The Goths all nodded at one another. “Too good,” Dave said. “Why’s somebody that good hanging with Roy?"

"He’s actually a good guy,” Jean said. “Yeah, but good like Charlie Brown…” They were still talking when Shockley and Price, the Goths whom Lucas had interviewed earlier, came through the door with a long haired man in a field jacket and blue jeans bloused over combat boots. Lucas asked one of the Goths, “See the fairy over there? Does she look like the one with Roy?”

“Leigh? Oh… she’s over in that direction, but it wasn’t Leigh. I mean…” He raised his voice. “Hey! Leigh!”

Price turned their way, spotted Lucas, came over: “Find her?"

"Just missed her,” Lucas said. “She was here with Roy,” one of the Goths in the booth said. Price shook her head: “I don’t know him."

"The guy who started the chicken dance.” Price smiled: “Okay.” To Lucas: “I know who he is now. But I don’t know him."

"Chicken dance?” Jean asked. “At the Halloween party. He started people doing the chicken dance. That’s not something that Goths do every day.”ON THE WAY out with Jean, Price hooked him by the elbow and pulled him aside, and asked, “So what do you do when you’re not copping?”

He felt a little ridiculous when he said it, but he said it anyway: “Taking care of my wife and kids.”

“Don’t cops have rocky marriages?"

"Some do.” He smiled. “I could introduce you to some, if you want. I got this guy Virgil…"

"Virgil Flowers?” Her face lit up. “You know Virgil? I knew he was a cop.” Lucas smiled, stepped back. “He works for me."

"Well, shoot. If you see him, tell him that Leigh says hi."

"He’s been married so often that he’s got a ‘Just hitched’ sign in his closet,” Lucas said. “I don’t want to marry him,” she said. “He’s just a really… interesting guy.” Lucas nodded, said, as though jilted, “Well. Maybe see you around,” and headed out the door. “What was that all about?” Jean asked, as she trailed behind. “Just this guy,” Lucas said. “That fuckin’ Flowers.” Lucas left Jean at her apartment. She said she’d stay up until Roy got back. “I’ll be up late. When he comes in, call my cell,” Lucas said, as he scribbled the number on the back of one of his business cards. “So. Call me.”

“You think Roy’s all right?"

"I wish they hadn’t disappeared like that,” Lucas said. “It was so quick, it was like they were running. I wish she hadn’t been too good for Roy. That worries me.”

“That kind of judgment…"

"… Is almost always right,” Lucas said. “Not fair, but right.”

WEATHER WAS STILL awake when he got home, sitting in the kitchen, public radio playing around her as she sorted through a box of junk mail. As a physician, she got fifty pieces a week, and there was no way to turn it off. When Lucas came in, she looked up and asked, “Do any good?”

Before he could answer, the phone rang, and they both turned to look at it: late for a phone call, and that was hardly ever good. Lucas picked it up and said, “Hello?”

Harold Anson, the Minneapolis homicide cop, said, “We got another one. I’m headed over there-down on the riverfront, two blocks from the last one.”

“If you tell me it’s a guy named Roy Carter, I’m gonna shoot myself.”

There was five seconds’ silence, then Anson said, “Step away from the gun, big guy.”

“Motherfucker,” Lucas said. “Motherfucker. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Weather asked, “What?"

"Motherfucker…” He took the truck, heading up the river and across to Minneapolis on I- 94, into the loop, then back across the river; Tom Petty was singing about Mary Jane’s last dance as he crossed over.

He kept thinking about the time he’d lost when he started looking for Carter. Time getting a sandwich, time getting around a minor traffic accident. Getting to November a minute too late…

The previous summer, a bridge on Interstate 35 had fallen into the Mississippi River in downtown Minneapolis. It hadn’t gotten creaky and shaky and slowly slumped into the water-it had simply snapped, toward the end of a weekday rush hour, going down in an instant. Thirteen people died.

A new bridge was going up in a hurry. Crews worked late into the night, and Lucas could see the flickering white flares of their welders. And up ahead, the flashing lights of the cop cars on the riverfront, and Petty started on “Something in the Air.”

ANSON WAS WEARING a knee- length trench coat and a fedora, which sat back on his head, the brim snapped down over his scalp. He was talking to a cop, stopped when he saw Lucas. “You want to look?”

“Sure.” Roy Carter was lying on his side, mouth and eyes open, his hair flattened, his shirtfront soaked with drying blood. He’d been tall, and almost gaunt, with reddish hair that looked blue in the streetlights, and freckles that looked black, the skin taut around his skull and cheekbones. The bottom arm, his right, was thrown out on the sidewalk; the top arm clutched at his gut and, like his shirt, was covered with blood.

“Same deal,” Anson said. “Stuck him, ripped him. It’s like a hara kiri, almost, except that the rip is up.”

“Goddamnit, I was looking for him tonight. I missed him by thirty seconds,” Lucas said, turning away from the body. “He was with a Goth. They call her a fairy, just like the one who was talking with Dick Ford.”

“Ford? What fairy?” Lucas explained it, taking it step- by- step. When he finished, Anson said, “So the fairy did it."

"We need to talk to her,” Lucas said. “We need to find her. Really bad."

"I’ll need the names of everybody who knows her,” Anson said. “I’ll e- mail them to you tonight, before I go to bed,” Lucas said

“You’ve got some witnesses… and somebody told me that the fairy girl had called Carter. I don’t know whether it was at work, or at home, or on a cell, or what.”

“But there ought to be a number we can get at."

"Should be,” Lucas said. “And a photo kit from the people who’ve seen her. Get it out to the media. Put some pressure on her.” There was nothing for Lucas to do at the crime scene, except stand around with his hands in his pockets and bullshit with the uniforms. As the crime- scene people and the ME’s investigators worked over the body, Anson took a call, walking along the river with a finger in one ear, the phone to the other. He rang off and told Lucas that Carter had come from Little America, and that his parents were being notified. “Bad day out in the countryside. His parents both work for the post office,” he said. “If this happened to one of my kids, I’d jump off a bridge.”

“After you killed the guy who did it,” Lucas said, looking back at the body.

Anson nodded: “We don’t talk about that.”

LUCAS WENT HOME; confirmed the murder to Weather, who was shocked: “We didn’t set this off, did we?”

“Nah. I’ve been working on the case for half a day,” Lucas said. “This guy’s been a target for longer than that."

"Then how did you miss them at the nightclub? It sounds like they were trying to avoid you-and that’d mean…”

“… that they’d have to know who I was. Or, maybe, she just wanted to get him out of there, away from people who could look at her. Nobody really talked to her-she kept him moving. My guess is, she moved him away from the people in the front room, then went into the back room, the dance floor, and he had more friends back there, so she moved him out of there, too. We just… passed each other.”

She shook her head. “Too neat. There’s something going on that we don’t know about.”

“Gonna have to think about it,” Lucas said. “Have to think by yourself,” she said. “I’m doing a palate tomorrow and it’s a bad one. I need to be out of here by five, so I’m going to bed.”

“See you tomorrow then.” He kissed her goodnight, and moved to the den, where he read again through the paper generated by the Minneapolis guys and his own BCA. Lucas had worked for both, and had his prejudices: the BCA guys worked a couple of murders a year, maybe, and they were often hard ones.