"Wait-"

The maddog hung up, hurried to his car, and drove away. In a block he started to giggle with the excitement of it. He hadn't anticipated the surge of joy, but it was there, as though he'd survived a personal combat. And he had, in a way. He had touched the face of the enemy.

Lucas was sitting at the drafting table, a printout of the rules for Everwhen on the tabletop. He rubbed his late-night beard, thinking. The notes. The guy knew the notes. And the accent was there, and it was right. Barely perceptible, but it was there. Texas. New Mexico.

He picked up the phone and dialed Daniel.

"It's Davenport."

The chief was unconscious. " Davenport? You know what time it is?"

Lucas glanced at his watch. "Yeah. It's twelve minutes after two in the morning."

"What the fuck?"

"The maddog just called me."

"What?" Daniel's voice suddenly cleared.

"He quoted the notes to me. He had the accent. He sounded real."

"Shit." There was a five-second pause. "What'd he say?"

Lucas repeated the conversation.

"And he sounded real?"

"He sounded real. More than that. He sounded pissed off. He'd seen Jennifer's piece, about how I didn't think Smithe did it. He wants me to set things straight. Man, he wants the credit."

There was a long silence. "Chief?"

Daniel moaned. "So now we got Smithe in jail and the maddog is about to rip another one."

"We've got to start backing away from Smithe. Go butter up the public defender tomorrow. McCarthy is sucked on Smithe's neck like a lamprey. If we can get him off, maybe we can talk some sense to the guy about giving us an alibi. If he does-if he gives us anything-we can turn him loose."

"If he doesn't?"

"I don't know. Keep trying to work something out. But if the guy who called me is real, and I'd bet my left nut on it, then I suspect Smithe will come up with something. He's had some time in Hennepin County now, and you know that place."

"Okay. Let's do it that way. God, the first appearance was fourteen hours ago, and we're already doing a two-step. I'll talk to the PD tomorrow and see if there's a deal somewhere. You stop at homicide in the morning and make a statement on the phone call. The preliminary hearing is Monday? If we're going to move, we ought to do it before then. Or the maddog may do it for us. That'd be a real turd in the punch bowl, wouldn't it?"

"The guy usually hits at midweek," Lucas said. "This is Thursday morning. If he follows the pattern, he'll do it tonight or wait until next week."

"He said 'the near future' on the phone?"

"Yeah. It doesn't sound like he was ready to go. But then, he could be… dissembling."

"Good word."

"He started it. I'm sitting here trying to remember the exact words he used, and he used some good ones. 'Dissent' and 'miscarriage.' Maybe some more. He's a smart guy. He's had some education."

"Glad to hear it," Daniel said wearily. "Fuck it. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

When he got off the phone, Lucas couldn't focus on the game and finally left it. He wandered out to the kitchen, got a beer from the refrigerator, and turned out the light. As the light went out, a yellow-and-white rectangle caught his eye and it meant something. He took a step down the hallway, frowned, stepped back, and turned on the light. It was the cover on the phone book.

"Where'd he get my number?" Lucas asked aloud.

Lucas was unlisted.

"The goddamn office directory. It has to be."

He picked up the phone and dialed Daniel again, but the line was busy. He put the phone back on the hook, paced for one minute by his watch, and dialed again.

"What, what?" The chief was snarling now.

"It's Davenport again. Just had an ugly thought."

"Might as well tell me," Daniel said in vexation. "It'll add color to my nightmares."

"Remember back when you had me under surveillance? Thought it might be a cop, and you had a couple of reasons?"

"Yeah."

"This just occurred to me. The guy called me at home. The only place my number is listed is in the office directory. And that Carla identified one of the pictures she had seen as a cop…"

"Uh-oh." There was another long silence; then, "Lucas, go to bed. I got Anderson out of the sack to tell him about the call. I'll call him again and tell him about this. We can figure something out tomorrow."

"We'd look like idiots if Carla fingered the guy in our lineup and we ignored it."

"We'd look worse than that. We'd look like criminal conspirators."

The phone rang again and Lucas cracked his eyelids. Light. Must be morning. He looked at the clock. Eight-thirty.

"Hello, Linda," he said as he picked up the phone.

"How'd you know it was me, Lucas?"

"Because I have a feeling the shit hit the fan."

"The chief wants to see you now. He says to dress dignified but get down here quick."

Daniel and Anderson were huddled over the chief's desk when Lucas arrived. Lester was sitting in a corner, reading a file.

"What's happened?"

"We don't know," Daniel said. "But the minute I walked in the door, the phone rang. It was the public defender. Smithe wants to talk to you."

"Great. Did you say anything about the call last night?"

"Not a thing. But if he's ready to alibi, maybe we can find a way to dump the whole thing on McCarthy… something along the lines of Smithe decided to cooperate and with his cooperation we were able to eliminate him as a suspect. We could come out smelling like a rose."

"If we can eliminate him," Anderson said.

"What about this cop?" Lucas asked "The one Carla picked out?"

"I came down last night after the chief called," Anderson said. "I pulled the rosters. He was on duty when Ruiz was attacked, with a partner, up in the northwest. I talked to his partner and he confirms they were up there. They took a half-dozen calls around the time of the attack. We went back and checked the tapes, and he's on them."

"So he's clear," said Lucas.

"Thank Christ for small favors," Daniel said. "You better haul ass over to the detention center and talk to Smithe. They're waiting for you."

McCarthy and Smithe waited in a small interrogation room. The decor was simple, being designed to repel bodily fluids. McCarthy was smoking and Smithe sat nervously on a padded waiting-room chair, rubbing his hands, staring at his feet.

"I don't like this and I'm writing a memorandum to the effect," McCarthy spat as Lucas walked in.

"Yeah, yeah." He looked at Smithe. "Could I ask you to stand up for a minute?"

"Wait a minute. We wanted to talk-" McCarthy started, but Smithe waved him down and stood up.

"I hate this place," he said. "This place is worse than I could have imagined."

"Actually, it's a pretty good jail," Lucas said mildly.

"That's what they tell me," Smithe said despondently. "Why am I standing up?"

"Flex your pecs and stomach for me."

"What?"

"Flex your pecs and stomach. And brace yourself."

Smithe looked puzzled, but dropped his shoulders and flexed. Lucas reached out with his fingers spread and pushed hard on Smithe's chest, then dropped his hand and pushed on his stomach. The underlying muscles felt like boards.

"You work out?"

"Yeah, quite a bit."

"What's this about?" McCarthy asked.

"The woman who survived. The killer grabbed her from behind, wrapped her up. She said he felt kind of thick and soft."