the checks, wrote the estimates. He did the scouting while I watched the shop. They could make a better case against him than they could against me.”

“So what are you thinking?”

Widdler glanced around. A dozen other patrons were sitting in chairs or standing at the counter, but none were close enough to hear them over the chatter and dish-and-silverware clank of the shop. Still, she leaned closer to Anderson. “I’m thinking Leslie could become despondent. He could talk to me about it, hint that he’d done some things he shouldn’t have. I could get the feeling that he’s worried about something.”

“Suicide?”

“I have some small guns…a house gun, and car guns, for self-protection. Leslie showed me how they work,” Widdler said.

“So…”

“I need a ride. I don’t just want him to shoot himself, I want him to…do it on a stage, so to speak. I want people looking in a different direction.”

“And you need a ride?” Anderson was astonished. They were talking about a murder, and the killer needed a ride.

“I can’t think of any other way to do it—to get him where I need him, to get back home. I need to move quickly to establish an alibi…I need to be home if somebody calls. I can’t take a taxi, it’s just…it’s just all too hard to work out, if you don’t help.”

“All I have to do is give you a ride?”

“That’s all,” Widdler said. “It’s very convenient. Only a few minutes from your house.”

THEY ARGUED for another five minutes, in hushed tones, and finally Anderson said, “I couldn’t stand it in prison. I couldn’t stand it.”

“Neither could I,” Widdler said. Anderson was watching her, and her lips trembled as much as they could. She reached out and put her hand on Anderson’s. “Can you do this? Just this one thing?”

“Just the ride,” Anderson said.

“That’s all—and then…about the money. Leslie keeps all the controversial stuff in a building at our country place.”

“I didn’t know you had a country place,” Anderson said.

“Just a shack, and a storage building. I’ll give you the key. You can take whatever you want. If you can get it out to the West Coast…just the small things could be worth a half-million dollars. You could get enough to stay in Europe for ten years, if you were careful. You can take whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” Eyebrows up.

“Whatever you want,” Widdler said. “The police will find it sooner or later. I’m not going to get a penny of it, no matter what happens. If you can get there first, take what you want.”

Anderson thought it over: Jane’s offer seemed uncharacteristically generous. But then, she was in a serious bind. “So I don’t have to do anything else: I just give you a ride.”

“That’s all,” Jane said.

“When?”

“Right away. I’ve started talking to Leslie about it, letting him brood. His tendency, anyway…” She shrugged.

“Is to go crazy,” Anderson finished. “Your husband is a fuckin’ lunatic.”

Widdler nodded.

Anderson pressed it: “So when?”

“Tonight. I want to do it tonight.”

WIDDLER GAVE HER a key to what she said was the storage building. “I’ll put a map in the mail this afternoon—Leslie’s got one in his car.” When they broke up, Widdler went back down the escalator and walked past the Starbucks, but Jenkins didn’t see her.

Jenkins had gone. Lucas had pulled him.

LUCAS FOUND SANDY hunched in front of her ancient computer, chewing on a fingernail, and she looked up, her hair flyaway, and said, “We had some luck. The Widdlers were written up in a Midwest Home article on antiques, and they have a website with vitae. They both graduated from Carleton the year before Amity Anderson. They had to know each other—Jane Widdler majored in art history, and Amity Anderson in art, and Leslie Widdler had a scholarship in studio art. He did ceramics.”

Lucas dragged a chair over and asked, “On their website, is there anything about clients?”

“No, it’s just an ad, really—it’s one of the preformatted deals where you just plug stuff in. The last change was dated a month ago.”

“Motor vehicles?”

“Never owned a van,” Sandy said. “Not even when they were in college. But: I looked at their tax records and they both had student loans. And the Home article says they both had scholarships. Leslie—this is funny—Leslie Widdler had an art scholarship, but I get the impression from the website and the Home article that all he did was play football.”

“What’s funny about that?” Lucas asked. He’d gone to the University of Minnesota on a hockey scholarship.

“Well, Carleton doesn’t