Invisible Prey by John Sandford Page A

one annoying minute, the whining of the blender drowning out the Mozart. When it stopped, she heard Leslie’s voice, through the sliding screen door: “Oh, my God!”
    She could tell from his tone that it was serious. She couldn’t frown, exactly, because of the Botox injections, but she made a frowning look and stepped to the door: “What? Is it the brook?”
    The Widdlers were leading a petition drive to have the name officially changed from Minnehaha Creek to Minnehaha Brook, a combination they felt was more euphonic. They’d had some trashy kayakers on the brook lately—including one who was, of course, a left-wing lawyer, who had engaged in a shouting match with Leslie. Paddling for the People. Well, fuck that. The brook didn’t belong to the people.
    But it wasn’t the creek, or the brook, that put the tone in Big Widdler’s voice. Leslie was on his feet. He was wearing a white pullover Egyptian long-staple cotton shirt with loose sleeves, buttoned at the wrists with black mother-of-pearl buttons, madras plaid shorts, and Salvatore Ferragamo sandals, and looked quite good in the morning sunlight, she thought. “Check this out,” he said.
    He passed her the Star Tribune.
    The big headline said: Did Murders Conceal Invisible Heist? Under that, in smaller type, Millions in Antiques May Be Missing.
    “Oh, my gosh,” Jane said. Her frowning look grew deeper as she read. “I wonder who Ruffe Ignace is?”
    “Just a reporter. That’s not the problem,” said Big Widdler, flapping his hands like a butterfly. “If they do an inventory, there may be items…” The Bang & Olufsen slimline phone started to ring from its spot next to the built-in china cabinet, and he reached toward it. “…on the list that can be identified, and we won’t know which ones they are. If there are photos…”
    He picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” and a second later, “Uh, Detective? Well, sure…”
    Jane was shaken, placed one hand on her breast, the other on the countertop. This could be it: everything they’d worked for, gone in the blink of an eye.
    Leslie said, “Hello, yes, it is…uh huh, uh huh…” Then he smiled, but kept his voice languid, professional. “We’d be delighted to help, as long as it wouldn’t prejudice our position in bidding, if there should be an estate auction. I can’t see why it would, if all you want is an opinion…Mmm, this afternoon would be fine. I’ll bring my wife. Our assistant can watch the shop. One o’clock, then. See you after lunch.”
    He put down the phone and chuckled: “We’ve been asked to advise the St. Paul police on the Bucher investigation.”
    Jane made a smiling look. “Leslie, that’s too rich. And you know what? It’s really going to piss off Carmody & Loan.”
    Carmody & Loan were their only possible competition, in terms of quality, in the Cities. If C&L had been asked to do the valuations, Jane would have been royally pissed. She couldn’t wait to hear what Melody Loan had to say about this. She’d be furious. She said, “Maybe we could find a way to get the news of the appointment to this Ruffe Ignace person.”
    Leslie’s eyebrows went up: “You mean to rub it in? Mmmm. You are such a bitch sometimes. I like it.” He moved up to her, slipped his hand inside her morning slacks, which were actually the bottoms of a well-washed Shotokan karate gi, down through her pubic hair.
    She widened her stance a bit, put her butt back against the counter, bit her lip, made a look, the best she could, considering the Botox, of semi-ecstasy. “Rub it in, big guy,” she whispered, the smoothie almost forgotten.
     
    B UT AS L ESLIE was inclined to say, the Lord giveth, and the Lord is damn well likely to taketh it away in the next breath. They spent the morning at the shop, calling customers and other dealers, dealing with bills, arguing with the State Farm agent about their umbrella policy. At noon, they stopped at a sandwich shop for Asiago roast-beef