"Yeah. Time to get up. Everybody else has been up for hours: so shut up, and call Jenkins or Shrake. I need those guys to lean on somebody for me."

"Aw, man… all right, all right. I'll get one of them to call you back. You're on your cell?"

"Yeah. Quick as they can."

HE HUNG UP and at that instant, he got it-what Slibe had said that tickled him.

Slibe had said that he was thinking of going to Wyoming to shoot prairie dogs. Said it like he'd done it before. But a real dog-shooter wasn't going out there with a worn-out semiauto.223 with open sights that couldn't shoot inside four inches at a hundred yards. Nor would he be taking the pump.30-06, or the twelve- or the twenty-gauge shotgun, or the.22 or the old Ruger pistol that had also been in the gun safe. Could possibly take the.308, he supposed, but that wasn't usually used on prairie dogs. Too big, too expensive.

So Slibe had a prairie-dog shooter. Very likely a.223, but a bolt action with a big scope on it. Nothing like it had been in the gun safe.

Slibe, Virgil thought, had another gun. And since he should not have known what kind of gun was used to kill McDill, he shouldn't have had any reason to hide it.

And he was hiding it.

Virgil started to whistle. The ice was going out…

What else?

HE FISHED HIS WAY past the Eagle Nest dock and was coming up on the pond where McDill got shot, when his phone jingled. Shrake. "Whatcha need, big guy?"

"I need you and Jenkins to lean on an emotionally fragile lesbian."

"We can do that," Shrake said. "What do you want from the miserable bitch?"

Virgil told him, and Shrake said, "Okay. Now, let me ask you something, since you're the resident cop-genius. I'm thinking if I got some fake stainless-steel braces for my teeth, you know, that I could put on and take off, they'd make me look way crazy. I saw a guy my age yesterday, walking through the skyway, talking on a cell phone, with braces. He looked like a complete fruitcake. If I got some and grinned at people, showing these things off…"

"Two thoughts," Virgil said. "One: people already think you're nuts, so it'd be a waste of effort. Two, if you put braces on, and somebody busted you in the mouth, they'd break off all your teeth, instead of maybe one."

A moment of silence. Then Shrake said, "Maybe I should recon ceptualize my attack persona."

"Whatever," Virgil said. "You wanna break down this woman for me?"

OKAY.

Suppose that Jenkins and Shrake eliminated Davies as a murder suspect, by pinning down where she'd been when Washington was shot. There remained the possibility that the murders were coming out of the advertising agency, but the Washington shooting-for which nobody had been able to find any connection to anybody-could hardly have been coming out of Minneapolis… unless it was simply done at random, as a diversion. So: set that slim possibility aside, simply on the grounds that he didn't know how he'd approach a solution.

He scratched his chin, and thought, Although…

Mark and Abby Sexton were definitely off center. Mark might have been facing dismissal, and Abby might have harbored some unknown sexual grudge against her former lover; there might be a murder somewhere in that snarled-up psychology, with Washington done as a diversion, at random. If they were both involved, and alibied each other, and were clever about it… he'd never catch them.

So: set it aside.

THAT LEFT THE GRAND RAPIDS/Eagle Nest complex. Wendy, Zoe, Berni, Slibe, the Deuce, maybe another band member, maybe another unknown lover from the Eagle Nest.

The unknown lover seemed least likely, especially with the thread leading from Constance Lifry, down in Iowa, through McDill, from Minneapolis, to Jan Washington, in Grand Rapids.

And the Iowa cops thought Lifry's killer was male, and Virgil tended to think they were correct. So where did the women's Mephisto shoes come from?

Stray thought: Was it even barely possible that McDill had landed her boat at the beaver lodge, had walked out to the road, and then back? To meet somebody in secret? And that somebody had followed her back in and killed her?

Hadn't thought of that-and that would definitely put the Cities back in play. Who would she be meeting secretly, outside a swamp in northern Minnesota?

Drifted a little farther, line slack in the water, ignored…

Thought, That's fuckin' ridiculous. She could have gotten in her nice comfortable car and driven to any one of a thousand places, within five miles of here, for a secret meeting. She didn't have to wade through a swamp.

And he made a mental bet with himself: Slibe. Slibe and the unknown rifle.

One way or another, Slibe was involved. He was willing to bet that Jenkins and Shrake would clear Davies, and that he could draw a line through the possibility of involvement from the Cities. The killer was here…

He started whistling again, reeled the lure in, flipped it back out.

Virgil fished on, hard at work.

16

THERE WAS A LOT to think about, and Virgil worked at it hard, all morning; and in the early afternoon, found a place with a SANDWICHES sign in the window, facing the water, and an ancient Pabst sign hanging below it, and a dock. He'd put in for forty-five minutes or so, got a Coke and a hamburger, read a two-day-old Herald-Review at the bar, and talked to the bartender, who thought the killings were the work of a nut from the Twin Cities.

"Take my word for it-I'm very rarely wrong about these things," the bartender said.

His name was Bob, and Bob had no reason to think what he did, except that, in his opinion, the Twin Cities were chock-full o' nuts. He also had, Virgil thought, a variety of bad opinions on sports, women, beer, fishing, and Sebring convertibles.

"The thing is," Bob said, laying his fat forearms on the bar, "that place is known for having lesbians going through there. I bet it's all tied up with a Twin Cities lesbian thing, whachacallum-covens?"

"I believe that's an assemblage of thirteen witches," Virgil said.

"Same difference," Bob said. He pulled a toothpick out of his mouth and closely examined the chewed end. "Maybe it's some kind of sacrifice thing."

VIRGIL WAS BACK on the water before two, working down the waterline opposite the Eagle Nest. At three, he took a call from Shrake: "We shook her up and I can tell you two things: she had an alibi for the Washington shooting-she was at the funeral home, making funeral arrangements. And, she took three paintings away for safekeeping, and she will now be bringing them back. She claims that McDill gave them to her as gifts, but she's got no proof of that."

Virgil was no longer interested, but he asked, "How much were they worth?"

"Hard to tell, but McDill paid around ninety thousand for one of them, and thirteen thousand or so for the other two," Shrake said.

"So they were worth stealing."

"Hard to tell. I asked a pal who runs an art gallery, and he says they're worth what somebody will pay you for them. The big painting, which is like a lot of color splotches, was done by a woman from Washington, D.C., who hung out with some abstract big shots in the fifties, but wasn't a big shot herself. Maybe she will be someday, and the picture will be worth a lot more. Maybe everybody will forget her, and then it'll be worth nothing."

"Wait, wait, wait, back up there," Virgil said. "You've got a pal who runs an art gallery?"

"Fuck you. Anyway, that's what we got," Shrake said. "If Davies is involved, she's pulling strings, but she's not pulling the trigger. She was down here when Washington was shot."

"Thank you. That helps," Virgil said.

And he thought, Slibe.