"Five in the morning," Lucas said. "Check-out time."

"What?"

A crack of light appeared between the curtains in the room window, and a moment later, Mark Johnson peered out the door over the safety chain. "Davenport?"

"So, what're you doing?" Lucas asked.

"Trying to sleep."

"You're so young, too," Lucas said.

Johnson took the chain off and opened the door and yawned and asked, "What's going on?"

"Somebody just burned down the West house, murdered Martha West, and shot and wounded Letty. She's been taken to the Twin Cities for surgery."

Johnson stared, then looked back at his bed, then back to Lucas. "You're shitting me."

"I shit you not."

"Come on in. Let me get my pants on. Jesus… What happened?"

"I talked to Deke, and he said you'd be marginally okay to talk to."

"Yeah, margin my ass."

"So the deal is, I tell you what you want to know, and you got it from an informed source. And I've got a lot of stuff that nobody else has picked up."

"Like what?"

LUCAS TOLD HIM, and when he was done, Johnson stared down at his laptop and said, "I can see this as a story. It'll take some work."

"Christ, the best story of his life is handed to him on a platter, and he says it'll take some work," Lucas said.

"The no-attribution is the hard part," Johnson said.

"That's the deal-but I'll tell you what. You come around tomorrow, wearing your sport jacket, and I'll talk for attribution, but I'll also refuse to comment on some of the other stuff, like the locket. You can ask the FBI about that. They'll be up here tomorrow, looking for the kids' bodies."

"That's great. They're like the world's worst media connections. They won't tell me anything."

"They might. Their media training's improved a lot, the last two or three years. And I'll put in a word for you."

"Appreciate it… Look, on my side of the deal, I sorta got a name for you." He slapped a group of keys on the laptop, saving his notes and changing programs, then reached into his briefcase for a pen and paper, scribbled on it, and handed it to Lucas.

A name, Tom Block, and a phone number in an unfamiliar area code.

"This is another guy Deke put me onto, maybe a year ago, down in Kansas City. He's sort of Kansas City's Lucas Davenport, although he's younger and better-looking."

"Could be younger," Lucas admitted. "What's he do?"

"Wanders around town. But he knows a lot about the Cash family and what that whole group does down there. You might want to chat. He told me a couple of things that I can't use, because of libel problems, but it wouldn't be a problem for you."

"Like tell me one thing."

"Like the whole Cash family-it's really more like a clan, with aunts and uncles and nephews and all that-they started out in drugs, and then, when crack came in and all the killing started, they got out. Went into other stuff. Tom says some of the brothers down there went to business school at the University of Missouri, then came back to KC and diversified."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. One of their things now is that they steal a lot of cars. That's the rumor. Low risk, high profit. And since Calb's body shop up there is involved in this thing… "

"You think Calb's is a chop shop?"

"I don't know. Doesn't make sense, really. They could chop cars down there, no problem. I don't know what Calb could do out here that they couldn't do."

"Hmmp." Lucas stood up and stretched. He thought he might be able to sleep. "All right. I'll probably see you around tomorrow, one place or another. You still checking out?"

"Shit, no."

"The desk clerk thinks you're up to something. Being black, and all."

"I encourage him to think that," Johnson said. "Sometimes I can't help myself."

LUCAS SLEPT LIKE a baby.

For almost five hours, until Del called. Lucas rolled over and picked up the phone, and Del said, "I can't lay down anymore."

"Try harder," Lucas said. Then: "I'll get up."

"I'll come over in fifteen minutes. We'll go down to the Bird and get breakfast."

LUCAS BRUSHED HIS teeth and skipped shaving so he could stand in the shower for a few extra minutes. He was just pulling on a shirt when Del knocked. He let Del in, then sat on the bed and put on his shoes and socks, got his coat, tossed the car keys to Del. "You drive. I've got some calls to make."

He started by calling the sheriff's comm center, where he got the phone number for the church in Broderick. He called the church, and asked for Ruth Lewis.

"I'm calling to ask you to do something for me," he said, when she came on.

Wary: "What?"

"I would like you to go down to the Cities and tell Letty that her mother's dead. She knows it, but nobody's come right out and said it, yet. You know her, and she likes you. It would be good if you could tell her."

"Oh, God," Lewis said. Then, after a moment, "I could go this afternoon."

"Thanks. She's at Hennepin General, and I'll call down to make sure they let you through. If you go pretty soon, you could talk to her this evening."

THE NEXT CALL went to Weather's cell phone. She answered, after a moment: "I'm in the locker room cleaning up. I sat in on the operation-pretty neat stuff. The guy knows how to tie a square knot."

"Yeah, yeah. How is she?"

"She's gonna be pretty dopey the rest of the day, and they're gonna put a cage around her hand."

"The hand gonna work?"

"She'll probably need more surgery, you know, to release the scar tissue as it builds up, but yes-she should be okay. She won't be playing the piano for a while."

"How about her leg? How about the bullet wound?"

"The bullet wound isn't a problem. The guys up there cleaned it up, and should be okay-just took some skin off her rib cage and the inside of her arm. Her ankle is sprained, but it's not too bad. Since it's on the other side from the cast, she should be able to use a crutch for a couple of days, if she needs it."

"Nothing broken."

"Nothing broken."

"How's Sam?"

"He is just such a cutey. He's so cheerful. And it's pretty apparent that he's really bright… no, I'm serious, he's really bright. I don't think… "

She got Lucas laughing, all the more because she was sincere. "Talk to you later."

HE TOLD DEL about Letty's progress as he dialed a third number. A woman answered: "St. Anne's, Department of Psychology."

"My name is Lucas Davenport. I'm a police officer and I need to talk with Sister Mary Joseph."

"Just a minute, please."

Elle Kruger came on a second later. "How's the baby?" she asked.

"Probably the most intelligent kid in the Twin Cities, if not the entire Midwest," Lucas said. "I've got a question for you. Sort of a semiofficial question."

"Go ahead," she said cheerfully. She'd given Lucas advice on other cases.

"You know a woman named Ruth Lewis, right? Used to be a nun? Sat in on a couple of games with us?"

He sensed a hesitation, then: "I know Ruth."

"What's going on with her?"

"What's going on with you?"

Lucas was dumbfounded. Elle was his oldest, closest friend, and he was feeling resistance. That hadn't happened before.

"I'm trying to figure out the Sorrell kidnapping. A little girl was shot last night, almost had her hand cut off, and her mother was murdered, and then she had her house burned down around her. Lewis lives just a few blocks down the highway, and she knows something she's not telling me. I can feel it. This guy, the guy who's doing the killing-he's not gonna stop if he thinks he's in danger."

Another moment of hesitation, then: "Lucas, are you on your cell phone?"

"Yes."

"Let me call you back."

"Elle? What the hell's going on?"

"I'll probably tell you, but I want to talk to Ruth first. I want to make sure there's no possibility that she's involved with your case. She won't be involved directly, but I want to make sure that there are no… ramifications from her job, that might create some, mmm, involvement."