“Thanks, Harmon.”

She turned and almost bumped into Lucas. He caught a faint scent that was neither water chestnut nor cigar, something expensive from Paris. Anderson said to her, “Do you know Lucas? Davenport?”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, stepping back and offering her hand. Lucas took it and shook once, smiling politely. She was larger than he’d thought at first. Deep-breasted, a little pudgy. “You’re the guy who blew up the Maddog.”

“He’s the one,” Anderson said from behind her. “You get anything, Lucas?”

“Maybe,” Lucas said, still looking at the woman. “Harmon didn’t mention your name.”

“Lily Rothenburg,” she said. “Lieutenant, NYPD.”

“Homicide?”

“No. I work out of the . . . out of a precinct in Greenwich Village.”

Anderson’s head was swiveling between them like a spectator at a tennis match.

“How come you’re on this one?” Lucas asked. Inside his head, he was doing an inventory. He was wearing a $400 Brooks Brothers tweed sport coat with a pale rose stripe, a dark-blue shirt, tan slacks and loafers. He should look pretty good, he thought.

“Long story,” she said. She nodded at the manila envelope in his hand. “What did you get? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“A photograph of Bluebird taken on the first of August,” he said. He took the photo out of the envelope and handed it to her. “He’s the guy with the rifle over his shoulder.”

“Who are these people?” A small frown line appeared on her forehead, connecting her bushy dark eyebrows.

“A group of Sioux vision-seekers and a couple of medicine men. I don’t know who’s who, but they had guns and Bluebird was with them a month ago.”

She looked at him over the top of the photograph and their eyes clicked together like two pennies in a pocket. “This could be something,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

“Friend,” Lucas said.

She broke her eyes away and turned the photo over. The remnants of routing slips were pasted on the back. “A newspaper,” she said. “Can we get the other shots on the roll?”

“Think it’d be worth the trouble?”

“Yes,” she said. She put her index finger on the head of one of the figures in the photo. “See this guy?”

Lucas looked at the photo again. The tip of her finger was touching the head of a stocky Indian man, but only the outer rim of his face and one eye were visible. The rest was eclipsed behind the head of another figure in the foreground.

“What about him?” He took the photograph and looked more closely at it.

“That could be our man,” she said. “The guy who lit up Andretti. It looks a lot like him, but I need a better shot to be sure.”

“Whoa.” Anderson eased out of his chair to take a look. The lumpy mound of Bear Butte was in the background, gray and brooding, a lonely northern outpost of the Black Hills. In the foreground, a group of Indians, wearing calico shirts and jeans, were gathered behind one of the elderly medicine men. Most of the men were looking to the left of the camera, toward a group of sheriff’s deputies. Bluebird was there with his gun, one of the few who were looking more or less at the camera.

“So how do we get back to your friend and see what else is on the negatives?” Lily asked.

“I’ll talk to the chief tonight,” Lucas said. “We’ll have to meet with some of the people at the paper tomorrow morning. First thing.”

“Tomorrow?” she snapped, incredulous. “Christ, the guy’s on his way here right now. We’ve got to get going tonight.”

“That would be . . . difficult,” Lucas said hesitantly.

“What’s difficult? We get the negs, print them and find somebody who knows my guy’s name.”

“Look, I know the papers here. They’ll need three meetings and eight consultations before they’ll make the pictures,” Lucas said. “That won’t get done tonight. There’s no way that we’ll see the negatives.”

“If we put on enough heat . . .”

“We’re talking bureaucracy here, okay? We can’t move it faster than it’s willing to move. And if we go tonight, there’s a good chance I’ll burn my friend. The first thing they’ll do is look at their files, and they’ll find their record photo’s gone. I don’t want to do that. I want to get it back in the file.”

“Jesus Christ, you fuckin’ . . .” She snapped her mouth shut.

“Shitkickers?”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” she lied.

“Bullshit. I’ll tell you what. I’ll get as much done tonight as can get done. All the newspaper people will get called, it’ll all be explained, they can have all their meetings, and we’ll be over there at eight tomorrow morning, looking at prints.”

Her eyes searched his face for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said finally.

“Look,” said Lucas, trying to win her over. “Your killer is driving a junker. If he pushed it as hard as he could, he wouldn’t get here until tomorrow night anyway. Not unless he’s got a relief driver and they really hammered it out the whole way.”

“He was alone in the motel . . . .”

“So we don’t lose anything,” Lucas said. “And I save my friend’s ass, which is a pretty high priority.”

“Okay,” Lily said. She nodded, her eyes on his face, then stepped past him toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Harmon.”

“Yeah.” Anderson looked after her as she went through the door. When she was gone, he turned to Lucas, a small smile playing on his face.

“You got the look,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Like a bunch of people look after they talk to her. Like you been hit on the forehead with a ball-peen hammer,” Anderson said.

• • •

Daniel was eating dinner.

“What happened?” he asked when Lucas identified himself.

“We came up with a photo from the StarTribune,” Lucas said. He explained the rest of it.

“And Lillian thinks he might be the killer?” Daniel asked.

“Yeah.”

“Damn, that’s good. We can get some mileage out of this. I’ll talk to the people at the Trib,” Daniel said. “What do you think about the approach?”

“Tell them we need the rest of the negatives on that roll and any other rolls they have. Argue that the photos were taken at a public news event, that there is no secret film involved—nothing involving sources, nothing confidential. Tell them if they help catch Andretti’s killer, we’ll give them the story. And they’ll already have the exclusive pictures that solved the assassination.”

“You don’t think they’ll pull the confidentiality shit?” Daniel asked.

“I don’t see why they should,” Lucas said. “The pictures weren’t confidential. And we’re talking about serial assassination of major political figures, not some kind of horseshit inciting-to-riot thing.”

“Okay. I’ll call now.”

“We need them as early as we can get them.”

“Nine o’clock. We’ll get them by nine,” Daniel said.

Lucas hung up and dialed the StarTribune library. He gave his friend a summary of what had happened and arranged to meet her near the paper’s offices.

“It’s kind of exciting,” she whispered as she leaned over his car. He handed her the manila envelope. “It’s like being a mole, in John le Carré.”

He left her in a glow and headed home.

Lucas lived in St. Paul. From his front-room window, he could see a line of trees along the Mississippi River gorge and the lights of Minneapolis on the other side. He lived alone, in a house he once thought might be too big. Over ten years, he’d spread out. The double garage took an aging Ford four-wheel-drive that he used for backcountry trips and boat-towing. The basement filled up with weights and workout pads, a heavy bag and a speed bag, shooting gear and a gun safe, tools and a workbench.

Upstairs, the den was equipped with a deep leather chair for dreaming and watching basketball on television. One bedroom was for sleeping, another for guests. He’d converted a third bedroom into a workroom, with an oak drawing table and a bookcase full of references.