"I'm with you," Lucas said. "I think she knew the killer, and somehow tipped him off. Marcy, I want you to get everyone you can find over there with copies of the artist's sketch. I want you to interview all of her old friends. I want you to go through her house. Check her mail. Look at her e-mail, first thing."

"We got all the lists we need," Marcy said. She looked at Black and Swanson. "Now we need complete bios. Let's start cross-interviewing people. Not about themselves, but about people they know who do art."

"All we need is a name," Lucas said. "If we get a name, Randy should be able to identify him. I want a name."

RANDY WAS IN the ICU at Regions Hospital in St. Paul. There was a uniformed St. Paul cop outside the door who nodded at Lucas and said, "His lawyer's in there."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. Somebody from the public defender's."

Lucas knocked, stuck his head inside. Randy was lying almost flat, his head elevated two inches; his shoulders seemed narrow and ratlike in the hospital gown. An IV drip was fastened into one arm. He looked like a deflated version of the Randy they all knew and hated. The lawyer sat next to him, a man Randy's age, early twenties, in a battered black suit and too-narrow tie. A Samsonite briefcase sat next to him on the floor.

Lucas said to the lawyer, "I'm with the Minneapolis police. I need to talk with you."

"Later," the lawyer said. "I'm talking with my client right now."

"Do you know how much later?"

"Whenever I'm done," the lawyer said. "Wait in the hall."

"Better be pretty quick," Lucas said. "We don't have a lot of time here-"

"Hey! When I'm done," the lawyer said.

Lucas backed out, and Del said, "Oh, boy."

"Officious little prick," Lucas said. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and called the Minneapolis dispatcher. "Could you get me Harry Page's number over at the Ramsey Public Defender's Office?"

She came back a minute later with the number, and Lucas poked it in. Page, the number-two man in the PD's office, came on the line a moment later. "Lucas Davenport. I think you still owe me three dollars for that egg-salad sandwich I bought you when we were on that panel up at White Bear-Century College, whatever it was."

"Yeah, yeah. Christ, you been whining about it for months," Lucas said.

"I need the money. I'm thinking of getting a divorce."

"I'll send it tomorrow. I'd hate to see your wife starve," Lucas said. "Listen, I'm over at the hospital and we've got a situation."

"What's the situation?"

"You got this officious little prick over here talking to Randy Whitcomb, and if Randy gives us the help we need, it'll get him out of a lot of the trouble he's in."

"Uh, Whitcomb is the guy the cops shot…"

"Yeah. And we found blood all over his apartment, which he was trying to clean up with paper towels when we broke in. Then the St. Paul cops found the body of his girlfriend in a dumpster behind an Indian restaurant, and her blood matches the blood in his apartment. So he is in a shitload of trouble, but we might be able to get him off the murder charge if he gives us a little help."

"How?" Page sounded as if he was eating a sandwich between words.

"The killing looks a lot like the killings by this gravedigger guy, and we know that Randy has been in touch with him. Randy sold some jewelry that came off one of the victims. If we can get an ID from Randy, we think the murder charge'll go away. There's a good chance, anyway. But your officious little prick won't even let us in the door."

"Which officious little prick did we send over there?" Page asked.

"Real young. Black suit looks like it was run over by a tractor. He's got a plastic briefcase bigger'n your dick."

"It's a wonder he could lift it," Page said. "The little prick's name is Robert call-me-Rob Lansing, like in Michigan. You say you're in the hallway?"

"Yeah."

"Stand right there. He'll come talk to you."

Lucas hung up, and ten seconds later, they heard a cell phone ring inside the room. A minute after that, Lansing popped out into the hallway.

"Which one of you assholes called Page?" he asked.

"I did, you officious little prick," Lucas said. "You want to talk about the welfare of your client, or you want to play status games?"

THE LEGAL MATTERS took five minutes to straighten out. Lansing told the cops that they could not ask any questions directly about the killing of the woman or the shooting at the apartment when the cops broke in. They were allowed to ask about the gravedigger and show Randy the artist's drawing.

When they went into the room, Randy seemed to have gone back to sleep. But when Lansing said "Mr. Whitcomb," his eyelids lifted slowly and his eyes drifted over the four of them as they stood at the end of the bed. Then they drifted back and stopped at Lucas.

"You fuckin' asshole," he said, his voice as arid as the hum of a paper wasp.

"Yeah, yeah, blow me," Lucas said. "Randy, you are in a shitload of trouble, but God help me, I'm here to try to get you out of some of it. Do you know the man who killed your girlfriend? Killed Suzanne?"

"Not me," he whispered.

"Who did?"

"Some fuckin' asshole."

"You got a name?"

Randy shook his head. "Can't remember. Head's all fucked up."

"Look at this picture," Lucas said. He showed him the artist's sketch of the actor from Day of the Jackal. "Is this the dude?"

Randy looked at the picture, his eyes drooped and his head turned away, and a moment later he seemed to pull himself together and he whispered, "No, man. I don't know the dude."

"You don't know him," Lucas repeated.

"He doesn't know him," Lansing snapped.

Del said, "You want him to know the guy. You got the concept here?"

"Hey, listen, you-"

"Shut up," Marshall said to Lansing. And to Randy: "A first name, a last name, somebody else who knows him, anything?"

"I gots to think," Randy said. "I'm all fucked up."

They came at the question nine different ways in the next ten minutes, but Randy shook his head as hard as he could and finally seemed to doze off.

"That's all," Lansing said.

Lucas looked at Marshall and Del. "It's a problem."

"Maybe tomorrow," Del said. "He's still got a lot of shit in him."

Randy came back, looked at Lucas. "Can't feel my legs, dude."

"They're working on you, Randy. You got good doctors," Del said.

"Yeah…" And he was gone again.

Out in the hall, Lucas said to Lansing, "I got a few words of advice for you. When cops want to talk to you or your client off the record, ninety percent of the time, you oughta do it. If you don't, you've got your head up your ass. We're not going to try to get somebody to incriminate himself off the record with his lawyer standing there. If we say we think he can help us and we can help him, we're telling the truth."

"To quote the famous Lucas Davenport," Lansing said, "blow me."

LUCAS LED THE way out to the car, with Marshall and Del trailing. Halfway across the parking lot, Lucas heard them start laughing and looked back and said, "What?"

"We were talking about your interpersonal relations technique," Del said. "Terry thinks you might need a course."

"Fuck Terry and his course," Lucas said. "The officious little prick."

Marcy was the only person in the office when they got back. "We've got everybody down at St. Patrick's," she said. "We got some chemistry back from the ME's office: They think maybe she was smothered."

"I knew it," Lucas said. "Might have been spontaneous rather than planned… but if it was spontaneous, it had to be somebody who knew her well enough to get her back to her office. What was her kid's name? James?"

"Yeah."

"Doesn't fit the picture, but the picture could be crap," Marshall said. "He doesn't look like the right movie star. He looks more like Yul Brynner."