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file. We pulled them just this afternoon, and put them together."
    "A psycho," Rie said.
    "Looks like it," Lucas said. "So what do you want? More people?"
    "We thought maybe you'd like to come in, take a look."
    "I'm a little tied up."
    "Oh, horseshit," Weather said. She looked at Swanson and Rie. "He's so bored, he's talking about renting a sailboat."
    And to Lucas: "It would certainly give you something to do until the sun comes out."

    Chapter 3.
    DEPUTY CHIEF/ INVESTIGATIONS Frank Lester supervised all the nonuniformed investigative units except Lucas's group. He had the spread-ass look of a longtime bureaucrat, but still carried the skeptical thin smile of a street cop. When Lucas walked into his office the next morning, Lester gestured with a cup of coffee and said, "You got a hickey on your neck."
    "You must be a trained investigator," Lucas said, but he self-consciously touched the hickey, which he'd noticed while he was shaving. "Did you talk to Swanson?"
    "He called me at home last night, before he talked to you," Lester said. "I was hoping you'd come in." He was leaning back in his chair, his feet up on his metal desk. A dirty-gray morning light filtered through the venetian blinds behind him; a senile tomato plant wilted on the windowsill. "Are you gonna tell me about the hickey?"
    Instead of answering the question, Lucas said, "You told me once that when you sit with your feet up on your desk, you pinch a nerve."
    "Goddamnit." Lester jerked his feet off the desk, sat up straight, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Every time I get a cup of coffee, I put my feet up. If I do it too long, I'm crippled for a week."
    "Oughta see a doctor."
    "I did. He told me to sit up straight. Fuckin' HMOs." He'd forgotten about the hickey. "Anyway, you and your crew are welcome to come in. I'll have Swanson brief you on the crime scene, get you the files and photos, all the stuff they picked up from Aronson's apartment. Rie's gonna bring in the woman in the other drawings. Isn't that weird, the drawings?"
    "It's weird," Lucas agreed.
    They both thought about it for a minute, the weirdness, then Lester said, "I'll talk to Homicide, and send Swanson and Black to you guys, and you can take the whole thing. We've got three current homicide cases and the Brown business. Without Lynette Brown's body, it's all circumstantial and the prosecutor's scared shitless. We still can't find the goddamn dentist who put that bridge in her mouth."
    "I heard Brown hired Jim Langhorn." Langhorn was an attorney.
    "Yeah. The rumor is, he called Langhorn, and Langhorn came on the phone and said, 'One million,' and Brown said, 'You got a client.' "
    "If it really is Langhorn . . ."
    "It is," Lester said.
    "Then you're at least semi-fucked."
    "I know it."
    "Maybe you'll catch a break. Maybe somebody'll find a tooth sticking out of an egg carton," Lucas said. "You could do a DNA or something."
    "Everybody thinks it's fuckin' funny," Lester said. He poked a finger at Lucas. "It's not fucking funny."
    "It's a little fuckin' funny," Lucas suggested. "I mean, Harold Brown?"
    Harold Brown was a rich do-gooder who ran a recyling plant with his dead daddy's money, turning old newspapers into egg cartons. The last thing he was suspected of recycling was his wife, Lynette. Homicide believed he'd thrown her body into the acid-reduction vat--a gold bridge was found at the bottom of the vat when it was drained--and that Lynette was now holding together several dozen grade-A eggs.
    "No. It's not fuckin' funny," Lester said. "Ever since Channel Eleven found out about the bridgework, the TV's been on us like a coat of blue paint." Then he brightened. "And that's one thing you got going for you. Nobody but Swanson, Rie, Del, and you and me know about the drawings. None of the news pukes got it yet--that we've got another weird motherfucker roaming around."
    "I hate to tell you this, but we might have to put the drawings on TV," Lucas said. "If we got two people coming in with