Lucas looked at the fading color snapshot. A middle-aged woman in a shapeless dress stood by a rope clothesline. The line was strung between a tree and the corner of a white clapboard house. There was a board fence in the background, and in the distance, a factory chimney. A city, maybe Minneapolis. The woman was laughing, holding up a pair of jeans that had frozen board-stiff. The trees in the background were bare, but the woman was standing on green grass. Early spring or late fall, Lucas thought.

"This your mom?" he asked.

"Yeah. So what?"

"So nothing," Lucas said. "A guy who carries a picture of his mom, he can't be all bad."

After the Point, Lucas gave up and headed back toward City Hall, stopping once at a public telephone outside the StarTribune.

"Library," she said. She was small and wistful, falling into her forties. Nobody at the paper paid her any attention.

"You alone?" he asked.

"Yes." He could feel her catch her breath.

"Could you call something up for me?"

"Go ahead," she said.

"Last week of July, first week of August. There was a confrontation between bikers and Indians out in South Dakota."

"Do you have a key word?" she asked.

"Try 'Bear Butte.' " Lucas spelled it for her. There was a moment's silence.

"Three hits," she said.

"Did you use any art?" There was another moment of silence.

"Yes," she said. "August first. Three columns, page three."

"Yours or AP?"

"Ours." She named the photographer.

"What are the chances of getting a print?"

"I'd have to lift it from the files," she said, in a hushed voice.

"Could you?"

Another few seconds passed. "Where are you?"

"Right down at the corner, in my car."

"It'll be a minute."

Sloan was leaving City Hall when Lucas arrived.

"Winter coming," he said as they stopped on the sidewalk.

"Still warm," said Lucas.

"Yeah, but it's already getting dark," Sloan said, looking up the street. Cars were creeping out toward the interstate, their lights on.

"Did you get anything today? After I left you?"

"Naw." Then the other man brightened. "I did get a look at that woman cop from New York."

Lucas grinned. "She's worth looking at?"

"Oh, yeah. She's got a lip, you know? She's got this little overbite and she's got this kind of soft look about her like, I don't know, like she'd moan or something…"

"Jesus, Sloan…"

"Wait'11 you take a look at her," Sloan said.

"Is she still here?"

"Yeah. Inside. She went out with Shearson this morning," Sloan laughed. "The lover boy. The good suits."

"He made a move on her?" Lucas asked.

"I'd bet on it," Sloan said. "When he came back, he spent two hours studying his files awful hard. She was sitting around looking cool."

"Hmph." But Lucas grinned. "How'd she get with Shear-son? I thought she was going out with you."

"Naw. Shearson gave Lester a blow job and got her assigned to him. Squire her around."

"He's so suave," Lucas said. He said "swave."

"Good title. You ought to write a song," Sloan said, and went on his way.

Lucas saw her in the hallway outside the Robbery-Homicide office. The madonna from the cemetery. She was walking toward him on high heels and he noticed her legs first, then her dark eyes, like pools. He thought about the tattooed man, the shiny pale eyes like flint, eyes you bounced off. With the woman, you fell in. She was wearing a tweed jacket and skirt with a ruffled-front blouse and black tie. She had a paper coffee cup in her hand and Lucas held the door for her.

"Thanks." She smiled and went through, headed for An-derson's cubbyhole. Her voice was low and buttery.

"Um," said Lucas, tagging behind. Her hair was done up in a slightly lopsided bun and a few loose strands fell across her neck.

"I'm leaving," she told Anderson, leaning into his cubbyhole. "If anything comes overnight, you've got the number."

Anderson was sitting behind an IBM terminal, chewing on the end of a chopstick. The remains of a Chinese dinner were congealing in a white foam carton on his desk and the office stank of overcooked water chestnuts and rum-soaked cigars. "Okay. We'll see if we can find something better for you tomorrow."

"Thanks, Harmon."

She turned and almost bumped into Lucas. He caught a faint scent that was neither water chestnut nor cigar, something expensive from Paris. Anderson said to her, "Do you know Lucas? Davenport?"

"Nice to meet you," she said, stepping back and offering her hand. Lucas took it and shook once, smiling politely. She was larger than he'd thought at first. Deep-breasted, a little pudgy. "You're the guy who blew up the Maddog."

"He's the one," Anderson said from behind her. "You get anything, Lucas?"

"Maybe," Lucas said, still looking at the woman. "Harmon didn't mention your name."

"Lily Rothenburg," she said. "Lieutenant, NYPD."

"Homicide?"

"No. I work out of the… out of a precinct in Greenwich Village."

Andersen's head was swiveling between them like a spectator at a tennis match.

"How come you're on this one?" Lucas asked. Inside his head, he was doing an inventory. He was wearing a $400 Brooks Brothers tweed sport coat with a pale rose stripe, a dark-blue shirt, tan slacks and loafers. He should look pretty good, he thought.

"Long story," she said. She nodded at the manila envelope in his hand. "What did you get? If you don't mind my asking?"

"A photograph of Bluebird taken on the first of August," he said. He took the photo out of the envelope and handed it to her. "He's the guy with the rifle over his shoulder."

"Who are these people?" A small frown line appeared on her forehead, connecting her bushy dark eyebrows.

"A group of Sioux vision-seekers and a couple of medicine men. I don't know who's who, but they had guns and Bluebird was with them a month ago."

She looked at him over the top of the photograph and their eyes clicked together like two pennies in a pocket. "This could be something," she said. "Where did you get it?"

"Friend," Lucas said.

She broke her eyes away and turned the photo over. The remnants of routing slips were pasted on the back. "A newspaper," she said. "Can we get the other shots on the roll?"

"Think it'd be worth the trouble?"

"Yes," she said. She put her index finger on the head of one of the figures in the photo. "See this guy?"

Lucas looked at the photo again. The tip of her finger was touching the head of a stocky Indian man, but only the outer rim of his face and one eye were visible. The rest was eclipsed behind the head of another figure in the foreground.

"What about him?" He took the photograph and looked more closely at it.

"That could be our man," she said. "The guy who lit up Andretti. It looks a lot like him, but I need a better shot to be sure."

"Whoa." Anderson eased out of his chair to take a look. The lumpy mound of Bear Butte was in the background, gray and brooding, a lonely northern outpost of the Black Hills. In the foreground, a group of Indians, wearing calico shirts and jeans, were gathered behind one of the elderly medicine men. Most of the men were looking to the left of" the camera, toward a group of sheriffs deputies. Bluebird was there with his gun, one of the few who were looking more or less at the camera.

"So how do we get back to your friend and see what else is on the negatives?" Lily asked.

"I'll talk to the chief tonight," Lucas said. "We'll have to meet with some of the people at the paper tomorrow morning. First thing."

"Tomorrow?" she snapped, incredulous. "Christ, the guy's on his way here right now. We've got to get going tonight."

"That would be… difficult," Lucas said hesitantly.

"What's difficult? We get the negs, print them and find somebody who knows my guy's name."