Certain prey

'Ms. Loan, somebody called – from her house to yours. This isn't bullshit – this is the list straight from the phone company. I brought a Xerox copy for you.'

Sherrill was sitting in front of Carmel's desk, and she unfolded the Xerox and pushed across the leather desk pad. '… and you can call the phone company yourself, if you don't think this is accurate.'

Carmel snatched the Xerox copy from the desk, looked at the two underlined phone calls. She shook her head angrily, said, 'No. This is…' But then she trailed off, and her head swung sideways and down, a pensive look crossing her face.

'You know what this is?' she asked finally, looking up at Sherrill. 'That sonofabitch was calling me from her house. He was sleeping with me three nights a week, and when we weren't together, he was sneaking over to her place.'

Sherrill looked doubtfuclass="underline" 'Well…' She stood up. 'If you say so.'

'That's what it is,' Carmel shouted, shaking the Xerox copy in Sherrill's face.

Lucas was not amused by the story. He shook his head, fiddled with a sport-coat button. 'I'm starting to feel sorry for her,' he said. 'Almost.'

'My question is, where are you going with this? I mean, exactly where?' Sherrill asked.

They were alone in Lucas' office, streetlights coming on outside the single window; a soft glow lingered in the sky. A perfect summer night, a night for walking around the lakes, Sherrill thought. Lucas said, 'You're the only one who knows about the shell I found in her bedroom closet.'

'Unless you told somebody else,' Sherrill said.

'No. It's just you and me,' Lucas said. He pulled out the typewriter tray on the top corner of his desk, leaned back in his chair and put his feet up. 'But something happened to get that shell in there. Somebody dropped a box of shells, somebody ejected a shell and didn't pick it up, or somebody was punching a bunch of shells into a clip and fumbled them… If Carmel sees me find a shell there, and if I find it in just the right circumstances, I think she'd come after it. Either her, or the shooter.'

'You mean like… any shell.'

'Sure. Any shell. Any. 22. Whatever happened to get that shell in the closet,

Carmel will know about. If I find a shell in the closet, she'll know she's fucked. Especially if she hears about the scratches on the back of Rolo's hand and our other corroborating evidence, whatever it might be.'

'What'll she do?'

'Suppose I find the shell on a Friday night. Suppose everybody has left her apartment, except me, and I find the shell while I'm taking a last look around.

I know where I found the original, so I'll find this one in exactly the same place. I show it to her, and she claims I planted it, or whatever. And I say,

"The only shells I have to plant are already fired. If we get a metallurgical match on these slugs and some of the killer slugs, Carmel, you're all done." And then I tell her I know she's involved… from the phone messages, or something.'

'And…'

'And I say, "We'll let you know first thing Monday morning." Then I put the shell in a baggie, and I leave. I go home. Drive slow, give her a chance to catch me. And we put a net around the house, and I hang around.. .'

Sherrill frowned. 'You think she'd come after it?'

'If she knows that it'll match. And she probably knows that. If we give her the whole weekend to stew about it.'

'Boy. The whole thing smells a little like entrapment.'

'Look, you and I know she's involved,' Lucas said. 'If she comes after me, then we've got her. If you try to entrap somebody, and their response is to shoot you

… I mean, you can't defend yourself against entrapment with attempted murder.

And, in fact, we can outline some of this to the other guys – tell them that we're trying to lure the killer in. That we'd never use the fake shell. That way, we avoid the entrapment charge.'

'But we won't tell them that there once was a real shell.'

'No…'

'It's getting trickier by the minute.'

'Mmmm. Be nice if we could find a few more things to tie Clark to Carmel…'

'Well, hell, we're inventing the shell, and the whole relationship, we could invent a few ties, too,' Sherrill said. 'Like… suppose we find out where she took a vacation, and we leak the word that Clark took a vacation there at the same time. There's no way for Carmel to know that she didn't.'

'I hope this is getting through to her,' Lucas said. 'I hope her leak in the department's still good.'

'We need to write a script,' Sherrill suggested. 'When we get the warrant for her apartment, we could drop all of these little nuggets. You could say something, I could drop something, Sloan…'

Lucas nodded, looked at his watch. 'Good idea -think of some stuff. And I'll think of some. But right now, I've got to go to the Reality Commission, we're talking about non-certifiable minorities tonight.' He thumped the Report which sat on one side of his desk. He was on page four hundred and thirty.

'Non-certifiable… what is that?'

'Well, you know: minorities that don't fit into racial, handicapped, sexual determinant, age-determinant, religious, ethnic, or national-origin groups.'

'Jeez, I would have thought that covered everything.'

'Oh, no. There was a case in Wisconsin of a white, Episcopalian male in his early thirties, non-handicapped, heterosexual, English heritage. ..'

'A perfect WASP…'

'Wouldn't even pee in the shower,' Lucas said. 'Anyway, he was a member of one of the animal-protection groups, and his co-workers tormented him by displaying photographs of pork chops and link sausages in the workplace, and they'd talk about going to McDonald's for cheeseburgers. He got 8750,000 from the city of

Madison for emotional imperialism.'

'Well – Madison.'

'That explains a lot of it, of course,' Lucas said, nodding. 'But apparently we need a policy. You know, covering non-religious ethical minorities.' Then he closed his eyes, rubbed them with a thumb and forefinger. 'Jesus Christ, what'd I just say?'

Carmel could feel the rage building. She knew what the cops were doing. They were building a 'just in case' case – hoping to build a good enough story that a jury would put her away, just in case she was the killer.

Somehow, she thought, Davenport had fastened on her as the killer. And, she had to admit, it had never occurred to her that in eliminating any possibility that she could be tied to Rinker, she'd thoughtlessly incriminated somebody to whom she could be tied. And there was no way for her to explain that Clark wasn't the killer. How could she know?

Carmel had tried forty-four murder cases in her career, winning twenty-one of them. That was considered an excellent average, since most involved a man found standing over his dead wife with a handgun, and when asked why he did it, had told the cops, 'She was gettin' on my ass, you know?'

Three of the cases she'd lost still haunted her, because she shouldn't, in her opinion, have lost them. She'd broken the state's case, she'd thought, and after-verdict interviews with the jurors had suggested that she'd lost only because the jurors wanted to believe the cops. They hadn't had the evidence, but they'd convicted because the cops suggested they should.

That could happen to her…

Fuckin' Davenport…

Worse, the word was getting out. She might be going psycho, she thought, going paranoid, but she thought she could see it in the eyes of her colleagues. The questions: did you do it? Did you help? Did you drill those little holes in Rolando D'Aquila's kneecaps?

An interview with one of Carmel's friends produced the casual information that she'd been in Zihuatanejo the November before last. 'Save that,' Lucas told

Sherrill. 'When we shake her apartment down, we'll drop the information that

Clark was there at the same time – we'll jump her about it.'

'All right.'

'What else you got?'

'Not much – it's really thin. Clark took a course in legal writing at the U, at the same time Carmel was at the law school…'

'So they were at law school together.'