Just two sentences, but they acknowledged at last the rumor that had been circulating in Minneapolis ’s law-enforcement community for months. The Monday morning after the article ran, there was a very awkward silence when I arrived at work.

What bothered me most was this, though: after the Strib story ran, I saw something in the eyes of the young male rookies when they looked at me. I saw respect. They believed I’d killed Royce Stewart, and they thought better of me for it.

It would have been an easier burden to bear if it had been shared by my ex-partner and my husband. I didn’t blame them for not being here. Genevieve had been wise to get away, safely out from under the growing cloud of suspicion and speculation. And Shiloh, of course, had been imprisoned; he was not gone by choice. But I felt their absence every day. They were more than my immediate family. They were my history here in Minneapolis. Shiloh and Genevieve had known each other before I’d met either of them. That was why, even when the three of us weren’t together on a daily or even a weekly basis, there had been a web of interconnectedness between us that gave me a sense of stability. Without them, I had lost something deeper than daily companionship, something I felt the lack of in conversations with co-workers that were polite and pleasant and nothing more than that.

As two months turned into three, four, and five, still I wasn’t charged with anything, and I realized that the investigation was stalled, perhaps forever. But I understood something else: if I would never be outright accused of Stewart’s murder, neither would I ever be exonerated. At work I sensed a silent verdict: probably guilty by reason of persistent rumor. My lieutenant did not assign me another partner. The major-crimes and missing-persons work that Gen and I had done dried up, replaced with interim and odd assignments. Like the one I had tonight.

“Excuse me, have you seen this boy?”

A middle-aged woman was showing a photograph around on the avenue where I was working. She was flagging down passersby, trying to find someone who’d seen a runaway teenager.

Out of professional interest, I moved to intercept the woman. She registered me coming and turned to make eye contact. Then her face quickly shut down and she turned away. She didn’t see a kind, interested stranger, much less a cop. She saw a hooker.

I couldn’t blame her. It’s what I’d intended.

Prostitution-decoy work was more commonly done by metro police departments, but there’s often a need for fresh faces, so I was on loan. Tonight I was posted on a heavily trafficked avenue south of downtown Minneapolis, not far from the business district, where undercover officers like me vacuumed up out-of-towners looking for a good time, as well as local salarymen leaving the bars after their end-of-day cocktails.

A civilian might have been surprised at how simply I was dressed. That’s one of the first things you learn: no miniskirt, no high heels, no seamed stockings. Genevieve had explained it to me, years ago.

“Street workers can’t afford to advertise themselves to cops,” she’d said. “Besides, I think a lot of them are just too tired. Psychologically, they can’t bring themselves to treat this like a job.”

So, early this evening, I’d pulled on a pair of jeans and boots, a white V-necked T-shirt, and a cheap reddish imitation-leather coat. The makeup, more than wardrobe, was important. I used a thick, pale concealer stick, not in trouble spots, as prescribed, but all over my face, creating an unhealthy pallor. After that came mascara and eyeliner pencil. “Eyeliner’s the best,” Genevieve had said. “Nothing ejects you from the ranks of the Camry-driving middle classes like eye pencil.”

The number one tip-off out on the street, though, isn’t your clothes or makeup but demeanor. It’s that guarded little bend from the waist that street workers do, looking through car windows. That’s what tells the men who you are.

But tonight, I was having no luck. Men passed on the street in cars, on the sidewalk on foot. They looked at me, some of them, but none stopped, and I didn’t try to stop them. The idea to commit a crime has to originate with the arrestee, not the officer, otherwise it’s entrapment.

At least it was a pleasant night to be outside.

May weather in the Twin Cities is anybody’s guess. It could bring a record heatwave. Or a series of bone-rattling, drenching thunderstorms, the kind that started up in the mornings and worsened as afternoon came on, until they shaped their anger into destructive tornadoes outside the city, on the farmland and the prairie. Conversely, it was possible that a freak storm could blow into Minnesota in the next few days and dump inches of snow on us.

The latest had been two days of storms, rains that were fitful but kept coming back, often torrentially, overloading the gutters and the drains. Tonight was a pleasant exception; the clouds had parted to reveal a polished twilight sky. But the aftereffects of the rain were everywhere: the roads were still dark with it, and the air smelled clean and damp.

A bus swept to the curb, picking up a teenager in a wheelchair. When it wallowed back into traffic and away, I saw that I’d attracted someone’s attention. A late-model, midsize car was pulled to the curb across the street. Mentally, I wrote up the man inside: white, mid-thirties, hair color brown with some gray on the temples, eye color unknown, no distinguishing marks or scars on the face. Clothes I couldn’t see much of, except for the dark knot of a tie against his white shirt.

Something else, too: there was no sexual interest in his eyes. None at all, yet he didn’t break his gaze.

Come on, you need a first arrest of the night. Get him over here and bust him.

I walked a few paces, tried to swing my hips a little. Turned to make eye contact again, sending him an overtly questioning look.

The man pulled into traffic and away.

What was that all about? Lost his nerve, maybe. Dammit.

I paced another five minutes before, at last, a car slid to the curb on my side of the street, a Chevy sedan about fifteen years past its prime. It had, I noticed, Arkansas plates.

I walked to the curb and bent slightly from the waist, looking in through the rolled-down window. The driver who looked back was white, with thick, tawny hair that fell over the top of his squarish black-rim eyeglasses. He was thin in build, save for the beginnings of softness at his middle, and his large hands, on the wheel, were freckled from sun exposure.

Disheartened, I glanced toward the backseat. A half-folded map was trying to accordion out across the top of a duffel bag, and a fishing rod was propped diagonally from the floor on one side to the rear-window shelf on the other, on which rested a well-worn Houston Astros cap. I knew it.

It was hard to imagine how this out-of-towner had gotten so lost he’d washed up on one of Minneapolis ’s most vice-prone boulevards, but he was here now, and I’d give him the directions he was pulling over for. Well, Lieutenant, I didn’t actually make any vice arrests, but I did help a rube find the Days Inn.

The driver rolled down the passenger-side window, his eyes on mine, seemingly in anticipation of saying something, but then he didn’t speak. The beat of silence stretched out between us, with expectation on both sides, before he finally said, “Well, get in, sugar. Don’t wait for me to ask you.”

If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never have men figured out.

“Why don’t you pull around the corner a minute,” I suggested, recovering from my misconception, “and we can talk.” Going anywhere with a would-be trick is dangerous, and strictly forbidden.