her even more nervous. “Okay. This is good stuff, Sandy. Now. Do you have a driver’s license?”

“Of course. My car is sorta iffy.”

“I’ll get you a state car. Could you run down to Des Moines today and Xerox the trial file? I don’t think the cops would be too happy about our looking at the raw stuff, but we can get the trial file. If you have to, you could bag out in a Des Moines hotel. I’ll get Carol to get you a state credit card.”

“I could do that,” she said. She scooched forward on the chair, her eyes brightening. “God, do you think this man might have gone to prison for something he didn’t do?”

“It happens—and this sounds pretty good,” Lucas said. “This sounds like Bucher and Donaldson and Coombs…”

“Who?”

“Ah, a lady named Coombs, here in the Cities. Anyway. Let’s go talk to Carol. Man, looking at solved cases. That was terrific. That was a terrific idea.”

LATER, as Lucas left the office, Carol said, “You really got Sandy wound up. She’d jump out of an airplane for you.”

“It’ll wear off,” Lucas said.

“Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t,” Carol said.

AMITY ANDERSON probably would not have jumped out of an airplane for him, Lucas decided after meeting her, but she might be willing to push him.

He saw her unlocking the front door of her house, carrying a purse and what looked like a shopping bag, as he walked up the hill toward her. She looked down the hill at him, a glance, and disappeared inside.

SHE LIVED in a cheerful postwar Cape Cod–style house, with yellow-painted clapboard siding, white trim, and a brick chimney in the middle of the roof. The yard was small, but intensely cultivated, with perennials pushing out of flower beds along the fences at the side of the house, and bright annuals in two beds on either side of the narrow concrete walk that led to the front door. A lopsided one-car garage sat off to the side, and back.

Lucas knocked, and a moment later, she answered. She was a mid-sized woman, probably five-six, Lucas thought, and in her early to middle thirties. Her dark hair was tied in a severe, schoolmarmish bun, without style; she wore a dark brown jacket over a beige blouse, with a tweedy skirt and practical brown shoes. Olive-complected, she had dark brown eyes, overgrown eyebrows, and three small frown wrinkles that ran vertically toward her forehead from the bridge of her short nose. She looked at him through the screen door; her face had a sullen aspect, but a full lower lip hinted at a concealed sensuality. “Do you have any identification?”

He showed her his ID. She let him in, and said, “I have to go back to the bathroom. I’ll be just a minute.”

The inside of the house was as cheery as the outside, with rugs and quilts and fabric hangings on the brightly painted plaster walls and the spotless hardwood floors. A bag sat on the floor, next to her purse. Not a shopping bag, but a gym bag, with three sets of handball gloves tied to the outside, stiff with dried sweat. A serious, sweating handball player…

A toilet flushed, distantly, down a back hallway, and a moment later Anderson came out, tugging down the back of her skirt. “What can I do for you, Mr. Davenport?”

“You worked for Claire Donaldson when she was killed,” Lucas said. “The most specific thing I need to know is, was anything taken from the house? Aside from the obvious? Any high-value antiques, jewelry, paintings, that sort of thing?”

She pointed him at a sofa, then perched on an overstuffed chair, her knees primly tight. “That was a long time ago. Has something new come up?”

Lucas had no reason not to tell her: “I’m looking at connections between the Donaldson murder and the murder of Constance Bucher and her maid. You may have read about it or seen it on television…”

Anderson’s hand went to her cheek. “Of course. They’re very similar, aren’t they? In some ways? Do you think they’re connected?”

“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “We can’t seem to find a common motive, other than the obvious one of robbery.”

“Oh. Robbery. Well, I’m sure the police told you she usually had some money around,” Anderson said. “But not enough to kill somebody for. I mean, unless you were a crazy junkie or something, and this was in Chippewa Falls.”

“I was thinking of antiques, paintings…”

She shook her head. “Nothing like that was taken. I