street to the halfway house.

THE HALFWAY HOUSE looked like any of the fading mansions on the wrong side of Summit, a brown-brick three-story with a carriage house out back, a broad front porch with white pillars, now flaking paint, and an empty porch swing.

Dan Westchester somewhat resembled the house: he was on the wrong side of fifty, the fat side of two-twenty, and the short side of five-ten. He had a small gray ponytail, a gold earring in his left ear-lobe, and wore long cotton slacks, a golf shirt, and sandals. The name plaque on his desk showed a red-yellow-green Vietnam ribbon under his name.

“I already talked to St. Paul, and I talked to your guy at the BCA,” he said unhappily. “What do you want from us?”

“Just trying to see what’s what,” Lucas said. “We’ve got two murdered old ladies across the street from a halfway house full of convicted criminals. If we didn’t talk to you, our asses would get fired.”

“I know, but we’ve worked so hard…”

“I can believe that,” Lucas said. “But…” He shrugged.

Westchester nodded. “The guys here…we’ve had exactly six complaints since we opened the facility, and they involved alcoholic relapses,” he said. “None of the people were violent. The DOC made a decision early on that we wouldn’t house violent offenders here.”

Lucas: “Look. I’m not here to dragoon the house, I’m just looking for an opinion: If one of your guys did this, who would it be?”

“None of them,” Westchester snapped.

“Bullshit,” Lucas snapped back. “If this was a convent, there’d be two or three nuns who’d be more likely than the others to do a double murder. I’m asking for an assessment, not an accusation.”

“None of them,” Westchester repeated. “The guys in this house wouldn’t beat two old ladies to death. Most of them are just unhappyguys…”

“Yeah.” Unhappy guys who got drunk and drove cars onto sidewalks and across centerlines into traffic.

Westchester: “I’m not trying to mess with you. I’m not silly about convicted felons. But honest to God, most of the people here are sick. They don’t intend to do bad, they’re just sick. They’re inflicted with an evil drug.”

“So you don’t have a single guy…”

“I can’t give you a name,” Westchester said. “But I’ll tell you what: you or St. Paul can send over anyone you want, and I’ll go over my guys, file by file, and I’ll tell you everything I know. Then you make the assessment. I don’t want a goddamn killer in here. But I don’t think I’ve got one. I’m sure I don’t.”

Lucas thought about it for a moment: “All right. That’s reasonable.” He stood up, turned at the office door. “Not a single guy?”

“Not one.”

“Where were you Friday night?”

Westchester sat back and grinned. “I’m in a foosball league. I was playing foosball. I got two dozen ’ballers to back me up.”

LUCAS LEFT, a little pissed, feeling thwarted: he’d wanted a name, any name, a place to start. Halfway down the sidewalk, his cell phone rang, and when he looked at the number, saw that it came from the governor’s office.

“Yeah. Governor,” Lucas said.

“You catch them?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, fuck ’em then, they’re too smart for you,” the governor said. “Now: I want you to talk to Neil tomorrow morning. He has some suggestions about the way you conduct the Kline investigation, okay?”

“Maybe not,” Lucas said. “I hate the charge, ‘suborning justice.’”

“We’re not going to suborn anything, Lucas,” said the governor, putting a little buttermilk in his voice. “You know me better than that. We’re managing a difficult situation.”

“Not difficult for me, at this point,” Lucas said. “Could get difficult, if I talk to Neil.”

“Talk to Neil. Talk. How can it hurt?” the governor asked.

“Ask the White House guys in federal minimum security…Listen, sir, there’s a straightforward way to handle this.”

“No, there isn’t,” the governor said. “We’ve gone over all the options. We need more. If you can think up some reasonable options, then we won’t have to turn Neil loose. So talk to him.”

AT DINNER, Lucas told the Bucher story to his wife, Weather; his fifteen-year-old ward, Letty; and his son, Sam, who was almost two feet tall now, and who’d developed an intense interest in spoons.

Weather was a short blonde with a bold nose, square shoulders, and shrewd Finnish eyes; she was a plastic and microsurgeon and spent her days fixing heads and faces, revising scars, and replacing skin and cutting out lesions. When he was done with the story, Weather said, “So it was a robbery.”

“Odd robbery,” Lucas