“You think he’s in trouble?” Jean asked. “I don’t know- I’d just like to talk to this woman,” Lucas said

“She’s apparently the last person to see Dick Ford alive."

"Well, knowing Roy-he’s always been a little retarded around women- I’d say he’s going to take her to the place he thinks will impress her the most. That’s probably November.”

Lucas looked up: “November on Lyndale? I thought it closed."

"New management, but they kept the name,” she said. “Or he might go to Candy’s, but Candy’s is big on dancing and Roy doesn’t dance so much. And it’s loud. I think he wants to talk.”

“Thanks,” Lucas said, and he turned back to the stairs.

“If you want, I’ll ride along,” she offered. “If he’s not at November, maybe I could ask people that we know. Somebody will be there.”

“Let’s go,” Lucas said. In the car, Brandt said, “Roy is really sweet, but, you know, he doesn’t get so far with women. I don’t know why, he’s really a nice guy. So this one sort of hit on him the other night, actually got his work number. He’s been shaky about it ever since. Hoping she’d call.”

“Didn’t have a name?"

"He didn’t tell it to me, if he did,” Jean said. “Did he know a young woman named Frances Austin? She was killed, it was in the papers? She was Goth, or somewhat Goth, hung out at A1.”

“I don’t know. Roy hung out at A1 and he’s Goth. So probably,” Brandt said.

“Did you know her?"

"Not as far as I know. My friends are more from, you know, the south side and over toward Edina. Roy’s friends were more the university group.”

“Do you know Patricia Shockley or Leigh Price?” Lucas asked. She looked over at him in the dark, her moon face almost luminescent. “Well, yeah. I do. Are they involved?” He explained about Frances Austin, and she said, “Okay. If you hook up with a Goth, and they talk to you, you can follow a chain around to all the Goths in the Cities, and probably all over the country. So I know Leigh and Pat one way, and I know Roy another way, but if they know each other… I don’t know.”

NOVEMBER WAS A charcoal- colored concrete- block building with a long scrawling November above the doors in red neon. The parking lot had two dozen cars in it. Worried about getting parked in, Lucas left the Porsche on the street, a block away. Jean led the way back, and as they passed the parking lot, said, “That’s Roy’s car.” She pointed at an aging red Camry parked at the back of the lot.

“Excellent,” Lucas said. Inside the door, they stopped to scan the main room-black leatherette booths, around a U- shaped bar with subdued light, a harsh black and- white six- foot photo enlargement of Edvard Munch’s The Scream on the wall above the back bar. Jean turned to Lucas and said, “This way,” and headed for a booth with two couples, all Goth.

She asked one of the men, “Have you seen Roy?” The Goth looked around, “Yeah, he’s here."

"Is his friend with him?"

"Yeah. They’re right here.” He sat up a bit and craned his neck, looking toward the back room. “Maybe they went in the back?” They went into the back, found more booths, scattered around a twenty- by- twenty dance floor, no music yet, and only three couples in the booths. Jean went to one of the couples and asked, “Did you see Roy?”

“He was just here,” the man said. The woman flicked her finger toward a hall on one side. “Restroom. Just a minute ago.”

Lucas said, “Thanks,” to Jean, and headed toward the hall that led to the restrooms. The men’s room was empty; Jean saw him back out and said, “Let me look,” and went into the women’s restroom. A second later, she was back. “Only one person, and it’s not her.”

“You’re sure?” She said, “Roy called her a fairy. This woman”-she tipped a finger at the restroom door-“is a plus size. Maybe two- plus.” The hall went on past the restroom, and Lucas followed it out, thinking it might lead outside; but it was a loop, leading back to the main room, at the front. They stood there for a moment, peering at the tables, then one of the men they’d first spoken to saw them and pointed at the door.

They stepped over to the booth, and he said, “You talk to them? They just went out. Just now.”

There were only two people on the street, both guys, ambling down toward them, apparently heading for the club. Lucas looked in the parking lot, around to the side. The Camry was still there. He walked down to the corner, a hundred feet away, looked up and down the street. There were people about, no odd couple, no tall redheaded guy with a diminutive fairy girl.

Where in the hell had they gone?

FAIRY AND LOREN took the Honda, a five- year- old black Prelude SH with a stick shift and some engine work. Small, what car nuts called a q- ship: mild-looking but with a serious bite, put together by some nice Asian boys from St. Paul. With its high- revving engine and tight suspension, it felt, under Fairy’s butt, like the Batmobile.

They went west on I- 494, up 35E, west on I- 94, and off on Nicollet, cutting through back streets, driving with the stick, braking with the engine, spotting a street- parking spot under an elm tree. As she backed into the parking place, Loren said, “I bet he’s early. He’s eager.”

“Can you still feel Frances on him?"

"I can,” he said. “I can feel her spirit, her hand on his shoulder.” Fairy looked in the rearview mirror, saw the lights from a car turning into the November parking lot. A moment later, Roy Carter walked out of the lot, slowly, combing his hair, patting it down with one hand, straightening his shirt, tucking it in. “There he is.”

“Then, let’s go.” She popped the door, got out, shook out her skirt. Her purse had once been an art deco silver- and- onyx cigarette case, and held her driver’s license, two credit cards, four fifty- dollar bills and a twenty. The size of a clamshell, she held it in one hand, and it was so cool that other Goth women looked more at her purse than her face.

She crossed the street, as smooth as a leopard, the knife beating in her jacket pocket like a second heart. She paused inside the door, looked left and right, letting the black hair flip, and then Roy called, “Honey.”

She looked left and smiled at the name; he was standing next to a table with two other couples. She twiddled her fingers at them, cocked her head at Roy, pulled him in. He was a smooth- faced boy, maybe twenty- four, a few adolescent blemishes still spotting up one cheek. Light brown eyes, he’d have grown to be a light brown man, working wistfully unhappy in some service industry, behind a desk, with a name tag-that is, if he’d had a chance to do it. She said, “Why don’t we find a place in back?”

Away from witnesses. “Sure. Want a wine?"

"Let’s see if we can find a place.” They went into the back, and as they walked, she snagged the fingers of his right hand in her left, letting him lead by a step. She knew she was running about 440 volts through him, that the thing with the hand- holding would pull him through.

She looked in a mirror; would Francie be looking out at her? Would Francie have her hand on Roy’s shoulder? Nothing.

They got to a booth and she turned to sit down and happened to look back toward the front door and froze for a moment, then unfroze with the thought: Move.

Fairy turned her face up to Roy and said, “Just believe in me for two minutes. For two minutes. Come on. Hurry. Come on.” She pulled his hand and they went left down a hallway to the restroom and which, she hoped, went to a back door. But it didn’t-it led back to the main room. She peeked out. Wait, wait, wait…

“What?” Roy whispered. Then: “Hurry,” tugging at his fingers, and they scampered across the room and out the front door. In the cold air, she laughed and said, “Run.”