"Listen, listen, listen…," Dichter was saying, his voice rising.

And she turned the corner and heard the last "listen" both through the phone and in person: Dichter was there, his back to her, talking into the pay phone. He felt the movement behind him and turned, his face going slack when he saw her face and the gun leveled at his forehead. He had just time to say, "No," and Rinker shot him.

The first shot went in between his eyes. The second and third went into the side of his head as he slumped down the wall, leaving blood lines down the yellow wallpaper.

The shots, even with the silencer, were loud, enough to attract attention. Rinker shoved the gun into her jacket pocket, screamed, and ran into the lobby. "Man's got a gun," she screamed. "Man's got agun…"

She was looking over her shoulder at the hallway, and somebody else screamed and the man with the suitcase ducked but didn't run. He was looking at the hallway where Dichter had fallen. She turned down the hall where she'd come in, out of sight from the lobby, now running, banged through the side exit, heard shouting behind her, forced herself to a walk, went to her car, was in, was rolling…

Was gone.

THERE WAS NO EASY WAY TO DRIVE TO St. Louis from the Twin Cities. The easiest was to head east into Wisconsin, then south through Illinois on the interstate highways.

The interstates were full of Highway Patrol cops, though, so Lucas took the Porsche straight south through Iowa, along secondary highways and country roads, spending a couple of extra hours at it but having a much better time. He eventually cut I-70 west of St. Louis and took it into town, arriving just after sunset on a gorgeous, warm August evening.

Dichter had been shot the night before, and Malone had called at midnight. As they spoke, Mallard was on his way to St. Louis with his Special Studies Group, with Malone to follow in the morning.

"No question it was her," Malone said. A late-night caffeinated excitement was riding in her voice. "Two people got a pretty good look at her, but nobody knew who she was. They thought the shooting was coming from somewhere else-she must have used a silencer-and they were all running around like chickens with their heads cut off. She got out of the place clean. Nobody saw her car or where she went."

"How'd she know Dichter was in the hotel?"

"She's got a stolen cell phone. Dichter was killed on a pay phone, and we traced the number he'd called to a phone owned by a guy from Clayton-that's just outside of St. Louis, to the west. The Clayton cops went to the guy's apartment and talked to the manager, who said the guy was in Europe. So they checked the apartment and found the place had been broken into, ransacked. We called the guy in Europe and asked about the cell phone, and he said it should have been home on the dresser in the bedroom. No phone. It'd been taken."

"How'd Rinker know Dichter'd be calling from that pay phone? Did she know him that well? Or was she watching him?"

"We don't know."

"If she's watching her targets, you could set up a surveillance net around anybody else she might go after. See if she comes in on them," Lucas said.

"We've talked about doing that. Take a lot of guys-maybe twenty at a time, three shifts. Sixty guys. That's a lot."

"How bad do you want her?"

"That bad," Malone admitted. "But we have to get the budget."

"St. Louis must have a few stolen-phone dealers. The cops should have some lines on who might be selling them."

"You don't think Rinker stole it?"

Lucas said, "Jesus Christ, no. She's not a burglar. She just knew about the guy who deals them, that's all. Probably a bar guy-she was a dancer, remember?-or a barbershop in the barrio, if they've got a barrio. Get somebody to look in the Latino community, or the African community-I'll bet there's a dealer who wholesales them to a couple of guys who retail them out to people who want to call Colombia or Somalia, like that. That's pretty common. A couple of dozen overseas calls will pay for a pretty expensive phone. Ask the St. Louis cops."

"I'll do that. Can you get down?"

"I'll drive down tomorrow," Lucas said.

"No problem with Weather?"

"Nope. She's pretty interested in the whole project, and she's far enough out on the pregnancy that she doesn't really need me here."

"See you then. I'm flying the first thing in the morning."

THE FBI CONTINGENT was housed in a block of rooms at the Embassy Suites Hotel, a couple of blocks off the waterfront. There was no garage, but Lucas found a spot within direct eyeshot of the front door, parked, and carried his bag inside to the reception desk.

"FBI?" asked the woman behind the desk, looking him over.

"No," Lucas said. So everybody knew the feds were in town. He pushed his American Express card at her. "I'd really appreciate something comfortable."

"That's not a problem," she said pleasantly. Her accent came from farther down the river. She was looking at a computer screen as they talked, and said, "I see you have a message."

She stepped to the left, looked through a file, produced an envelope, and passed it to him.

"Are there a lot of FBI people in the hotel?" Lucas asked.

"Mmm," she said. Then: "They think that lady killer is here-Clara Rinker."

"Here in the hotel?" She was nice-looking, a fair-skinned black woman, and Lucas thought a little moonshine couldn't hurt, especially with a southerner.

She picked up on it and smiled at him. "Not in the hotel, silly. In St. Louis."

"I'll look out for her."

They chatted as she checked him in, the kind of light southern flirting that established a mutual pleasure in the present company, with no implications whatever. The room was decent: The space was okay, with a small sitting room, the bed was solid, and if he pressed his forehead to the window, he could see the towboats working up the river. One was working up the river the first time he looked, maybe one of the same tows he'd see from his place in St. Paul. Not bad.

He dumped his bag on the bed, powdered his nose, splashed water on his face, and opened the envelope. The note said, "We're at the local FBI office. Easy to get to, too far to walk. Ask at the desk."

Though it was warm, he got a jacket, a crinkled cotton summerweight, before he headed out. Downstairs, the southerner was working the desk and he asked, "Can you tell me where the FBI office is?"

She looked at him, a little warily-was he hustling her, trying to extend the FBI comment?-and he said, "Really. I have a meeting."

"Big fibber," she said. "You said you weren't-"

"No, no, I'm not FBI. I just have a meeting."

"Well… if you're really not fibbing…"

"Really."

"Okay. If you were, it's only ninety-nine dollars federal rate for your room. You save fifty dollars."

She paused, but he shook his head. "Okay, the FBI building. It's about, ummm, twenty blocks from here. You want to go out this way to Market…" She pointed him out the door. He retrieved the Porsche, found Market, took a right, and five minutes later was easing into a parking space outside the FBI building. He'd expected a high-rise office with security. He got a low, flat fifties-look two- or three-story building that must have covered a couple of acres, with big green windows, a well-trimmed lawn, and a steel security fence on the perimeter. Lights were burning all through the building.

Inside the front door, a guard checked him off a list. Lucas declared no weapon, and the guard said, "We have a weapon pass for you, Mr. Davenport."

Lucas shrugged. "I thought it'd be better to leave it for now."

"Fine. I'll show you the conference room. Mr. Mallard is there now with the rest of the Special Studies Group." He handed Lucas a plastic card with a metal clip. "Put this on."