4

HE WAS SHORT, big nosed, red haired, pugnacious, intense, loud, never wrong, willing to bend any ethical rule, and three years out of journalism school. He had a facility with words admired by some in the newsroom. The admiration was offset by the undeniable fact that he was an ambitious weasely little asshole; and saved, to some extent, by the additional fact that at the Star-Tribune, being an ambitious weasely little asshole was not a distinguishing characteristic.

Ruffe Ignace stood on the corner, talking to himself-nothing in particular, snatches of old songs, possible story leads, bits of internal dia-logue, comments on the passing cars and the women inside them. He bounced on his toes like a boxer, and talked to himself, all the time, like humming, or buzzing. He called the ongoing dialogue Ruffe's Radio, and he played it all the time.

Boy in a Bubble, maybe there's something there; Mmm, LexusGX470, you old fart; hey, look that, look at that ass. Yes,Pat, there he is, Ruffe Ignace, supposedlythe richest man in America. He was with the Special Forces before that, youknow, a war hero, in Afghanistan, killed twenty-four Afghanis with a Bowie knife. He's got more money and hadmore supermodel pussy than any other six guys in the country. Say, I'd like to get that jacket-that's a good-looking coat…

Like that.

All the time.

A co-worker once complained that sitting next to Ignace was like sitting next to a bad-tempered bee. Ignace ignored her; and now he stood on the corner, bouncing, waiting, and buzzing.

HUBBARD CAME DOWN the other side of the street, bright blue double-knit blazer from JCPenney, gray slacks, brown shoes. From a hundred yards away, he held Ignace's eyes, then turned and went into the front doors of the public library. Ignace waited through another light, then followed him.

RUFFE IGNACE HATED HIS NAME. Both first and last, but especially Ruffe. Ruffe-Roo-Fay-came from a French word meaning "red haired." Since he was red haired, and since his parents had been French, he could hardly deny the truth of it. The newsroom people learned early in his career that Ruffe hated being called Rufus, which also meant red haired, so they called him that at every opportunity. A few people even tried Iggy, but that drew a response so violent and poisonous that they decided to leave it alone.

Ignace barely tolerated the Star-Tribune, which he considered next of to asuburban shopper. He looked forward to his career at the New York Times, where virtually all reporters had weird names, and where be considered distinguished, rather than an occasion for jokes.

To get there, he had to do something good. To do something really good, you needed luck and talent.

Ignace had the talent. In addition to his writing ability, he had a nice sense of drama and, more important, knew how to suck when he needed to. As a member of the paper's Public Safety Team, he applied the suck liberally around the Minneapolis Police Department.

A part-time homicide cop named Bob Hubbard was Ignace's best inside source. Hubbard wanted a full-time homicide desk instead of being shuffled off to Sex or Property Grimes whenever they needed more people. Ignace promised, and delivered, attention to Hubbard's crime-solving talent. Hubbard delivered the goods from the inside.

Luck was an entirely different matter. Luck either kissed you on the ass, or it didn't. Not much you could do about it but get ready in case it happened.

IGNACE SLIPPED INTO THE LIBRARY two minutes behind Hubbard. They met at the library because Hubbard had never seen a cop there, and back in the Female-Problems stacks, you might go decades without seeing one.

Hubbard was peering into a book called The Vaginal Perspective when Ruffe turned the corner. The cop slipped the book back on the shelf and asked, shocked, "You ever see what's in these things?"

Ruffe looked at the ranks of books and shuddered. "No." To Hubbard: "Whatcha got, Bob? I got that thing on the Mikasa shop and the Mini-Cooper…"

"This ain't funny," Hubbard said urgently, pitching his voice to a near-whisper. He was a blond, fleshy man with pink cheeks made rosier by booze. He was holding a manila envelope. "You gotta, gotta, gotta cover for me. Honest to God, I don't even think I oughta be here."

Now Ruffe was interested. Hubbard was sweating.

"So whattya got?"

"You owe me big for this one," Hubbard said.

"What is it?" Ruffe pressed.

"You owe me, and you're gonna pay," Hubbard said. "I get to name a story."

"Whoa, man. That'd depend. What story you want…what story you got."

"The story I want is just a nice story for a lady I know. The story I got…"

"What?"

"We got a serial killer," Hubbard said. "You know Sloan?"

"Yeah." They were close enough that Ignace could smell the afternoon martinis on Hubbard's breath, and maybe something else- peanut-butter cheese crackers? With martinis? "He thinks I'm an asshole."

"You are an asshole, Ruffe."

"Yeah, yeah…" Ignace didn't mind what the small-towners thought, if it got him to the Times; he made a keep-rolling motion with his finger.

"Sloan caught this killing a couple of weeks back," Hubbard whispered. "It was really fuckin' ugly, but everybody chilled on it, because we don't want a lot of shit from the TV stations."

Ignace thought for a second, his eyes narrowing: "Angela Larson, from Chicago. Everybody thinks it's a boyfriend problem."

"Well, it wasn't. It never was. She was tortured, raped, and displayed…you know what displayed is?"

"Yeah." Ignace was hooked now. He could feel Lady Luck puckering up. "But how do you know it was serial?"

"Because this morning, this old buddy of Sloan's from the BCA calls him up, and they haul ass down to Mankato. The word is-and the word is good-that it's an identical killing, except for one thing. The victim was tortured and raped, just like Larson. Only it was a guy. Then they were both killed the same way: their throats were cut."

"Throats?" Ignace whispered. They both turned and looked up and down the stacks. "You mean, like with a razor?"

"Just like with a razor," Hubbard said. "To top it off, the killer also killed the second victim's child. Swatted him like a fly. Killed the kid, then went ahead and raped and killed the father."

Ruffe was impressed. "Jesus. You got something from the scene?"

"Not from that one-but I got the inside shit from the Larson case, what they never told anybody. And I got a Xerox of a crime-scene photograph. You can't use the picture. In fact, I'm not even gonna give it to you, come to think of it. I'll let you look at it."

Ignace wet his lips. "I promise you I wouldn't put it in the paper. Especially not if it was a Xerox."

"Uh-uh. I can't take the chance," Hubbard said, shaking his head. "The thing is, what I'm giving you could have come from lots of people, but the picture had to come from Homicide. They'll know it was me. You can look at it so you can write up the crime scene. I figured you'd want to do that."

"Bob…"

"You swear to God you'll cover me."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let me see the goddamn thing. And who do I talk to for on-the-record?"

"Okay. The sheriff down in Blue Earth County. His name is Nordwall. And Sloan, I guess. I'd stay away from the BCA guy, his name is Lucas Davenport. He's got better sources at the Star-Tribune than you do. He'd find out in two minutes who you were talking to."

"He couldn't, because I've never told anybody. I never will," Ignace said. "I only use you for the tips."

"Some of the guys have noticed I get a little print on my cases." He was carefully holding the manila envelope out of reach.

"Well, tough shit. You can either have it or not," Ignace said. "Let me see the fuckin' photograph. Give me a couple names…I can always pin it on somebody else."