"The shooter in the stairwell was a woman,' Carmel said.

'The triumph of feminism,' Lucas said. 'We got equal-opportunity hitters.'

'Well…' Carmel flipped the photo back on the desk. 'On second thought, if you find her, call somebody else. She might be a little dangerous to know.'

'Especially if you lose the case.'

Carmel snorted as she went through the door. 'As if that might happen,' she said.

When Carmel got back to the apartment, she found Rinker's suitcase in the front hall, and Rinker just getting out of the bathroom, freshly showered, scrubbing her hair dry.

'So what happened?'

'We're clear,' Carmel said. She gave Rinker a short account of her talk with

Lucas. Rinker was pleased with the outcome. 'I'm outa here,' she said. 'I've got to get back to my business.'

'Do you have a reservation?'

'Yeah, for four o'clock,' Rinker said.

'I'll drive you out to the airport,' Carmel said. 'Listen, what do you do in the winter?'

'Mostly work,' Rinker said, fluffing her hair. 'Where I live, there's not a hell of a lot to do outside.'

'Same here… You ever go to Cancun? Or Cozumel?'

'Cozumel. Acapulco. A couple of times. Practice my Spanish.'

'I try to get out of here for at least three weeks after it gets cold – a week in November, a week in January and a week in March,' Carmel said. 'We ought to go together. I've got connections, in the hotels and so on. It's a good time.'

'Jeez,' Rinker said. She seemed oddly pleased, and Carmel got the impression she wasn't often invited places. 'That's sounds nice.'

'So call me in October, and if you can get away, I'll set up the hotels and everything, and you can set up your own plane reservations, and we'll meet down there.'

'I'd like that,' Rinker said. 'What do you do? Lay on the beach? Shop? I kinda like to boogie…'

'Listen, I know some guys there, and there are always guys around

… we'd be going around.'

Rinker held up a finger: 'Hold that thought, but this just popped into my mind, before I forget. The guns are in the closet. You gotta take them down and throw them in the river, or bury them somewhere. Also the box of shells – the shells are with the gun. They're the only things left that can hang us.' 'I sorta like them,' Carmel said. 'Fine. Spend a few hundred bucks and get a nice clean gun of your own. I can make a call, and have one sent to you: brand new, cold, no registration to worry about. If you want a silencer, I can handle that, too. But the guns in the closet have gotta go. I'm nervous having them here, even hidden.

You gotta do it; I'll call you every ten minutes until it's done.'

'We can dump them in the river by the airport,' Carmel said. 'I know a place – then you won't have to worry.'

'Excellent,' Rinker said. She cocked her head. 'Listen, if we go to Cancun, what about my hair? I've always had the feeling that it's a pretty small-town cut, you know, like I'm already middle-aged or something. I thought…'

Carmel did cartoon breath-intake, and held her fingers to her breast: 'There's this woman down there, I've had my hair done every time I've gone down, she's a genius…'

Talking about Mexico, they almost forgot the guns. With the door open, and

Rinker's suitcase in the hall, Carmel snapped her finger and whispered, 'The guns.' She went back to get them, and fumbled the box of shells. There were still thirty-odd shells in the box, and they flew everywhere. Carmel hastily scooped them up, pushed them back in the box, and hurried to the door.

Before going to the airport, Carmel took Rinker to the flats below Fort Snelling on the Minnesota River. 'The fort's just a relic,' Carmel said, as they looked up the bluff at the revetments. 'The first thing ever built here, that's still around, anyway. The Army had a death camp for Indians right where we're standing. This was after the big revolt… they hanged thirty-eight Indians in a single drop, down in Mankato. This area, this is where they kept the survivors, especially the woman. Half of them died during the winter; most of the women were raped by soldiers.' 'Happy story,' Rinker said.

'I don't know what I'd do if I got raped, but it'd be something unpleasant, if I got my hands on the guy,' Carmel said.

'I bet,' Rinker said. She didn't mention the guy named Dale-Something. They found a quiet path along the river, checked to make sure there was nobody watching, and pitched the guns into a deep spot.

'That's it,' Rinker said. 'We're all done.'

On the way back from the airport, Carmel called Hale Allen.

Allen said, 'God, I was trying to get you earlier in the afternoon. Are you coming to the funeral tomorrow?'

'I was trying to get you, but all I got was your machine,' Carmel said. 'We've got some things to talk about. I spoke to Lucas Davenport this afternoon…'

'What? What'd he say?' Allen was anxious.

'I'm in my car, and I hate to talk on this cell phone. Why don't I just stop by?

I could be there in twenty minutes.'

'Twenty minutes,' he said, with an uncertain note in his voice. 'Okay. See you in twenty.'

Not the most eager lover she'd ever had, Carmel thought as she ended the phone call. On the other hand, he didn't know they were lovers. Not yet.

In a couple of hours, he would. A certain kind of man, sharks-in-the-water, attorneys more often than not, alone with Carmel, would produce a pass.

Sometimes, depending on her mood and the man, Carmel would receive the pass, and things would proceed. Carmel was far from a virgin, but had never had a long term sexual relationship. One woman, who was almost a friend, had once confided to Carmel that one of her ex-suitors had said, to a number of people at a party, that Carmel frightened him. He felt like the fly, and she was the spider.

Carmel pretended to be puzzled by the comment, but wasn't entirely displeased: fear wasn't the worst thing to instill in a man, especially the man who made the comment, who was something of a thug himself. Still, after that, she tried to soften her bedroom image, tried to slow down a little. But she really didn't much care for the weight of a man pressing her down, the trapped feeling gasping over his shoulder, staring at the ceiling while he flailed around on top. And she was a little picky. She didn't like hairy shoulders -even less, hairy backs. She didn't like chest hair that connected with pubic hair. She didn't care for bald men or the untidiness of uncircumcised men; she didn't care for men who burped, or whose breath smelled of anything cooked, or who peed with the bathroom door open, or farted.

Orgasms didn't often happen, not with men; her best orgasms came alone, in the bathtub. Hale would change that, she thought. If not right away, she could train him.

Hale Allen lived on a quiet, upperclass street off one of the lakes, far enough from the crowds to have a certain peace in the evening, without the constant to ing and fro-ing of thin young women with earphones and blades; but at the same time, close enough that residents could walk down and enjoy the mix when they wished to. The house was long and white, with lake-green shutters and a yellow bug light over the central door, and a long driveway that curved up a slope past fifty-year-old burr oaks. A small white sign at the edge of the driveway warned burglars that the house was protected by Insula Armed Response.

Carmel left the Jag under the spreading arms of an oak and rang the doorbell. A moment later, she heard the muffled pounding of stocking feet on a stairs, and then Hale opened the door, a white terry cloth towel in his hand. He smiled and backed up and said, 'Come on in,' and rubbed his damp hair with the towel. He looked like something off the perfume pages of Esquire. She had never been inside his house – Barbara Allen's house, it turned out, was decorated with a cool and discerning eye, a mix of pieces new and old. But nothing fabulous: