"DDT, huh?"

"Yeah. Thought you might be interested."

"I am. Did Marshall ride with you?" Lucas asked.

"You know: That's how it goes," Del said.

"He's standing next to you?"

"You got it," Del said.

"Careful with him. I hate to say no, that he can't come along-but if he starts stepping on you, I'll pack his ass back to Wisconsin."

"We'll figure something out," Del said. "We're okay for now."

"You want me to come along if you find DDT?"

"If you don't mind. He owes you big, and he don't owe me shit."

"Gimme a call," Lucas said.

Lucas shaved and spent ten minutes in the shower, working on a sound he'd heard on a David Allen Coe album, from a song called "The Ride"-twisting the word "moan," trying to get three syllables out of it. He agreed with himself that he sounded particularly good that morning, got dressed, looked out the window-patches of blue sky and the street was dry-and loaded into the Porsche.

He was carrying a red apple and whistling when he pushed into the office. Marcy was talking on the phone, twisting a ring of her dark hair around her index finger, her feet up on her desk. She stopped playing with her hair long enough to raise a hand to Lucas, then started talking into the phone again. Lucas paused and looked her over: Marcy tended to be a little too tense all the time, and when the tension was suddenly relieved, it showed.

She noticed him studying her and turned away. Lucas continued into his office, a little pissed now: That goddamn Kidd had gotten into her pants. He knew the look too well to be mistaken. And they hardly knew each other, Lucas thought, and Kidd was a lot older. He retracted that a bit: Not too old-actually, he was probably a year or two younger than Lucas, so he couldn't be too old, because Lucas himself had…

"Goddamnit," he said. He flipped the apple up at the wall and caught it on the rebound, leaving a small pink patch behind on the wall. If Kidd and Marcy… He didn't want to think about it. But it sure as hell was going to reduce her efficiency at a critical moment in the case, and-

"I don't want to hear the first fuckin' word from you." Marcy was in the doorway.

"I just-"

"Not the first fuckin' word," she said, holding up a finger. When he opened his mouth again, she said, "No! Bad dog."

Lucas dropped into his chair, looked away from her, then said, quickly, "You don't know him that well."

"Shut up, Mr. Why-don't-we-screw-Marcy-Sherrill-on-the-office-carpet."

"We knew each other," Lucas protested. "For a long time. That was spontaneous."

"So was last night. And I'll tell you what, he's a good guy," she said.

"You spend the night?"

"He did. At my place. We were just coming back from dinner, and it happened."

"He bring his toothbrush?"

"No, he didn't bring his toothbrush. And that's all I'm telling you," she said.

"What'd he brush his teeth with?"

"His finger."

"That's so unsanitary," Lucas said sourly.

Marcy put her hands on the top of her head and started to laugh, and a moment later Del came in, with Marshall trailing behind, and asked, "What's so funny?"

"He is," Marcy said, pointing at Lucas.

"I ain't even gonna ask," Del said, looking from one to the other. To Lucas: "We found DDT."

DDTSTOOD FOR Dangerous Darrell Thomas. Thomas had given himself the name when he was riding with a motorcycle club and was interviewed for a public radio magazine. The magazine writer got it wrong, though, and referred to him as TDT-Terrible Darrell Thompson-which lost something of its intent when expressed as initials; and since the writer got the last name wrong, too, Thomas never again trusted the media.

Darrell wasn't much of a pimp. He didn't solicit customers and he wasn't particularly interested in sex, money, or any kind of fashion. His only pimping qualification was that he liked to fight, and when a girl wanted to leave her former sponsor, or was having trouble with a customer who expected fidelity, she might move in with Darrell.

He would grudgingly take care of her, and if she wanted to chip in a few bucks every once in a while, and maybe clean house and cook a few meals, that was okay. And if she didn't, that was okay, too. They tended to drift away when they discovered that Darrell really didn't care.

At all. About anything.

Except cars.

Darrell was a professional house-sitter.

"Can't believe he got a gig in Edina," Lucas said, as they pulled into his driveway. They were driving a city car, a dented Dodge, and they all peered through the windshield at the house. The house was long and white and two-storied, with double faux-marble pillars on either side of the front entry. "Wonder what the neighbors think about the whores going in and out all the time?"

"Maybe they think it's colorful," Del said.

They got out of the Dodge, and Lucas took a second to look around the neighborhood. Nothing moved: The place was one large bedroom.

When Lucas caught up, Del and Marshall were already looking at an enormous wrought-iron knocker on the front door. "Use the doorbell," Marshall said. "You'll knock the door down if you use that thing."

"How about a nice-knocker joke?" Del asked.

"None of those either," Lucas said. Del leaned on the doorbell, and after three long buzzes ten seconds apart, a woman with power-frizzed hair, wearing a pale blue quilted housecoat, stuck her head out, looked at the three of them, and snarled, "What?"

"Time to get up, sleepyhead," Del said, showing her a badge. "We're friends of DDT. Is he home?"

"Yeah, but he's in the spa," she said.

"That's something I wouldn't want to miss," Del said. He stepped forward and the woman stepped back, a good enough invitation, they thought, and they all trooped inside.

"It's outside, on the deck," the woman said, pointing at faux French doors at the far end of the living room.

Del's nose was working. "Something smells like dog shit," he said.

"We got a new puppy," the woman said. As she passed the table, she picked up a bottle half full of white wine and started working the cork loose. "We're paper-training it. You guys want some wine?"

Lucas said, "No, thanks," and she took a pull on the bottle, and Del and Lucas walked over to the French doors and out onto a deck.

The spa was big enough to seat eight, but in this case, sat three: DDT, a large, balding, and mildly fat man with scant chest hair, who was reading a folded copy of The New York Times; and two women, both with short mousy brown hair. Steam rose out of the spa into the cold air, but they all seemed comfortable: None of them were wearing any clothing at all, and when Lucas, Del, and Marshall pushed through the doors, one of the women said, "Better turn on the bubbler, Marie."

"Hey, Lucas, how they hanging, man?" DDT said, looking up from the paper. "Del, you fuckhead. What's happening?" To the girls he said, "They're cops."

"We got a problem, Darrell," Lucas said. "We're looking for a girl named, uh…" He looked at Del.

Del said, "Charmin."

DDT pointed at one of the mice, who said, "Jesus Christ, it's Charmin', like in Charming, you asshole. It's not sharmin, like the toilet paper."

"We thought maybe it came from Please Don't Squeeze The," Marshall said. The crow's-feet around his eyes compressed a little, and the corners of his mouth may have turned up. He was being funny, Lucas realized.

"No, it don't," the woman said frostily.

"You guys want to get in? Plenty of room. Water's hot," DDT said, nodding at the bubbling surface.

"Ah, we're kinda running," Lucas said, looking at Charmin'; she was the larger of two women, and her breasts were floating on the top of the water, her nipples pointing straight out like the prows on a couple of fancy powerboats. "Charmin', you were working for Randy Whitcomb until not long ago, and we need to find him."