HE'D CRACKED HIS EYES in the morning, had thought about how the pillow smelled funny, and had considered the possibility of getting up, when Sanders called. "Jared Boehm is at home, with his mother, who is an attorney. Susan isn't sure they'll talk to you, but you can go over."

"When they say they're reluctant, does that mean they're reluctant because Jared might have been up to something? Or reluctant because it's a knee-jerk response from Mom?"

"I tend to think knee-jerk. She thinks she's smarter than anyone in Grand Rapids, including her husband and any cops, and she went into full oh-no lawyer mode when I told her you wanted to talk to her son."

"Did you tell her why?" Virgil asked.

"Nope. I said you were talking to everyone who knew McDill."

"Find Little Linda yet?"

There was a moment of silence, then Sanders said, "No."

Virgil laughed, though he knew it was wrong.

VIRGIL GOT THE BOEHMS'ADDRESS and directions on how to get there, and an address for Barbara Carson, cleaned up, got out a Stones shirt from Paris, 1975, his most formal T-shirt, suitable for talking with attorneys, and pulled it on. Gave his boots a quick buff, and headed out: another good day, a good fishing day, just enough wind to keep cool. He was officially on vacation. He had his boat, right down at Zoe's…

The Boehms lived out of town, on Lake Pokegama, in a tree-thick neighborhood of ranch-style houses, long driveways, and boats. Virgil pulled his truck into the Boehms' place, glanced at a beat-up sixties Pontiac sitting on a trailer-he wasn't a gearhead-and knocked on the front door.

Sue Boehm looked like an attorney: dark brown hair, dark brown suit, beige blouse, practical heels, panty hose. A real estate attorney, Virgil thought, as she asked, "Could I see some ID?"

He showed her his identification, and she said, curtly, "Okay," as though she were still suspicious, and, "Come in."

Inside, no sign of Jared. Boehm backed off a few steps and asked, "What's this about?"

"I need to talk to Jared about Erica McDill."

"Is this informational, or do you see him as a suspect?" she asked.

"I'm interviewing a pretty broad group of people," Virgil said. "Is there any reason that I should treat him as a suspect?"

"Of course not," she said. "He's a teenager and a good kid. He graduated from high school near the top of his class."

Virgil spread his hands in a placating gesture: "Then… there should be no problem. But let me ask you, are you a criminal attorney?"

"No. I do mostly property law," Boehm said.

Virgil nodded. "My concern is, if you're not familiar with criminal procedure, you'll unnecessarily block the investigation, when a criminal attorney would recognize the questions as routine. And I have to treat Jared as a potential suspect: read him his rights and so on. I think… if you think an attorney is a necessity, that you'd be better off getting a criminal attorney. I could come back later, if you wish."

"He doesn't need to be defended against a crime," she said. "He needs to be defended against somebody who's trying to pin something on anybody available."

Virgil shook his head: "We really don't try to do that, Mrs. Boehm. A criminal attorney would probably know that. Maybe you should call somebody."

She looked at him for another moment, then said, "In here."

JARED BOEHM WAS A TALL, thin boy-young man-with a fashionably gelled upright haircut that gave him a permanent look of surprise and irony. He was sitting on the living room couch, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that said, "Make tender and awkward sexual advances, not war." He was nervous; over his shoulder, through the window, a Hobie Cat had been dragged onto the lawn, and a run-about was hanging off a wooden dock.

His mother said, "This is Officer Flowers."

Virgil shook hands with him, sat down, said, "Like the shirt," and Boehm nodded and asked, "Want to trade?" and Virgil said, "I'll stick with the Stones, I guess." He opened his notebook and explained about rights, and read the Miranda card to the kid. Boehm nodded that he understood, and Virgil made a note of the time and circumstances, and then asked, "Could you tell me where you were when Miss McDill was killed?"

"He was in Duluth," Susan Boehm said.

Virgil waved her down: "I really have to get this from Jared, okay? Your answers don't work for me."

Jared said, "I was in Duluth. I worked until three, and Erica-Miss McDill-was up at her cabin when I left, and I said good-bye and went home, and got my bag, and started off to Duluth. Driving. I got to the campus about five and checked into the dorm-there was an orientation, and I ate with some other guys in the cafeteria. There was a guy named Rusty Jones who took us around."

"How many people in the group?" Virgil asked.

"Maybe… ten. Or eleven. Something like that."

"Okay. And if I talk to Rusty Jones, he'll tell me that you were there around five o'clock?"

"He should. I was," Jared said.

Virgil doodled, and then asked, "Did you see anybody hanging out with Miss McDill, or did you ever see any kind of conflict, any trouble?"

He said, "No, not really."

"Was she popular in the camp?"

"I guess. She had friends… I never really saw any hassles. I've been thinking about who might have something against her, but all I can think of is that sometimes people disagreed about stuff, you know? One wants to do this, the other wants to do that… But not something that would get anybody shot. I've seen people pissed off, but never like I thought there'd be a fight."

"Okay." Virgil shut his notebook, turned to Susan Boehm, and said, "I'm going to call this fellow Rusty Jones and confirm that Jared was there-but I really don't think Jared would be dumb enough to lie about it…"

"He isn't," she said, still cold, but relaxing.

"… and since we believe it's the work of one person, that would rule Jared out. At this point."

"So are we done?" Jared asked.

"Not quite," Virgil said. "I'd like to talk to you for a minute, privately."

Susan Boehm snapped, "No way."

Virgil said to Jared, "If you're eighteen, you can ask your mom to step away."

"Okay," Susan Boehm said, standing up. "That's enough. Out of the house."

Virgil shook his head. "This is why you should have had a criminal attorney," Virgil told her. "I need to finish my interview with Jared. The law says I can do that. You invited me in. Time is of the essence. I would like to talk to Jared privately. If you both refuse, I'll talk to him with you in the room. It's up to you two."

"About what?" Jared asked.

"I think you might know," Virgil said.

Jared looked at him for a moment, then turned to his mother and said, "I think you better leave."

"No fucking way," she said.

Mother and son dueled for a minute, and Jared caved: "I can't do anything without you getting all over me."

She said, "It's for your own good."

"No, it isn't," he said. "It's because you're a fucking control freak."

She recoiled: "You can't speak to me that way!"

Jared ran his hands through his hair: "Ah, God." Then, to Virgil: "Go ahead."

"You had a sexual relationship with Miss McDill?"

Susan Boehm looked as though Virgil had slapped her. She stared at her son: "What?"

With perhaps a glimmer of satisfaction, Jared said, "Yes."

"Did you… see her often?"

"Twice. She came in on Saturday, and I went over there on Wednesday and Thursday evenings."

"Was anybody else there when you were?" Virgil asked.

"No. Just us."

Susan Boehm's head was going back and forth like a spectator's at a tennis match.

"Did you hear that she'd spent time with anyone else?" Virgil asked.

"I heard that like on Tuesday, she was there with Wendy Ashbach. Tuesday night."

"Who'd you hear it from?"