Eyes of Prey by John Sandford Read Free Book Online

teamwork. And I need somebody to bail me out on this goddamn killing. The Bekker woman’s family has some clout and the papers are talking it up.”
    Lucas tipped his head, thinking about it. “Del mentioned it last night. I told him I might look into it . . . .”
    “Do it,” Daniel said. Lucas stood up, and Daniel put on his computer glasses and turned back to a screen full of amber figures.
    “How long has it been since you were on the street?” Lucas asked.
    Daniel looked at him, then up at the ceiling. “Twenty-one years,” he said after a moment.
    “Things have changed,” Lucas said. “People don’t believe in right and wrong anymore; if they do, we write them off as kooks. Reality is greed. People believe in money and powerand feeling good and cocaine. For the bad people out there, we are a street gang. They understand that idea. The minute we lose the threat, they’ll be on us like rats . . . .”
    “Jesus Christ . . .”
    “Hey, listen to me,” Lucas said. “I’m not stupid. I don’t even necessarily think—in theory, anyway—that I should be able to get away with what I did last night. But those things have to be done by somebody. The legal system has smart judges and tough prosecutors and it don’t mean shit—it’s a game that has nothing to do with justice. What I did was justice. The street understands that. I didn’t do too much and I didn’t do too little. I did just right.”
    Daniel looked at him for a long time and then said soberly, “I don’t disagree with you. But don’t ever repeat that to another living soul.”
     
    Sloan was propped against the metal door of Lucas’ basement office, flipping through a throw-away newspaper, smoking a Camel. He was a narrow man with a foxy face and nicotine-stained teeth. A brown felt hat was cocked down over his eyes.
    “You been shoveling horseshit again,” Lucas said as he walked down the hall. His head felt as if it were filled with cotton, each separate thought tangled in a million fuzzy strands.
    Sloan pushed himself away from the door so Lucas could unlock it. “Daniel ain’t a mushroom. And it ain’t horseshit. So you gonna do it? Work Bekker?”
    “I’m thinking about it,” Lucas said.
    “The wife’s funeral is this afternoon,” Sloan said. “You oughta go. And I’ll tell you what: I’ve been looking this guy up, Bekker. We got us an iceman.”
    “Is that right?” Lucas pushed the door open and went inside. His office had once been a janitor’s closet. There were two chairs, a wooden desk, a two-drawer filing cabinet, ametal wastebasket, an old-fashioned oak coatrack, an IBM computer and a telephone. A printer sat on a metal typing table, poised to print out phone numbers coming through on a pen register. A stain on the wall marked the persistent seepage of a suspicious but unidentifiable liquid. Del had pointed out that a women’s restroom was one floor above and not too much down the hall.
    “Yeah, that’s right,” Sloan said. He dropped into the visitor’s chair and put his heels up on the edge of the desk as Lucas hung his jacket on the coatrack. “I’ve been reading background reports, and it turns out Bekker was assigned to the Criminal Investigation Division in Saigon during the Vietnam War. I thought he was some kind of cop, so I talked to Anderson and he called some of his computer buddies in Washington, and we got his military records. He wasn’t a cop, he was a forensic pathologist. He did postmortems in criminal cases that involved GIs. I found his old commanding officer, a guy named Wilson. He remembered Bekker. I told him who I was, and he said, ‘What happened, the sonofabitch kill somebody?’ ”
    “You didn’t prompt him?” Lucas asked, settling behind his desk.
    “No. Those were the first words out of his mouth. Wilson said Bekker was called ‘Dr. Death’—I guess he liked his work a little too much. And he liked the hookers. Wilson said he had a rep for pounding on