'Yeah?'

'You're the only guy I know who's literally danced with the devil.'

Lucas saw the big window the minute he walked in the apartment door.

He had an advantage over Malone and the other FBI agents – when they'd first arrived, they were looking for Rinker herself, and didn't know about the blood on the floor. One of the FBI crime-scene techs pointed him around the apartment, and finally he asked, 'Did you check the outside window ledge on that big window?'

The agent looked at the window, and thinking fast, said, 'Not yet,' as if it were next on the list.

'Would it be all right to lift it up?'

'Let me get one of the guys to do it,' the agent said.

'What're you thinking?' Malone asked.

'I think carrying any body out of this place would take a fruitcake,' Lucas said. 'But throwing them out the window, if it's night time…' He peered out: 'They'd land right behind the garbage dumpster. You could back a car right up to them.'

One of the technicians came over, looked skeptically at the window, and said,

'Let me get this.'

Lucas stepped back and the tech unlocked the inner window, and lifted it easily.

The outer window was a convertible aluminum glass-and-screen affair; the glass had been pushed up, and the screen was in place. 'Screen's a little loose,' the tech said. He was working awkwardly through surgeon's gloves. 'Let me…'

He used a small pocket knife to slip the screen up an inch, which allowed him to pull it out of the frame. He leaned it against the wall, and they all looked at the bottom end of the screen, and the brick wall outside.

'Huh.'The tech grunted and got down close to the brick, leaning out through the window.

'What?' asked Malone, glancing quickly at Lucas.

'You know any reason why a brick would wear tweed?'

Wooden Head was being interrogated by a team of specialists from Washington.

Lucas and Malone watched for a few minutes, then left. If the team missed anything, Lucas wasn't smart enough to figure out what it would be – the team was taking Wooden Head apart inch by inch, and they were good.

'I'd suggest we get a bite at the Rink, but somebody would probably spit in the hamburger,' Malone said. 'So let's get something someplace else. Then maybe I can rent a car and get back home.' 'Really? You'd drive back instead of fly?'

'Really,' Lucas said.

'We've got a car going up later today, a couple of guys from the crime-scene crew to review the work at the last two killing scenes… you could ride along. I think they're leaving around three, and plan to drive straight through.'

'Sign me up,' Lucas said.

They stopped at a downtown diner, got a tippy table, and Lucas looked at one of the legs and told Malone, sitting opposite, 'See that lever on the end of the leg? There's a lever sticking up.' 'Yeah?'

'Push the lever toward me, with your foot.'

'What's that for?'

'It levels the table,' Lucas said.

Malone pushed the lever with her foot, and the table stopped tipping. 'Where'd you learn that?' she asked.

'I used to be a waitress,' he said. 'Before the operation.'

Over coffee and grilled-cheese sandwiches, Malone filled Lucas in on everything the FBI had figured out about Clara Rinker – they had her biography from childhood, but still no good pictures. 'She was in trouble a few times when she was a teenager, but nothing serious. Never got mugshot or printed. She was a runaway, and she might have had reason to be. We think she was probably raped a few times by her stepfather, who disappeared, by the way. And maybe by one of her brothers.'

'Did he disappear, too?'

'No, he's still around, but he doesn't talk much about her. He claimed he couldn't remember her.'

'That's helpful.'

'The picture sort of fills out, though. She's a sociopath, I think, but not a psychopath. She never showed that much enthusiasm for her work, she just did it very effectively. She had to take SAT tests to get into Wichita State, and she did okay: quite well on verbal skills, less good on math. About 700-550, which is pretty exceptional when you understand that she ran away from home in the ninth grade.'

'I knew she was smart,' Lucas said. 'She got out of here so cleanly that I expect she's got a hidey-hole somewhere. Digging her out could be tough, especially with those horseshit photos we've got so far. Say: I think I know from somewhere that the SAT people require photo IDs for their tests.'

'I don't know,' Malone said. 'But we'll check.'

'If that's blood you found on the ground behind the dumpster, and it comes from more than one person, then she's still out there. Otherwise, I don't know. It's hard to think that she's dead and gone. Outa reach.'

'Worse things have happened,' Malone said. 'At least the killing would stop, until they find somebody else. But I know what you mean; it'd be good to have her.'

'She got any foreign languages?' Lucas asked.

'Spanish,' Malone confirmed. 'She's in her fourth year of college Spanish, got

A's all the way through. One of our guys talked to her Spanish instructor, who said that if she goes South, across the border, she'll be speaking it like a native in six months. Said she was already pretty good, and had a good ear for the accent.'

'I wouldn't be surprised if she's already down there,' Lucas said. 'Goddamnit: we were an inch short about five times in a row.'

'What about the woman in Minneapolis – Garmel Loan?' Malone asked. She ate her cheese sandwich in small, tidy bites, pausing every second or third bite to dab her mouth with a napkin; she looked like a history professor, Lucas thought, but an oddly sexy one. Maybe that somehow explained how she'd been married four times, but none of the marriages lasted. Maybe her husbands-to-be expected a nice, reserved history professor, and got an animal instead; or, maybe, it was the other way around.

'I need to lay in my bed and think about Carmel,' Lucas said. 'Maybe I could z out in the back of the car this evening, going back home. But let me ask you this: given what we have right now, how convincing a case could you make against

Clara Rinker?'

Malone rolled her eyes up, and to one side, thinking. After a moment, still silent, she scratched the back of her neck, and wiggled in her seat. Finally, she said, 'We could probably get her. Sooner or later; give us enough trials, we could get her.'

'But it sure isn't open-and-shut.'

'Not quite,' Malone said. 'We'll probably get some prints, sooner or later. Find something she forgot about. But even if we put them with the prints you got off that bar of soap, all we'd do was prove that she was in Minneapolis. We have a mountain of evidence, we just don't have any direct tie. But I think the mountain would get her. Given the right jury.'

'So the same evidence could be applied to somebody else – it's not impossible that Clara's the wrong person,' Lucas said.

'Well, it's pretty improbable.'

'But…'

'… not impossible,' she agreed.

'You've got a lawyer with your group, don't you? Besides you?'

'Couple of them,' Malone said.

'Would it be possible to send one up to Minneapolis – the smartest one – with the whole Rinker file, and get with one of our assistant country attorneys and make a case against Louise Clark? That she was the shooter? I mean, we found the gun, we found all kinds of evidence that she committed at least one murder; I'd like to see what other evidence we could put together from other cases. If there is any.'

Malone was puzzled: 'But you said that was a put-up job. Why would you want to make that case?'

'Because, just between you, me, and the doorpost, I know damn well that Carmel

Loan helped set up these killings. I don't know exactly why, although sex might have had something to do with it – or it might not have. Maybe it was money, or just for fun. But she's in it, up to her neck. And I can tie Carmel to Clark. If