"Pretty interesting," Harris said. "What do you want to do?"

"My other guys are either working nights, or are covering Weather," Lucas said. "I can pull Del Capslock, have him help out, but I won't be able to get him until later. We could use one more BCA guy. I'll get Minneapolis to kick in a guy."

"I'll send Dan Martin over. He knows most of the Seed guys by sight."

When he was done with Harris, Lucas called Marcy Sherrill at home, filled her in. "Do we have enough for a search warrant?" she asked.

"Not yet. I went over it with Weather. She says it could be him, but she wouldn't swear to it in a court."

"So what do you want to do?"

"Jack him up," Lucas said.

"I'll come with you."

"I thought you might. Listen, we're thinking we should leave a team behind, in case we stir something up. If you've got a guy…" THEY GOT LETTY off to school, and Sam went with the housekeeper to toddler playtime at the Episcopal Church, and Virgil, Lucas, Shrake, and Jenkins did the caravan down to the hospital. Jenkins would stay with Virgil and Weather, they decided, while Shrake and Lucas went over to Minneapolis, where they'd hook up with Marcy and one of her investigators, and Martin, the BCA gang investigator.

Marcy showed up in her ass-busting outfit, lady-cop slacks with Spandex panels and shoes that looked like women's flats, until a closer look revealed the Nike swoosh on the back and a wedge-shaped aluminum toe-pants and shoes that you could run and fight in. She had her gun clipped on her hip, under a green military-style sweater with nylon elbow patches, which complemented her dark hair and eyes.

After everybody was introduced, with a certain amount of dog-sniffing-Lucas didn't know Phil Dickens, the detective she'd brought along, and the Minneapolis cops hadn't known Martin-they agreed that Lucas, Marcy, and Shrake would confront Joe Mack, while Dickens and Martin bracketed the front and back doors, close enough that they could be called for help, far enough away that they could watch the bar after Lucas, Marcy, and Shrake left, in case the Macks did something interesting… like try to run.

"We're not expecting an arrest, unless he blurts something out," Marcy said. "We're hoping he reacts somehow. Does something that'll give us something."

"Do we know where he is right now?" Shrake asked.

"No. The first thing we need to do is nail down his location," she said. "The bar doesn't open until three o'clock, but Lucas gets the idea that he's there quite a bit of the time. We check the bar first, then go on over to his apartment in Woodbury. The cops there know we might be coming." THE SUN was climbing out of the deep well of winter, but it was still brutally cold. Old saying: As the days get longer, the cold gets stronger. Still, if Lucas pretended hard enough, he could smell the early edge of spring. Something, somewhere, was beginning to melt-probably, he thought, in Missouri. Just not here.

The five of them went in four cars, Lucas and Shrake together, Marcy, Dickens, and Martin in separate cars, out of Minneapolis, through St. Paul, south on I-35E. They'd made the turn south when Lucas's cell phone burped: Marcy, calling from her car.

"What's up?"

"We got the lab report from your DNA people," she said. "We got a match on Haines. He was the guy scratched by Peterson."

"Excellent. We're tying it up," Lucas said.

"I'm going to use it on Mack," she said. THE BAR in daylight looked like most crappy bars look in daylight: crappy. Purple paint and concrete block and dirty snow piles and neon signs; though it might be possible to believe that you were honky-tonkin' if you only saw it at night; in daylight, it was clear that you were actually arm-pittin'.

Martin and Dickens set up first, one watching the back of the bar, the other the front. Martin called Lucas and said Joe Mack's van was parked in back, along with an SUV owned by a Harriet B. Brown and a fifteen-year-old Chevrolet owned by a guy named Lenert from Rochester.

"I'm running Brown and we're not coming up with much. She's thirty-nine years old, blue eyes, a hundred twenty, five-six, lives down in Dakota County. Got a couple speeding tickets in three years. Lenert, I've got nothing."

Lucas passed the word to Marcy. "Good. Let's go straight in."

They went straight in, parking in empty spaces on either side of the front door, and found the door open. A woman behind the bar called, "We're not open yet," and Marcy said, "We're police. We're here to talk to Joe Mack."

"Uh…" The woman's eyes flicked toward the door to the back. Another man, who had been working on one of the game machines, stopped working to watch. Lucas asked, "Who are you?"

He said, "Uh, Dan Lenert… Mid-State Vending and Games."

"Okay." Lucas turned back to the bartender. "We were here last night, we know the way."

Shrake asked, "Are you Harriet Brown?"

"Honey Bee Brown," she said. "I had my name changed. How'd you know that?"

"Ran the plates on your car," Shrake said. "You're the bartender."

"Uh-huh. What's going on?"

Lucas was already behind the bar, headed for the door, Marcy a step behind him. "We're investigating the Haines-Chapman murders."

"What?"

No question that she was shocked. Lucas stopped and asked, "Did you know them well?"

"Well, sure, but the last time I talked to them… Christ, it was only a couple nights ago. They said they were going to Green Bay. They had a friend over there who had a job for them."

"Who was that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. But they're dead?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"God, the brothers are gonna be freaked," she said.

"They know," Lucas said. "We told them last night."

"They know? They didn't even tell me?"

Lucas said, again, "I'm sorry."

Brown turned on her heel and pushed through the swinging door into the back, and Lucas looked at Shrake and Marcy, shrugged, and followed her.

The back of the bar was cold, with the loading dock door open. A beer distributor's truck was parked in the garage-door opening, and a heavyset man in a Budweiser shirt was moving kegs and cases in and out of the storage area on a dolly. They turned the corner, to the small office.

The door was closed, but through the window they saw Joe Mack sitting inside, facing a skinhead on the other side of a desk. They were both looking up at Honey Bee Brown, who was screaming at Joe Mack. They could hear the screams, but couldn't make out the words. Lucas said to Marcy, "That's him behind the desk," and he saw Mack look up, see them, and say to the skinhead, though he couldn't hear the word, "Cops."

The skinhead turned to look at him-a prematurely bald twenty-five or so, Lucas thought, a white kid with ghetto eyes and work muscles, rather than gym muscles. His flat blue eyes looked at Lucas without fear or sympathy, and he shook his head and tapped some papers on the desk. Honey Bee started shouting again, but the skinhead said something that shut her up. She turned and stormed past them, tears running down her cheeks, saying, as she passed, "What a bunch of fuckin' fuckers."

Marcy watched her go: "Must have one of those fuck-words-a-day calendars," she said.

Lucas knocked on the office door, and Joe Mack stood up and opened it.

"We need to talk to you," Lucas said. "Now."

"Just finishing up," Joe Mack said. "I sold my van."

Lucas recognized the titling papers, and nodded. The skinhead asked Joe Mack, "We all done?"

"Take it all down to the DMV, and it's yours. Gotta get insurance right away, though. I'm calling my insurance company today and canceling mine."

"Do that, but I think my other insurance covers me for thirty days," the skinhead said.

"Don't fuck it up. Throw some extra boxes if you got to," Joe Mack said.

The skinhead stood up and squeezed past Lucas. "Pardon me," he said. His voice was toneless, nothing implied at all. He walked past the Budweiser guy, hopped off the ramp, jingling the keys Joe Mack had given him. "SO WHAT'S UP?" Joe Mack asked.