EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, the door to the professor’s attached garage lifted with a metallic groan, causing Thorsson and his partner to bolt upright in the front seat of their van. Peering into the bowels of the garage from their parking spot across the street, the agents saw a young woman in a pea coat and baggy jeans exit through a service door and slide into the front passenger seat of a Saab sedan. A purse was slung over her shoulder, and a paper grocery bag was in her arms. Ten seconds later, Wakefielder walked out of the service door, went over to the driver’s side of the sedan, and got behind the wheel. The Saab started up with a smoky cough and backed out of the garage. After a stall in the middle of the street—during which the two agents flattened themselves on the bench of the dry cleaner’s van—the Saab restarted and chugged south down the street.

Thorsson called Garcia at home while his partner—a young, freckled redhead who always looked startled—turned on the van’s engine and steered out of their parking spot.

“He’s on the move,” Thorsson said into his cell. “The woman’s with him. She’s carrying something in a sack.”

“Probably the puke clothes,” Garcia said. “Where are they right now? In what direction are they headed?”

A pause while Thorsson got his bearings. “They just turned onto Cleveland. Heading south.”

“Keep me apprised. Any big moves, give me a call immediately. Need help tailing them?”

Thorsson said, “Red and I have it under control, sir.”

“The kid’s behind the wheel?”

“He’s from these parts, sir.”

“I know. Good. That’s good.”

Thorsson, with great reluctance in his voice, asked, “Should I give Agent Saint Clare the heads-up?”

“I’ll do it,” said Garcia. “You two just keep your eyes on the prize.”

Thorsson closed his phone and snarled, “That Breast Fed is leading Garcia around by the short hairs.”

As he navigated the dry-cleaning van, Red kept the Saab at a distance of about a block. “Why do you say that?”

“She’s got him convinced that there’s a serial killer running around. What a bunch of bullshit. I hope she falls on her ass on this one. Right on her bony ass.”

“I think she’s got a nice ass, actually,” said Red.

“I’m not talking to you for the rest of the day,” said Thorsson.

BERNADETTE FLOPPED onto her stomach, reached over to her night-stand, and knocked the ringing object to the floor. She felt as if she’d just fallen asleep. Stretching her arm down, she fumbled around on the floor until her fingers found the phone. “What?” she croaked into the cell.

“Wakefielder and the girl are on the move. Thorsson just called it in.”

Kicking off the covers, Bernadette jumped out of bed and scooped her jeans off the floor. “Where’re they headed?”

“South on Cleveland.”

She danced into her jeans while cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder. “Could be they’re going to the Minneapolis campus. If she’s a student, she might live around there.”

“Aren’t they taking a roundabout way?”

She stepped into her sneakers. “Yes and no. They’d go from Cleveland to Raymond to University Avenue. It works, especially if she lives close to the St. Paul border.”

“What do you want to do?”

She picked a sweatshirt up off the floor, grabbed her gun, and started spiraling down the stairs. “Did you say Thorsson is doing the tailing?”

“The kid is driving.”

“There’s some hope we won’t lose them, then.”

“Yeah. My thoughts.”

“I’m going to tool on over to the east bank,” she said. “I might luck out and get in on the fun.”

“Stay in contact.”

BERNADETTE HAD GUESSED the professor’s path exactly. The Saab went along Cleveland Avenue and followed the fork onto Raymond Avenue. The tree-lined residential area gave way to a stretch of neighborhood storefront businesses. Thorsson ogled a coffee shop as they rolled past it and ran his tongue over his top lip. “I’d love a cup of java.”

“Then you’d have to pee,” said Red.

“I got an empty pop bottle in back.”

Wakefielder, in the right lane, braked at a red light at University. A Saturn compact in the right lane separated the van from its target. When the Saab’s turn signal started flashing, Thorsson called Garcia. “We’re on Raymond at University, and he’s preparing to take a right.”

“The east bank of the U is a couple of miles from there,” Garcia told him. “Saint Clare’s thinking that’s where they’re headed. She’s on her way over.”

Silence on Thorsson’s end. Then: “We’ll be glad for the help, sir.”

The light turned green, and the Saab hung a right. The Saturn did the same, and the van followed. “Here we go. We’re on University heading toward the Minneapolis border.”

“I’m gonna call Saint Clare and update her,” said Garcia.

“You do that, sir.” Thorsson closed his phone and growled, “That little witch.”

Red gave his partner a quick sideways glance and kept driving. For a Saturday morning, traffic was heavy. At a red light, Red propped his elbow on the van’s door and rested the side of his head in his hand. “I’m starving.”

“Me, too. I could go for a Whopper. Let’s hit a Burger King after we turn over the baby-sitting duties.”

Red checked his watch. “That’s hours away.”

“Christ. I feel like we’ve been on the road for a week.” Thorsson glared past the Saturn at the Saab. “What has he been doing? Ten under the limit?”

“He’s had traffic in front of him,” said Red.

After the light turned green, the Saab, the Saturn, and the van paraded through the intersection. The Saturn swerved into the left lane and hung a left, vanishing down a side street. Trying to keep his distance, the agent slowed to a crawl. An Audi pulling out of an office building’s parking lot slipped between the Saab and the van. To be safe, Red hung back a little more and let another car join the motorcade.

“Careful,” cautioned Thorsson.

“I know what I’m doing,” said his partner.

A couple of blocks to the Minneapolis border, the agents saw the Saab ease to the curb and stop in front of a duplex. “Now what?” wondered Thorsson.

Hanging back half a block, the van pulled to the curb. There were no other vehicles parked between them and the Saab. Red fished a clipboard out from under the driver’s seat while his partner reached behind and grabbed a shirt encased in dry cleaner’s plastic.

Red asked, “Should we call Garcia back so he can call Saint Clare?”

Thorsson said, “We don’t need her holding our dicks for us.”

“I guess we could wait and see what’s up first.”

The Saab’s front passenger and driver’s doors popped open in unison. Wakefielder got out, went around the car, and offered his hand to the girl. Ignoring his gesture, she got out of the car and headed for the front door of the duplex, weaving a bit while she walked. The professor reached inside the Saab, took out the paper bag, and followed the girl, standing at her elbow while she foraged in her purse. She dropped the purse, and the professor picked it up. She snatched it out of his hand and resumed her digging, swaying while she did so.

“Is she drunk or what?” asked Red.

“Fucking early for that shit,” said Thorsson.

She finally produced a key, worked the lock and knob, and pushed the door open. She ripped the bag from the professor’s hand, went inside, and slammed the door in his face.

Even from half a block away, the agents could see the tension. “Trouble in paradise,” said Thorsson.

Red craned his neck while scratching on the clipboard. “I got the address.”

“Good,” said Thorsson.

Wakefielder got back into the Saab and started it up.

“Do we stay with her or go after him?” asked Red.