"Very well," Sellos said.

They left him behind the desk, worrying. Lucas said, " Wewon't talk to anyone, and you better not. I mean, we're a couple of friendly guys. I don't think Clara would be all that friendly."

Andreno left his beeper number with Sellos. Sellos said he'd call the minute Rinker got in touch with him, if she did. "You aren't gonna run, are you, John?" Andreno asked.

"No, no. Somebody would find me. Either you or Clara. I got nowhere to run to."

OUT ON THE STREET, Andreno stretched and yawned and looked down the quiet streets and up at the sky, and said, "What a great fuckin' night. This was more fun than I had in five years."

"Operating," Lucas said.

"That's exactly what it is," Andreno said, poking a finger at Lucas. "I'm operating again." After a moment: "Is there anything else I can do? Any other way I can cut into this?"

"Let me think about it," Lucas said. "I'll see what the feebs say tomorrow, when I drop Andy Levy on them. If Andy Levy isn't dead tonight."

LUCAS GOT UP EARLY, FOR HIM, A LITTLE after eight o'clock. He pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, went to the lobby and got a Post-Dispatch and a couple of Diet Cokes, returned to his room, lay in bed and drank the Coke and read the paper. Gene Rinker, in orange prison coveralls and chains, was on the front page, being taken into a jail somewhere, behind a row of shotgun-armed marshals.

A show. A movie. The FBI was making a movie about being tough, about kicking a little Rinker ass. The Post-Dispatch quoted Malone on Gene Rinker's arrest, and described her as a tough, flinty FBI agent, a veteran of the mob wars. A small photograph at the bottom of the story showed Malone talking to a marshal, looking flinty.

"Maybe she is," Lucas thought, and he extracted the comics and read them while room service put together some pancakes and bacon. During the leisurely breakfast, he started calling local banks, and got lucky with the fifth one.

LUCAS GOT TO the FBI building at nine-thirty. Loftus wasn't yet on duty; another man gave him his neck card and escorted him to the meeting room. When he stepped inside, the collected agents turned to look, and Mallard said, "We started at seven."

"Had a late night," Lucas said. "Out drinking."

"Oh, good," one of the male agents muttered.

"Let's try to keep ourselves together, folks," Mallard said, but he was exasperated. Behind him, on the white board, was an expanded list of names, heavy on the Italian.

"Rinker's probably going after a guy named Andy Levy. A banker," Lucas said, as he found a chair. He pulled it back from the table so he could stretch his legs. "She had a list of at least two guys when she came into town: Nanny Dichter and Andy Levy. There's an Andy Levy who's a vice president at First Heartland National Bank here in St. Louis. I don't know he's the one, but he's a possibility."

They all turned to look at him again. Malone, who'd been sitting in the corner poking at a laptop, asked, "Where'd you get this?"

"On the street," Lucas said. "While I was out drinking."

"Drinking with any specific guy?" asked the tomboy agent, who the day before had been wearing khaki. Now she was wearing an olive-drab blouse, with epaulets. Lucas liked the look, sort of square-shouldered Italian Army.

"Nobody specific," he said. "Just a bunch of guys."

"Maybe nothing to take seriously," said another one of the agents.

"Gotta take it seriously," Lucas said. "You don't take it seriously and Andy Levy gets hit, and the papers hear about it, then you're a laughingstock. That's not the FBI way. Or maybe it is, but it's not something you'd want to talk about."

"Who'd tell the papers?"

Lucas shrugged. "I might. I always liked newspaper guys."

Mallard said, "Ah, man-Lucas, let's step out in the hallway for a minute, huh? We gotta talk."

MALLARD PUSHED THE door shut, stood with his back to it, and asked, "Who's your source?"

"A guy I ran into last night," Lucas said. "If you wind up desperately needing him-and I can't see how that would happen-then I'll tell you who he is. Until then, the information's got to be enough."

"Is it good information?"

"It's good. It comes right out of Rinker's mouth. But I'm not sure the guy at Heartland is the right guy. Rinker's the one who called him a banker, and my source doesn't know if she meant a mob banker or a legit banker or what. If Levy's legit, maybe Rinker's got some money with him."

"That'd be good-that'd be really good. Anything else I ought to know?"

"Yeah. The AIC here is running another Rinker group out of his back pocket. Four guys named Striker, Allenby, Lane, and Jones, out of Intelligence. He doesn't like you being here. What that means is, there are about six groups of cops looking for the same woman and not finding her. But pretty soon, they're gonna start finding each other."

"Boy-you do keep your ear to the ground. Where'd you hear this? On the street?"

Lucas grinned. "Everybody knows about it. You're the last."

Mallard sighed and said, "Listen, I'm going over to talk to John Ross. That's really why I was a little anxious about your not being here. I want you to come along, and we're leaving in fifteen minutes."

"Could have called."

"Never occurred to me that you might be sleeping in," Mallard said. "I figured you were up to something… and I was right. And listen, take it easy in here, okay? I know they're a little chilly with outsiders."

"A little chilly, my ass. I almost froze to death last night," Lucas said. "I'm sure your guys are good at what they do, but that's not what I do. I think I'd be more valuable doing what I'm doing-hooking up with the locals, seeing who is doing what."

Mallard shrugged. "That's fine with me, as long as you stay in touch. I sort of value your input."

"I'll be around."

"Andy Levy, a banker," Mallard said.

"That's right."

"Let's go back in."

BACK INSIDE, Mallard looked at one of the agents and said, "I want you and four more guys on this Andy Levy, and I want a list of all the Andy Levys in the metropolitan area. As soon as we've got the right guy, I want a team on him around the clock. Start now-find him. Take whoever you want, except Sally."

The woman named Sally, in the epaulets, sat up and tapped the eraser end of a pencil on her yellow pad. Why not her? Mallard answered the question without being asked.

"Sally, Lucas is going to be running around town. I want you to run around with him as our liaison."

She shook her head, looked at Lucas, unhappy.

"I can't do that," Lucas said.

"Don't be a princess, Lucas," Malone snapped from the corner. "Take Sally. Her old man is a cop, her brother's a cop, she understands."

"I don't care if her father's the fuckin' Pope of Cleveland, I ain't taking her," Lucas said. "The people I talk to aren't going to talk to me if she's around."

"Don't tell them that she's with the Bureau."

Lucas looked at Mallard. "Think about the second piece of information I gave you. That'll give you a clue about where some of my sources are, and why I can't take Sally along."

"Are you… ah, man." He got it in one second. At least some of Lucas's sources were with the FBI. "All right. Sally, you work here with Malone, but Lucas, Sally's your contact with us. She'll get you what you need, from our side. Call her anytime day or night. Feed her everything you collect, all right? And try to get to the morning report on time. Seven o'clock, okay?

"Okay," Lucas said, with no sincerity whatever.

MALLARD WENT THROUGH the list of the day's assignments, then said to Malone, "I'm outta here. I doubt that we'll be with Ross for an hour, and I'll be on the phone the whole time."