Broken Prey

IT WASN'T

Ross called back when they were halfway to Minneapolis. Sloan took the call on his cell phone, listened for a minute, and then said, "Let me take that down." He took a pad and a mechanical pencil from his coat pocket, jotted down a name and number.

"Could you call him back? Tell him I'll get in touch in an hour or so-when I'm back in the office. Okay."

He punched off and said to Lucas, "A woman named Louise Samples, who worked in personnel at Hormel in the city of Albert Lea, was killed in her house in November of ninety-five. The cops say it looked like she walked in on a burglar. He hit her with a hammer and then raped her at least a couple of times, once anally. She was probably dead for most of it. They never got a break on the case."

A car in front of them suddenly slowed for a left turn, and Lucas swung around it, a quick brake and a quicker acceleration. Then he looked at Sloan: "How the fuck can you talk about quitting when you pull off something like this?"

"For all the good it did Louise Samples or anybody else," Sloan said.

"Man, you gotta take a couple of aspirin and lie down," Lucas said."I'm really startin' to think you're losing it."

"That's what I've been telling you, dickweed," Sloan said. He looked the window as they crossed the river: "When I get my bar, I'll want your list of songs. I'll put them on the jukebox."

"No Beatles."

"No Beatles. But how about a couple of Tom Joneses? 'Green Green Grass or something."

"Sloan-you gotta get help."