Invisible Prey - By John Sandford Page 0,58

smoke,” Jane said.

“I’ll go out on the back porch, but I need one,” she said. She groped for her pants, said, “Where’s that lighter?” She got both the lighter and the switchblade. “We need to talk.”

They didn’t bother with robes; they weren’t done with the sex yet. Anderson led the way down the stairs in the semidarkness, Leslie poured more wine for himself and Jane, and got a fresh glass from the cupboard and gave a glass to Anderson. They moved out to the porch, and Jane and Anderson settled on the glider, the soft summer air flowing around them, while Leslie pulled a chair over.

“Well,” Jane said. She took a hit of the wine, then dipped a finger in it, and dragged a wet finger-pad over one of Anderson’s nipples. “You were such a pleasant surprise.”

“I want a cut,” Anderson said. “Of the Connie Bucher money. Not much. Enough to take me to Europe for a couple of years. Let’s say…a hundred and fifty thousand. You can put it down to consulting fees, seventy-five thousand a year.”

“Amity…” Leslie said, and there was a cold thread in the soft sound of her name.

“Don’t start, Leslie. I know how mean and cruel you are, and you know I like it, but I just don’t want to deal with it tonight. I spotted the Bucher thing as soon as it happened. It had your names written all over it. But I wouldn’t have said a thing, I wouldn’t have asked for a nickel, except that you managed to drag me into it.”

After a moment of silence, Jane said, “What?”

“I got a visit from a cop named Lucas Davenport. This afternoon. He’s an agent with the state police…”

“We know who he is. We’re police consultants on the Bucher murder,” Leslie said.

Anderson was astonished; and then she laughed. “Oh, God, you might know it.”

But Jane cut through the astonishment: “How did he get to you?”

“He hooked the Bucher murder to the Donaldson case. He’s looking at the Coombs murder. He knows.”

“Oh, shit.” Anderson couldn’t see it, but she could feel Jane turn to her husband. “He’s a danger. I told you, we’ve got to do something.”

Leslie was on his feet and he moved over in front of Anderson and put a hand on her head and said, “Why shouldn’t we just break Amity’s little neck? That would close off that particular threat.”

Anderson hit the button on the switchblade and the blade clacked open. She pressed the side of the blade against him. “Take your hand off my head, Leslie, or I swear to God, I will cut your cock off.”

Jane snorted, amused, and said, “A switchblade. You know, you should take off about four inches, just to make him easier to deal with.”

“I’ll take off nine inches if he doesn’t take his hand off my head,” Anderson snarled. She could feel the heat coming off Leslie’s thighs.

“Fuck you,” Leslie said, but he moved away and sat down again.

Anderson left the blade extended. “One good reason for you not to break my neck: Davenport will then know that the thieves are close. And when they investigate either my death or disappearance, the police will unlock the center drawer of my desk, where they will find a letter.”

“The old letter ploy,” Jane said, still amused, but not as amused as she’d been with the switchblade.

“It’s what I had to work with,” Anderson said. “About Davenport. He’s working on the Bucher case and now on Donaldson and Coombs, but he’s also working on a sex scandal. There was a story in the paper this morning. Some state legislator guy has been screwing some teenager.”

“I saw it,” Leslie said. “So what?”

“So Davenport is running that case, too, and that’s apparently more important. He was interviewing me and he had to run off to do something on the other one. Anyway, I heard him talking on his cell phone, and I know the name of the people involved. The girl’s name.”

“Really,” Jane said. “Is that a big deal?”

“It could be,” Anderson said, “If you want to distract Davenport.”

11

SANDY THE INTERN was sitting next to Carol’s desk when Lucas came in. He was running a little late, having taken Sam out for a morning walk. He was wearing his grand-jury suit: navy blue with a white shirt, an Hermès tie with a wine-colored background and vibrating commas of a hard blue that the saleslady said matched his eyes; and cap-toed black tie-shoes with a high shine. His socks had clocks