Phantom Prey Read Online Free PDF Page A

Hennepin County assistant medical examiner and worked just down the street from the Hennepin County Medical Center, where Weather did most of her work.
    "So what are we talking about?" Lucas asked.
    "Alyssa would like you to take a look," Weather said. "So would I."
    "I took a look," Lucas said.
    "You read some reports," Weather said. "I'm talking about a serious look. She didn't come straight to you, because she knows what you think."
    "She's a fuckin' wack job," Lucas said.
    "Lucas: she believes in you," Weather said, taking one of his hands, looking into his eyes, manipulating like crazy. "That you can find her daughter."
    He pulled away, held his hands up: helpless, hopeless. "Weather: Alyssa believes her daughter was killed because her Pluto was in her House of Donald Duck. Because of the stars and the moon. That we can find her if we hire the appropriate psychic. I can't talk to the woman. Twenty minutes and I want to strangle her."
    "Then give her fifteen minutes," Weather said.
    "Weather . . ."
    "She looks dreadful," Weather said, pressing. "She loses her husband, she loses her daughter. All she wants is a little help, and all she gets is a bunch of flatfeet."
    "Minneapolis guys are pretty good," Lucas said. He popped another cinnamon roll. "They only look like a bunch of flatfeet."
    "But Minneapolis isn't working her case," Weather said. "They only came to see her because of this dead bartender's connection to Frances--some other Goth told them about the connection."
    "So . . ."
    "But she says they think it's a waste of time," Weather said. "She could tell by the way they asked the questions. And then . . ."
    "What?"
    "She says your investigator thinks she may be involved. With whatever happened to Frances. She says that's all they can think of. They don't have any real suspects, so they suspect her, and they stopped looking for the real killer."
    "Another reason you ihouldn't go around casting horoscopes," Lucas said. "People tend to think you're nuts."
    "You think she could have done it?" Weather asked.
    "No." He thought about it for a moment, then said into the silence, "Hell, I don't know."
    Weather took a cinnamon roll, popped it in her mouth, chewed twice, put her hands on her hips, and said, "Mmm. Mega-fat calories. So: will you see her, or will I have to nag you into it?"
    "Aw, for Christ sakes," Lucas said.
    "Tomorrow?"
    "I'm pretty tied up. Maybe--"
    "Lucas. You haven't done a thing for a month, except sit around and watch Heather Toms take her clothes off," Weather said. "You always have this slump at the end of the winter. The only way out is work. So find the time."
    "If I go along, could you provide me with a few sexual favors?" He wasn't really doing much. And he was bummed. Sexual favors would help, and asking for them, as payment, felt agreeably sleazy; and might drain the excess testosterone he'd worked up watching the lovely Mrs. Toms dress and undress.
    "Maybe," she said.
    "So I'll talk to her," Lucas said.
    "Excellent. I'll call her and confirm it," Weather said. "Get away from the cinnamon rolls."
    "At her house," Lucas said. "I'll see her at her house."
    Weather went to make the call and Lucas popped a third roll. They were about as wide as a fifty-cent piece and three-quarters of an inch thick, a snail of pie dough layered with butter and cinnamon, and baked until they were chewy.
    He was modestly pleased with himself. Sexual favors and cinnamon rolls. Like hitting three bells on the Indian slots.
    Because, realistically, once Weather had decided that he was going to talk to Austin, there was no way out. If she put her mind to it, she could nag the paint off a garage. But, if he went to Austin's house, he could always leave. No kicking, no screaming, no weeping, no people down the hall wondering what the hell was going on in Davenport's office. He could simply leave.
    He thought about a fourth cinnamon roll.
    He was in good shape; he'd been working out. He couldn't even pinch a half an inch.