Free Stolen Prey by John Sandford Page A

intended to express optimism,” he said. “But gambling in Minnesota is illegal, outside the Indian casinos and the state numbers racket, so I would be unable to actually put any money on the line.”
    “That’s what I thought,” Andrews said.
    O N THE WAY back to St. Paul, Andrews asked whether Lucas had ever gotten a line on the robbers who’d broken his wrist. “Just did, last couple of days,” Lucas said. “I was never able to generate much interest in the whole thing, and I thought I was gonna lose them.”
    He told him about the horse shit clue. “I got Flowers working it.”
    “That’s pretty high-priced talent for a couple guys who get a hundred bucks at a time, and nobody gets hurt,” Andrews said.
    “
I
got hurt,” Lucas said. “Some poor college kid got his arm broken.”
    “I mean hurt bad, not getting your little snowflake wrist cracked,” Andrews said.
    “Thank you,” Lucas said.
    “Whatever,” Andrews said. “If that fuckin’ Flowers can’t find them, nobody can.”
    “Especially with a USDA-certified clue like he’s got,” Del said.
    A T THE OFFICE , Lucas had a message from Rose Marie Roux:
Call me.
    He called her, and she said, “I got a call from Washington, a young boy from the Department of Justice said
they
got a call from Mexico. The Mexicans want to send an observer up here to look at the Brooks case. Apparently they’ve been talking to the DEA about it, and they want to watch. The DOJ said sure, send them along.”
    “Did you thank them for consulting with us?” Lucas asked.
    “You got a problem with it?”
    Lucas told her about the DEA agent’s suggestion that they send any Brooks murder suspect to Mexico for questioning—and why, including the story about the agent who was flayed alive.
    “You think that’s a true story?” Rose Marie asked.
    “Who knows? You hear all kinds of shit coming out of the border. Wouldn’t surprise me, one way or the other,” Lucas said.
    “Well, we’re not turning anybody over to Mexico,” Rose Marie said. “But be nice with these people. They’ve got problems.”
    “You said they wanted to send an observer, but then you kept saying ‘they.’ How many are there?”
    “One cop and his assistant,” Rose Marie said. “Cop’s name is David Rivera. I don’t know the assistant’s name.”
    “Okay. When do they get here?”
    “If their plane’s on time … they’re coming Delta from LA … about forty-five minutes,” she said. “It’d be really, really nice if some senior BCA agent was there to meet them.”
    L UCAS CALLED S HAFFER , who’d heard about the Mexicans coming in but had no details. “I’m going over to pick them up and run them out there,” Lucas said. “Have the bodies been moved?”
    “Pretty soon now. Alex is talking to the ME’s guys now.”
    “Hold off. If everything works, I’ll be out there in a couple of hours,” Lucas said.
    “Why don’t you just have … you know … somebody else pick them up?”
    “’Cause I want to talk to them about this whole Criminales business,” Lucas said. “Hope they speak English.”
    Besides, he liked driving around town, looking out the window. You could never tell what you might learn. In this case, though, it wasn’t much—a few leaves turning yellow on maple trees. At the airport, Lucas locked his pistol in the truck’s gun safe, went inside, identified himself to the airport police, and got a piece of typing paper from them. He wrote “David Rivera” on it with a Magic Marker, and the airport cops walked him through security and out to the arrivals gate. The cop said, “With that sign, you’re gonna look like a limo driver.”
    “But a very high-rent limo driver,” Lucas said.
    “Well, yeah.”
    They talked to the gate agent about the arrival, then Lucas found a seat while the airport cop wandered away. When the plane was parked, the agent came over and said, “They’re here,” and Lucas got up with his sign.
    Rivera was one of the