Part 25 (1/2)

She'd said something to him; a pulse of elation streaked through his soul. She must've. She was getting ready to throw him out, by G.o.d. Why else would he have stopped; Christ, he had her on the couch. He had her in hand, for Christ's sake. Then the guy picked up a gla.s.s and looked at her, said something, and she threw back her head and laughed.

No. That didn't look good.

Then she was on her feet, walking toward him. Slipped two fingers between the b.u.t.tons of his s.h.i.+rt, said something-Koop would have mortgaged his life for the ability to lip-read-then stood on tiptoe and kissed him again, quickly this time, and walked away, picked up a newspaper, and waved it at him, said something else.

They talked for another five minutes, both standing now, circling each other. Sara Jensen kept touching him. Her touch was like fire to Koop. When she touched the guy, Koop could feel it on his arm, in his chest.

Then the guy moved toward the door. He was leaving. Both still smiling.

At the door she stepped into him, her face up, and Koop rolled over again, refusing to watch, counting: one, two, three, four, five. Only got to fifteen, counting fast, before he turned back.

She was still in his arms, and he'd pressed her to the door. Jesus.

Gotta take him. Gotta take him now.

The impulse was like a hammer. He'd gut the c.o.c.ksucker right in the driveway. He was messing with Koop's woman. . . .

But Koop lingered, unwilling to leave until the guy was out the door. They finally broke apart, and Koop, in a half-crouch, waited for him to go. Jensen was holding his hand. Didn't want him to go. Tugged at him.

”c.o.c.ksucker . . .” he thought, and realized he'd spoken aloud. Said it again: ”c.o.c.ksucker, cut your f.u.c.kin' heart out, man, cut your f.u.c.kin' . . .”

AND THE ROOF access door opened. A shaft of light, shocking, blinding, snapped across the roof and climbed the air-conditioner housing. Koop went flat, tense, ready to fight, ready to run.

Voices crossed each other, ten feet away. There was a sharp rattle and a bang as the door was pushed open, then closed of its own weight.

Cops.

”Gotta be quick.” Not cops. A woman's voice.

Man's voice. ”It's gonna be quick, I can promise that, you got me so hot I can't hold it.”

Woman's voice: ”What if Kari looks for the pad?”

”She won't, she's got no interest in camping . . . c'mon, let's go behind the air-conditioner thing. C'mon.”

The woman giggled and Koop heard them rattling across the graveled roof, and the sound of a plastic mat being unrolled on the gravel. Koop looked sideways, past the duct toward Jensen's building. She was kissing the guy good-bye again, standing on her tiptoes in the open door, his hand below her waist, almost on her a.s.s.

Below him, eight feet away, the man was saying, ”Let me get these, let me get these . . . Oh, Jesus, these look great. . . .”

And the woman: ”Boy, what if Kari and Bob could see us now . . . Oh, G.o.d . . .”

Across the street, Jensen was pus.h.i.+ng the door shut. She leaned back against it, her head c.o.c.ked back, an odd, loose look on her face, not quite a smile.

The woman: ”Don't rip it, don't rip it. . . .”

The man: ”G.o.d, you're wet, you're a hot little b.i.t.c.h. . . .”

Koop, blind with fury, his heart pounding like a trip-hammer, lay quiet as a mouse, but getting angrier and angrier. He thought about jumping down, of taking the two of them.

He rejected the idea as quickly as it had come. A woman had already died at this building, and a man was in a coma. If another two died, the cops would know something was happening here. He'd never get back up.

Besides, all he had was his knife. He might not get them both-and he couldn't see the guy. If the guy was big, tough, it might take a while, make a lot of noise.

Koop bit his lip, listening to the lovemaking. The woman tended to screech, but the screeching sounded fake. The guy said, ”Don't scratch,” and she said, ”I can't help myself,” and Koop thought, Jesus. . . .

And Sara Jensen's lover was getting away. Better to let him go . . . G.o.dd.a.m.nit.

He turned his head back to Jensen's apartment. Jensen went into the bathroom and shut the door. He knew from watching her that when she did that, she'd be inside for a while. Koop eased himself over onto his back and looked up at the stars, listened to the couple on the roof below him. G.o.dd.a.m.nit.

Man's voice: ”Let me do it this way, c'mon. . . .”

The woman: ”G.o.d, if Bob knew what I was doing . . .”

19.

GREAVE HAD HIS feet up on his desk, talking on the phone, when Lucas arrived in the morning. Anderson drifted over and said, ”A homicide guy in Madison interviewed somebody named Abby Weed. He says she confirmed that she met Joe Hillerod in a bookstore. She doesn't remember the date, but she remembered the discussion, and it was the right one. She said she spent the night with him, and she was unhappy about being questioned.”

”d.a.m.nit,” Lucas said. He said it without heat. Hillerod hadn't felt right, and he hadn't expected much. ”Have you seen Meagan Connell?”

Anderson shook his head, but Greave, still on the phone, held up a finger, said a few more words, then covered the mouthpiece with his palm. ”She called in, said she was sick. She'll be in later,” he said. He went back to the phone.

Sick. Connell had been plummeting into depression when Lucas left her the night before. He hadn't wanted to leave-he'd suggested that she come home with him, spend the night in a guest room, but she'd said she was fine.

”I shouldn't have mentioned Beneteau asking about you,” Lucas said.

She caught his arm. ”Lucas, you did right. It's one of the nicer things that's happened to me in the last year.” But her eyes had been ineffably sad, and he'd had to turn away.

GREAVE DROPPED THE receiver on the hook and sighed. ”How far did you get on the s.e.x histories?” Lucas asked.

”Not very far.” Greave looked away. ”To tell you the truth, I hardly got started. I thought I might have something on my apartment.”

”G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Bob, forget the f.u.c.kin' apartment,” Lucas said, his voice harsh. ”We need these histories-and we need as many people thinking about the case as we can get.”

Greave stood up, shook himself like a dog. He was a little shorter than Lucas, his features a little finer. ”Lucas, I can't. I try, but I just can't. It's like a nightmare. I swear to G.o.d, I was eating an ice cream cone last night and I started wondering if they poisoned her ice cream.” Lucas just looked at him, and Greave shook his head after a minute and said, ”They didn't, of course.”

And they both said, simultaneously, ”No toxicology.”

JAN REED FOUND Lucas in his office. She had great eyes, he thought. Italian eyes. You could fall into them, no problem. He had a quick male mini-vision: Reed on the bed, pillow under her shoulders, head back, a half inch from o.r.g.a.s.m. She looks up at the final instant, eyes opening, her awareness of him the s.e.xiest thing in the universe . . .

”Nothing,” he said, fl.u.s.tered. ”Not a thing.”

”But what about the people you grabbed in that raid over in Wisconsin?” There was a pinp.r.i.c.k of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes. She knew the effect she had on him.

And she knew about the raid. ”An unrelated case, but a good story,” Lucas lied. He babbled: ”It's a group of people called the Seeds-there used to be a motorcycle gang called the Bad Seeds, from up in northwest Wisconsin, and they evolved into a criminal organization. Cops call it the Hayseed Mafia. Anyway, these are the guys who were hitting the suburban gun stores. We got a lot of the guns back.”