"Meetings are the water we swim in," Mallard said. He fussed with some paper. "But now we all agree who's running this particular investigation." He paused. "Me."

"What about the net on Levy?"

"We're all over him. He's in his office, and if he walks down the hall to the rest room, we'll know." He looked at Malone. "When I was listening to all that bullshit from Lewis, I was thinking about Levy. I want to contact him now. This afternoon. Get everything we can on him, go over there, tell him he's on Rinker's list, and ask him why. Find out if he knows her, or knows where her money is. At least get him cooperating with the net."

"What if he runs?" Malone asked.

"What if she kills him?" Mallard said.

They all thought about that for a moment, then Malone asked, "If you make the call, I can put it together in an hour."

Mallard looked at Lucas. "What do you think?"

Lucas shrugged. "If he decides to run, can you stop him? Running would be the safest thing for him-and he wouldn't even have to talk to you. If you have something-anything-that would keep him from leaving, I'd put it on him. Because if he has money ditched offshore somewhere, and he splits, it could be a long time before any of us see him again."

Mallard nodded. "We'll find something. You can't live in this country for two days without breaking some law, somewhere."

"You want me to put it together?" Malone asked.

Mallard nodded. "Yes. Do it."

RINKER HAD SPENT THE EARLY MORNING watching the outside of Andy Levy's mansion -mansionwas the only word she had for the place. She was parked a block and a half away, across a busy street, waiting for any kind of movement. She needed to know that he was home, and not hiding out somewhere else. She'd been waiting for an hour when the front door opened, and Levy, in a robe and slippers, stepped out on the stoop and picked up the newspaper, opening and turning it in his hands as he stepped back inside. He was reading the follow-up on the Dichter killing, she thought. If the story was anything like what she'd been watching on television, it should spook him even further. Before he closed the door, he looked carefully up and down the street. Even from a block away, he looked worried.

She grinned as she tossed the glasses on the passenger seat and put the car in gear. She needed him worried. She needed him eager to make a deal, eager to explain, eager to talk.

WHEN SHE GOT back to Pollock's, she found a copy of the Post-Dispatch on the kitchen table with a piece of typing paper on it; Dorothy had scrawled, "READ THIS." Rinker picked up the paper, didn't take in the headline at all, but saw the man in the orange suit and the chains, and there was a click of recognition but she couldn't place him, and then she thought, No, no…

They had Gene, and they were dragging him.

RINKER READ THE story through. An FBI agent, a woman named Malone-Rinker recognized the name from Minneapolis-was dragging Gene. Gene, she said, might provide clues to Clara Rinker's whereabouts, and was inclined to be cooperative because he'd been arrested for possession of drugs. This was his fourth arrest on drug charges, and this time, Malone said, he could be going away for a long time.

Rinker put the paper down, sprawled on the couch, and stared at the ceiling and thought about it. She thought for ten minutes, then rolled off the couch, still uncertain, walked out to the car, climbed inside. She needed someplace reasonably far away, like in Illinois…

She drove north, crossed the river, drove across East St. Louis without looking down, and on the outskirts found a truck stop with a half-dozen pay-phone booths designed for truckers. She got five dollars in quarters, checked the phone book, called 612 information, got the number, and called the Minneapolis police department and asked for Lucas Davenport.

The phone rang once, and a woman answered: "Marcy Sherrill."

"Is this Chief Davenport's office?" she asked.

"Yes, it is, how can I help you?"

"Can I speak to Chief Davenport, please?"

"I'm afraid he's not here right now… I'm not exactly sure when he'll be back. Could I help you, or have him call you?"

Rinker thought again, then frowned and asked, "Is he still in St. Louis?"

"Yes, I think so. Who is this, please?"

"Um… Charlotte. Could you tell him Charlotte called?"

Now the woman on the other end of the line sounded pissed. "Charlotte? Charlotte who?"

"Just… Charlotte. Thanks a lot." She hung up, then grinned to herself. Sounded like she had gotten Davenport in trouble.

She thought about crossing back to St. Louis, since Davenport was there. But the pile of quarters was right in front of her, with a couple of phone books, so she turned to the yellow pages, found "Hotels," and started calling those with the biggest advertisements. She found him on the fifth call. Nobody in his room. Thought another minute, looked around, found a white pages for St. Louis, looked up the FBI.

What was the name of the woman in Minneapolis? Marcy? Or Cheryl? Marcy, she thought.

She got a central switchboard at the FBI office and said, "My name is Marcy, and I'm with the Minneapolis Police Department. I work for Chief Lucas Davenport. Chief Davenport is there in St. Louis, working with Special Agent Malone. I really need to talk to him-it's an emergency with a case he's on."

"Please hold."

AND THEN, after a minute and a half on hold, like magic, after a click or two, Davenport was on the line. "Marcy?"

"Lucas?"

"Yeah… Is this Marcy?"

"No, actually it's not, Lucas."

A long silence, then, his voice gone suddenly deeper: "How've you been?"

"Not so good-but you should know about that." She could imagine the ferocious gesturing and waving on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, I heard you were hit pretty bad." He sounded calm enough. "I'm really sorry about the baby. My fiancйe is pregnant… I'm doing that whole trip myself. Gonna get married in the fall."

"Your fiancйe-anybody I'd know?"

"No. She's a doctor. Pretty tough girl. You'd probably like her."

"Maybe… but to cut the b.s., I just wanted to call you and to tell you to keep Gene out of this. I knew the federales were going to get involved, I wasn't surprised when I saw that woman Malone in the paper, but we all know that Gene isn't quite right. Putting him in jail won't help anything. I'm not going to come in-you can't blackmail me. But you can tell whoever's running that show over there that I take Gene real personally, and if they mess him up, if they put him in prison, or hurt him, or do any of that, then they better look to their families. I won't try to blow up the president. I'll start killing agents' husbands and wives, and you know I'll do it."

"I'll try to get him cut loose. But I'm not a fed." In the background, faint but clear, she heard a man's voice say, "She's not on her cell."

"You'd lie to me anyway," she said.

"Hey, Clara-I'd put your butt under the jail if I got my hands on you, but I'm not fuckin' with Gene. I think Gene is a bad idea, and I'll try to get him cut loose. I'm just not sure how much clout I've got."

"Okay." She looked at her watch. They'd been talking for exactly one minute. "I gotta go now. They're probably pretty close to busting this line. Give me your cell phone number."

"I don't have-"

"Goodbye."

"Wait, wait, wait… I was just trying to stall you." He read off the number, and Rinker jotted it down. Without saying goodbye again, she hung up, moved quickly out to her car, and put it on the highway back to St. Louis. Six miles out, an Illinois Highway Patrol car went by in a hurry, going east, all lights and no siren.

Maybe a train wreck, she thought.