"… charged six times with assault, two possession of controlled substances, which was speed… note in the file says he's a steroid guy, weight lifter. Spent most of his twenties working as a bouncer over on Hennepin Avenue, got too old for that, now he's a driver for Blackjack Limousine Service."

"How old?" Del asked.

"Thirty-seven. He spent two years in Stillwater for beating up a Minneapolis cop named Lancaster after a Rolling Stones concert back in 'ninety-nine. He said he didn't know Lancaster was a cop, thought he was trying to crack security lines around the Stones."

"I remember that," Lucas said. "Don Lancaster. He had a fractured skull, or something."

"That's it. Lighter's alibi failed to hold up because Lancaster was wearing a uniform at the time."

"That's a bad alibi," Del said.

"Yes. He's been remanded for drug treatment a couple times, all the way back to when he was a juvie, but it looks like it didn't take," Carol said. "You guys be careful." LIGHTER'S PLACE was a junkyard: three or four acres of buck-thorn, scrubby red cedar, and weeds, punctuated by the rusting hulks of eighties and nineties cars, rotted-out snowmobiles, trashed trail bikes, all surrounding a two-story house covered with thirties-era gray tar shingles.

A deck, a few years old, stuck incongruously out of one side of the house, next to an anachronistic sliding-glass door. An oversized charcoal grill, made out of a metal barrel cut in half, sat on the deck, with the cooking implements still hanging on the side. A Jeep and two Oldsmobiles, though older and rusting out, sat in the driveway and appeared to be in running condition.

"If this guy doesn't have six pit bulls, I'll kiss your ass," Del said.

"I don't see any stakes in the yard," Lucas said.

"You watch," Del said. "Six."

They got out and both of them touched their guns, then Lucas led the way to the front door through the crunchy snow. He knocked on the aluminum storm door, and there was a thump inside, as if somebody had fallen off a couch, and a minute later, the inner door opened a crack, and a woman put her nose in the crack. "What?"

Lucas held up his ID: "Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. We need to chat with Phil Lighter."

"Phil's working," the woman said.

"Would you mind opening the door?" Lucas asked. "I can't hear you."

She opened the door a foot or so. She was a heavy woman with a bad hairdo, played-out blond streaks over natural brown. She was wearing a sweatshirt that said If I wanted to talk, I woulda worn underwear. "Phil's working," she said again.

"When do you expect him back?"

"Pretty soon," she said. Pause. Then, "You best not be here when he gets back."

"Why's that?" Del asked.

"Because he really doesn't like cops, and he's really pissed off right now," she said. "He was supposed to drive for some rock band, and they blew him off. He called a half hour ago. He's on his way back." She opened the door another inch and peered down the road. Nothing.

"I guess he has a problem when he gets pissed?" Del suggested.

"Yes, he does. I'd say he was a sweetheart under it all, except that under it all, he's an asshole."

"Sounds like the relationship isn't working out," Lucas said.

"Well, you know." She shrugged. "He's a warm body at night."

"How many pit bulls you got?" Del asked.

"Well… none. We got a cat."

Lucas said, "We're not here to hassle him. We're really looking for an old friend of his, Joe Mack. Joe's not around, is he?"

"I guess not. Not after he fuckin' strangled somebody," the woman said.

"Hasn't even called?"

"No… uh-oh. Too late."

Lucas and Del looked down the road and saw a several-year-old Cadillac rolling toward them, in a hurry. Not a limo.

"I thought he drove a limo," Del said.

"He doesn't get to bring the work cars home," she said. The door went back to the one-inch crack. "That's his car." And she shut the door. LIGHTER WAS in the driveway one minute later. He climbed out of the Cadillac, a huge man wearing a navy pea jacket, white dress shirt, black pants, white socks, and a massive scowl.

"Who're you?" he asked, marching around the nose of Lucas's truck.

"Bureau of Criminal Apprehension," Lucas said. "We're looking for Joe."

"Haven't seen him," Lighter said, and he cruised past Lucas on his way to the porch. He was four inches taller than Lucas, six-seven or -eight, with a heavier build. Lucas could feel the weight when he hooked Lighter's arm.

"Take the fuckin' hand off, man," Lighter said, and Lucas let him go.

"Not a social call, Phil," Del said. "We're talking about kidnapping and murder. If you've got Joe in the house, if you know where Joe is, you're not getting any mercy."

"I haven't talked to Joe in a couple weeks," Lighter said. His face was red, and getting redder. He was about to blow, Lucas thought.

"Take it easy, Phil," he said. He gave himself a few more inches of space. "We're not saying that you had anything to do with it. We're just asking you, politely, if you've seen him, and we're telling you the consequences if you're lying to us. We know he's an old pal of yours."

Lighter stepped closer to Lucas and jabbed a hand in the general direction of Minneapolis. "You know what those fuckers just did to me? I was supposed to get two hundred bucks, plus tips, today. I turned down other work, and I get there and they tell me to go fuck myself. The fuckin' supervisor's ass-fuck brother-in-law got the job, and I can't say a fuckin' thing or they'll fire my ass. I been working there for ten fuckin' years…"

"Hey, man, we know nothing about that," Del said, his hands out, and down, trying to make peace. "We're just asking…"

"… ten fuckin' years. And you know what I figured out after all that time, the one big thing? The one huge fuckin' thing?" He held a thick index finger in front of Del's nose, in a "one."

"What's that?" Del asked, and Lucas winced. Some questions were best left unanswered.

"I really, really HATE fuckin' cops," Lighter said, and he launched himself at Del, who'd moved a step forward.

Lucas gave him a hard elbow as he went by and they both lost their footing and fell, and they rolled and Del was yelling, "Hey now, hey now," and then both Lucas and Lighter were on their feet. Lighter launched a roundhouse punch that would have knocked Lucas's head off, and Lucas dodged it and grabbed his arm, but his arm was like a fence post and Lighter yanked it free and hit Lucas on the forehead with a backhand and Lucas went down again, not hurt badly, but his city shoes gave him no traction in the snow.

As Lucas was rolling and scrabbling back to his feet, Lighter went after Del and Del hit him, hard, in the chest, with no effect at all-a heavy wool coat was like armor on a guy as big as Lighter-and Lighter grabbed Del by the shoulders and head-butted him, and then Lucas was on Lighter's back, trying to get an arm around his neck.

Lighter twisted round and round, and Lucas hung on, best he could, and Lucas, in the spinning, saw Del, his nose pouring blood, coming back into the fight. Lighter suddenly screamed and went down, sideways, and Lucas saw Del coming through on a low roundhouse kick, which had taken out one of Lighter's knees.

Lucas tried to pin him, but Lighter threw him off and grabbed one of Del's legs and pulled him into the pile, and Lucas half-stood and hit Lighter on the side of the face, hard as he could. Lighter let go of Del, and Del, jerking away, sprayed blood over Lighter's face, and Lighter came back at Lucas, snarling like a dog.

Del shouted "fuck it" and ran away. Lucas didn't know what had happened except that he was on his own, ducking and rolling, faster than the other man; now on Lighter's back again, hanging on for dear life, on the ground, in the bloody snow.