I find out what they had in there?”

“Call Shelley Miller. Let me get you that number. Don’t tell her that I gave it to you.”

“Motherfucker,” Ignace groaned. “The blonde just walked up to the bar. She’s wearing a dress you can see her legs through. She’s like wearing a thong? In Minneapolis? You know how rare that is? And she wants my body? You know how rare that is?”

“That number is…You gotta pen?”

“Davenport, man, you’re killing me,” Ignace said.

“Ruffe, listen: Tell her the story. The whole thing, the murders, everything. Tell her that Deep Throat called. Take her back to your office, drive as fast as you can, scream into your cell phone at the editors while you’re driving. Fake it, if nobody’s working. Then when you get there, sit her down, write the story, and ask her what she thinks. Then make some change she suggests; joke that she ought to get a share of the byline.”

“Yeah, bullshit. The Ignace doesn’t share bylines.”

“Listen, Ruffe, she’ll be all over you,” Lucas said. “You’ll nail her in the front seat of your car.”

“I got a Prelude, man. With a stick shift. It’d hit her right in the small of the back.”

“Whatever,” Lucas said. “This will not mess up your night. I swear to God. You’re good as gold—but try to get it in tomorrow morning, okay? I need this.”

“You need that and I need this—” The phone clicked off.

But Lucas smiled.

He knew his reporters. No way Ignace wouldn’t write the story.

AND LATE that night, in bed, Weather reading the latest Anne Perry, Lucas said, “I’m worried about the Kline thing. The governor’s got me talking to Mitford tomorrow.”

“I thought you liked him. Mitford.”

“I do—but that doesn’t mean that he’s not a rattlesnake,” Lucas said. “You gotta watch your ankles when he’s around.”

“You’ve never talked to the girl, have you?” Weather asked. “It’s all been that fuckin’ Flowers.”

“No. I haven’t talked to her. I should. But we’ve been trying to keep it at the cop level, apolitical. Now Kline’s trying to cut a separate deal, but Rose Marie says that’s not gonna fly. Nobody’ll buy it. I expect I’m going to have to talk to Kline and then we’re gonna bring in the Ramsey County attorney. That little chickenshit will do everything he can to turn it into a three-ring circus.”

“Don’t get in too deep, Lucas,” Weather said. “This sounds like it’ll require scapegoats.”

“That worries me,” he said.

“And sort of interests you, too.”

He sat for a moment looking at the book in his lap. He was learning more about antiques. Then he grinned at her and admitted, “Maybe.”

5

LUCAS READ the paper in the morning, over breakfast, and was happy to see Ignace’s story on the possible theft; and he truly hoped that Ignace had gotten laid, which he, like most newspaper reporters, of both sexes, desperately needed.

In any case, the story should wake somebody up.

Sam was still working on his spoon technique, slopping oatmeal in a five-foot radius of his high chair; the housekeeper was cursing like a sailor, something to do with the faucet on the front of the house wouldn’t turn off. Weather was long gone to work, where she spent almost every morning cutting on people. Letty was at school, the first summer session.

Lucas noticed a story on a zoning fight in the Dakota County suburbs south of the Twin Cities. One of the big shopping centers, the Burnsville Mall, was looking to expand, and some of its commercial neighbors thought that was a bad idea.

Lucas thought, “Hmmm,” and closed his eyes. Dakota County…

LUCAS TOLD the housekeeper to call a plumber, kissed Sam on the head, dodged a spoonful of oatmeal, and went to look up Kidd’s phone number. Kidd was the artist who might be able to help with the reckless painting. Lucas found his book, dialed, and got a dairy. Kidd had either changed numbers, or left town.

He glanced at his watch: Kidd’s apartment was down by the river. He could drop by after he talked with Neil Mitford. Mitford was the governor’s hatchet man; he tried to cut out at least one gizzard every morning before going out for a double latte grande.

Lucas finished his coffee and headed up the stairs to suit up; and once outside, it was another great day, puffy fair-weather clouds under a pale blue sky, just enough wind to ruffle the stars ’n’ stripes outside an elementary school. He motored along Summit Avenue toward the Capitol, elbow out, counting women on