goddamn him. They had to talk about Kresge: this was their big move, their main chance. This was what they’d worked for. And he was drunk.

  The thought of the bottle sent her to the cupboard under the sink, to a built-in lazy Susan. She turned it halfway around, got the vodka bottle, poured four inches of vodka over two ice cubes, and drank it down.

  Poured another two ounces to sip.

  Audrey McDonald wasn’t a big woman, and alcohol hit quickly. The two martinis she’d had at lunch, plus the pitcher of Bloody Marys at the club, had laid a base for the vodka. Her rage at Wilson began to shift. Not to disappear, but to shift in the maze of calculations that were spinning through her head.

  Bone and O’Dell would try to steal this from them.

  She sipped vodka, pressed the ice compress against her head, thought about Bone and O’Dell. Bone was Harvard and Chicago; O’Dell was Smith and Wharton. O’Dell had a degree in history and finance; Bone had two degrees in economics.

  Wilson had a B.A. from the University of Minnesota in business administration and a law degree from the same place. Okay, but not in the same class with O’Dell or Bone. On the other hand, his grandfather had been one of the founders of Polaris. And Wilson knew everyone in town and was a member of the Woodland Golf and Cricket Club. The vice chairman of Polaris, a jumped-up German sausage-maker who never in a million years could have gotten into the club on his own, was now at Woodland, courtesy of Wilson McDonald. So Wilson wasn’t weaponless . . .

  SHE HEARD HIM THUMPINGDOWNTHE STAIRS AMINUTE later. He stalked into the kitchen, still nude, jiggling, dripping wet. ‘‘What ya drinking?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Soda water,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Soda water my ass,’’ he snarled. Then his eyes, which had been wandering, focused on the cold compress she held to her head. ‘‘What the fuck were you taking my scotch for?’’