Invisible Prey Read Free Page B

believe that,” Sloan said. “Sounds like there’s a lot of sex in the family. She can’t get away with playing the Virgin Mary. If they think she’s lying about that, they’ll think she’s lying about the whole thing.”
    “Yup.”
    Sloan thought it over for a while, then asked, “What’s the point of this investigation?”
    “Ah, jeez,” Lucas said. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “That’s another problem. I don’t know what the point is. Maybe the whole point is to push Burt Kline out of his job. The original tip was anonymous. It came into child protection in St. Paul. St. Paul passed it on to us because there were out-state aspects—the biggest so-called overt act might’ve been that Kline took the girl up to Mille Lacs for a naked weekend. Anyway, the tip was anonymous. Maybe Kline said something to a Democrat. Or maybe…Virgil suspects the tip might’ve come from Mom. As part of a blackmail hustle.”
    “Flowers is smart,” Sloan admitted.
    “Yeah.”
    “And Mom’s cooperating now?”
    “She runs hot and cold,” Lucas said. “What she doesn’t believe is, that she can’t cut off the investigation. She thought we’d be working for her. Or at least, that’s what she thought until Virgil set her straight.”
    “Hmph. Well, if the point is to push Burt out of his job…I mean, that’s not good,” Sloan said. He shook a finger at Lucas. “Not good for you. You don’t want to get a rep as a political hit man. If the point is to stop a pederast…”
    “If he is one.”
    Silence.
    “Better get that straight,” Sloan said. “Here’s what I think: I think you ask whether it was rape. Do you believe he did it? If you do, screw him—indict him. Forget all the politics, let the chips fall.”
    “Yeah,” Lucas said. He fiddled with his Coke glass. “Easy to say.”
     
    M ORE SILENCE, looking out the window at a freshly striped parking lot. A battered Chevy, a repainted Highway Patrol pursuit car, with rust holes in the back fender, pulled in. They were both looking at it when Del Capslock climbed out.
    “Del,” Lucas said. “Is he hangin’ out here?”
    “No,” Sloan said. “He’s been in maybe twice since opening night. Where’d he get that nasty car?”
    “He’s got an undercover gig going,” Lucas said.
    Capslock scuffed across the parking lot, and a moment later, pushed inside. Lucas saw the bartender do a check and a recheck, and put down the paper.
    Del was a gaunt, pasty-faced man with a perpetual four-day beard and eyes that looked too white. He was wearing a jeans jacket out at the elbows, a black T-shirt, and dusty boot-cut jeans. The T-shirt said, in large letters, I found Jesus! and beneath that, in smaller letters, He was behind the couch.
    Lucas called, “Del.” Del looked around in the gloom, saw them in the booth, and walked over.
    Sloan said, “My tone just got lowered.”
    “Jenkins said you might be here,” Del said to Lucas. “I was in the neighborhood…” He waved at the bartender. “’Nother Coke. On the house.” To Sloan, he said, “Whyn’t you turn on some goddamn lights?” And to Lucas, “People have been trying to call you. Your cell phone is turned off.”
    “I feel like such a fool,” Lucas said, groping for the phone. He turned it on and waited for it to come up.
    “That’s what they thought you’d feel like,” Del said. “Anyway, the governor’s calling.”
    Lucas’s eyebrows went up. “What happened?” His phone came up and showed a list of missed calls. Six of them.
    “You know Constance Bucher?” Del asked. “Lived up on Summit?”
    “Sure…” Lucas said. The hair prickled on the back of his neck as he picked up the past tense in lived. “Know of her, never met her.”
    “Somebody beat her to death,” Del said. He frowned, picked at a nit on his jeans jacket, flicked it on the floor. “Her and her maid, both.”
    “Oh, boy.” Lucas slid out of the booth. “When?”
    “Two or three days, is what