His eyes were warm and forgiving. The warmth was somehow emphasized by the vertical white scar that started at his hairline, ran down to his right eye socket, jumped over the eye, and continued down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. The scar gave him a raffish air, but left behind a touch of innocence, like Errol Flynn in Captain Blood. Lucas wished he could tell young women that the scar had come from a broken bottle in a bar fight at Subic Bay, where he had never been, or Bangkok, where he had never been either. The scar had come from a fishing leader that snapped out of a rotting snag on the St. Croix River and he told them so. Some believed him. Most thought he was covering something up, like a bar fight East of Suez.

Though his eyes were warm, his smile betrayed him.

He once went with a woman—a zookeeper, as it happened—to a nightclub in St. Paul where cocaine was dealt to suburban children in the basement bathrooms. In the parking lot outside the club, Lucas encountered Kenny McGuinness, who he thought was in prison.

“Get the fuck away from me, Davenport,” McGuinness said, backing off. The parking lot was suddenly electric, everything from gum wrappers to discarded quarter-gram coke baggies springing into needle-sharp focus.

“I didn’t know you were out, dickhead,” Lucas answered, smiling. The zookeeper was watching, her eyes wide. Lucas leaned toward the other man, hooked two fingers in his shirt pocket, and gently tugged, as though they were old companions trading memories. Lucas whispered hoarsely: “Leave town. Go to Los Angeles. Go to New York. If you don’t go away, I’ll hurt you.”

“I’m on parole, I can’t leave the state,” McGuinness stammered.

“So go to Duluth. Go to Rochester. You’ve got a week,” Lucas whispered. “Talk to your dad. Talk to your grandma. Talk to your sisters. Then leave.”

He turned back to the zookeeper, still smiling, McGuinness apparently forgotten.

“You scared the heck out of me,” the woman said when they were inside the club. “What was that all about?”

“Kenny likes young boys. He trades crack for ten-year-old ass.”

“Oh.” She had heard of such things but believed them only in the way she believed in her own mortality: a faraway possibility not yet requiring examination.

Later, she said, “I didn’t like that smile. Your smile. You looked like one of my animals.”

Lucas grinned at her. “Oh, yeah? Which one? The lemur?”

She nibbled her lower lip. “I was thinking of a wolverine,” she said.

If the chill of his smile sometimes overwhelmed the warmth of his eyes, it didn’t happen so frequently as to become a social handicap. Now Lucas watched the punky blonde turn the corner of the Government Center, and just before she stepped from sight, look back at him and grin.

Damn. She had known he was watching. Women always knew. Get up, he thought, go after her. But he didn’t. There were so many of them, all good. He sighed and leaned back in the grass and picked up Emily Dickinson.

Lucas was a picture of contentment. More than a picture.

A photograph.

The photograph was being taken from the back of an olive-drab van parked across South Seventh Street. Two cops from internal affairs worked in sweaty confinement with tripod-mounted film and video cameras behind one-way glass.

The senior cop was fat. His partner was thin. Other than that, they looked much alike, with brush-cut hair, pink faces, yellow short-sleeved shirts, and double-knit trousers from J. C. Penney. Every few minutes, one of them would look through the 300mm lens. The camera attached to the lens, a Nikon F3, was equipped with a Data Back, which had a battery-operated clock programmed for accuracy through the year 2100. When the cops took their photographs, the precise time and date were burned into the photo frame. If necessary, the photograph would become a legally influential log of the surveillance subject’s activities.

Lucas had spotted the pair an hour after the surveillance began, almost two weeks earlier. He didn’t know why they were watching, but as soon as he saw them, he stopped talking to his informants, to his friends, to other cops. He was living in a pool of isolation, but didn’t know why. He would find out. Inevitably.

In the meantime, he spent as much time as he could in the open, forcing the watchers to hide in their hot, confining wagon, unable to eat, unable to pee. Lucas smiled to himself, the unpleasant smile, the wolverine’s smile, put down Dickinson and picked up the Racing Form.

“You think the motherfucker is going to sit there forever?” asked the fat cop. He squirmed uncomfortably.

“Looks like he’s settled in.”

“I gotta pee like a Russian racehorse,” said the fat one.

“You shouldn’t of drank that Coke. It’s the caffeine that does it.”

“Maybe I could slide out and take a leak . . .”

“If he moves, I gotta follow. If you get left behind, Bendl will get your balls.”

“Only if you tell him, asshole.”

“I can’t drive and take pictures at the same time.”

The fat cop squirmed uncomfortably and tried to figure the odds. He should have gone as soon as he saw Lucas settle on the lawn, but he hadn’t had to pee so bad then. Now that Lucas might be expected to leave, his bladder felt like a basketball.

“Look at him,” he said, peering at Lucas through a pair of binoculars. “He’s watching the puss go by. Think that’s why we’re watching him? Something to do with the puss?”

“I don’t know. It’s something weird. The way it come down, nobody sayin’ shit.”

“I heard he’s got something on the chief. Lucas does.”

“Must have. He doesn’t do a thing. Wanders around town in that Porsche and goes out to the track every day.”

“His jacket looks good. Commendations and all.”

“He got some good busts,” the thin cop admitted.

“Lot of them,” said the fat man.

“Yeah.”

“Killed some guys.”

“Five. He’s the number-one gunslinger on the force. Nobody else done more than two.”

“All good shootings.”

“Press loves him. Fuckin’ Wyatt Earp.”

“Because he’s got money,” the fat man said authoritatively. “The press loves people with money, rich guys. Never met a reporter who didn’t want money.”

They thought about reporters for a minute. Reporters were a lot like cops, but with faster mouths.

“How much you think he makes? Davenport?” the fat one asked.

The thin cop pursed his meager lips and considered the question. Salary was a matter of some importance. “With his rank and seniority, he probably takes down forty-two, maybe forty-five from the city,” he ventured. “Then the games, I heard when he hits one, he makes like a cool hundred thou, depends on how well it sells.”

“That much,” said the fat one, marveling. “If I made that much, I’d quit. Buy a restaurant. Maybe a bar, up on one of the lakes.”

“Get out,” the thin one agreed. They’d had the conversation so often the responses were automatic.

“Wonder why they didn’t bust him back to sergeant? I mean, when they pulled him off robbery?”

“I heard he threatened to quit. Said he didn’t want to go backwards. They decided they wanted to keep him—he’s got sources in every bar and barbershop in town—so they had to leave him with the rank.”

“He was a real pain in the butt as a supervisor,” said the fat man.

The thin man nodded. “Everybody had to be perfect. Nobody was.” The thin man shook his head. “He told me once that it was the worst job he ever had. He knew he was messing up, but he couldn’t stop. Some guy would goof off one inch and Davenport would be on him like white on rice.”

They stopped talking for another minute, watching their subject through the one-way glass. “But not a bad guy, when he’s not your boss,” the fat cop offered, changing direction. Surveillance cops become expert at conversational gambit. “He gave me one of his games, once. For my kid the computer genius. Had a picture of these aliens, like ten-foot cockroaches, zinging each other with ray guns.”