‘‘You sonofabitch,’’ Lucas said hotly.
‘‘What?’’ Loring asked, surprised. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘You know what.’’
‘‘No, I don’t know what.’’ He really seemed confused. On the other hand, he lied well. ‘‘What?’’
THE HEADS OF INTELLIGENCE AND NARCOTICS WERE gone. Nobody knew when they’d be back. Sloan and Black were missing, Franklin was gone.
On one of his trips past the old ladies, the grandmother said bravely, ‘‘We brought our things.’’
‘‘Your things?’’
They held up their gym bags. ‘‘Toothpaste and pajamas and so on. For the slammer.’’
‘‘Aw, Jesus Christ,’’ Lucas said.
He finally went back to Loring, got him out in the hall, explained the situation. ‘‘. . . surrendering, and I want you to help with the processing . . .’’
Loring was backing away. ‘‘Fuck that,’’ he said. ‘‘They’re yours.’’
‘‘They’re not mine,’’ Lucas shouted. But Loring was running toward the exit. ‘‘Goddamnit, get your ass back here. Get back here . . .’’
Loring was the last of them.
Lucas walked back toward his office, where the little flock gathered with their purses and the gym bags, awaiting justice. All up and down the hallways, the doors were closed.
Nobody home, except him.
‘‘Is there a problem?’’ Grandma asked.
John Sandford, Secret Prey
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