"The woman who was killed did commercial art and design-ads and stuff," Marcy said. "We thought maybe somebody she met in the business."

"Uh." Kidd looked at the stack of drawings, then shook his head. "I don't think he's a commercial artist. If he took art classes, they'd be in fine art."

"What's the difference?"

"It's subtle. Commercial artists learn a lot of shortcuts, shorthand ways of doing things-they're paid to produce recognizable images, and to do it quickly. They're not struggling to get down something that's unique. These drawings look like the guy was trying pretty hard, and he really doesn't show any of the bag of tricks that a commercial artist has. When he doesn't get the noses right, he doesn't cheat by doing a shorthand nose, he fights it. He tries to get it right."

"So an artist."

"Not a very good one," Kidd said. "He doesn't know the anatomy that well. There are a couple of places where you've got an image that might come off a photograph." He went through the drawings again and found one with a woman who had one arm extended over her head. "See this one? There's no feeling of a joint where her shoulder is. It's just a silhouette like you might get from a photo, but it's an awkward one."

They talked for a few more minutes, working through the photos, and Kidd picked out two with fairly distinctive big toes. "Check these. I'd be willing to bet they don't match."

Jeff Baxter stepped into the office; Morris Ware trailed behind, looking stunned. Lucas looked past Kidd and said, "This is the right place."

"You've seen the paper from the county attorney?" Baxter asked.

"Not yet."

"If you say okay, they'll drop the coke charge. Morrie gives you full cooperation on anything he knows about the local sex scene that doesn't impinge on his current case."

Lucas nodded. "That's fine with me. Why don't you go into my office, and I'll bring another guy back to talk to you." He gestured to his office. "Right in there. We'll just be a minute."

Kidd was collecting his jacket, and Lucas said, "Thanks for coming. You told us more about the killer in ten minutes than the feds did in two days."

"Yet another reason to eat the FBI," Kidd said. And to Marcy: "Speaking of eating, isn't there a cafeteria around here someplace? I don't know Minneapolis very well."

"Yeah, but the food is not exactly gourmet," she said.

"Better a cafeteria than starve to death."

"I could probably show you a better place," she offered.

Lucas thought Kidd's eyelids may have dropped a tenth of an inch as he said, "That'd be good."

"The guy comes over to catch a killer and winds up hustling my staff," Lucas said, bending his head back to talk to the ceiling.

"With a staff like this…" Kidd said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

KIDD AND MARCY left together-Kidd was asking, "Can I touch your gun?"-and Lucas, shaking his head at the ways of singles sex, called Sloan and asked him to come over. "We got that porno guy I was telling you about. He's gonna converse."

"I'll bring the tape deck," Sloan said.

Sloan was a narrow-faced man who tended to dress in shades of gray and brown, and always had, from his first day in plainclothes. He was one of Lucas's best friends, and for years had never seemed to change. But Lucas had noticed in the past few months that Sloan's hair was swiftly going white. Like most cops, Sloan had always been a little salt-and-pepper, but over the winter he'd gotten perceptibly older. The white seemed to emphasize the lines of his face and the narrowness of his stature. And the last time they'd talked, Sloan had remarked that he'd be eligible to retire in a couple of years.

Getting old.

Lucas stood in his office door, chatting with Baxter, while Ware slumped on a chair and picked at his cuticles. He'd also aged after the long night in the lockup. Yesterday, his gray-on-black shirt and jacket had looked arty; today they looked drab. Then Sloan banged into the office and asked, cheerfully, "Everybody ready?"

Lucas nodded, and Sloan dragged an extra chair into the office, plugged in the tape deck, checked the cassette, and then recited everybody's names and the date, looked at Ware, and said, "Looks like you had a pretty bad night."

"Ahhhh," Ware said in disgust.

"It's a problem when somebody comes in late," Sloan said. "The courts just won't move themselves around to have round-the-clock bail hearings."

"I think it's absurd. You're supposed to be treated as if you're innocent until proven guilty."

"No," Sloan said. "You are innocent until proven guilty."

"That's right, that's right."

Baxter looked at Lucas and rolled his eyes. They both knew what Sloan was doing-he was getting on Ware's side. "Why don't you ask a question," Baxter said to Sloan. "We can have the blood-brother ceremony later."

Morris Ware listened to the story of the drawings, then looked at the drawings. "Very nice," he said, but he said it with a bored tone that sounded genuine.

"What?" Lucas asked. "They're not to your taste?"

"No, they are not," Ware said.

"You like the young stuff," Lucas suggested.

"I am not interested in bodies," Ware said. "I am interested in qualities- innocence, freshness, dawning awareness…"

"Let's cut the horseshit, Morrie," Lucas said. "Look at this guy."

Ware took the printed-out photo of the actor from Day of the Jackal. "Yes?"

"Who do you know in the sex-freak community who looks like this-a guy with connection to the arts, who knows about computers and photography, is interested in blond women, who might like to strangle them?"

Ware looked over the photo at Lucas. "If I knew, it'd be worth a lot more than dropping this stupid cocaine charge."

"On the other hand, if you know and don't tell us, and we find out-that's accessory to first-degree murder. When a known child pornographer is charged with murder, sometimes the juries aren't too fussy about how strong the evidence is," Lucas said.

"I'm not-Fuck you."

Sloan eased in: the good guy. "Take it easy, Lucas, we want the guy to cooperate."

"Dickweed says he's not a pornographer," Lucas snapped.

Sloan held up a hand, then looked at Ware. "Let's forget the pornography stuff. Who do you know? That's the question."

Ware looked down at the photo again, then back at Sloan. "You know, this is a fashionable look among the art crowd-that languid, ascot-wearing, private-school look."

"So you know some people?"

"I could give you five or six names of people, um, in the art community who, um, also have an interest in nonconventional sexuality."

"Great," Sloan said.

"But I don't think any of them will be your man," he said.

"Why not?" Sloan had the ability to project eagerness for an answer.

Ware closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "Because I think I met your man. At a photography show at the Institute."

"The Institute of Art," Sloan said.

Ware nodded without opening his eyes. "But it was a long time ago-ten years, maybe. The fellow was maybe twenty-five, and he was looking at a series of nudes by Edward Weston. I can sometimes tell by the way people look at… pictures… that they are enthusiasts. He had the look-and by the way, he doesn't so much look like the man in your photograph as much as he shares an air with him."

"What'd he say?"

"He talked about how Weston did photographs that were as clean as fine drawings. He took a pencil from his pocket and used the eraser end to show how you could follow the line of the nude to make a whole new creation. There was a certain frenzy to it."

Sloan glanced at Lucas, then at Ware. "That's interesting. Do you remember his name, have you seen him since, know where he works, or what he does?"

Ware opened his eyes and looked at Lucas. "I never knew his name. I can't remember seeing him since that day. I don't know where he works. It was all too long ago… But one thing struck me, given his enthusiasm. I don't know what it was, but something he said made me think that he was a priest. Or studying to be a priest, or something."