"Maybe."

She stopped, stood back and looked at him, picking something up from his voice. "Did something happen?"

He shrugged. "I had a fairly interesting case for about fifteen minutes this afternoon. It's gone now, but… I don't know."

"Interesting?" She worried.

"Yeah, there's a woman from the BCA who thinks we've got a serial killer around. She's a little crazy, but she might be right."

Now she was worried. She stepped back toward him. "I don't want you to get hurt again, messing with some maniac."

"It's over, I think. We're off the case."

"Off?"

Lucas explained, including the strange call from Connell. Weather listened intently, finishing the Sprite. "You think she's up to something," she said when he finished.

"It sounded like it. I hope she doesn't get burned. C'mon. Let's run."

"Can we go down to Grand and get ice cream afterwards?"

"We'll have to do four miles."

"God, you're hard."

After dark, after the run and the ice cream, Weather began reviewing notes for the next morning's operation. Lucas was amazed by how often she operated. His knowledge of surgery came from television, where every operation was a crisis, undertaken only with great study and some peril. With Weather, it was routine. She operated almost every day, and some days, two or three times. "You've got to do it a lot, if you're going to do it at all," she said. She'd be in bed by ten and up by five-thirty.

Lucas did business for a while, then prowled the house, finally went down to the basement for a small off-duty gun, clipped it under his waistband and pulled his golf shirt over it. "I'm going out for a while," he said.

Weather looked up from the bed. "I thought the case was over."

"Ehh. I'm looking for a guy."

"So take it easy," she said. She had a yellow pencil clenched between her teeth, and spoke around it; she looked cute, but he picked up the tiny spark of fear in her eyes.

He grinned and said, "No sweat. I'll tell you straight out when there might be a problem."

"Sure."

Lucas's house was on the east bank of the Mississippi, in a quiet neighborhood of tall dying elms and a few oaks, with the new maples and ginkgoes and ash trees replacing the disappearing elms. At night, the streets were alive with middle-class joggers working off the office flab, and couples strolling hand in hand along the dimly lit walkways. When Lucas stopped in the street to shift gears, he heard a woman laugh somewhere not too far away; he almost went back inside to Weather.

Instead, he headed to the Marshall-Lake Bridge, crossed the Mississippi, and a mile farther on was deep into the Lake Street strip. He cruised the cocktail lounges, porno stores, junk shops, rental-furniture places, check-cashing joints, and low-end fast-food franchises that ran through a brutally ugly landscape of cheap lighted signs. Children wandered around at all times of day and night, mixing with the suburban coke-seekers, dealers, drunks, raggedy-hip insurance salesmen, and a few lost souls from St. Paul, desperately seeking the shortcut home. A pair of cops pulled up alongside the Porsche at a stoplight and looked him over, thinking Dope dealer. He rolled down his window and the driver grinned and said something, and the passenger-side cop rolled down his window and said, "Davenport?"

"Yeah."

"Great car, man."

The driver called across his partner, "Hey, dude, you got a little rock? I could use a taste, mon."

Franklin Avenue was as rugged as Lake Street, but darker. Lucas pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, turned on a reading light, checked the address he had for Junky Doog, and went looking for it. Half the buildings were missing their numbers. When he found the right place, there was a light in the window and a half-dozen people sitting on the porch outside.

Lucas parked, climbed out, and the talk on the porch stopped. He walked halfway up the broken front sidewalk and stopped. "There a guy named Junky Doog who lives here?"

A heavyset Indian woman heaved herself out of a lawn chair. "Not now. All my family live here now."

"Do you know him?"

"No, I don't, Mr. Police." She was polite. "We've been here almost four months and never heard the name."

Lucas nodded. "Okay." He believed her.

Lucas started crawling bars, talking to bartenders and customers. He'd lost time on the street, and the players had changed. Here and there, somebody picked him out, said his name, held up a hand: the faces and names came back, but the information was sparse.

He started back home, saw the Blue Bull on a side street, and decided to make a last stop.

A half-dozen cars were parked at odd attitudes around the bar's tiny parking lot, as though they'd been abandoned to avoid a bombing run. The Blue Bull's windows were tinted, so that patrons could see who was coming in from the lot without being seen themselves. Lucas left the Porsche at a fire hydrant on the street, sniffed the night air-creosote and tar-and went inside.

The Blue Bull could sell cheap drinks, the owner said, because he avoided high overhead. He avoided it by never fixing anything. The pool table had grooves that would roll a ball though a thirty-degree arc into a corner pocket. The overhead fans hadn't moved since the sixties. The jukebox had broken halfway through a Guy Lombardo record, and hadn't moved since.

Nor did the decor change: red-flocked whorehouse wallpaper with a patina of beer and tobacco smoke. The obese bartender, however, was new. Lucas dropped on a stool and the bartender wiped his way over. "Yeah?"

"Carl Stupella still work here?" Lucas asked.

The bartender coughed before answering, turning his head away, not bothering to cover his mouth. Spit flew down the bar. "Carl's dead," he said, recovering.

"Dead?"

"Yeah. Choked on a bratwurst at a Twins game."

"You gotta be kidding me."

The bartender shrugged, started a smile, thought better of it, and shrugged again. Coughed. "His time was up," he said piously, running his rag in a circle. "You a friend of his?"

"Jesus Christ, no. I'm looking for another guy. Carl knew him."

"Carl was an asshole," the bartender said philosophically. He leaned one elbow on the bar. "You a cop?"

"Yup."

The bartender looked around. There were seven other people in the bar, five sitting alone, looking at nothing at all, the other two with their heads hunched together so they could whisper. "Who're you looking for?"

"Randolph Leski? He used to hang out here."

The bartender's eye shifted down the bar, then back to Lucas. He leaned forward, dropping his voice. "Does this shit bring in money?"

"Sometimes. You get on the list…"

"Randy's about eight stools down," he muttered. "On the other side of the next two guys."

Lucas nodded, and a moment later, leaned back a few inches and glanced to his right. Looking at the bartender again, he said quietly, "The guy I'm looking for is big as you."

"You mean fat," the bartender said.

"Hefty."

The bartender tilted his head. "Randy had a tumor. They took out most of his gut. He can't keep the weight on no more. They say he eats a pork chop, he shits sausages. They don't digest."

Lucas looked down the bar again, said, "Give me a draw, whatever."

The bartender nodded, stepped away. Lucas took a business card out of his pocket, rolled out a twenty and the business card. "Thanks. What's your name?"

"Earl. Stupella."

"Carl's…"

"Brother."

"Maybe you hear something serious sometime, you call me," Lucas said. "Keep the change."

Lucas picked up the glass of beer and wandered down the bar. Stopped, did a double take. The thin man on the stool turned his head: loose skin hung around his face and neck like a basset hound's, but Randy Leski's mean little pig-eyes peered out of it.