He let the women get a couple of reverse shots over his shoulder, showing their faces in close-up, asking the questions they’d already asked, and then he called it off. “I gotta go say hello to my wife and get something decent to eat. I haven’t had anything all day.”

When the cameras and microphones were off, McGowan said, “I can see your handiwork in that witch Daisy Jones getting the Honey Potts interview.”

“Jeez, Annie, try to be a little more understanding of an enterprising colleague,” Lucas said.

“I was a little annoyed myself,” Carey said. “You really set that up?”

“I was out of town when she did that interview,” Lucas said. “My hands are clean.”

“How about your cell phone?” Carey asked. “Is that clean, too?”

“Jennifer . . .” Lucas began. Then, “Listen, you guys have been here, when I wasn’t, and you hang around the courthouse. What are people saying about the Merion case?”

“I’ve heard that your old basketball buddy Park Raines started sniffing around for a deal about five minutes after that baluster came out of the ground,” McGowan said.

Carey said, “I gotta say, he’s one eminently fuckable attorney. In my opinion.”

“You’re right,” said Letty.

Lucas: “Hey! Not in front of the old man.”

“And he’s even better than he looks,” McGowan said, with a moment of silence following. Then, to Lucas, “Anyway, the baluster sealed the deal. I’ve even heard that Martin Bobson might take the case away from his boy prosecutor and give it to somebody more serious.”

Carey: “Somebody must have briefed you on what balusters are.”

“Fuck you,” McGowan said.

“Why would you fight with each other?” Lucas asked. “It’s Daisy’s tire treads that are running across both your chests.”

They both said, at the same time, “Fuck you.”

Letty said brightly, “Everybody’s feeling scrappy tonight, huh?”

•   •   •

THE TV TRUCKS LEFT, and Lucas pulled the SUV into the garage and dropped the door.

Weather was inside reading Microsurgery Letters, and said, “I hope you won’t get in trouble for talking to those people.”

Lucas kissed her on the forehead and said, “You know, I don’t care anymore. About getting in trouble with anybody.”

Weather looked at him: “You’re okay?”

She meant the depression problem. “I’m feeling pretty cheerful,” Lucas said. “I was working with a police force that was stripped down to almost nothing, and in some ways, it seems to work better than anything we’ve got in the Twin Cities. People in the UP know they have to take care of themselves, because nobody else will. So they do.”

“All right, if you say so,” she said. “I reserve the right to smirk when it all goes wrong.”

Pilate and Kristen, nervous as cats all the way across the Upper Peninsula and then Wisconsin, relaxed a notch as they crossed a bay off Lake Superior on Highway 53 and rolled into Duluth, Minnesota, past long lines of boxcars. They were two states away from the manhunt and that much safer.

Pilate was driving and merged onto I-35 north and got off at Michigan Avenue. Kristen, looking out the window at the town, said, “There’s a used clothes store around here. I can smell it. We need some different clothes. We look too L.A. Like, not from here.”

“What we really need to do is see a news program, find out what’s going on,” Pilate said. “See if they found the old lady. If they find her, and we don’t know it and we’re driving this car, we’re toast.”

They drove around for a while, but didn’t find a used clothes store. As they were about to give up, Kristen pointed to two oddly dressed women in funny hats waiting to cross the street, and said, “Stop there—we’ll ask them.”

The women were Catholic nuns, and one said, “Why, yes. There’s a place about six blocks that way, called Round It Goes. It’s on the right, next to the bookstore. You can’t miss it.”

Being nuns, they didn’t say that it was an adult bookstore, but Round It Goes was right next to it. Fifteen minutes into the store, they found a blue suit that fit Pilate, with a light blue dress shirt and a striped necktie. His own shoes were acceptable, if a little too pointy.

Kristen found a short-sleeved brown dress that dropped an inch below her knees, and brown shoes with low, wide heels. She checked herself in the mirror and said, “I look like one of those nuns.”

“Which is about as far away from us as you could get,” Pilate said. “Nuns ain’t pretty, but nuns is good.”

On a rack next to the door, Pilate found a white straw hat with a narrow brim, put it on, and asked Kristen, “What do you think?”

She considered the hat, then said, “You look like somebody I know.”

He dropped his voice: “But not Pilate.”

“No, not Pilate.”

•   •   •

THE TOTAL BILL came to thirty-six dollars, and they went to look for a TV. After two miscues—sports bars—they found a dark and nearly empty bar downtown, put on their sunglasses, went in, got beers served in a booth in the back, where they could see the second-string television. There was a ballgame on, but neither the bartender nor the other two patrons was looking at it, and Pilate asked the bartender if they could change stations to CNN or something like that.

“Sure.” He used a remote to change stations, then said to Pilate, “You remind me of someone. Are you a musician?”

“Play a little ukulele,” Pilate joked, as he headed back to the booth.

They didn’t have to order a second beer. CNN was in full disaster mode, with at least three reporters wandering around the UP. They seemed to be as astonished by the place as Pilate and the disciples had been.

At one point, Wolf Blitzer said, “One of the key actors in this North Woods clash, agent Lucas Davenport of Minnesota’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, has been out of touch all day, as he drives back to Minnesota. We’re hoping to have an interview with him this evening. In the meantime, the search continues for the ringleaders of the Los Angeles murder and drug gang who . . .”

The identikit picture of Pilate came up, along with the photo of Kristen. The old lady hadn’t been found. After the summary, Blitzer tolled out the dead. Pilate was transfixed as a reporter read the roll: the disciples had essentially been wiped out, save for a few who were jumped by the cops at the Sault Ste. Marie Gathering, one who survived the Mellon shoot-out untouched, and one who was wounded at Mellon.

CNN had all their full names, most of which Pilate never knew.

“I’m amazed Laine was shot. If I’d thought any of them would have given up, it would have been her,” Kristen said.

“She’s still got time to fuck us,” Pilate said.

Kristen leaned forward and whispered, “The bartender keeps looking down here at us. I think we’re ringing a bell with him. Maybe from the pictures?”

Pilate leaned toward her: “Wonder if he’s called a cop?”

“I haven’t seen him on the phone,” she said.

“Let’s go. We’ve heard enough. Get out of here, get a motel down in the Twin Cities. We can watch the news tonight.”

She nodded and they pushed out of the booth. As they passed the bartender, he smiled broadly, snapped his fingers, and pointed at Pilate. “I got it. The ukulele tipped me off. Leon Redbone, right?”